I hope we have a baby.
Another way of saying that is I hope to be a mother; I guess I’m just thinking of all the other options we’ve got waiting on the sidelines that could make that happen.
Really, I know I can be a mother. We can adopt; I know there are many kids waiting for a family. We can do surrogacy, we might just find a baby on a sidewalk somewhere (it’s Mexas, anything can happen).
Being a mom is not something I ever thought I’d want so terribly. I just thought it would come to me easily, which is why this wanting is so alien to me. I didn’t grow up thinking my whole life would revolve around making and raising kids. But the fact that it’s not an effortless thing makes me think otherwise sometimes. When we had a choice, I might have been able to take or leave it. I’m not really sure I’d actually be all that good at it. When uninhibited choice kind of goes out of it, the way I think about it changes. But I digress.
Basically, I know that if I really work at it, I can be a mother. I don’t have to hope for it. I can make it happen by sheer force of will. And “being a mother” doesn’t touch on how much I want to share this with my husband.
What I really hope for is the opportunity to spend a year preparing for an infant. I want quiet moments where we talk or sing to a child that isn’t named yet. I want to hold my best friend’s hand while we listen to a quick, muffled heartbeat months before we meet the person it belongs to. I want to fold tiny clothes, watch Hubs attempt to assemble furniture, guess at a personality, dream about a future. I hope to stay awake in sleepless, uncomfortable, but panic-free nights. I want the kind of physical exhaustion that only means someday soon we get to meet our child, and I get to watch my husband hold his child in his arms and whisper its name, and we both cry a little because it finally happened.