For the past two weeks, I thought our family was going to be getting a new member. Yes, I thought I was pregnant. I didn’t have awful morning sickness or exhaustion. It was a combination of a few different things: D & I not being very careful, me miscalculating when I ovulated, and a sudden drop in my breastmilk supply.
I felt pregnant… there was a heaviness in that part of my body that I hadn’t felt in over a year. Maybe it was psychosomatic. I didn’t give a single thought to whether I’d go back to work, who would watch the baby if I did, and that we’d need a bigger house. Instead, my first thoughts after realizing I could be a mom again this time next year were of nursing a newborn again: the milk drunk faces, the rooting, the contented little sighs. I didn’t remember the growth spurts, the non-stop feeding, and my breasts being rock hard and heavy with milk.
Eventually I told D the news. He wasn’t thrilled (his exact words to me), but he didn’t seem devastated either. We spoke a little of the logistics of expanding our family and worked out some of the details. Sadly, this is one bridge we won’t be crossing, not this month anyway. My period started a week early and immediately explained the drop in supply, sore breasts, and the roller coaster of emotions. I was disappointed, D was relieved. After an emergency run to Walgreen’s while at work, I came to terms with what isn’t happening. It will happen when the time is right for us.