I wish I could have another baby–not because I have the energy or stamina to raise another child, but because I want once again to have that happiness that I had when holding my son for the first time.
The happiness of knowing that for once in the last few years, something had gone right, and that maybe things would continue to go right. That I had undertaken something huge and scary, and I had an unmedicated birth without preparation or support, and it went OK. That a new life was beginning with so much potential–that my son’s life didn’t have to go the route that my life did, or my parents’ lives did.
That I could do motherhood all over again, and without the stress of my dad dying maybe this time I could do it right. Even breastfeeding worked this time. That I had added to my family. That I had given my first child what I never had–a sibling. That I had overcome illness.
It was all an incredible feeling–that my family was complete, with a boy and a girl.
I wish I could experience it again. But I don’t think I will, so I will make sure that the memory of it stays with me.