Thoughts from an Infertile Mother

Stunned.

That's how I feel sometimes. I know this might be hard to believe, but I still find myself thinking that this is all too good to be true. That I'm going to wake from the dream. That I'm not actually a mother. The one thing I've longed for as long as I can remember is happening, and I still need to pinch myself. Will I ever fully accept that this dream came true?

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I made a decision shortly after Zachary was born to be as involved as possible in the moms' groups I had joined. Every weekday morning, Z and I haul ourselves to Baby Bootcamp in an attempt to reclaim my abdominal muscles (among others), and hang out with other moms and babies. It's really a great time. Z gets to socialize while I get a great workout AND we get out of the house! Another group I regularly attend is for breastfeeding/parenting support. Within that group, I've connected with some moms whose babies were all born in August. As you can imagine, we all have a lot to talk about, as our parenting experiences are so similar. We meet for lunch once a week, and I love, love, love it.

The reason I mention these activities is twofold: I want to stress the fact that I willingly do as much as I can to connect to other women who are experiencing what I am, and that I do truly enjoy the conversations and friendships I am forming as a result.

But there is something that sets me apart from the women I've met.

None of the women I've met have struggled with infertility. And yes, in case you're wondering, the topic of "how long it took me to get pregnant" comes up in conversations women have about pregnancy, childbirth, and child-rearing. Especially because the conversations inevitably lead to the topic of "are you going to have another one?" I'm amazed at how candidly some women will speak about their sex lives and how many times they "did it" in order to conceive their babies (yes, they can all count on one hand)...and how they have to be ULTRA careful, lest they have an "oopsie" baby for number two.

Maybe I thought that once I had Zachary that my feelings of exclusion from this "elite" group would be erased. After all, I would have my baby in my arms and nobody would know what pain I had endured to get to that point. I haven't told anyone our story. Not sure why, I guess just because all their stories are so different from mine yet similar to each others', I just haven't felt like explaining or tapping back into that emotion. And possibly because I don't want pity or anything of that sort. I think maybe it's because I don't believe that anyone who hasn't endured it can possibly empathize or understand. Or maybe I've closed the door on that chapter because the joy of my reality now is just too palpable...and I don't want to go back to that pain. So I just listen to them talk and my silence allows me to pretend that it was just that easy for me, too.

But here's the kicker:

As I sit here and reflect, I find my self glad to not be a member of that club. And here's the reason: I am already a member of a group of women who have wept, and kicked, and screamed, and prayed, and dreamed, and hoped, and supported, and shared, and been determined to be mothers. Women who have gone to hell and back in order to have babies. Women who will always, always, always have the ability to say to their children, "I fought hard for you. You were wanted more than you'll ever know." When I read some of the war stories of you beautiful, strong women, I marvel at your voracity, your steadfastness, and determination. I'm so proud to be your peer.

I know that women who had babies easily are not to be faulted. I don't hold it against them that they got pregnant without a good fight. I love my fertile friends dearly, and I know they love, love, love their children.

But I also know what it took for me to be living this dream. I know that my chubby, goofy, precious, perfect little man wouldn't be here had I not stuck to that dream. And boy, would that be a sad, sad thing.