To the Baby That Didn’t Come This Month

It’s funny isn’t it, how I imagined the morning sickness, my stomach turning as I sautéed garlic and peppers and carrots in the tarnished pan I can never get quite clean, no matter how much I scrub?

It’s funny isn’t it, how I was so sure those weird side twinges were the beginnings of you, my body’s signal as you burrowed life into me?

It’s funny isn’t it, how I felt exhaustion taking hold, longing for a nap that never came, already hoping you were here?

It’s funny isn’t it, how even when I told myself this time would be different, and this time I wouldn’t be silly and take the test early, I did it anyways?

It’s funny isn’t it, how even as I watched the fluid move across the screen and even as I held my breath, I could have sworn there were two lines when there was only one?

And it’s funny isn’t it, how I sat there on the toilet, the test still in my hand, and didn’t know if I should laugh or cry?

Because already in my head, baby, I had made room for you.

Already, I had plugged our dates into the online due date calculator, thrilled with the timing of what would have been a late-June birth. Not too hot and not too cold, I thought to myself, smiling a little. A perfect time of year for a baby. 

Already, I had pictured you in our car, mentally adjusting and readjusting our seating arrangements to make way for you — a you that didn’t even really exist.

Already, I had imagined labor, once again, wondering if I could be one of those women I admired, the kind who looked beautiful even while giving birth, roaring with the power of womanhood as you came rushing into the world.

Already, I had listed what gear we would need and what we had, ticking off checkboxes in my head, pleased I had not thrown away the bouncy seat after all.

I wanted you, baby, and I didn’t know how much until you weren’t here.

And when I texted your father, who had been anxiously awaiting the arrival of a period that stubbornly persisted in being a week late, despite our most cautious behavior, I watched as the dots of his pending text filled my screen.

No baby, I sent him. We r good. 

His text bubble seemed to pause, looking at the weight of the words I didn’t say. Not a “My period came,” or “I started” or “Bring home tampons,” but a loss of what was not there.

“R u OK?” he replied. “With no baby?”

And what could I say, oh baby, that wasn’t meant to be? What could I say, but yes, yes of course. I am OK, because it was bad timing, right? I am OK because we have been planning and dreaming for the honeymoon we never had, right? I am OK because we weren’t trying to get pregnant, not right now, not this month, right? I am OK because we have so much already, right?

I am OK because really, what other choice do I have?

Month after month, I know I will do this to myself, wondering and waiting and hoping for a baby or hoping to not have a baby. It’s funny, isn’t it, how I have been the same woman all along, some months praying for an empty womb and others, disappointed when that same womb remains empty, swept out of what could have been?

I feel the loss of something I never had, like I’m almost embarrassed of it; my cheeks burning a little as I text my husband back, “Yes, of course. Hawaii here we come!!” hurriedly burying my phone back in my lap before the tears sting my eyes.

Because you were never here, baby. Not really, anyways.

Not this month.

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