The Two R's

My dear blogmate, R&R, just wrote the most fabulous post and inspired my cheap, unoriginal self to do a spin-off.

In a popular film that you may very well know, one villain asks another how she feels now that her arch nemesis is dead. Multiple choice. 2 R's. Relief? Or regret?

When I look back at my pregnancy and subsequent defeat of my enemy, IF, I feel a bit of both. Relief that I made it through alive. That I have this sweet, healthy baby as a reward for all of the misery I endured. Relief that I no longer have to dread holidays, baby showers or family gatherings. That I no longer have to ponder if I'll ever be a mother to a living child. Because I am. That worry dissipated that magical moment I heard his first cry.

But more so, I feel regret.

Throughout the agony of TTC, I wished I could be a superhero. A caped crusader who could fast forward time. I lived my life in two-week increments. Waiting to ovulate. Waiting to test. Waiting and hoping, waiting and hoping. Wash, rinse, repeat. It felt as if I was confined in this cyclical trap. When AF would arrive, I would plot my temperatures on my chart, pop pills and vitamins and tap my foot as CD14 drew near. Each RE appointment was one step closer. As I saw the greatly anticipated temperature shift, I would stare at the calendar, anxiously awaiting test day. Every BFN made me that much more desperate and impatient.

Only it didn't end there. With my BFP, I again wished the time away. If I could only see a heartbeat. If I could only hear the heartbeat on doppler. If I could only get to the second trimester. If I could only get to my Level II and find out the gender. If I could only feel flutters of movement. If I could only make it to viability. If I could only make it to the third trimester. If I could only make it to term.

Against all odds, we made it through each milestone. Relatively easily. Before I knew it, Nate was here.

I look back and regret selling time short. I know it was a self-preservation mechanism and that my mini-milestones were a way to mentally challenge myself to trust in hope. It was too hard to see myself reaching the holy grail so I had to start small. I had to have faith that we could climb those stairsteps until we reached the top. But in doing so, I made it impossible to live in the moment. I wished so hard for the future that I failed to rest and feel the contentment of the present.

I did find joy with each milestone I met. But it was never enough. I only relished in happiness enough to push myself to the next hurdle. I couldn't let myself get too excited. So, when I look back on my pregnancy, it's a blur. Splashes of happiness amongst a foundation of angst.

The unfairness of it all is that now I wish I could slow time down. Now that I am no longer sullen, weeping over the seemingly unattainable. Now that my marriage isn't close to collapsing in shambles. Now that I can truly smile and mean it. Just when I want to live in the here and now, time speeds up. I'd give anything to go back to feeling like each day was infinity.

Nate is going to be 12 weeks old tomorrow and I find that incredibly fascinating. I love that he is less of a blob and more of a little human these days. He can coo and babble. He can blow spit bubbles and smile. He can suck on his hand and drool like an English Bulldog. With each new day, he changes before my very eyes. I wish I could trick time. Stall it so I don't miss any detail, no matter how minute it may be.

I think this is part of the reason we are still co-sleeping. DH has been urging me to transition Nate to the crib for weeks but I can't bring myself to do it yet. I've been procrastinating. Hardcore. Co-sleeping has its obvious advantages but the main reason I haven't attempted to move him is the most selfish of all. It's my shallow attempt to resist change and stop time in his tracks.

I hold my pint-sized cutie close, his faint breath tickling my chest. I inhale deeply, allowing his lavender scent to encompass my nostrils. The moonlight flows through our bedroom window. I take one more loving glance before I close my eyes. I know I must but I feel like I never want to let go.