If pregnancy (or motherhood) is heaven and infertility is hell, I'm definitely in purgatory. Waiting. Perpetually waiting. Waiting to see two lines on a pee stick. Waiting to tell my parents and in-laws (and husband!) the great news. Waiting for my period to come a day late, for God's sake.
I'm generally a patient person, but I hate indeterminacy. I hate being in purgatory.
I haven't even been waiting all that long. We've been trying to get pregnant for three months, since March. I just started the fourth cycle. Already I'm seeing how this wait can grind a person down. The perpetual mental calculations as each cycle ends and the next one begins are crazy-making. ("So now I'm aiming for a March baby, and if it works this time, I'll be this pregnant on x date and this many months post-partum on y, and I'll have this many cycles left to conceive a '29' baby instead of a '30' " etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum).
And then there's Park Slope, my lovely Brooklyn neighborhood. Full of little cafes and cute boutiques and pretty trees and a big park and lovely brownstones we can't afford and a sweet little two-bedroom 1 bath w. fireplace and washer/dryer that we can.
And babies. And toddlers. And families. On the street, in the park, in the restaurants, in my building.
We moved here because of the families. We moved here because we knew we would soon start our own.
And now...we wait...