After my divorce, I knew I would most likely never have another child. This thought did not diminish my gratitude for the experiences I had with my then six and eight year old daughters. But I did grieve babies.
So, I purchased a dog.
A small baby dog.
A boy dog.
And I named him Frodo.
I knew that he, like Tolkien’s character, would be interested in the outside world.
Frodo frequently escapes from the confines of his dog life in our fenced back yard. I send M out into the dangerous parts of our neighborhood to find him, while I sit and worry if his little body is being crushed under a car.
We have the fence rigged now, with bricks from our landscaping—all spaces filled, creating a barrier between Frodo’s safety and the outside world.
When he is not enjoying the sun outside, he is inside, curled in my lap, or snuggled deep beneath the blankets on one of the girls’ beds.
He is not a real baby.
He is not a boy.
However, he is the baby boy I will never have.
It is scientifically proven that the brain changes after one gives birth to a baby.
My brain certainly changed after my divorce.