I was supposed to be somewhere else today.
I was supposed to be sitting in a hospital bed with a crisp gown on, a large bulge hiding my toes. They would be painted red, something I asked a friend to do because by this time, there was no way I would be able to reach them. But I wanted a reminder that I was still pretty and maybe even a little sexy despite the large bulge in my middle.
By now, everyone would have known and been so excited. But no one would have been more excited than me. I could feel you inside me wiggling around and was desperate to feel you in my arms, to watch you peacefully sleeping while I drank in every perfect line and shape of you. I longed to hear you call me mommy but I knew I’d have to wait a bit longer for that and wouldn’t trade the present moment for anything.
I was supposed to be screaming in pain and maybe a hint of fear. Between each contraction I would get a wave of uncertainty wondering if I would be a good mom, if I was strong enough for this next chapter. There would be people in the room who loved me, and they would be whispering encouraging thoughts while simultaneously running around getting me ice chips, the nurse, whatever I might need.
I can see it all so clearly. Like I’m visitor in my own hospital room and my own life. And if I watch close enough and long enough, the scene will start to look blurry and become more and more distant. Because in reality, I’m not there today. I don’t have a bulge hiding my painted red toes. And you aren’t growing inside me. That story ended months ago and yet I can’t seem to let you go. I can’t stop wondering what things would look like if you had stayed inside me and became my daughter. Without you my life feels so empty and pointless.
I was supposed to be somewhere else today, I was supposed to be bringing you into this world.