The head of the woman in line in front of me whipped back and forth between me and her twin boys, as our six eyes remained locked in a stare. I finally broke away to see her smiling at me.
"They're killing me. I really want another."
She laughed. "Take them for a few hours. You'll change your mind."
"How old are they?"
"They'll be two in August."
"They're precious."
As she unloaded her things I looked at my own Costco cart, full of things that I am able to buy because I "only" have two children, including a new outfit for both Eden and Delilah. If we were to add another to the mix, I couldn't spontaneously make these purchases. But as it stands, buying things for the two girls that I love so much is one of the little pleasures in my life.
I'm fortunate that putting the girls in a new dress, or a new bow in their hair, can still make me smile. Just an hour before my Costco run, I had taken my pre-session survey to gauge my depression and anxiety levels. Survey says I've lost interest in things that used to interest me, and I find little pleasure in life right now.
I don't really have much to complain about. I have a beautiful family, a good job that I love, everything I need and most of what I want. But it all feels a bit meaningless these days.
As I leave the warehouse I encounter the woman again, the twin boys still sitting side by side in the shopping cart. She sees my longing gaze and asks, "How many do you have?"
"Three."
"And you want more?" I smile. She has no idea how loaded my answer really is.
Increasingly I find myself grieving the child that I miscarried. This always comes and goes in waves, sometimes affecting me more than others. This wave will pass, but not a day goes by that I don't think about who that child might have been today. I know that in those two boys sitting side by side, I saw the two children that will never get to be 21 months old. I saw the future I might never have, the children I still hope to have that may just never come.
In the car the tears stream down my face as Zac Brown sang, "My whole world, it begins and ends with you. . . " I don't know anymore where the world begins and where it ends, I only know that I'm drowning in it, and there again, I don't know why.
At home I presented Eden with her new outfit.
"It's a beautiful dress!" I promise her she can wear it tomorrow. Upstairs, in addition to her closet full of clothes, there are boxes and tubs and cabinets brimming with clothes each girl has outgrown, loving folded in the hopes that I will get to use them again on a child of my own. Other clothes remain still in their package, a fading ember of faith that one day, I'll have another little boy. I tell myself that if that day comes I will pat myself on the back for being so prudent. But day by day I feel a bit more like Ms. Haversham, clinging to a futile dream while the world goes on without me.
Marcos tells me the news, that a terrorist attack occurred at the Arianna Grande concert in England. 19 are dead, which seems comparatively less devastating. He tells me that online people are commenting, "Too bad Arianna Grande wasn't one of them." Fleetingly, I think, "Too bad I wasn't one of them." Very young people attend her concerts, young people with a whole life ahead of them. Young people who still love to wake up every morning. Young people who don't have children that are destined to grow up with a chronically depressed mother who never seems satisfied.
I go through the motions of bedtime routine. I'm in a low, right now, and I know it will pass. We brush teeth, read stories, say prayers, tuck in stuffed animals, and the girls seem satisfied that I've given them my best, even though my best is far less than they deserve.
I trudge downstairs and between picking up toys and sippy cups and board books I fix myself a drink. I see tiny shoes, and think about the shoes that are missing. I sit down at the keyboard and pour out my heart, filling its place with a cocktail and look ahead to a time when the pendulum swings and the
survey says that I love life again.
