Babies and that Maternal Feeling

As many may know, Philip and I have no children.  It, apparently, wasn’t in God’s plan for us.  I spent a good portion of my thirties upset by this revelation; avoiding kids, cringing at the prospect of the invite to a baby shower, getting angry at commercials that depicted families doing family things, hearing that Christmas is for children (n...a...h…I love Christmas even without having kids), telling myself that kids were annoying and who needed them?  Laura Bush had an interesting quote in her book Spoken from the Heart:

“The English language lacks the words to mourn an absence. For the loss of a parent, grandparent, spouse, child or friend, we have all manner of words and phrases, some helpful some not. Still we are conditioned to say something, even if it is only “I’m sorry for your loss.” But for an absence, for someone who was never there at all, we are wordless to capture that particular emptiness. For those who deeply want children and are denied them, those missing babies hover like silent ephemeral shadows over their lives. Who can describe the feel of a tiny hand that is never held?” 

By my mid-forties I came around to accept that this is the way it’s going to be.  I still stayed clear of children but the occasional baby shower grew to be less of a chore, discussing a co-worker's pregnancy didn’t sting as much, but I knew I’d never offer myself to babysit. 

Flash forward to last week.  I was having a garage sale and my neighbor Jamie came over with Norah, her four month old daughter.  Looking back now, I’m amazed at how I initiated Jamie into relinquishing Norah to me.  I deliberately reached for her.  I didn’t even think about it. I just did it.  I know, not a huge deal for most women but for me, it was the first time I have done this since my twenties and I didn’t even realize what I had done until later.  

This weekend has been a particularly rainy one.  Oklahoma really needs it.  This morning I let Becca out and when she came back it, she was drenched.  I had to dry her off with a towel. She was very good about it; even laying down on her back so I could wipe each of her paws.  After I was satisfied with it, I was playing with her and the towel and talking to her like a baby.

“Aw…my little girl is all wet. Poor little girlie. You smell like a wet dog. I know that’s because you are a wet doggy.”


I know…how pathetic is that?  And then I did something I was worried I’d never do again. I clutched her to my bosom.  I had been worried that I wouldn’t feel that maternal need since my bosom had been amputated. But the need was still there.  And that felt good.