So in my last post I said this:
At this moment I’m kind of thinking that infertility is probably the best thing that ever could have happened to us. Whether or not we get through this and end up together, the last thing we need right now is a pregnancy or a baby. And I really don’t want my children hearing their dad talk to their mom the way he talks to me.
And I meant every word.
And yet yesterday I got one of those emails. One of those emails from an acquaintance of mine who sends out emails. Perky updates about her family and professional life. And I got one yesterday. And yesterday’s lets all of us, her “friends and family” know that they have a miracle arriving in a few months. October to be exact.
And I don’t know what hurts more. The photo of her daughter kissing her baby bump? The thought of the supportive husband at her side? The fact that they also went through infertility hell and came out the other side loving each other more instead of barely breathing?
Or maybe it’s that she used the word that I’ve been holding onto as my talisman these last few days, the word I beg for as if my life depended on it, because maybe it does, maybe it does–I want my own miracle. Babies are miracles, but so is healing. And children are miracles, surely, but so are grown men willing to face the hurts of their childhoods.
And so I will not begrudge my acquaintance her miracle.
I just want one of my own.