I don't know you (I hope) and I am not sure what brought you to my post or why you felt compelled to comment with the tone that you did. I am guessing that your comment:
is an inference that I am not a good mother because I don't desire having any more children.
Like I said, I don't know anything about you. You may have been having a bad day, you may have just caught my blog right after getting a negative result on yet another pregnancy test and you can't fathom that someone would not want to have another baby when you have been trying SO hard to just get pregnant in the first place.
I understand, I have been there.
You see, while I don't know anything about you, you also seem to know the very little that you read in that one post. Let me share a little bit of my story with you.
My entire life, I have been in training to be a mother. I just knew that I would have a gaggle of kids, everyone knew it. I babysat from the age of 13, I wanted to be a teacher. I was good with kids and they loved me. There was nothing more important to me in the world than eventually being the mother that I knew that I was born to be.
When I got pregnant the very first time, I was not really ecstatic about it. I was 19, the guy that I was with (now the Hubs) was 16. I was in college and he was still in high school. As much as I feared that my life was over, I knew that I would be a good mother, that I would take responsibility for our actions, that I would do everything that I needed to do for this child because that is the type of person that I was. When I miscarried that baby at 8 and half weeks, I mourned. While relieved that I could move on with my life, my heart, my spirit was broken for the very first time.
The next time that I got pregnant I was 23, I lost that baby at 7 weeks. Again, with a broken heart and a heavy spirit, I got counseling, I mourned, I grew up a little more.
The next time would be different, I reasoned, the next time it would not hurt this bad.
The next pregnancy sailed through the first trimester, I only had morning sickness one time. I was older, I was eating better, I was doing everything that the doctors told me to do. This time was going to be different, this time I was really going to be a mother.
I miscarried at 14 weeks, I was devastated, the Hubs (who still was not the Hubs just yet) was devastated. There were a lot of tears. I started cutting and burning myself again. I stopped sleeping. I knew that it was ALL my fault. I knew that I was broken. I knew that I was useless. There was not a darker period in my life than the days that followed me losing that baby.
My two best friends got pregnant immediately following that miscarriage. I now have two of the most wonderful boys to call my godsons. They are beautiful and awesome and I love them so very, very much.
We started trying to get pregnant immediately after we got married. I was 29 by then, settled, married. It was time. Except that I didn't get pregnant. And I kept not getting pregnant. The tears, the agony, the worry about why I could never just be normal, why I couldn't just get knocked up like everybody else in my life was killing me. Why does she get to have a baby when she doesn't even take care of the ones that she has? Why does God bless them and not me?
My faith struggled. My hope struggled. I cried daily.
I went to see my doctor who ran blood work, who did everything he could to find out why my body did not work like everyone else's. He prescribed fertility medication that I took religiously. His nurse would call me every month and report that my blood work was great, that I could potentially be pregnant based on my hormone levels. And I would lie on the cool tile of my bathroom on the first day of the next period sobbing uncontrollably, my body racked with grief at the loss of a little bit more hope, because I wasn't.
I asked the nurse to stop calling me.
I stopped taking the medication.
The very next month we conceived the Supergirl. The entire time I was pregnant, I held my breath. I just knew that there would be bad news, I just knew that something would go wrong. We didn't tell our parents until 16 weeks and only then because it was becoming obvious. Every breath I took, every thing I put in my mouth, every good night's sleep that I got, I questioned. Every lack of symptom or added symptom was researched. I must have called my doctor's office twice a week with questions ranging from gross to crazy. My only symptom besides the increased need to pee was tender breasts, I punched myself in the boob 8-12 times a day just to make sure that they were still tender.
I was so scared.
Miraculously, she was born, a healthy 9 pound, 3 ounce miracle. And she is awesome and smart and so incredibly beautiful. She is so much more than anything that I had ever asked for and I would not trade her for the world.
I did not sleep for her entire first year. I stood over her crib, checking to make sure she was still breathing. I brought her in to bed with me, just to give myself peace of mind. Every cough, sneeze, and sniffle had me on edge.
I am too old to do all of that all over again. The worry, the miscarriages, the grief - I can't do that to myself, I can't do that to her.
You are right in a sense, I don't need another baby and I am done wanting another one. I am a mother and that's all I ever wanted to be. My totality is not encompassed in just being a mother and a wife, there is much more to me than that. I am a daughter, a wife, a sister, an employee at two different companies, and a friend, I make a difference in my world and I want my daughter to know that marriage and children do not end that for women. That women can have dreams and pursuits and plans that they can pursue even after a baby enters the picture.
You see, Anonymous, while you imply that I am a bad mother for not wanting another baby, I am actually making the best choice that I can for my family. I am sorry that you failed to see that when you read my post. Perhaps you will think of the person behind the blog the next time that you decide to cast judgement on another person's life.
Thanks for taking the time to comment.
Posting comments anonymously, particularly negative ones, is generally a troll move. If you do not have the guts to put your name on what you have to say, then you are essentially telling me that you are not even important enough to have an identity. That makes me extremely sad for you.