Its a food baby.

“When are you going to get pregnant again?” asked my mother-in-law’s friend. She’s a delightful Turkish lady, grew up in Ankara. Thanks to my many travels, I am aware that in Anatolia, birth gives a woman identity. Motherhood completes her socially and religiously; it places her within the family group. Babies are a blessing, always. With this in mind, I still give her the American deer-in-the-headlight look. Wide eyed. Startled. “Are you pregnant already?” she asks, misjudging my look. I pause and shake my head no. Its just a food baby and stretched out abs.

“Oh no, no no no, we can’t have any more.” I say. Secretly I think: we already have two healthy active boys, my spouse is in his late 40’s and got “big snip” two years ago. We have no shame in talking about vasectomies, but I am not in the mood to discuss my husband’s testicles with his mother’s friend. Patting my gut, with a surprise twinge of regret, I state, “We’re done, and we’re talking about me getting a job again. So many of my friends are pregnant, and while I am happy for them I am also relieved to not go through having a baby again. I’ve been running, training for a half marathon and a Mt. Fuji climb. This bump is just food digesting and from having two boys already.” The ol’ baby maker has been quite abused by pregnancy. “You are a great mother,” she says, “that is why I ask.”

I sincerely thanked her, because genuinely, her query was intended as a complement to my skill as a mother and strength as a woman. Babies are not meant to be discarded, they should be cherished. She knew how much I cherish my sons. She and her husband then gave me a ride home, and we discussed Turkey’s political struggles. It was a pleasant social moment. Yet, it left me feeling sadly bittersweet.

Unexpectedly, this sparked an evening of introspection and even, grief. Grief because I know I will never have a daughter, introspection because I fully understand the reasons why. I did not expect to feel a sense of regret when talking about the fact I would never have another child with my husband. My first son was an emergency c-section, my second a vbac. One miscarriage before that; genuinely, the odds of healthy pregnancies are not in my favor. Add in my celiac disease, high blood pressure in pregnancy, scarring, and you can see the difficulties. It stings to think that I will never have a little girl. But I am fundamentally thankful that my two sons are alive and healthy. Two *is* enough. There is strength in knowing yourself, knowing your limits. I think I met my limit for my health, for my body, for my uterus. It is also acceptable to grieve for what will never be in this life. The little life I miscarried a decade ago could have been a girl. I will never know.

I will never have a daughter.

I look around for a kid to hug. My four year old son dashes by as I type, smacking his own butt with a smart “clap!” and shrill “neigh!” His hair blows upright in his sprint-breeze. He grins, pauses, breathlessly stating: “I HORSE! Neeeeiiiiigh!” And he’s off Olympic sprinter style. No hugs? I sigh. Then, his slip-whimper-oof moan and the harsh clatter of the dog food bowls from the kitchen tells me that he slipped in our German Shepherd’s water bowl drool, crashed, and I have a gallon of water to mop up. Again. At 9:42 PM, when bedtime was supposed to be over an hour ago. I wonder if a daughter would have been less active? I will never know. I hug my son.

Yes, sometimes two is enough. For my health and my sanity.

I need to grab coffee with my Turkish friend again later and catch up. Her wisdom reminds me of my strength.

#maternity #running #foodbaby #MIL #thankful #motherhood #multiculturalism