only.

it's late.
my favorite time to write.
as night wears on, i wax sentimental and nostalgic, which usually makes for my best writing, the kind of writing that gets it all out and leaves you feeling cleansed.

i'm trying to be better about not bottling up everything i feel. i usually wait for the storm to pass to write it out, but i'm afraid it will take years for this pain i have to leave, like most of the hard things we go through.

about four months ago i was sitting in my therapist's office, in the maroon wing back chair on the left.
like usual.
the session was getting close to being over, and i was finally crying. i say finally because i had been attending months of counseling without feeling like i was letting myself feel anything. the postpartum depression, the hyperemesis pregnancy, the feelings of wanting to leave the church, the suicide and OCD issues. i'd sit in that chair and hear myself talk in a calm voice. i was saying all the right things, how hard it all was and how sad i was, but i wasn't feeling any of it.

when i had gone to therapy for sexual assault, from the first session on, i felt everything. finally after almost a decade of keeping it all in, i allowed myself to cry and rage and mourn.
it was wonderful.

but trying to work through all the events of the past year just wasn't working.

until finally one day i figured out the part that really hurts.
i mean, all of it hurts. but this part, it took a while to admit out loud.

so i'm sitting in that chair, legs crossed, arms crossed. jessica, my therapist, says something that hits me.
"you're grieving. what you are feeling is grief."

i had just told her about a family member saying something about "filling up all those bedrooms" with children and how devastating it was to me that i'll never have another baby. never experience that magical moment, where the child is placed on your chest and your eyes meet for the first time.
with her eyes on my face, i finally feel the tears. finally feel my chest fill up with emotion.

"it's normal to feel a loss over this." she says. "you are grieving for those children you always thought you'd have."


and here is where i hear a lot of arguments in my head.

well technically you can have more.
maybe your next pregnancy would be better.
well at least you have one child. a lot of people don't get that.
what about adoption?


yes, i could get pregnant again. not a risk i'm willing to make. i won't spend 8 months puking and laying on the couch trying not to smell anything while remington lives with my mom and i miss out on his life. i won't give up what little enamel i have left on my teeth. no more IVs. no more $17,000 medical bills out of pocket.

and don't think i'm not thankful for remy. i know that so many people try for years, spend thousands of dollars and still never have the chance to have a baby. i know that adoption is an option, but it's a pretty expensive option that might not be possible for us.
i know that i am very blessed to have my healthy son.
i know.

sheesh, just let me feel my feelings, self.

day to day, i'm fine. i'm so happy! i love spending my days with my boy.
it's the small reminders that sting unexpectedly.

when you're joking with your husband about the little black book of sexy pictures you gave him, how someday when you're dead and your house needs cleaning out, the kids will find the book in the back of the closet and freak out. kids. and then you remember. kid.

when everyone you know seems to be pregnant with a girl, and you know that you'll never know what your little girl would look like, if she'd have her daddy's nose or your brown curls. and oh how you wanted to have a little girl.

when a stranger gives you baby advice and you say, oh i've never heard that, cool. and they say, oh you can use it with your next one.

when your family members sit and talk about the future, who will have a baby and when. they avoid discussing you.

when you walk down the street and see two brothers on their front porch holding sparklers. playing catch, riding bikes. you wonder, who will my child play with? will he wish for siblings? 

that grief, he's a sneaky basty.

it's a good thing i'm not going to church, or i'd probably feel worse, what with all the primary programs and mention of spirit children needing physical bodies, all the jokes about, "when's the next one?" with the other dads elbowing travis jokingly.

a few days ago, i went to a doTerra essential oils party. it was really interesting and i ordered a few things to try it out. there was also a test you could take, where you put your hand on a scanner and it supposedly scans your energy and lets you know what imbalances your body has and which oils could help. (clever marketing scheme.) my scan showed that i need ginger. the saleswoman leaned toward me and said excitedly, "ginger? are you pregnant?? most women who get this result are pregnant."

it took my breath away for a minute.
for a split second, the idea that i could be pregnant was exciting and hopeful and miraculous, just like when we first decided to start trying.
and then reality.
partly because the idea of me being pregnant again is the scariest thing she could say, and partly because WHAM, no i'm not pregnant, and i'll never be again, and i'll never get that pregnancy i thought i was in for, the one that is a celebration of the life you're creating, the pregnancy that feels like a pregnancy, not a terminal illness.

i don't want any of you who are pregnant or trying or whatever to feel like you can't talk to me about it. of course i'm ecstatic for you! but yeah, sometimes i cry about it all. jessica told me that grief can take time. it takes time to readjust your expectations and ideas about what your life will be like. but over time, the pain hurts less and you don't lose your breath every time someone mentions more children.

in the meantime, if you are the parent of an only child, or are an only child, let me know how that's going for you.

xo.