waxing nostalgic

Looking at old videos and pictures of my babies is creating in me some emotion.

I am waxing nostalgic.

Nostalgic for the olden days. Not the olden days like the days of Laura Ingalls. Just the olden days of me.

The days when my babies were being born. The days where I could pull a baby to my nose anytime I wanted and breathe him in. It was a never ending inhalation around here.

November seems to be a month of babies this year. They are coming all around me. I can smell them. I haven't even met them yet and I can smell them. It is scrumptious. The nostalgia is making me yearn.

Don't get carried away. This does not mean I want another baby. I know it doesn't. I wondered for a fraction of a second myself.

What is this? I pondered to myself. Do I want another one?

And then BOOM. Reality. No way. No way do I want to that again. No way do I want to put my body through that again. And my mind.

No way.

The other night I had a dream. I guess that is what sparked this internal discussion within me. The dream must have been prompted by all the babies being born in such a short time. And also by my eternal fear that my body will fail me and one day I will wake up and discover a life within. Every woman who knows her mind is done having babies has this dream.

Right?

The dream. It's the dream where I'm ‘late’ and I say things to myself like "this can't be happening" and "what are we going to do?" All the while rubbing my belly and just knowing in that womanly way we sometimes know things that there is a life inside. The dream turns into a nightmare when my husband says really unsupportive things like "everything will be okay" and "I guess we're going to have a baby" with a super fake and painfully forced smile on his face. There are visions of stabbing him in the eye.

Is that part just me? Oh……..

I can tell you I didn't wake up feeling happy from this dream. I was panicked and worried. I checked my calendar. Then I danced a dance designed to coax the gods of womanhood. To convince them that I am not a vessel for childbearing anymore. But instead, a museum. I am a museum of awesome that has all the indicators of the amazing abilities my femininity has allowed me. I needed to convince those gods that I was not a willing participant. My body does not approve. My time is done.

It was just a dream, I told myself when I awoke. No need to panic.

It was just a dream.

The feelings this dream has invoked within me are proof enough that I am only nostalgic and not in reality missing, or wanting, or needing a baby in my life.

Maybe the waxing nostalgic comes from remembering. A remembering of a time in my life where things were hard but steady. Hard in the work of birthing babies. Steady in the struggle of raising them. My waxing might come from remembering that I did that.

Me.

I did that.

I lived it and I came out the other side.

Times are different now. New hard things, new phases of my life. Mine and my children’s. A newness that presents challenges both difficult and scary.

If I look hard enough, strain my neck, squint my eyes, I can see the other side of this.

It's real pretty.