A welcome distraction

I remember our discussions about having children. You were scared. You didn’t want any children. I still remember the look in your eyes and the way you looked at me when you said “Will you still love me?”

The simple act of sex when trying to conceive a child takes on a whole new meaning. It becomes precious and meaningful and I remember making love to you became even more special.

The memories of when we were trying to conceive our children are still vivid, as if it was only yesterday. The daily ritual of charts and thermometers, documenting ovulation days and every time we made love are forever etched in my memory.

I remember how excited you were when my period was due and how you would race to the supermarket to buy me a pregnancy test, sometimes even before my period was due!

And I can still remember the absolute joy that you expressed when I told you that we were expecting a little person of our own, a creation of both you and I, something that was unique to us and only us.

We had created a new life, a little person that we would love until our dying day. A little person that we would hold dreams for, that we would teach right from wrong, that we would love unconditionally.

I remember you rubbing my back whilst I had my head in the toilet throwing up everyday. I remember you tenderly wiping my face, lathered in sweat from the constant morning sickness that lasted all day, everyday, for what seemed to be an eternity.

I remember you consoling me when I believed we had once again lost the child we had created through miscarriage. I can remember you tenderly and lovingly telling me that it would be OK and that we would just try again.

I remember laying in bed with your beautiful soft hands on my growing tummy, eagerly waiting to feel the first flutters of our growing child’s arms and legs. And as my tummy swelled with our precious child, I can remember you talking passionately to my ‘bump’, sweetly singing to my belly and telling our unborn child how much you loved them and could not wait for them to arrive.

I remember the many discussions we had trying to choose a name for our baby. I remember the many times we discussed the dreams we held for our child. I remember the anticipation and excitement as we drew closer to meeting our precious child.

I can still remember your soft hands rubbing my back with every contraction. And as the hours dragged on and your tiredness became increasingly obvious, your immense support overshadowed everything else.

And as our precious first born made her way into the world I can remember the tears falling down your cheeks. I can still remember you looking at me with adoring eyes, holding me so close and telling me how much you loved me.

I can remember you holding our beautiful daughter in your arms, tenderly looking down into her perfect little face, and you telling her how much you loved her already and that you were going to be the best daddy.

And you have been a wonderful daddy!

And so recently when you suggested that we get pregnant again all of these wonderful memories came flooding back. I would welcome the closeness that we experienced, the immense love, the excited anticipation. It would be such a welcome distraction to the pain and heartache that I currently feel everyday.

But there is no way I would do it. I could not conceive a child in the current circumstances. It would be a band aid solution. It would be a lie.

A child should be conceived in a stable environment, to parents that are in love with each other, that hold the same dreams, travelling the same path and going in the same direction.

Right now I don’t believe we are on the same path. As much as I crave to feel the closeness and happiness that I once felt from ‘us’, I know this is not the way to achieve it.

Although, for the first time in my life, I understand why couples have a child to hold a marriage together or a 'make-up' baby after an affair.

Maybe one day we will share the joy of another child.

Maybe.