It is June. One year and three months since I began infertility treatments. Such a long time and still no baby. I am sad. No, I am beyond sad–I am enraged, frustrated, full of yearning.
I am tired of yearning.
I long to hold hands with a baby…a baby that is mine.
I look at mothers in supermarkets, mothers who look angry, tired and annoyed at their rambunctious little brats and I think: God, why can’t that be me? Why can’t I be pushing around a cart full of loud, overtired, rambunctious children?
These mothers look so overworked, and yet they have no idea that I would do anything to have what they have.
These women look deceivingly ordinary in so many ways, and I think: why can’t I have their ordinary life–the one that includes a grocery cart full of babies?
There is a woman I see occasionally who has four young children. She is beautiful and her children are lovely too.
When I saw her holding hands with one of her young sons the other day, I was struck with that image–the image of a woman holding hands with her son.
Hands to hold. I want little hands to hold.
When I see the little hands of a baby, I think: what in the world must it
feel like to hold the little hands of a baby that you gave birth to? What I would give to hold such little hands, to know those hands were mine to hold, to know that those were the hands of my daughter or my son?
I am going to write Dr. P a letter to ask that he do a lapascropy to see if I have a problem with endometriosis. I hope he listens and does what I want. I have to word the letter in a way that will get him to do as I ask.
I need little hands to hold. Hands that are all mine. To all the women I see shopping in supermarkets, who see themselves as ordinary mothers, I say–you have everything I want and there is nothing ordinary about your role as the mother to those little humans who are driving you crazy.
Please God, give me a little human to tire me out. Please let me be an ordinary mother in a supermarket one day.
I can’t imagine anything in this world more special or more fun than pushing around my babies at the supermarket. My happy-ever-after is so plain and ordinary, boring even, and yet it feels so hopelessly impossible and faraway.