In Which I Declare My Intentions

I have a confession to make, and really, it's not unexpected:

I'm DONE with being childless. Six (going on seven) years is six years far too long. I feel this way throughout the year but the holidays only exacerbate it.

I want this Christmas to be the LAST one we spend without some idea of when or how our family will be expanded. I fully understand that come Christmas 2015, it is nearly 100% unlikely that we'll have a child in our arms, or even one on the way (what with our move following Jason's graduation and starting our new life in a new place and all the upheaval that comes with that. including but not limited to our extreme lack of funds) but I'd like to be actively trying again. I'd like to be seeing a new RE and getting to the bottom of why we can't conceive and what needs to be done to remedy that. And I fully understand it won't be easy. I'm not naive. Jaded, perhaps. But naive, no. We're ready to explore the reality of IVF. I'm ready to undergo further testing. Maybe this time, at the age of 31, we'll be taken seriously. I never felt we were at the two other clinics we went to, as we were 24 years old the first time, and 27 the second time. Even though nothing was working, and there was no clear explanation, we were told time and again, "but you're young, you still have time." We were even told that following our miscarriage, right after, "This is progress. At least you got pregnant this time."

The time we've spent in Indiana has been precious. We've healed and have taken some time away from the pressures, emotions, and let-downs of infertility. We desperately needed the break and we're better for having taken it. Our relationship with ourselves and each other is stronger and better because of it and I'm so grateful and thankful for the perspective and for the mental place the space allowed me to arrive at. It was all necessary and we wouldn't change our decision. That being said...

2015 is the year that's going to find us back on the road to baby. Somehow, some way, we're going to be parents. We're ready. It's so past due it's painful. We've been married eight years. I know that life isn't a race and we're all on our own journeys but our hearts are bursting with love to give to a child. I can't explain how it feels. I can only try and share with you what my heart knows to be true, without reservation or hesitation or fear: it's time.

It may take us a year, it will most likely take us more. But this is the beginning of the end of the childless years.

Not So Holly Jolly

Some years are just harder than others. I know that. But it doesn't mean it's any less disappointing to muddle through a more challenging holiday season.

Our dog, Kobe, was diagnosed with cancer in November. Thankfully, it was confined to a mass on his tail so it didn't spread and we didn't have to make any tough decisions but it did mean he had to have his tail amputated on December 1. His beautiful, sweeping tail. So now, he has a little nub about 5 inches or so long and he looks like a long-legged over-sized 75 lb Corgie. But he's here with us and he's going to be okay and that's the main thing. That all being said, he hasn't had an easy time with the amputation, which has meant that we haven't had an easy time, either. He won't leave his nub alone long enough for it to heal and he's constantly ripping open his wound, even while wearing the largest cone we could fine (seriously, it's made to fit a St. Bernard) and even with his nub wrapped. Last night was particularly rough. Jason is gone through tomorrow so it's just been me and the pets and Kobe has been on high alert: barking throughout the night, which is very unlike him, and yes, you guessed it, ripping open his scab. Bloody mess at 4am. Last Tuesday, it took me an hour to get all of the blood up from the carpet so thankfully, last night's little fiasco wasn't nearly as traumatic but at 4am, it felt pretty brutal. And then after cleaning up and rewrapping his tail (and I'd already been jarred awake a few times by his barking over a several hour span), I couldn't get back to sleep. Which in turn led to a meltdown. Because it all seemed like too much. Most things do at 4am. We spent money we didn't have on his biopsy and amputation surgeries, and this whole ordeal has been going on since the end of October. Nearly two months. Again, we're so very thankful he's going to be okay but it's been a struggle. Jason has had an extremely taxing semester at school while also applying for professor positions so the timing was just bad. (Ha! Like there's ever a good time.) Next step: a soft mesh muzzle. Per the vet's instructions. I hate the idea but quite honestly, we're out of options. It must be left alone to heal and he's not allowing it to, despite everything we've tried.

And this has nothing to do with anything but we bought this gorgeous Grand Fir tree on November 29 from a local tree farm. It was full and beautifully shaped and smelled like tangerines. But it died a week after we brought it home. Dropped needles like it was going out of style. We did nothing different than we ever do, just a freak thing. Thankfully, the tree farm was kind enough to replace it for us free of charge but it was still a bummer.

Anyway. I'm just tired. And finding it difficult to get in to the holiday spirit. I can't believe next week is already Christmas. I don't feel ready. I don't feel festive. I just feel defeated. And I keep trying REALLY hard. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm always the jolliest of them all this time of year. My enthusiasm normally rivals that of a child's. This year...not so much. My mom came out for about 5 days last week and it was so wonderful to spend some of this season with her - we had our fun and the time flew by so fast. But it was clouded by school stuff going on with Jason and, of course, bloody messes caused by the dog's inability to leave his little nubbie alone. I'm just so anxious about it all. Just anxious in general I guess. Normally, no matter what is going on, the holidays never let me down. I seem to always find my holiday cheer just in time. But I have to admit...I'm afraid Christmas might fail me this year. It's not over yet, though. We still have a week to find my little Christmas miracle: my holly jolly holiday cheer.

Commence Holiday Season

As much as I love the holidays (and I do, kind of an immense amount bordering on intense) this is indeed a very hard time of year to be childless. It starts with Halloween - all of the incredibly cute children dressed up for the festivities, and none of them are ours. We 'like' everyone else's cute-kid-in-a-costume photos on Facebook but we have none to add to the mix. Instead, all I had to contribute was a photo of me dressed up for Halloween and for the first time I felt kind of weird about sharing it. Because the day before I had posted a picture of me from Halloween past, circa 1986, and I had also posted a picture of me on Instagram, age 1.5, sitting on a pumpkin in a pumpkin patch. Everyone was posting pictures of their kids and I was posting pictures of myself. It felt strange and it made me feel even more self conscious of the fact that we don't have a child. I felt like I didn't belong, like I had a huge "Childless" sticker on my forehead. I realize that much of this feeling was most likely generated internally and not really obvious or apparent from an outside perspective but still. It was hard to shake the feeling of "otherness".

And it's just the beginning. People are taking family photos in preparation for their holiday cards. Soon, people will begin their various holiday rituals with their families, many of which are kid-centric. And thanks to social media, it's a daily onslaught of reminders that we don't belong to that particular "club" yet and we don't really know when our membership will arrive.

We should have a toddler. Our baby would be 2.5 - this holiday season might have very well been the one he or she would have begun to anticipate Christmas with some level of understanding and excitement. But most people don't know we should have a toddler. Most people don't know how hard it is for us to go through this time of year and still generate merriment and joy for ourselves. Most people don't understand how hard it is for us to see, day after day, countless memories being made with children who are not ours.

It's hard year-round. But it's a whole other level of difficulty during the holidays. And while we're so thankful that the family and friends who do know about our loss and our challenging journey to parenthood try their best to empathize with us and keep our baby in their hearts this time of year, no one can truly know what it's like unless you've experienced it yourself.

Each year, I am determined not to let my emotions dampen my holiday spirit. Each year, I am resolved to enjoy the holidays to the full extent possible - we have initiated new traditions and continue the traditions that we've always enjoyed, and anxiously await the time when we can include our own children. And I believe that time is coming. Next year, following Jason's graduation and our move to wherever it is that he gets a job, we will be back on the road to baby. And this time, we're not stopping until we turn our family of two into a family of three (or more, who knows?). Time is no longer a luxury, nor is it on our side. So, whether through IVF, surrogacy, or adoption, we won't stop trying until we successfully begin our family. And I can't tell you how exciting that prospect is - but I would be remiss if I didn't also admit how terrified we are. Because this journey can be excruciatingly hard and the reality is that we could face some real challenges ahead - perhaps even more so than we already have. But it's time. We're ready. We have no idea how long it will take or where the road will lead but we do know this: we'll get there together.

Babies, Babies, Everywhere

It's still there. My uncomfortable week, that is. Which I suppose I can now call a month. Just in a funk, I guess. That hollowed out pit feeling in my stomach is back, as is the nagging feeling of desperation and fear. I've found myself on the verge of tears several times lately. I hate this, the feeling of vulnerability crossed with envy. Such an ugly hybrid.

I'm rewatching the entire Sex and the City series so in the spirit of Carrie Bradshaw....

"I couldn't help but wonder: When will it be our turn?"

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.

Another Duggar Baby

I don't read "trash" magazines (well, maybe I do if I'm getting my hair done and there is one lying about) and I don't watch reality TV shows (although I did used to watch The Kardashians a few years ago when we had cable...guilty pleasure!). But I do check People.com every day. I call it, "checking on my People." It's not hurting anyone and I don't comment on the articles because the comment sections are such a cesspool of criticism and negativity, it's disgusting. So I checked in on my People yesterday and their top story? Jill Dillard (Duggar) is already pregnant. They got married in mid-June of this year and they're expecting baby #1 in March 2015.

First of all, this should come as no surprise to anyone. The Duggar family is part of the Quiverfull movement (for more information, read the Wikipedia description here) which, among many other things, means they do not believe in the use of birth control. When people get married (and most oftentimes, before), they have sex. It's part of the arrangement. For most, anyway. And if you're not using birth control, guess what? Pregnancy can {and oftentimes does} occur. In addition, their immediate family has not shown (thus far) any signs of genetically linked infertility issues, so while it is statistically likely that one of the Duggar children may have issues conceiving, it has apparently not been an issue for the two married offspring of Michelle and Jim Bob. {Yes, I used to watch the TLC specials on TV every once in awhile years ago so I do in fact know some of their names.} Anyway, the fact that Jill got pregnant so soon after marriage does not surprise me in the slightest, and I subscribe to the belief that it is not my place, nor my business, to judge how other people choose to live their lives. Readers were commenting on their choice to not live together longer first, commenting about how horrible it will be to not have the opportunity to spend more time together as a couple before introducing children in to the mix, making remarks about how they are doing themselves a disservice by not traveling more, working longer, acquiring more life experience first, etc. Again, not my life, not my choice. Also, how can we possibly make commentary on other people's lives? We're not them, we don't get to make decisions for others, and hey, WE DON'T EVEN KNOW THEM. Whether or not you would choose to do as they did, or would choose to believe what they believe, the bottom line is this: they wanted a baby, they seem very excited, they seem exceptionally and uniquely prepared to handle life with a newborn seeing as though Jill has many siblings and helped raise many of the younger ones herself in many ways. They say they're financially secure, and they're married, so it's not like they had a child "out of wedlock" which really, not what I would have liked to have happened to me, but again, not my life, not my choice, and not the case here. {Because you know people get all crazy about that too, so really, you can't win.}Their life, their marriage, their family.

The only thing that caught me off guard was how easy it was for them to conceive. The idea that they were able to conceive a child within a matter of days blows me away. Because, obviously, it is so the opposite of what our experience has been. Am I angry? No, I don't even know these people and in my opinion, a child is a blessing. Do I envy the Duggar's their ability to have children with apparent ease? Sometimes. But I also know that the grass isn't always greener and everyone has their issues. But do I wish it had been as easy for us once we decided to build our family? Yes and no.

Surprised? Yea, I have to admit that I am a bit, too.

Here's why I say yes but also why I say no:

Yes, because it's been a hellish nightmare and the level of heartache we've experienced is truly beyond words. Yes, because if it had been so easy, I would likely have more than one child referring to me as "Mom", one of the most beautiful and referred words in our language. Yes, because I sometimes fear that it will never, ever happen for us, that our dreams of a biological child are beyond reach, and that our hopes for a family will be dashed by the expense of adoption or surrogacy, that my medical issues will deter any family or agency from seeing me as a fit and capable parent. Yes, because my soul longs to be a mom, longs and yearns to be a parent, a visceral, deep-seeded calling that I cannot name or control. Yes, because I cannot wait to see my beloved become a father, see him interact with and love our children as I know he will, and parent alongside him as the unstoppable team we've become in our 15 years together. But also, no. Because as hard as the struggle has been, as much as I wish it had never been a part of our story, for better or for worse it is a part of US. It has helped shape me into the person I am, and has had a hand in shaping who we are as a couple. We're strong. We're solid. Our shared experiences, good and bad, have made us that way. So no. I wouldn't turn it all in for a "better" outcome. Because truthfully, a small part of me is thankful. I'm a better version of myself because of what I've/we've encountered and because of what I've/we've overcome. We don't always get to choose what happens to us. All we have control over is how we choose to react to what happens to us.

Believe me, this is a relatively new revelation. I didn't always feel this way. It has taken years and much heartache to reach this point. But I'm glad I have. So very, very glad.

I hope Jill Dillard's pregnancy is a healthy one. I hope she and her husband enjoy a long and happy marriage, and that if they wish, they are blessed with many children. And I fervently hope that one day, we'll be able to share the joyous news with our family and friends that at long last, our family of two will soon be growing by two precious baby feet. In the meantime, though, it won't do me any good to stew and wax poetic about the ease with which other people seem to get pregnant. Comparison is the thief of joy and all that, right? I've come to really believe that and it's not worth it. I choose joy.

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.

Truth and Lies, Or Things We Tell Ourselves To Get Through the Day and Sleep at Night

I've really been trying hard to be more optimistic, focus more on the positives and what I do have, rather than what I don't. I've been trying to seek contentedness each and every day by not settling for humdrum but instead, pushing outside my comfort zone and doing things that a year ago would have scared me. For instance, I am renting a space at a local antique shop to display my photography. So far, it hasn't been a lucrative effort but the fact that I did it is huge.

But the truth is, I'm hurting. The truth is that I'm struggling again to find where I fit in and struggling against feelings of inadequacy and the ever-present notion of being left behind.

It's like quicksand. The more you wriggle and fight against it, 'it' being the pain of infertility that somehow slooowly creeps back into my life no matter how I try to change, the stronger the pull. It sucks me in and it manages to become a looming presence in my life. It only takes one bad day to get the ball rolling. But it's not consistent. I can push back against a bad emotional day and win and I do, most times. But then there's this one day that blindsides me with its strength and suddenly, sadness. Envy. Anger. Comparison. Like quicksand, I am pulled under the more I try to keep my head above ground.

So many little miracles are set to enter into the world in the coming days, weeks, months. So many announcements made, so many elated families. I just want our miracle to find us. I long to be a part of what I consider to be the greatest adventure: parenthood. But somehow, I'm still the one on the outside looking in, nose pressed to the window, my breath fogging up the glass.

One simple {albeit loaded} question

When will it be our turn?

A Different Kind of Mother's Day

Yesterday was Mother's Day (as if any of us had somehow managed to forget). It's admittedly not my favorite day of the year, for obvious reasons, but I was absolutely determined to not let it get to me as much as it has in year's past. This was my 7th Mother's Day since beginning the journey. Yep, 7th. 2008 - 2014 of Mother's Days. The first wasn't so bad because it rolled around just 3 months after we started trying to conceive so I didn't expect to be so lucky. But the 2nd stung because it had been longer than a full year of trying without any luck and I had been diagnosed with PCOS so I knew it was going to be a tough road. Just how tough I didn't yet know. The 3rd was rough in its own right because it was the one following my open heart surgery and, well, that's explanation enough. The Mother's day of 2011 was pretty status quo (the usual ache of not yet being a Mom after several years of medical upheaval) but Mother's Day 2012 was a fresh new phase of hell: the one after our loss. I was angry, bitter, pretty inconsolable that day. It also came just a few short weeks before our due date for the baby we had miscarried so it was painful on a truly visceral level. I don't remember what we did last year but I remember being in a funk all day and just feeling blah. So this year, I vowed to make it a different kind of day.

I treated myself with kindness -- what a concept.

I enjoyed a nice breakfast (pancakes, turkey bacon, coffee), went to the mall and did a little clothes shopping, ate nachos, made chicken pozole, took some photos for the community wind ensemble Jason conducts and plays trumpet in, and then we watched a cute little program about puppies. I kept busy, didn't check Facebook all that often (but I did post a tribute to my own mom, whom I am so incredibly blessed by each and every day), and just kind of let the day roll over me. I received a very sweet Mother's Day card earlier in the week from my cousin and her two little boys (who we think of as our nephews and one of whom is our godson), and I received very thoughtful messages from a few dear friends letting me know that I was in their thoughts and hearts, and that our angel baby was not forgotten, not by a long shot. I did have one well meaning friend tell me that perhaps when Jason and I move next year and get settled -- when my stress levels were reduced -- perhaps my body would cooperate...but, she had good intentions and I appreciated her concern for me.

Yesterday was Mother's Day, and even though I have not yet held our child in my arms, I decided that yesterday was also about me. About the women who have tried so desperately to be a mom but who have not yet succeeded in realizing that dream, that calling. No, I am not a mom but that is certainly not for lack of trying. So instead of punishing myself, I celebrated the valiant effort I've made.

Remember how I said I'm going to counseling? Well, it seems as though it's working. For the first time in 7 years, I didn't cry on Mother's Day. I teared up a bit when reading the kind messages from my friends and when my husband whispered, "Happy Mother's Day" to me when we woke up, but I didn't cry, not really, because these tears were born of gratitude for their compassion, empathy, and understanding. For their remembrance. And for me, that was a huge accomplishment, one that I'm more than a little proud of. Happy Mother's Day, friends. Your angel babies are with you, always.

Longing: The Queen of Senseless Emotions

Sometimes, I am overcome with an intense feeling of longing. I look at my friend's children, their shiny happy faces, at my female friends' burgeoning bumps, and I just can't help but think, "Why not me? Why not us?"

Are we not good people? Are we not deserving of what so many of our family and friends have attained? Why must our path to parenthood be so riddled with hardship? I know it is futile to compare, to be angry, to be envious. It's not healthy, and it doesn't change what is. I know that. Goodness knows I have learned it the hard way. But I long to be a mom. I long to expand our family. Sometimes, I feel the longing so deep within myself that it's all I can do to contain it.

And it is in those moments that I must force myself to say -- to believe--, "Some day. Some day."

The Odd Life

While dropping off some library books last night, I stumbled across a movie I had never heard of: The Odd Life of Timothy Green. I scanned the description and it sounded relatively intriguing so I thought I'd give it a watch. Jennifer Garner plays the female lead and while the acting is pretty sub-par, within a few minutes it is evident why I had been drawn to the movie in the first place. It's about a couple who, after many years of infertility treatments, is told they cannot have children. After receiving this devastating news, the husband asks if, for just one night, they can pretend they DO have a child. They spend the evening in their living room writing down every attribute they could ever hope or dream their child to have, even pretending they witness their kid's game-winning goal. They take each attribute -- written on an individual piece of notebook paper -- place them in a wooden box, and bury the box in the backyard, after which they agree to move on.

Rip my heart out, why don't you?

I don't think you can really appreciate the power of that scene unless you've been through infertility. Because it is the burying of one's hopes and dreams (if even temporarily) that is, at least for me, one of the hardest hurdles of this journey. It's like burying a piece of yourself. No, it's not LIKE you are, you ARE.

Throughout this journey, we bury many things. At least I did/have. For the benefit of the general public, we bury our true feelings. We plaster smiles on our faces when all we really want to do is cry, run, hide, scream, rant and rave. We quite unceremoniously bury bits and pieces of ourselves along this rocky path: our pride (being poked and prodded on a fairly regular basis can do that to a person), our self-esteem, self-confidence, body image, self-worth, our once good-natured selves. We bury {read: spend without result} thousands upon thousands of dollars. As aforementioned, we bury our hopes and dreams and we HOPE we can somehow find the strength within ourselves to regain what we've lost. With hard work, patience, love and the realization that I was worth more than just my ability or inability to create life, I have regained much of what I've buried over the last 5+ years but there are still frayed ends that need mending. I'll get to them, I know I will, but it won't be easy. Nothing about this journey is easy.

Back to the movie. The plot continues to unfold but it was THAT scene that made me pause the movie and open my laptop to write this post. It made me cry, it made me sad, it ignited feelings within myself that I've been wrestling with for years. And it made me think. I've often wondered what our child would be like, which attributes he or she would inherit, and which things would be uniquely their own, the combination of which would be imperfectly perfect. Even in the movie, they acknowledge that even if you could pick and choose what your child would be like, you wouldn't want a truly "perfect" child, because, well, I think we all know that it doesn't exist, and thank goodness for that. It's the imperfections that teach us, that mold us, that help us grow and make us who we truly are. 

Anyway, the scene made me think. And normally when I think, I write. But I can't write it all. I tried. I sat down with the full intention of writing out what I envision our child would be like but I couldn't. My words, which I have come to rely on to process what I'm feeling and help me properly explain my emotions and share them with others, failed me. It turns out that there are certain things that cannot be put in to words; special, cherished things that are perhaps better off living in our dreams, if only for safe keeping. The image of our child is one such thing. 

For now, I suppose I will keep that image of our child safe in my mind. And maybe one day, that image will materialize into reality, a dream come true in every sense of the word. 

Time Marches On

Sometimes, it's all I can do to keep my positive attitude about where we are in this journey, keep my focus on the present and not get caught up in the unknown of the future. The more time that passes, the more children are born, and my Facebook and Instagram feeds are filled to the brim with the shiny, happy, beautiful faces of the children of our family and friends. Sometimes, it's all I can do to just keep it all in and keep it together. Other times, I'm doing pretty well and I find myself truthfully, blissfully content with how our life is now, the predictability and reliability of daily routines, the closeness that we share. But these moments of weakness sneak up on me, they get me down, and they seem harder and harder to shake off as time marches on. We've been yearning for our family for over six years now, dreaming about it for even longer if you count the years before we started trying. In total, since we made the decision to start trying to build our family way back in February of 2008, we have been on this road to baby for 74 months. Wow, that number even blows ME away, and I've been living it. The baby we lost in November of 2011 would turn two next month. Two whole years old. How I ache for that child, our child.

This is our life and what we've been dealt is what is meant for us. We may not always see why or agree, but that's the way it is.

There is an incredible future waiting for us. I need to trust in that. On the days when I doubt it, that's when I need to believe it the most. Besides, I am more than just my uterus.

So, here's to unknown futures and the belief that something incredible -- something miraculous -- could be just a year, a month, a week, a day, a mere moment away.

Learning my way around loneliness

Lately, more and more, I've found myself in the "down" category emotion-wise. I'm struggling with being 30 and not being a mom and the fact that the resolution to that situation is nowhere in sight; I'm struggling with some emotional issues I've put off dealing with for many years (but I'm proud to say that I am finally seeing a therapist for said issues); and...I'm lonely. I haven't written about my loneliness on this blog (or my other public blog, for that matter) but it's been a big problem ever since moving to Indiana. I miss home. I miss my family and my wonderful friends, even though they're spread out all over the country (and one even on the other side of the world) and I wouldn't see much of some of them no matter where I lived. But I miss the ease of those friendships, and the depth of them. I miss the familiarity and the reliability of them. Truth be told, I don't have any real friends here. Not one. I have a bunch of acquaintances (one or two that I've seen more of than the rest) but no one that I really hang out with, one-on-one, with any regularity. Yes, there are the occasional times when I've made plans to see a movie or share a meal with one of them, or do the occasional "girly thing" such as a shopping trip or getting our nails done. But they are very far and few between in occurrence (I'm talking usually months) and I just don't really click with any of them. We share very little in common. And we've lived here for going on 20 months now. That's a good chunk of time to be lonely. Of course I have Jason, but I also need a female friend or two. I was hoping that wherever I ended up working would yield me a friend my age but while my co-workers are nice people, the next youngest after me is 57. The four guys in Jason's program are great and all but one of them has either a girlfriend or a wife, but for whatever reason, friendships haven't developed and I normally just see them when we all hang out in a group. And, they're all graduating this year so they will all be gone come Summer.

Although I hesitate to say it's the true norm...normally, a woman who has been married as long as we have (coming up on 8 years in August) who is my age would have a child or two (or more) by now. Which means many of my peers are in a different stage of life, one I have wanted to badly to enter in to but instead, have found myself on the outside peering in, year after year after year. I don't have school social networks. I don't meet other parents at extra curricular activities or functions. I don't have "mommy & me" playgroups or play dates or birthday parties which might expose me and introduce me to other women my age. Because I don't have a child. Well, at least here on this Earth, I don't.

Moving to a whole new place so far from where we're from when you're our age can be a challenge.  I tried not to dwell on that possibility or worry too much about it, usually telling myself as the time ticked on, "You've only been here {x number of months}, give yourself time. It'll happen." But it hasn't. Yes, I have Jason. Yes, we have a lot of fun together, and yes, I'm thankful that I'm not truly alone but he is gone a lot due to his various responsibilities and busy schedule so I spend many nights and weekends alone. Even when he's home, he has a lot of work to do and spends the hours in his office to work on his various assignments and projects. Again, this is all part of it. I am beyond proud of his accomplishments and how far he's come and how passionate he is about his career path and dreams, and quite frankly, he has very little "social time" himself,  so I certainly don't begrudge him anything. Sadly, one of the negative bi-products of this situation is that I'm finding I'm becoming more and more introverted. You'd think I'd jump at the chance to hang out with people when I/we can but the opposite is proving to be true: I am losing the desire to go out and about, even when the opportunity does present itself. And that's just not good.

Jason begins his job search this Fall, and I can honestly say I am looking forward to wherever we end up next. Indiana is beautiful. I have enjoyed the seasons (with the exception of the tornadoes!!) very much and have discovered positive things about myself and our relationship. We have had some grand adventures and met some very nice people but this place is not my home. I cannot see us being here longer than the time we really need to be for his program and once his program is over, I will be anxious for the next stop on our life map.

I am hopeful that I will find my niche in the next place. But we have 15 or 16 more months to go and that just sounds...rough. I take comfort in the fact that I know there are far worse things in the world than loneliness, and that this too shall pass and then we'll be on to the next stop and while it will once again be a fresh start very similar to this one, fresh starts are just that: fresh. A new beginning with potentially unlimited possibilities. And although it's a bit daunting to think about, it does fill me with a sense of hope and excitement because even though it could be just like what I've experienced here (or perhaps worse...), it could be so much better. And that's what I'm anxious for. That's what I'm trying to focus on.

It has occurred to me that this time is supposed to be this way, that this time we're spending here in Indiana is -- for me -- carved out as a time for me to just BE. Be with myself and get comfortable there. I ran across this quote from Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love and it made me stop and think:

“When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.” 

For me, that scratching post is being dependent upon someone else for my own happiness. Relying on others for joy, for feelings of worth, for self-confidence and enrichment. That's not fair, and it's not right. I alone am responsible for my own happiness. Yes, certain people will contribute on a regular basis but looking to important people in my life to contribute as opposed to relying on them and depending on them to make my world better are two very different things. So maybe that is how I will spend the next nearly year and a half: learning to just be with myself and deriving joy from within and from my surroundings -- no matter who is there to share it with me -- instead of dwelling on feeling lonely and connecting that loneliness to feelings of sadness and longing. It will be a challenge, but I'm up for it. I can't promise I won't still find myself lost in being lonely but approaching it from this angle seems healthier and more worth while in the long run.

Keep Calm and Think Happy Thoughts

I shouldn't have watched it. I shouldn't have hit play. I knew my heart was feeling fragile. You see, my sister-in-law is pregnant again, and we just found out the genders of three other friend's babies this week, so I knew better. I guess I just wanted to feel like a part of it, if only for a moment, you know? Curiosity killed the cat, I suppose.

A friend posted a video from a mutual friend's gender reveal party. The parents-to-be are seated in front of a giant cardboard box -- anticipation palpable -- the moment they find out what they're having about to unfold. Will it be a boy or a girl? I thought I could handle it, I truly did. I was curious, I wanted to know, too. For a moment, I was there, sucked in by the suspense:

At the count of three, they lift the cardboard box's lid, pull back its flaps, and everyone nearly jumps out of their seats as the tops of balloons begin to emerge. The couple is so thrilled, so happy, wiping away joyful tears, everyone clapping and screeching with delight, hugging and jumping...

Fade back to reality. Me on the couch, laptop in my lap.

And I cried. Not for them, but for me, for us. The thought raced across my brain, "What if we never get to experience this magical moment?" What if we're always on the outside looking in? What if. And the tears just came. With it, pain, fear, and a longing so deep it ached. It just about broke my heart all over again.

Hard as it is, even though it hurts, I must think happy thoughts. The best is yet to come. One day, it'll be our turn. Our family of two will become more. I believe it. I do. I have to.
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In case you were wondering, they're having a girl.