It's Been a Week

{Disclaimer: If we're friends in real life and you have children and/or you're pregnant, please know this isn't about any of you. Truly. This isn't an attack and I'm not trying to make you feel badly. That is NEVER my intention. But I do need a space to vent. And this is my space. If you've been invited to read this blog, it's because I love you. But being infertile is hard. Even when you're not actively trying. And I know that parenting is hard, in different and maybe even in similar ways, but this is my story, a big part of my story, and because of privacy and social constructs and the ugly taboo-ness that infertility carries around with it like an anvel, I don't get to talk about it on Facebook and I've come to limit what I even say out loud to family and friends when we're in person because...well, there's only so much a person can say. So this is where I get to just say it. Without apology.}


For the most part, I'm better. I can get through a conversation (or multiple!) about babies and parenting without wanting to run away screaming or fighting back tears. I can hold babies, snuggle babies, feed babies, and coo over their cuteness without feeling like I'm going to lose it. But every once in awhile, I'm bombarded.

This week has been a bombardment week.

We've all heard about the Royal's impending arrival. Surprisingly, I wasn't shocked. The announcement didn't make me jealous or angry or envious of their situation. After all, they already live under a microscope and this development will only intensify it even more. What I dread is all the additional media coverage of Baby Royal. What is Kate shopping for today? What will they name it? Will it be a brother or a sister for the little Prince? What maternity outfit is Kate sporting today? And on and on and on.

Between the Royals and other pregnant celebs, checking on my people (you know, at People.com) will be quite the daunting task.

And then there's Facebook. Dear, sweet Facebook, who never fails to succeed when it comes to sabotaging my good mood when I least expect it, with it's endless pregnancy and birth announcements. Today's highlight: A simple baby on board picture. That wasn't so bad. It was a comment below it that irked me. "Welcome to the club!" I. Loathe. That. Statement. Once again, I'm the outsider looking in, eager face pressed against the window, breath fogging up the glass. It's such an exclusive club, too. Only one way to get in that one -- very specific, non-negotiable qualifications and I just don't have what it takes. Yet. I must make myself add the "yet."

And we mustn't forget the folks who list their every pregnancy gripe. Including but certainly not limited to not being able to enjoy the various pumpkin and autumn themed beers and lagers that appear with the season.  Honestly, I would give up alcohol in every form for the rest of my life if it meant I could carry a healthy child to term. I do try to look at it from their perspective -- they don't know my sorrow, and they don't need to censor their lives just because of someone else's predicament -- but it's just hard sometimes.

Maybe it's because we're approaching the hardest time of the year to be childless. Maybe it's because I'm just so tired of not being a parent, despite years of trying and thousands upon thousands of dollars. Maybe it's because I'm just flat-out tired, in general. But it's already been a week. And it's only Tuesday.