This post has been written in honor of Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.
Everything about the timing of my first pregnancy seemed perfect. I had just completed grad school, we had recently moved out of a small apartment and into a house, and my due date was in February which meant I would not have to be nine months pregnant in the heat of summer. (I hate being hot, so this last part was more important to me than it probably should have been.)
I went through the next three months like many other newly expectant moms: nervous, hopeful, taking my prenatal vitamins, trying to eat well. We kept our news quiet except for sharing with a few close friends and family, all while I navigated the general unpleasantness of the first trimester.
Although I did experience some light bleeding during the first several weeks of my pregnancy, I learned that this simply happens for some women. Each time, a brief visit to the doctor revealed all was well and our baby’s heart was beating like a champ.
But as I neared week 12 — the date I had been so eagerly awaiting — I started bleeding again, this time heavily. An ultrasound miraculously revealed our baby was still alive, and I got to see its sweet little profile, moving arms and legs, and a strong, steady heartbeat.
The ultrasound technician seemed worried, though, and I soon heard the words no parent wants to hear: “something might be wrong with your baby.”
The next five days felt incredibly long – even now, in my memory. That week was full of tests, prayers, appointments with specialists, eventually receiving the label “high risk” and trying to find comfort in the only instructions the doctors could give me: wait.
So, I waited. Then, early on a Saturday morning, the wait was over. I had miscarried.
I was admitted to the labor and delivery wing that day, but I left with no baby in my arms or in my womb. Thus, I joined the many, many women who have similarly lost a pregnancy, and I discovered that the commonality of miscarriage in no way minimizes its grief. The emptiness shocked me.
***
In the days following my miscarriage, life went on, though not completely as usual. I cried. I finished bleeding. I went back to work. We were blessed to have a network of friends with whom we shared our story, and they brought meals, flowers, and cards that still mean the world to us.
But to everyone else – to the many people who didn’t even know I had been pregnant — it seemed like nothing had changed.
After all, from the outside, my life looked no different than it had before. There were no baby items in our house yet; no car seat full of Cheerios sat in the back seat of our car. I didn’t know the first thing about assembling a breast pump, and I was oblivious to real sleep deprivation.
Yet I felt different – not just from the grief or the hormones still surging through my body, but from the knowledge that I had carried a baby inside of me for nearly three months.
One night, I went to a birthday party and found myself standing in a circle, chatting with at least a half dozen women. Suddenly, I realized that every woman in the circle was pregnant (which only happens when you’ve lost a baby or are trying to conceive, right?). I instantly felt as though maybe I should slip off and join another group. After all, I should have been pregnant, too, but instead I was the only one enjoying a glass of wine – which was little consolation to me in that moment.
Then one day, I took a call from a friend who had heard about our loss. In the middle of the conversation, in the most matter-of-fact way, she said the words I didn’t even know I needed to hear:
“Jenna, you are a mom. Even if no one else knew that baby or knows that he or she existed, you are already a mom.”
Hearing that validation of my motherhood – even after the loss, with no child in my womb or arms — was deeply comforting to me. My motherhood journey was not playing out in the perfect timing I had hoped, but it had indeed begun.
***
I’ve often felt grateful for that phone conversation with my friend, and it’s prompted me to regularly ask this question:
When does motherhood begin?
I think about this question each time someone asks me, “is this your first baby?” and I answer “yes” but think “no.” I think about it every time I look at those sonogram pictures from my first pregnancy, or hear a miscarriage story from another friend.
I think about this question, too, when I meet women who have experienced other forms of loss or longing — especially when they do not yet have other children. What about my friends who have seen negative pregnancy tests, month after month? What about those for whom an adoption has fallen through? What about women who wish to have a baby but must wait for different life circumstances? When does motherhood begin for them?
Here’s the best answer I have: I think motherhood, with all its incredible joy, also comes with an ache. Though this ache is hard to define, it can start long before you see a positive pregnancy test or before a squirmy newborn gets placed on your chest … and it can continue long after a baby is born.
It’s the ache I feel every time I think about that baby I never got to hold. It’s also an ache I recognized after I birthed my son (on the hottest day in July, no less!). I was so thrilled to be holding him, yet equally overwhelmed with the knowledge that he will experience pain from which I cannot fully shield him. It’s an ache I still feel sometimes when I watch him sleep, or when he is sick, or when I think about him growing up into an independent man. It’s the ache I hear in the stories of older moms, their nests long empty, when they talk about saying good-bye to their grown kids.
To ache like this is to love. To ache is part of what it means to mother.
So, to you who know a mother’s ache — whether you ache with longing or with bounty, with emptiness or with fullness, and with or without the official title of “mom” — I extend to you what my friend said to me:
You are a mom.
The motherhood journey is not defined by a birth certificate or by play dates on your calendar. The mom circle is large, and it knows no easy boundaries. You are welcome here.
Photo credit: Love, Elizabeth Photo
Well said. And I have had several moments, realizing all the pregnant women around you, and dealing with the pregnancy hormones (or in my case, post-pregnancy hormones just trying to level out). And with Mother’s Day, that would’ve been especially rough, had I not been ‘stranded’ in Seattle on vacation 🙂
Farin
Beautifully said. I lost a baby last year and although I have two others in my arms/creating havoc in my house, I still remember that lost baby and ache.
[…] When Does Motherhood Begin? […]
Thankful for you, Jenna.
So wonderfully put Jenna!
Beautifully written, you are a Mom but your heart always has an ache for the one you never got to hold. So many women share this heartbreak and I am one.
This is so beautifully written. I love the idea that motherhood begins with the ache or even the longing for motherhood. I have never had a miscarriage but I do know what it means to be expecting a baby, then suddenly not expecting. The road to adoption is paved with a similar grief. One’s heart is certainly changed forever in motherhood.
What a beautiful post, Jenna.
This was beautiful. Thanks for sharing. I am a step-mom to two kiddos and went through over two years of infertility before becoming pregnant (via IVF) with my first little one – currently at 15 weeks (and held my breath for practically the first 13 weeks). Being a Mom to my own has always been a sensitive subject for me. I know that I did not go through a miscarriage, but enduring infertility is also difficult and almost a loss – loss of something that you always thought would come easily. Thanks for your touching story.
Melissa, Thank you so much for sharing this. I think you’re right that infertility is another type of loss, and I’m sorry you’ve had to experience it. Although women experience pregnancy loss differently, we are certainly still united by that mother’s “ache.” I’m so happy to hear about your pregnancy! I wish you the best in this new phase of mothering. Thanks again for your comment.