I want to write. I want to write all about what the fertility doctor said and about how many vials of blood they took and what the results were and how I’m holding up.
I sit down to do it and can’t find the words. We’re closing in on one year since our 10.5 week old baby (fetus? 10.5 week old fetus sounds heartless, but technically?..) died. Lately I’m just trying to be a good mom and wife and give myself a pass on things. I’m keeping Q involved in her fun things we do every week and enjoying all that fall in Alabama has to offer us. Cool family days at the pumpkin patch followed by 82 degree weekday afternoons spent sitting in lawn chairs with my sweet neighbor chit chatting as we watch Quinn decorate their driveway with sidewalk chalk.
She is days away from having twins. A year ago after the shock of miscarriage I wouldn’t have been able to handle chatting with her. I would’ve had to stay away from her out of jealousy and all of the “it’s not fair”‘s that would be swirling through my mind.
But it doesn’t bother me now. I’ve realized by going through this that people have babies everyday-
But some people can’t.
Some people have one, and can’t have another.
Sometimes fertility treatments work, and sometimes they don’t.
It’s NOT fair, but neither is life sometimes.
I’ve told Matt that I feel like Charlotte in Sex in the City when she gets upset and says “Nobody gets everything they want! I’m so happy and something bad is going to happen!” That’s what I feel like has happened to us the last year, but that’s silly thinking, too. Things just happen.
While we wait on test results and my body to start doing what it’s supposed to do so we can move forward with a game plan that the fertility doc will choose for us, I’m just trying to remind myself to be kind to myself. Even if that means crawling in bed with my 3rd shift working husband while our kid naps.
So if you’re going through something like this, resist the urge to be super mom and just give yourself a break. Make brownies and watch Scandal. Pop a frozen lasagna in the oven and throw together a salad kit for dinner. Tell Pinterest to fuck off, because being the most pinteresty mom out there means nothing. I did try mummy dogs. Fail.
And I’m ok with that.