I Would Be Good At That

I had the chance to babysit my nieces this weekend. Baby A. has grown up so much, it just boggles the mind. She will be four soon -- FOUR!!!! How is that even possible?!?

Baby C. is a chubby, sweet, gurgling bundle of joy who already, at 9 weeks old, looks so much bigger than she did just two months ago.

(Side note -- I also have a nephew, Baby B., which gives me this perverse desire to name my child, should they ever arrive, something beginning with a D. Weird, no?)

Mo and I tag-teamed this time, since Baby C. is still in that "please don't ever put me down" phase. We traded off holding the infant with playing with her big sister. We fed them both. He showed A. how to peel a crawfish, and sang C. to sleep.

And at the end of the night, as I rocked Baby C. in the darkened nursery and listened to Mo and A. giggle in the living room, I thought, We would be so good at this.

Because, you know, I wonder sometimes.

Even though my rational brain knows otherwise, I find myself doubting that on occasion. You know, those times when I forget to feed the dogs until late afternoon, or when I come home tired and grumpy and incredibly happy that I don't have to tend to anyone's needs but my own.

It's then that I think, Maybe I would be a terrible mother. And maybe, somehow, the universe knows this. And maybe that's why I can't have babies.

I begin the litany of list-making, my brain rattling off the myriad mistakes I have made in the past. I was rotten to my little sister when we were children (I even locked her outside once. In January. In the snow). I have snapped at kids at school, on numerous occasions over the years. I have said mean things to my spouse, things I didn't mean and things I did, and things I can never, ever take back. I am stubborn. I am impatient. I am grouchy when I am tired, and Lord help you if my blood sugar drops too low.

Sometimes, when I let my emotions get the better of me, I think that these things are the root cause of my infertility.

But, I know better. My feelings are real, but they don't reflect reality.

In reality, I would be an excellent mother.

In reality, I would make mistakes, we all do. But I would love my children with a fiery passion. I would put them first, every single day. Tired or not, we would read books every evening. I would cook them their favorite foods. I would say "no" when I had to, but I would try as often as I could to say "yes." I would ask questions, and really listen to their responses. We would explore. I would smother them with hugs and kisses and never let them doubt for a single second how very, very much they were wanted.

I have to remind myself of these facts every so often.

I am NOT being punished for some childhood transgression or some imaginary sin.

I am NOT being tested, and found lacking, by some omniscient being whose standards of conduct are impossible to achieve.

I married a man who produces wonky sperm.

That's it.

And I am incredibly grateful for the scientific advances that give us lots of options for how we deal with that.

Because, in the end, I would be a wonderful mother. I only hope that, someday, I get the chance to prove that, if only to myself.