That it comes every month, again, is a cheat; possibility and opportunity and all! Missed! Messy!
It is burning, pulling, ripping into my insides, yanking handfuls out, stripping that home away while he is away from home.
Perhaps this is too -- you know how they say it -- "visceral." It is indeed. The very stuff of veins and blood and surfacing, baring, yielding. Can I write about this and keep you (even you, you male, you young, you not-yet-a-mother readers) driven, bitten, reading on? I could, you know: I could have another child, or several. It is not just my biology saying so. I thought it; I wanted it; I want it still. "My baby sister," says Monroe, as if this child has been conjured already, conceived, expected soon. Any day now.
We all do: want her, or him, a small tiny wresting thing, with the smells of me and milk and pain and the infinite tiny future. More to love and more to be loved by. More to care for, more to hold me back, more to see through to -- somewhere -- toddling, adding four and five, screaming in brother-fights, calling me angry names or "a really frequent runner," making me cry with pride, adulthood, further even. I want it all.
But with a husband gone the something monthly goes on, useless and stinking and selfish-making, in the way and all over, pulling my life to the curb and forcing me to walk the rest of the way. I do not even take my middle son to school Friday, I am sick with it, I have no drive or tackle or completion. I wallow.
Unfair or not, wanted or not, of any use to any of us -- not! surely not! -- possible to endure in this house of boys and no man, in this wartime family in a time of tentative peace, proof I missed my window of conception again, I circle once more the date on my calendar and say to myself, "LMP," knowing, of course, it will not have been my last-before-anything. Next month -- we go again.