I Want a Do-Over

I admit some sadness about the fact that I will never again have a baby resting against my shoulder. I won't be able to nuzzle the back of an infant's neck, or smell the top of its head. I actually think I'll miss snuggling a tiny body in the crook of my arm.

So much internal conflict. I know I'll never have another child, and while I'm glad of that, I also regret it. Depression cheated me out of enjoying the first two years of of my daughter's life. There were some nice times, I'm sure, but I don't remember them. My life was a grey fog, punctuated by periods of internal screaming. I flat out hated it. Not her, never her. But the immensity and overwhelming nature of it all; the sheer, unceasing marathon. It was like walking through wet, knee high concrete.

It is only now, with a proper mental health diagnosis, a divorce, and some recognition that time passes and children actually become functioning, self-aware human beings, that I am actually starting to wish I could do it again. Not because I think there's some ideal waiting for me, but to at least give my self a chance to remember the earliest days of my child's life with something other than abject horror.