Part of me doesn’t feel like it’s my place to write about this. Another part of me feels like it’s irresponsible to have any kind of public platform about my kids and family life without writing about it. When DC and I were trying for VP, I didn’t get pregnant right away. And by that, I mean it took us 10 months. A seemingly long time for those who get pregnant their first shot, and a tiny nothing blip on the radar of infertility for those who take years or who never can get pregnant despite every effort.
I still hesitate to say I technically suffered from infertility because I know 10 months is a pretty average amount of time to get pregnant. Yet I don’t know when we finally would have if I hadn’t been so impatient and gone to a fertility clinic after only 8 months. I was 31 at the time and DC was 38 so I figured I’d rather be safe than spend longer trying without any results; I just knew something was off and refused to wait. I’m glad we went. We found out I was very rarely ovulating, so despite best efforts it likely would have taken quite a bit longer to get pregnant had we not dealt with the issue. Before modern fertility treatment this problem could have caused infertility for quite some time. For most people, a solution is not easily come by but, for me, luckily there was a simple solution: Clomid.
Before that, we were basically shooting at a moving target with blindfolds on.
I write about my family. I joke about how life with kids is a shit show. Maybe other moms have it figured out and I’m missing something but, for me, it is an honest-to-God cluster f*#k most days. Or at least, many moments of most days. It’s a disaster trying to get VP’s shoes on in the morning to go to daycare. It’s brutal sometimes having to head lock him and tackle him to the ground to brush his teeth at night. It’s a frazzled sweaty-mess fest figuring out if GC needs a bottle, some food, a nap, or just a snuggle when he’s itchy all over from a rash and just losing his damn mind. Yet as I write about these things a nagging voice whispers, “You ungrateful wench. You have friends who can’t get pregnant or who have been trying for what must seem like forever and you’re f’in joking about how life is hard with kids. Get over yourself.” So I have to give voice to, well, this voice.
I see you, those who are currently struggling (or who have ever struggled) with the torment that is infertility.
I’ve watched loved ones go through it; infertility is a powerless, often hope-crushing anguish that no one should experience. I say sarcastic, inane things about the struggle of having kids, but I also thank whatever higher power exists every single day that I have them. In many ways, they saved me from myself. Some days that gratefulness isn’t achieved so organically but I’m getting better at practicing gratitude and I think it really is a skill. Many times it has to be a concerted quiet moment in my own head to consciously think “I’m so lucky” vs. “Get me out of here” as two kids wail. I love my boys more than life itself and would do literally anything for them; I mean, it’s scary. Yet after the 10th attempt at “night night” then finally throwing my toddler onto his bed and running out of the room (locking him in), I take a deep breath and a massive swig of wine within moments. Despite the exhaustion and frustration and borderline wine addiction, the honour of even having these children to call my own is not lost on me. Why I’ve been so lucky to know these beautiful boys and be called their mom I will never, ever know. Their faces are so delicious I could eat them – those luscious chubby cheeks and double chins. Lips so juicy I can’t kiss them enough. Their squeaky voices are like sweet music. Their stinky morning breath, my Junior Mints; I could devour them. Seriously, I can’t get enough (the kids and the Mints).
As my brother-in-law, a father of boy/girl twin toddlers so aptly put it, “Kids bring the peaks of happiness as well as the depths of despair, often within rapid sequence.” This is a blog that emphasizes the peaks and makes light of the depths whenever possible. It’s about how ridiculous, delirious, tiresome, funny, and f’ing amazing momhood is. As much as I joke about the shit storm, I love it. I make light of life as a mom because being a mom isn’t easy.
And sometimes as a parent, if you don’t laugh in the face of challenges, you’ll cry.
Every time I write something, I think about those who struggle with infertility. I think, “At least I get to feel something, anything besides powerlessness.” My heart aches and I feel guilty or worried I’ll offend and I wonder if I should hit Publish, because I once popped my head inside that dark place that is infertility and I didn’t want to stay. It took me 10 months with VP. A blip on the radar of my life. Nothing. And, anyway, so what? I have him now. Many don’t yet have the child they know is theirs. I pray that everyone out there who wants a child will someday hold in their arms that person they so yearn for, however that may occur. In the meantime, I’ll work on not being an ungrateful wench.