beaten

Sometimes the going gets tough and the tough get going. And sometimes the tough get tired.

Generally speaking, infertility doesn't beat me. It doesn't keep me home and night, wailing about my sad, barren womb. I don't cry at A Baby Story, wishing it was me begging for the epidural after 3 contractions. I usually don't begrudge celebrity pregnancies and am more often than not genuinely happy for friends/family as they announce their impending bundles of joy.

For some infertiles having a baby-based business would be excruciating (and I don't blame them). But I started mine at the year anniversary of the loss of my twins, about a month after learning of the MFI that meant IVF was in our future. I didn't do it to torture myself, but rather because I enjoy knitting baby items, enjoy giving baby items, enjoy seeing the glee on a new mom's face when she receives a handmade keepsake. And it allows me to feel just a little more included in that world; a world that is so distant in so many ways.

I like to touch pregnant bellies. Call the infertility police if you must, but it's true. I hate the movement among the bellied that shrieks about the injustices of the dreaded "bump bump". I can't get one of my own - is it too much to ask you to share yours? I even still like babies; still *love* babies. I especially crave the little ones, the moldable ones, the ones who ask nothing of you but a cuddle or perhaps a light bounce. I would happily sit in a maternity ward with a baby pressed to my body, gently rocking without realizing it. Admittedly there is a baby age at which I become completely inept: they aren't old enough to tell me what they want and I'm not experienced enough to know. But I still enjoy their company.

I'll be fine, happy, outgoing for months. And then, suddenly, when I'm not looking, I'll lose all my healthy balance and perspective and just want to live in a baby-free world for awhile. I'll dread a trip to Target, knowing that the bumps seem to congregate there. I'll wish my business was in knitting chemo caps, not baby hats, as cancer seems less depressing. And I'll wonder how in god's name I'm going to buy one more baby gift for one more pregnant woman for one more shower. I'll wonder how I'll force my feet to cross the threshold into a baby store or the children's section of a bookstore. I wonder how I'll wrap one more present in pretty pastels representative of the genitalia that is to come. I wonder how I'll manage to crawl through the door of another celebration for another woman who cradles her full and twitching belly as I watch the presents mount.

A woman whose early pregnancy I've happily cheered along at every step posted an ultrasound photo today of her beautiful perfect baby. She spoke of the bobbing and weaving her little one did, moving hands and feet and bringing her to tears. She's worked so hard for this pregnancy and lost so much along the way; I delight in these happy moments. But seeing the caption of the photo "9w1d" became too much to bear. 9w1d. A joyous milestone for someone with a happy ultrasound. But a terrible reminder for someone whose pictures at 9w1d weren't moving. A reminder of how beautiful those babies looked, how perfect and pristine and beautiful they were. And how still. How heartbreakingly still.

So today it is all too much. Today I am beaten. Tomorrow is a new day, a new beginning, a new hope. But tonight I'm just so tired.




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I am hesitant in writing a post like this for although this is my space to say what I feel, I know that people who I love and adore will read it and wonder if I'm speaking of them. I'd hate them to think that my excitement for them has been anything but genuine (although if they really know me they'll know that I don't say things if I don't mean them). And so if you're reading and wondering, know that it isn't you. And even if it is you, it's me. But that it doesn't make *me* any less happy for *you*.