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I went to two
baby showers this weekend. They were the first showers I had been to in two
years. The last one I went to, I ended up spending half the time in the bathroom
crying or trying to make it look like I wasn't crying. I was miserable. I was
mad at my body for failing to do something as easy as have a baby. They call
it the miracle of life—but let's be honest, babies are a dime a dozen. They are given to so many women, it's a
wonder that a successful pregnancy is actually a very difficult feat,
scientifically. After that shower, I swore I wouldn't attend any more showers until I
ended up pregnant myself. I needed to protect my heart, and seeing all the
happy mothers-to-be unwrapping baby blankets and bottle brushes was something I
had to put a limit on for my own sanity.
this weekend, and I found myself twelve weeks pregnant, eating chicken salad
sandwiches and fruit on a stick, crossing off baby items on bingo cards and smiling
as tiny hats and socks were held up and cooed over. One of my friends went
through several IVFs, the other was celebrating her rainbow baby after a second
trimester loss. Both of these friends are dear to my heart, and they have
endured struggles. Forcing down my morning sickness, I went, because I wanted to
show the same support that both of them had shown me through the years of my
own infertility, and finally, my long-awaited pregnancy.
How to balance the miracle inside me with the incredible amount of pain and determination it took just to get this far. How to balance my intense joy with the possibility of a baby by the end of the year, with my anger and bitterness of how long it took to get to this point.
I have a baby
inside me, two inches long, with a beautiful heartbeat, and I am still
infertile. The thoughts that have taken over in my head the last few years have
not gone away. I watched the guests eating cupcakes with blue frosting, maybe
even sharing their own stories about the essential baby items, and I would feel
the grief curling around my stomach, slowly twisting it into a knot. I had
to remind myself that I was pregnant too—that I am going to have a baby too,
and that this should make me happy.
And I was. Really, I was, but it took
consciously reminding myself several times that I am not the same person I was
two years ago in that bathroom, eyes red and swollen and from crying. I am not
that person, but I am. That piece of my past always be a part of me and I will
need to learn how to co-exist with it. How to balance the miracle inside me
with the incredible amount of pain and determination it took just to get this
far. How to balance my intense joy with the possibility of a baby by the end of
the year with my anger and bitterness of how long it took to get to this
point. How to balance my fear of a miscarriage with the optimism that my child
deserves. I'm slowly learning how and where that balance resides.
Every day that passes, I am allowing myself to enjoy this pregnancy
more and more, for however long it lasts. It includes attending the baby
showers, even through my own insecurities. I had a great time this weekend, and
I think I am slowly on my way there.