The other day, as we walked past the park on our way to get some gelato, my eye was caught by a very pregnant woman sitting serenely in the middle of the grass. There was a man holding a baby, they were playing, pretending she was an airplane as he lifted her around. It became clear that the baby and man belonged to the very pregnant woman and in that moment I couldn’t help it. A wave of jealousy washed over me.
Her daughter, barely walking, couldn’t have even been close to two yet and this pregnant woman looked like she was about to pop any day now. Of course, I don’t know their story, but in my mind, in those ten seconds I watched them, I created an entire narrative of a woman who had gotten easily pregnant both times, sailed through blissfully, had her perfect birth experience and was now on the verge of her next perfect birth experience.
As I looked down at my sweet, beautiful, perfect T, I couldn’t figure it out. Why the jealousy? What is it that I want, that makes me feel this way, when really I’m pretty content with my life as it is. What is it about seeing a pregnant belly that brings out the irrational green eyed monster in me?
When I think about it rationally, it’s not so much that I want to be pregnant right now or that I want another baby right now. It goes back once again to all the shit that hangs over me, all the crap that must be taken into account. All the doctors that must be consulted. I am jealous of the ease with which other people can move forward in their life.
The truth is, I don’t even want to get pregnant yet. I want more time to enjoy T’s babyhood, to immerse myself in being amazed by him every moment I’m with him. I think ideally I’d like him to be about two years old by the time the next baby is born, which means we still have almost a whole year to think about this.
But unfortunately my body is a piece of shit. My experiment of going off my meds has failed spectacularly and my numbers are trending in a bad way. I self-diagnosed and put myself all back on my correct dosages but will it be enough? Will I have a bad flare? Will it push everything off again or will this time be the time they say, don’t do it. Be happy with the one we have. The perfect, adorable one. Which I could be happy with. Because how could I not?
But also, he is so friggin perfect, how could I be happy not having more?
I know this nothing more than the behavior of a five year old, but I want to stomp my feet and throw myself to the ground and scream about how unfair it all is. Unfair that other people’s bodies don’t fail them like this. That other people can live the lives they imagined for themselves. Two and a half kids, white picket fence and a yellow lab .
And me, I don’t know. Just trying to stay healthy. To keep myself going every day. To not do things to set myself back. Stupid lupus.