So, this trying-to-have-a-baby thing wasn’t my idea. When my partner and I got together three years ago, I was quite comfortable in my one-and-done world. My daughter, 14-going-on-30, is both a handful and a breeze compared to these tiny all-consuming creatures. And I never imagined he – never married, quite happy in his fancy free way – would say to me one day that he wants to have a baby.
I thought at first that it was a definite no for me. I’m in my late 30s, finally enjoying some financial freedom and the joys of a child who doesn’t need constant monitoring. But the idea kept niggling it’s way into my heart. Who am I to deny C the joys of fatherhood, when I love him so badly. He’d never know the sweet smell of a freshly washed baby snuggling under your chin, the love that swells in your chest when she smiles and coos at you, and the euphoria of crazed toddler laughter. I just couldn’t bring myself to make that decision for him.
So, the IUD came out, and we got pregnant that month. Easy. Too easy. Miscarried at 10 weeks. And now, what I once thought I was doing for him, has become my path, my quest, my heart. Going into this, I thought I’d be safe from heartache because it wasn’t my idea. I was wrong.