For all my logical assurances that this pain has no place in my life, the ache persists
That I’m bigger than that. I feel like a spoiled little girl crying for more ice cream while she’s still holding the melting drippy point of her cone.
I watch young mothers with flowing maternity tops walking down the street pushing double strollers, and a voice deep inside me cries out, “I want that, too!” only to be followed moments later with the admonition, “You had your turn. What right do you have to complain?”
But it doesn’t help.
I pass baby stores and my eyes are drawn to all the carriages and tiny outfits in the window display, and I drool like a beggar in front of a bakery.
I’ve yet to break my decades-long habit of perusing the ad circulars for diaper or baby clothing sales. I feel a rush of excitement when I see one, followed by a stab of disappointment as I realize I no longer need any of that.
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