13 March, 2016


As a five-year-old, I told the following story:
"There were once some fairy princesses living in a beautiful land. They were all happy and had a good life. Then suddenly, they all became sick! The fairy doctor rushed to their sides and declared: you are all going to die or you are all going to have babies."
The story ended with babies, obviously.
I have always been obsessed with babies and pregnancy. As a young girl, I fantasized about being pregnant. I daydreamed about pregnancy all the time. I thought it would be so sweet if I became pregnant and then had a baby as a young elementary-aged child.
I even recall asking my mother how big the baby was in my stomach. (Obviously a long time before I knew how such things worked.) I thought you started with a bunch of babies and they all grew slowly until you were married and then you became pregnant. Magic!
I always knew I wanted to have children and I always knew I wanted a lot. Dozens. Enough to fill every nook and cranny of my house.
I never imagined there might be heartbreak to go along with the process.

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