Four Years

I posted this on my personal Facebook page four years ago today:

I think I’m doing better.  Finding some peace. It’s been months/weeks/days since I thought about a baby, my baby.  But then, a closing scene on a sitcom depicts a couple deciding that they don’t want their daughter to be an “only” and that they don’t want her to miss out on the joy of having siblings and I find myself tearing up.

I need to run.

If my mind is focused on my pace and form, it doesn’t have time to think about how much B will miss by not being a big brother.

If I’m looking ahead and gauging the hills, I can’t “see” the familial scenes that will never be.

If my lungs are busy keeping up with me, they can’t afford the air to cry.

If I obsess about races and gear and personal bests, I don’t have time to think about temperatures and failed cycles and the garage full of baby gear I can’t sell.

If I run until my body hurts, then the hurt in my heart isn’t as apparent.

My family, rife with “oops babies” and hyper-fertility, can’t understand.

My husband, with his four other children and the shear fact that it isn’t him, can’t understand.

The road can’t understand, either, but it doesn’t need to.  It just takes the pounding and the beating and the cursing until I’m okay to head for home and enjoy the child that we have.

I may not have found peace yet but I will keep running until I do.


Update: I’m doing better, in this regard.  It isn’t quite so raw any more.  But I still have a garage full of baby stuff.

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