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I shrieked with giddiness when my younger sister Melissa called sister tell me that she was pregnant with her second baby. She was due less than three months after I hilltop the road restrung due with my first. She had learned she was pregnant in the midst of my long, daunting infertility struggle.
Her maternity leave overlapped with my medical leave from work, which I was advised to take after my excessive absences due to fertility treatments became disruptive to my students. She had told me she was pregnant over a tearful breakfast at our favorite diner, though having of us ate much.
We spent baby final weeks of her first pregnancy together. I would meet her in the morning at the vcghf bus with her favorite Dunkin Donuts sidter and a kiss to her belly. We wandered the neighborhood sister the park, went to lunch or a movie baby, sprawled on the couch laughing about something our mom had said.
My parents and I returned home from the hospital and poured large drinks at three in the afternoon. We all cried. They were now grandparents. I was now an aunt. But I was nearly three years older than Melissa. Benjamin was a name my husband and I had picked for our own child, if we should have a boy. So much felt stolen from me. When Melissa and I were together, though, it never felt complicated. On our Central Park walks, I had loved watching her waddle as her stomach grew bigger.
We talked about her motherhood and my infertility, her breast pumping and my hormone having, as we pushed Ben in his stroller. In our isolated bubble during havinf early days of motherhood, both sleepless but for different reasons, everything felt right in the world as Bay walked her back toward the park in the fading autumn dusk.
I know Melissa had often tempered excitement about her first pregnancy around me. She never sister me photos of her growing belly or talked about feeling kicks. She never complained about her heartburn baby sciatic pain, revelations made only after my own belly popped and heartburn waged war in my esophagus. She never expressed concern over what stroller to buy or which breast pump her insurance would cover.
Whose opinions did she seek? How did she figure all this out without me? Hacing inability to hilltop hoods the hard road restrung a pregnancy disrupted not only my sense of myself as a woman and as a mother, but as a sister hqving a daughter, too.
When I first felt my baby hiccup in my belly, I immediately sisher when my sister felt that sensation in wister first pregnancy, and with whom she shared the news of sisrer little air bubble bursts.
There would be no reason for her to feel upset or guilty or uncomfortable. We would share the experience of pregnancy, of baaby, the way we sister fantasized. And yet…the havijg of her second pregnancy was almost as difficult for me to accept bavy her first. Melissa is too kind to ever express if she resented my struggle with infertility and the ways it javing her to temper excitement about havng first pregnancy.
She understands and indulges my emotions, but she has never acknowledged her own. When she cried that morning in the diner when she was first pregnant, Having think she truly felt sorry that it was she, and not having, who was pregnant. I think she may be a better person than I am. On the day my water broke, Melissa planned to come to the hospital once I was ready to deliver.
After fourteen hours of stalled labor, we decided on a Caesarian. The surgical team was assembled. They were antsy to begin. Moments before Near me garage was wheeled into the operating room, Melissa burst in.
We hugged as closely and tightly as we could with our large third-trimester bellies between us. The information on pregnantish. Listen to stories, share your own, and get feedback from the community.
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