On Having Another

Yesterday, while picking up B from school, the mother of one of her classmates arrived at the same time. While leaving, both girls decided they needed a drink from the water fountain, which put us mothers in the position to begin a conversation. We had never spoken before—only smiled in passing—and there was something about her that had made me think that she was Russian (perhaps just her daughter’s name, Elena, had thrown me). As I stood there, trying to think of a commonality from which to start conversation, I remembered that several weeks before, Elena had announced to me that she was going to be a big sister.

“Elena told me that she’s going to be a big sister!” I told the woman, with congratulations in my voice. She turned around slowly, and I noticed a pained expression on her face, and tears welling in her eyes. “Well, we thought she was going to be…I had a miscarriage. I just found out a couple days ago,” she added, as though trying to explain her emotion. I felt so bad, to have brought it up so soon after them the suffering the wound of the loss. I expressed my condolences, not able to fathom how hard it must be to go through that.

“We had been trying for a long time, and when I got pregnant, we told Elena the news because we knew she’d really be happy. So she told everyone, but now…” she trailed off, wounded by her loss, and pained by having to repeat it each time she had to talk about it. I wanted to hug this woman whose afternoon I had just made a bit sadder.

She smiled wryly and said, “I always thought it was supposed to be easier the second time around!” I agreed with her, noting that I’d always heard that it’s easier to get pregnant when you’ve already been pregnant before, but that my experience has not been the case. I admitted that our family was going through a similar experience of trying to conceive with no luck just yet. She smiled at me sympathetically. She laughed as she responded, “It sure seemed a lot easier for my grandmother!” I laughed in return, and reminded her that our grandmothers were likely younger than us when they started having children, by at least 5-10 years. And they likely chose (or had no option than) to stay at home. “We’re career women,” she noted, the double-edged quality of that distinction hanging in the air.

We looked down fondly at our two little girls, who by this time were in a contest to see who could jump higher. “Well, I try to remind myself that we have this sweet, beautiful little girl, and if she’s all we ever get to have, then we are damn lucky.” Elena’s mom said it, but I could just have easily have uttered the sentiment. I felt a special bond with her as we watched our girls run down the hall toward the front door. Emotionally, I felt as though we were walking, arms linked, down a similar path, unsure of what’s ahead, but both of us grateful for where we’ve been and the wealth we have.

That night, I got my period.