I drink in the smell of the freshly bathed and diapered newborn. The little girl’s hand is curled around my pinky finger. Watching her sleep bundled in my arms makes me wonder if my daughters were ever that tiny. It seems like a lifetime ago.
The baby opens her eyes and lets out a huge wail that sounds like a mice squeak. I recall my girls wailing like fire engines. This cry is nothing. As her little fist starts to make its way to her tiny rosebud mouth, I pass her over to her mama who is waiting in the rocking chair.
I wander over to where my young daughters are playing with others. It is no wonder why my biological clock is not thundering in my heart holding that bundle of baby. Considering I wasn’t supposed to be pregnant once let alone twice, I never had the maternal urge to be a mom.
When I was a kid, my dolls never played house. The house was magically clean. Ken went to an office. My Barbie won court cases or performed in plays. I never was good at the Easy Bake Ovens. In retrospect on my family history, it is no surprise I never felt the pull to be a mom.
I am okay with my two girls that allowed me to be their mom. I don’t need any more. I feel greedy that I got to be a mom of two. As my oldest daughter at the tender age of four tells me that one arm is for her and the other arm for her younger sister. I only have two arms for my two beauties.
As the visit winds down, the baby is napping, signalling we should go. I can’t help but think ahead of when the next time a baby will be in my arms. Aside from kids of friends, I sense it will be when it’s my grandchild. Leading by my own experiences with my grandparents, I know that I will love being a grandma.
That feeling seems so right. I look forward to the future with my daughters. I am not torn on having more children. I am gifted with the ones I am meant to have.