It was Christmas Eve.
My husband Theodore (I will often call him T for short, especially online) and I were cozy on the couch. I was on FB (no big surprise) when I came across a link my friend had posted about how the Christmas story might have be told through FB.
I know, it sounds cheesy and stupid, but I had been so emotional lately, and upon the joyful news of baby Jesus' arrival, and the swelling music, I was beside myself. I felt foolish for, yet again, forgetting the "real reason for the season" especially among all this stress and worry I had been experiencing, scared that my body wasn't able to conceive a baby (even though at that time, we were not trying, not preventing (or NTNP, in Trying To Conceive (TTC) lingo)
"Mallory? Mallory! Are you ok?" my husband asked, very surprised that I was red in the face from sobbing, with tears rolling down my cheeks (one thing I hate about glasses is I always take them off when I am crying, and they draws attention from doing this). He gave me a hug, then took my hand, telling me he had something to show me.
He led me up the stairs. "I was going to give this to you tomorrow, but now seems like a good time" he said with a smile, and I followed him into the room we had envisioned as our baby's nursery from the day we first toured the house when it was still for sale.
He placed his hand on the closet door, and I already knew what was next. Theodore said he would buy them when he was truly ready for the next step in our marriage. More tears!
Pushing back the door, I saw the most precious gift; baby feetie pajamas and a baby "sleep sack" hung up on tiny white hangers, fuzzy, soft, and covered in bright yellow duckies. The piece de resistance was a small stuffed duck that sat on the shelf above, his little webbed feet dangling off the edge.
It was the best Christmas present I've ever received. Afterward, there was much hugging, and my husband telling me "I'm ready to be a dad" and I was on Cloud 9.
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Nowadays, I sometimes like to visit the closet. I know, it's silly, and definitely strange, but there is a sense of comfort, a swell of joy, thinking of dressing a little person that looks like Theodore and I, in these warm, soft clothes. I rub the little feet between my thumbs and index fingers, imagining the little feet that would one day occupy them, and I give the stuffed ducky a kiss on its bill. I say "Someday", put on a brave face to stop the tears from surfacing, because I don't know when that someday will happen, and close the closet door.
I can be so negative, upset at God, at myself, because I don't understand why my body, the one he gave me, is having so much trouble doing the one thing I want it to do more than anything. I read the newspaper and watch it online, seeing all the children who are abused and die at the hands of people who should have never been able to have them, and I know there are couples like Theodore and I who would make fantastic parents, but do not have what it takes to have children of their own. I have become very angry, even enraged, at how nonsensical this world is, and how unfair it can be.
I don't expect to understand God's plan. After all, he is God, and we're not supposed to be able to figure him out. I love him dearly, no matter how upset I get at him sometimes, and nothing is going to change that.
The fact is, I am a very blessed woman. I do not want to wallow and feel sorry for myself for this one thing, even though it's something I want very much, because I feel like I am closing the door on the plethora of blessings I already have. I hope this drive to become a mother never blinds me from seeing all the people who love me, and the comforts of life that not everyone has.
Another fact: I do have control of my destiny, and I will be a mother, one way or another. The children God blesses me with may not come when I MYSELF think I am ready, and they might not look like me, or be related to me biologically. But they will be the ones I dress every morning and bath every night. I will plant kisses on their foreheads, and hold them tight, making them feel every ounce of love they deserve, which is every ounce I can physically give. I will be silly with them, and I will tend to them when they are sick. They will call me Mama, and in my heart, that is all I could ever ask for.
