Ache

Last week, I set foot into no woman's land.
At least its no woman's land if you've been spayed and no more babies are possible.
The baby section of a local store.
I was buying for a heathen's teacher, but I ofund myself yearning towards pacifiers, clothes, and toys my babies have long outgrown.
I immediately signed up for a big smacking reality check, but the ache was still there.
You know the one I'm talking about.
Phantom uterus pain.
That feeling deep within that hurts at the thought of no more tiny babies.
That portion of your that remembers the flutter of firts movements and the feel of elbows and knees later on, jabbing you, bruising you, reminding you of the life within your body, held safe, held as a promise of things to come.
I ached. I hated myself, but I ached.
Don't get me wrong, unless I win the lottery, my family is complete. While I have enough love to go around, I don't have enough money and room.
And while I am thrilled to be past diapers and diaper bags and spit up and baby proofing, I still miss that time of life.
I miss baby cries instead of howls of outrage.
I miss putting my heathens in a playpen or crib and knowing they would just stay put.
I miss baby breath and baby skin and baby sighs.
But I love my children's increasing independence and adventurous spirit.
I love having helpers with chores, though they aren't always willing.
I thrill at each new milestone, such as reading, because its a sure step into a new world for them.
But I acknowledge the ache, the unspoken yearning, and I doubt it will ever leave me.
The shop is closed, dusty, and barren, but the heart doesn't accept that.
The heart wants.
The heart yearns.
And so I ran out of that baby section before my heart could convince my head to do something unbelievably stupid.
But not fast enough to avoid that one sharp ache.
That, I still carry with me.