Today I held a five day old baby girl. And had people comment on how holding that baby looks good on me. And, I kept the tears at bay.
Because those people don’t know that I’m trying to have a little girl or little boy of my own. That every month, I spend two weeks in heartwrenching, breath-holding agony, waiting to see.
Only to be disappointed.
It’s better not to hope.
But, I can’t help it.
I google statistics.
I count days.
I re-read the pamphlet on the First Response pregnancy tests I have stored away.
I’m tempted to test.
Test when I’m not late.
To analyze every wave of nausea. To imagine fatigue and breast tenderness.
Even when I tell myself not to.
That there’s only a 15% chance I’m pregnant.
That I may have to wait till the fall.
That I may have to wait again.
And, yet, my struggle is nothing. There are women who wait years. Who give up.
And, I’m complaining about a few measly months.
I am ashamed.
And, yet, still… I pity myself.
For waiting again.
And hoping again.