Not Quite The End

… simply because I’m no good at goodbyes!  That’s why I’ve taken so long to update this.  I’d planned to finish this blog now, and maybe I will soon, but not just yet.  It’s the end, certainly, of my reason for starting it in the first place, but it is also the beginning – of K’s second year in this world and of our second year as her parents.
 
Today I disposed of all her baby bottles; she has moved onto drinking cups now – no more sterilising.  The end of an era.  But, the beginning of another one.  She’s almost walking and loves being everywhere and exploring everything.  She had the last of her baby innoculations yesterday, and I’m pleased to say that she won’t need any more for over two years – by which time she’ll be old enough for me to explain and for her to understand why she’s having them, so then I won’t feel like a traitor as I sit there holding her leg straight and her arm out of the way while the nurse does the awful deed.
 
But she was soon smiling again; she’s such a good baby, and is never unhappy for long.  Even then it’s only because there’s a reason – and as yet she doesn’t have the words to tell us that she’s tired, hungry, has a headache etc. and can’t understand why we move all the exciting things like pens and keys out of her mouth/hand/reach!  She’s bound to be frustrated.
 
She just has to be the best baby in the whole world.  Or am I a teeny weeny bit biased, do you think?! 
 
Sometimes people tell me that I should make the most of it as she’ll probably change and be a Terrible Two, but on speaking to friends I’ve discovered that that phase isn’t inevitable, and some of their children never had that stage at all.  And I remember some children that I used to regularly babysit for, from baby age until teenage, and they never went through that stage either.  Not only weren’t they ‘terrible’ when I was looking after them, I worked with some of their parents and they’d have told me horror stories if there had been any to tell!  So I like to remain optimistic.  She is a happy baby, and we love her. 
 
Will there be another to keep her company throughout her life?  God willing.  These eggs were such an incredible gift, and the fact that they’re there means that they keep calling to me.  I’ve had it said to me that they’re not even ‘mine’, so how can I feel so attached to them, but for some reason I am.  It’s like saying that you can’t really love an adopted child because it isn’t ‘yours’, or that because the eggs weren’t mine I can’t love K as much as if the egg that made her had come from me.  The fact is that I love her and those waiting embryos as much as if they were my very own – to me, there’s absolutely no difference.
 
I’ve also been told by someone that the 9-month pregnancy and first year with their child was like ‘walking on hot coals – you might do it once, but never again’.  I feel so sorry for them, because I can honestly say that I enjoyed EVERY SECOND of my pregnancy and K’s first year.  (Apart from the times when she’s crying in pain because of wind, teething, injections etc.)  It makes me think that that person has a nightmare baby, or hasn’t enjoyed being with them very much – and yet I’ve seen them, and know that they love their baby, so I’m rather confused as to their feelings.
 
Still, with regard to our own, it might not work at all.  They might not defrost, or only one of them might do so.  One’s already in the process of hatching and the other isn’t quite ready; the embryologist can’t tell which, if either, might survive, but the average rate is 50%, so we might have only one or none at all.  But if one does, it might not implant.  And if it does, it might be lost before 12 weeks.  So, there’s no guarantee that we’d be successful at all.  However, the choice is to try to to let them go down the plughole – and how can we justify that??  It would be such a criminal waste of potential life – a life that would give us as much pleasure as K has given and is giving us, and always give us.  And if it doesn’t work, then at least we can tell her that we tried to ensure that her future life wouldn’t be a lonely-without-a-sibling one (even though I hope that she has enough friends and family of her own not to be lonely.  Am I making any sense here?!)
 
I‘m fully aware of the fact that K might not have us two for as long as we’ve had our parents, and I can’t bear to think of her not having a sibling to share her early life with now and also to have in the future, so that they can support each other when R and I have gone.  I hope of course that she will have a lifelong partner and family, but somehow you can never replace the shared experiences that growing up with a brother or sister can give you.  R’s sisters can talk about ‘remember when’, and my brother and I can talk about ‘remember when’, but unless K has someone to grow up with, she’ll never be able to do that, and will miss out on so much.  And she is different from most people, in that she has two Mummies – at least with a sibling she won’t be alone in that, and won’t feel quite so different, if you see what I mean.  And I’d never be able to forgive us if we didn’t at least try.
 
Anyway, it’s not in my hands, and I digress.  Here’s a recent picture of the little girl who I believe was meant to be.  Can you imagine this world without her in it?  I can’t.  And can you imagine her not being allowed to live this life that she loves so much?  No, neither can I!
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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About Linda Weeks

About my life with the daughter I thought I'd never have - but I did, thanks to a wonderful anonymous egg donor, to whom I will be forever grateful. xx
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