Twice an Auntie, Not Yet a Mom

Our second niece came into the world on Monday and she is gorgeous, lovely, delightful, perfect. And once again, she is not ours.

Her arrival hit hard, as it did the first time we became auntie and uncle, but if I'm being honest, it wasn't nearly as "bad," and for that I am so very thankful. The circumstances were very different those few years ago. Our first niece was born just before we had our miscarriage. We were all set to fly out to meet her, and had planned to surprise my husband's family with our pregnancy news by sneakily dressing our niece in a "I'm getting a cousin" onesie. But, as fate would have it, we had to cancel the trip last minute because I was miscarrying. It was a time I truly wish I could forget. So much pain, anger and despair. But this time, mercifully, I am in a much better mental place and while my heart still ached to see those first "welcome to the world, baby girl" photos we received of our newest baby niece, I felt a swelling of true joy.

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There is another reason why having two nieces born in half the time we've set out to become parents ourselves hits me so hard. Have I ever told you the story of when I revealed my PCOS diagnosis to my mother-in-law? I won't go into my feelings on the subject too much, in the event she were to ever randomly stumble upon this little space of mine, but what follows is the shortened version.

It was New Year's Eve day 2008. I had just received my PCOS diagnosis four months earlier and was taking the dreaded Metformin, which made me feel like I was putting poison in to my body each and every day. We were with the hubs' family and a few of his brother's friends + wives, all together in a rented cabin in Tahoe. We had debated telling his parents our "news" but after much thought and consideration, we felt like we were left with very little choice, because the hints to start a family were becoming more challenging to dodge. Because while we had only been married just over two years, we had been together nearly nine. I was so nervous that morning. I remember standing at the kitchen counter, helping rinse some fruit, and it was just me and her. So it came tumbling out. There was a giant {forgive the expression} pregnant pause, and I don't really remember what she said but it upset me so much that I found a reason to excuse myself and retreated to our room. Some time passed and later that morning, we found ourselves alone with his parents. What I had shared earlier resurfaced and what was said next is what I will never, ever forget because it has haunted me for years. "It's okay, we still have another son." As if our main concern was the fact that we may not be able to give them grandchildren. As if our sorrow was linked only to their disappointment which could be relieved by the knowledge that they could still have grandchildren because there was another son. Another son to give them heirs. I don't have to tell you how this hurt. Because I know so many of you can imagine it all on your own.

So now there are indeed two grandchildren by the other son. Just as she predicted, it's worked out fine in the end. For them.

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Please don't misunderstand. My in-law's are wonderful people. They, like so many people out there, just don't know what to say or how to say it to people like us. And of course, there is the cultural divide. They weren't raised in a culture that openly shared intimate details such as what we had chosen to share with them. They didn't know how to respond appropriately and mistakenly misconstrued our sadness as fear of disappointing them. Because that is how they would have felt. Over the years, it's gotten better. They still don't understand how our not having children has affected us, how it continues to affect us. They have made attempts at saying the right things, such as "it's okay if you decide to adopt," or "we saw a physic and she told us that you'd conceive at the end of 2015." My mother-in-law even bought me a book about infertility for Christmas one year. The important thing is that they're trying. But, it is unfortunate that those seven simple words spoken to me 5.5 years ago are still etched into memory. And oh how I wish I could forget.