I link my hand with my son’s on this perfect, cloudless Shabbos day.

I look at my little gentleman, his shirt crisply ironed (for the time being, at least), his yarmulke getting used to its place on his head. I whisper a grateful prayer, squeeze his hand — I don’t remember it being this big — a little tighter.

A young woman wheels a carriage past us. Shloimy stands on tiptoe and peeks into the bassinet. He reaches out to caress the child’s cheek but hits the air instead. A fleeting moment, and we’re alone again.

“Mommy?” He looks up at me, his eyes crinkling, reflecting the day’s sunshine and all the light of the world. “When will you have a baby?”

“Do you want us to have a baby, tzaddik?” I ask him.

“Yes, Mommy. Babies are so cute, right?”

“So are you.” I grasp his chin in my two fingers. “And when Hashem wants, we will have a baby.” He is satisfied and runs ahead, skipping down the sidewalk in the beautiful spring air.

Shloimy is safely in school when I push open the door to my doctor’s office. The breath stops in my throat. Everything looks the way I left it four years ago.

My two worlds collide.

I’m back in the era of before.

Before Shloimy.

Everything in me tells me to turn around and go back home to normal life. To that easy sense of belonging, of being, of sitting outside and waving to Shloimy as he pedals in the golden sun. Of being a mother just like everyone else, kvetching about tantrums, about bedtime, desperately searching for those ever-elusive babysitters. My heart is complete when my mind is occupied with what I have, instead of what I lack.

But who am I kidding?

It’s been creeping up on me lately, this uneasiness. Society’s merciless fingers are prodding me away from the center, pushing me to the outskirts. I am losing my license, my footing.

And I want more of this joy.

And so, I’m here. I’m back.

I avert my eyes, trying not to look at others in the room, afraid to mislead them into thinking that I understand. That I still feel a hole so huge inside me that there’s nothing else left.

And deep inside, the worries and guilt surface. Am I ready for this? Am I a good enough mother to be trying again? Did I invest enough in my parenting, in my son? Illogically, I think, Am I even being fair, chasing a joy that I already have — asking, begging for more, when there are so many who don’t have any at all?

I glance over at my husband for some empathy. He’s sending an urgent message to this one, a reminder to that one. He’s conquering the waiting time by going down the to-do list, driving all emotions away so he can pretend this is routine and isn’t all that significant.

I finally catch his eye. He shrugs and says, “Was it always so full here? It’s getting late.”

I shrug back, resigned for the wait, and reach for a magazine. Yes, the waiting has always been this long. It’s something about the nature of this place. (Excerpted from Family First, Issue 621)