Today marked nearly 2 months of being “late”. Now, this isn’t entirely unusual for me, since PCOS is not a fan of regular monthly visitors, so it’s not unheard of to go a few days or even a few weeks or months without Aunt Flo stopping by. Today was like so many other times that she knocked on my door and my heart flooded with disappointment. It was yet another day of… NOT PREGNANT.
Being a mother is my favorite thing in the world. My kids light up every day and calm down every night. They are my everything. At this point, I can get super cheesy and say they are my sunshine… my only sunshine… I love them to the moon and back… they’re the apple of my eye… they are the only ones who know what my heartbeat sounds like from the inside…. blah blah blah. — I’m not saying that any of this isn’t true, but parents already know this. The bond between a parent and their child is deep. Deeper than any other and for a mother, is even deeper so.
For me, my heart expands with every smile, laugh, talk and time spent with them. My absolute favorite part of who I am is being a mother. They make me a better everything else. I am so thankful for being immensely blessed with the role of being their mommy. I wouldn’t trade one single second of the mess, the diapers, the pre-teen attitude or any of the other rough parts of parenthood. I live for these moments.
Now, to start; I am partly explaining this because I feel like I need to justify what I am about to write; like I need you to understand that this is coming from a person who doesn’t take this lightly. And honestly, it sucks that I feel like I have to do this. I should be able to feel how I want to feel and say what I want to say without this preface, but such is life.
I am the person who smiles wider when there is a baby around; even a toddler will get the cheekbones to rise up. Kids are amazing. I love being around them and seeing them will make any day better. I am the epitome of Baby Fever. I’m pretty sure my ovaries do cartwheels every time there is a newborn nearby. Like Spidey-senses or something. Some weird, female sixth sense.
Without going into all the specifics of “trying” and what-not, I’m sure you can tell by now, I want another kid. I have an amazing boy and an equally special girl. For so many, they will say, you’ve got a pair, that’s all you need, be happy that you have any. Etc. Etc.
This isn’t my argument and this isn’t something I’m disagreeing with. What I feel guilty about every single time without fail is that my heart sinks and the tears fill in my eyes because for yet another cycle, I don’t get to be pregnant. I don’t get to surprise my husband when he gets home with a meal of baby carrots, baby back ribs, baby bottle pops, baby ruths or any other “baby” products. It’s one more time that I get to walk into the drugstore to buy one more month’s supply of “feminine hygiene products”. It’s yet another day of feeling like I’m a broken woman. Like I can’t do what my body is supposed to do.
It’s done it twice before. Granted, it took 5 years for my beautiful little girl to arrive, but it was worth every single second of the wait. I hate that I have to wait another 2 months before I can be hopeful again; before I can dream again; before I can surprise my little girl with the little brother or sister she’s been wanting. I know that there is a plan for me and our family. I know that other people struggle this same way and then lose their precious gifts later. I know that some never get to get to that point. I know that there are other options. I know all of these things. I’m a smart cookie. I get it.
Despite all of this knowledge, it f***ing hurts. It pains me to see the healthy, happy parents and parents-to-be that pop up like wildflowers. (Yes, of course I’m happy for them, but ugh. The green-eyed monster sure likes to be big and bad at the same damn time) It shakes me to hear stories of these terrible parents in the world who don’t seem to understand how miraculous of an experience they have had. Sometimes, you just want to scream.
Basically though, these days are rough. It takes me days to recover from the disappointment of it …
and all the while; I feel like such a terrible person for even feeling bad.
Being PC really, really, really sucks sometimes.