It was evident the moment I laid eyes on her. I hadn’t seen my dear friend, Jenna, in about a month, and during that time, something was different. Perhaps she was exercising? Her figure appeared fuller, and she radiated a warmth that was hard to ignore. Had she been hitting the gym or trying out yoga? But then she mentioned she couldn’t take my kids outside due to the pollen.
“Could you watch the kids next week?” I asked. “We have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday.”
“I’m not sure,” she replied, a huge, goofy smile spreading across her face. “It depends on what the ultrasound says.”
And in that moment, I knew.
I rushed over and enveloped her in a big hug. We’d often joked about her and her partner, who is also a close friend, starting a family. They had always claimed they were a pet-only household. Jenna had even jokingly said she had my kids to care for, so she didn’t need any of her own. Like many, she feared the possibility of not being a good parent. So, no babies, right? Never. And now, here she was in my kitchen, glowing with the unmistakable aura of pregnancy. I was overjoyed for her.
Yet, as I hugged her, tears of happiness blurred my vision, and I felt a twinge of resentment. I would do just about anything for another chance at motherhood. After a challenging pregnancy with my youngest, now three, I had clung to the hope that our family would grow. My dreams of a large family—six or seven kids—were dashed by the reality of hyperemesis and severe gestational diabetes. Each pregnancy had taken a toll on my mental health, leading me to seek treatment for depression and anxiety not long after my last child was born.
Now, I find myself on a complex regimen of medications that would make another pregnancy unfeasible. My psychiatrist has advised against it, emphasizing the hormonal impacts that pregnancy has had on my mental state in the past. When I shared our plans to adopt, she nodded, affirming it was the right choice.
So here I am, closing the chapter on pregnancy. No more ultrasounds, deliveries, or the exhilarating moment of holding a newborn for the first time. I know my time breastfeeding is limited, and each night I cradle my youngest, I remind myself that he will be weaned before I’m ready.
Meanwhile, Jenna is bubbling over with excitement, unsure of her due date but grateful to have my support. She hopes to embrace attachment parenting and relies on me to guide her through the process. “I need your help with babywearing and breastfeeding!” she exclaims, and I feel honored to step into the role of Auntie. I’m eager to share my baby gear—everything from cloth diapers to baby carriers.
“Except the changing table,” I clarify. “We’ll need it for our future adopted baby.” I reassure myself that this changing table represents hope for what lies ahead. One day, a baby will fill our home, and first, that baby will belong to Jenna.
I secretly hope her little one is a boy, so he can wear the clothes I’ve lovingly saved. I envision us sorting through them together, helping her husband wrap their new arrival, and nurturing my new “nephew.” I’m genuinely excited for this new life, this unexpected miracle. I’ll be there for Jenna every step of the way, and perhaps this little one can help soothe some of my own heartache—my frustrations about my body and the challenges I’ve faced.
It seems that this baby is perfectly timed—for Jenna, for the universe, and perhaps for me too.
For anyone on a similar journey, this guide can offer insights into the fertility process, while this resource provides excellent information on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, while I am filled with joy for my friend Jenna’s impending motherhood, I wrestle with my own feelings of sadness and longing. The duality of emotions can coexist, and as I support her, I also hold space for my own heartache.