A close friend of mine will be having her second baby within the next month, and every time I talk to her I can't help but think she is just a tiny bit crazy. I mean, I only have one child to contend with and I am exhausted by the time it hits 5 PM; the idea of putting one child to bed only to have to stay up with a fussy baby scares the living daylights out of me.
But then I go into the nursery and I see the tiny clothes, and the tiny diapers. I touch her belly and feel the kicks, and it all makes me remember.
I remember the first time I saw Audrey yawn, or laugh, or smile. I remember watching her sleep for hours, and loving every second of it. I remember laughing uncontrollably when I walked into her nursery, expecting to find my tiny baby girl, and instead I found a tiny baby girl absolutely covered in poop. I remember teaching her how to crawl, then walk, then (unfortunately) watching her learn to climb. I remember teaching her talk, eat solid foods, and use the potty.
What I don't remember is the pain of labour, the feeling of a contraction, or the fear of holding her. I don't remember the sleepless nights, the intensity of breast feeding--or, at the very least, my attempt at breast feeding. I don't remember getting up every two hours, how I felt for the first six weeks postpartum, or what a cracked nipple feels like.
Sometimes it isn't easy sitting back and watching other people go on to their second (or third or fourth) pregnancy, knowing that there is a very real possibility that I won't have any more of my own. Even though I know that my mind romanticises pregnancy and babies, I sometimes get caught up in baby fever.
But then I sit back, and I look at everything that I have. There is no room for sadness, or wishing that things were different. I am happy with my life, even if it hasn't been exactly what I thought it would be.
Soon I'll have a niece to spoil to pieces--one that I can hand back to Mom when she gets fussy or poops. And this is exactly how my life should be right now.