My Baby Doesn’t Want Me – What the Hell?

It happened the other day.  We were grocery shopping, and he started to get very agitated and kick his legs.  I asked him what was wrong, and he said, “Mama move.  Daddy push.”  I wasn’t allowed within three feet of the cart handle.  Then, we went out for lunch.  I tried to get him out of the car.  He thrashed around and said, “No!  Daddy get me out.”  My baby doesn’t want me anymore.

This may not seem like that big of a deal.  It’s normal for a boy to want to be with his dad.  He doesn’t see his dad as much as he sees me because of my husband’s hours, so I expect him to run to the door as soon as he hears his dad’s truck hit the gravel on our driveway and yell, “Daddy hooooome!  HI, DADDY!  HI, DADDY!”  There are nights when he sits in his own chair for two whole minutes before he has to be on his dad’s lap to eat supper.  It’s like he can’t get close enough to my husband sometimes.  I think it’s adorable (and, there seriously is nothing sexier about my husband than when he’s balancing our two year old on his lap, cutting meat into tiny bites, and trying to eat his own supper all at the same time), and every time that I see my husband sharing these moments with our boys I know that I picked the right man with whom to have these amazing boys.

But, now that our son chooses his dad over me every single time, I’m starting to feel those pangs of knowing that he’s growing up.  Our baby is our last baby, and he’s not such a baby anymore.  He fell down the other day but didn’t come running to me for a hug and a Mommy Kiss.  I don’t baby our boys and I don’t make a fuss every time they fall down, but he fell hard, and that’s usually when he needs me.  Not that time.  I had to grip the armrest of the couch to stop myself from going over to him and forcing him to hug me, just to make myself feel better.  Hug me, dammit!  Don’t you know you’re still supposed to NEED me?

I never wanted more than two children.  And, when we weren’t even sure if we’d be able to have one child, I thought two seemed like an impossible dream.  Now that it’s a reality, two really is a good number.  It makes dining out in booths made for four just perfect.  It makes traveling in the car much simpler.  It cuts down on Disney World hotel rates, from what I’ve heard.  At this point, I don’t know if we’re EVER going to make it to Disney, but that’s a subject for another post.  With two kids, they can’t gang up on my husband and me.  My husband bathes one while I put clothes away with the other one, and I get jammies on one while my husband bathes the remaining one.  Two-on-two works for pillow fights and dodgeball and waterballoon fights and everything else we do on our crazy nights together.  So, having two kids works perfectly…

… until the two kids grow up and there aren’t any more babies left.  For the past five years, there’s been a baby who wants and needs his Mama.  When the bigger one started to need me less, the second one appeared.  I always had someone to snuggle, someone to hold, someone to kiss and hug and mother.  The pain of the bigger one always wanting to be with my mom and even proposing moving into my parents’ house so he doesn’t have to say goodbye to them was less severe because I knew our baby still loved me most.  And now he doesn’t.  What the Hell?

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It’s a Miracle! – What the Hell?

We had just finished building our new home and finally moved out of my parents’ home – some day, when I have the energy, the Building a House and Avoiding a Divorce series will be featured on this blog; for now, just know that my husband, our then nine-month-old son, and I moved in with my parents for 16 months while we built our home. Our firstborn was in a bedroom more than ten feet away from our own bedroom for the first time in his life, and the empty bedroom waiting for our second child was two steps away. My husband and I hadn’t been focused on much other than the new house for months, so it was a breath of fresh air to be able to walk through our new home in the buff, flirt with each other without being under the gaze of my parents (I still like to think that my dad thinks I’ve only had sex twice – once to produce each son), and be a little loud in our intimate moments. So, when September and then October rolled around and I was starting to feel queasy and rundown with horrific headaches, a friend of mine suggested that I take a pregnancy test. She jokingly asked if I were late, because she knew that with my PCOS, there was no telling when I was late or if I were menstruating at all until I started craving copious quantities of chocolate. (In case you missed it, read The Fertility Roller Coaster – What the Hell? for more information.)

I bought a new box of pregnancy tests but wasn’t hopeful at all. You don’t undergo months of fertility treatments for the first baby and then expect to miraculously conceive a child the second time around. In fact, I had mentioned to my OBGYN a couple of months earlier at my annual appointment that I hoped to see him sooner, rather than later, to start the ultrasound/medicine routine again, and he said to let him know when we were ready to start trying again. Nobody said we would be able to conceive without the divine intervention of Clomid and hCG, and while we weren’t doing anything to prevent a pregnancy in those first few weeks of finally being in our own home, we certainly weren’t actively trying to get pregnant.

I just remember that I felt funny, and I was asking my family doctor about being tested for diabetes and thyroid issues. He said to give it a couple of weeks and come in if I weren’t feeling better, since we had just had a huge life change and lots of stress. I decided that I would just take a pregnancy test to rule it out, so I could give him that information when and if I did have to go in for an appointment.

The first time I had taken home pregnancy tests, I nervously paced the bathroom floor of our starter home, crying, and praying for those three minutes to pass a little more quickly than a great-great grandfather snail idly strolling through the garden in October. I wouldn’t let myself look at the test until a few seconds after the three minutes had passed, just to be sure it “took” before I looked at it. This time, I didn’t time it and went about my early-morning routine because I never dreamed I’d be pregnant.

Then, I looked at the stick. There were two distinct lines. In fact, they were two of the darkest lines I had ever seen in all of my pregnancy testing days.  The first time around, I had taken pregnancy tests once a day for two weeks after my first result because I just couldn’t believe it was true, even AFTER a blood test confirmed it. But, this time the lines were distinct. And staring back at me. What the Hell?

I remember sinking to the floor – very dramatically, like in those chick flicks I secretly watched on late weeknights when my husband worked his previous sales job until the store closed – and thinking, “It’s a miracle!  WHAT THE HELL?!?”

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