Emotions; or, The Motions

IUI #2 officially starts tonight when I pop my first CD 3 Clomid. I'm optimistic that this will get me an earlier ovulation than last month, maybe more than the two follies I had for IUI #1, and...well, beyond that, I'm not sure what to expect. I kind of feel like last month was our month, to be honest (though I know I felt utterly differently during that two-week wait). I had just had the HSG with all its famed conception-enhancements. And from what I understand, additional IUIs beyond the first have diminishing returns for women who ovulate without assistance. Though of course, I know plenty of bloggies who conceived on their second and third and fourth IUIs and beyond.

I don't really know what I'm saying. This is all happening so quickly. I'm still coming to terms with last month's chemical pregnancy and all the hideous fears it has raised and now we're suddenly moving into another cycle, another try, and I truthfully can't see it working out. I can't see us getting off that easy.

Ah, well. Once more unto the breach.

This morning I also had my blood drawn for the RPL panel. Whoo boy. They weren't kidding. Those were an awful lot of vials of my blood being bagged up and sent off. Coupled with my continuing period, I'm surprised I had enough blood left to continue breathing and moving and, you know, living. I think I did a pretty good job with it, if I say so myself. The phlebotomist was lovely, didn't leave a bruise or anything, and she distracted me with chat about Twilight (she's a big fan) and Harry Potter (we both are). Several times I felt my hands and lips start to tingle and go numb, but Lawyer Guy squeezed my fingers and the nurse slapped a cold, moist towel on my forehead and I managed to avoid passing out. Some apple juice and peanut M&Ms (sigh) later, I was ready to go back out into the world.

The results should come trickling in over the next two weeks. I was so glad to have the blood draw over that I forgot to worry about the results. I have to remind myself that knowledge is good, even of bad things. Whatever is wrong with us--if there is something wrong-- is already there and these tests didn't actually change anything.

My brilliant plan to spend a day feeling sorry for myself and then move on appeared to be working a treat until last night. I got manicures in the afternoon with my real life IF friend in the neighborhood, and then Lawyer Guy and I spent the evening cooking up a fall feast together: fancy spaghetti and turkey meatballs from him, butternut squash soup and baby arugula with roasted squash and an apple cider vinaigrette from me. We really had a lovely time together, which is why I was so shocked when I sat in front of the tv last night, glass of wine in hand, and suddenly felt so very, very sad. The kind of sad that fills your pores and weighs down your bones and hurts all over, from your scalp to your toenails. Maybe it was the be-costumed babies all over facebook, but I hurt so much I wanted to claw my heart out of my chest just to feel relief. I actually took out my Bible, which I haven't read in years (dare I say decades?), and read all of Lamentations in bed before burying my face in the pillow and crying.

I feel like I've been going through the motions today: blood test and prescription pick-up and therapy and walk the dog and grade some papers and lesson plan for tomorrow. I don't know what this cycle will bring, and I'm afraid to think too much about it. I don't know when I'll feel better about the chemical, and I'd rather not think too closely about that either. One foot down, and then the next. Pet my dog and take a shower. Hope each day's a little better than the one before. Hope I've got enough in me to survive when it's not.

Checking In With the Baby Mamas; or, Confucius Say

Last week, while feeling pretty blue over the conclusive end to yet another cycle, I had two long-put-off conversations with two friends. I spoke with Clueless Preggo for the first time since she told me about her pregnancy on Mother's Day weekend and I spoke with my first Former-Bridesmaid-With-Baby for the first time since her move to Denver in May.

I called Clueless because I needed to tell her that I'm not attending her baby shower in August. I know, I know, I made a big deal after she responded to my card about how I was going to enlist Lou-Ellen and put on a happy face and show up at the shower to spread my empty-uted cheer. But...then our close friends invited us to spend the weekend at their rental house in Shelter Island. And a baby shower at a restaurant in Weehawken, New Jersey is a poor substitute for a beach weekend under the best of circumstances, let alone after six fruitless months of post-miscarriage screwing.

So we're going to the beach!

I did offer to make it up to Clueless by taking her out to dinner one-on-one next week to catch up and give her my gifts (a sweater that I knit a year ago and never got around to finishing, a courderoy jumper, and a sweet print I found on etsy and had framed). I know that I'll be fine. I'll talk about names and nursery decorations. I'll try to be a good friend. I'm sure she'll try to be sensitive to my distress. But no matter how much soft wool and newspaper we pack around these conversations, there's always something that breaks.

In our brief conversation last week, it was Clueless's statement that she and her husband moved from their 1-bedroom on the East Side to a 2-bedroom on the West Side rather than out to New Jersey (as they'd planned prior to TTC) because she "couldn't handle that much change after getting pregnant so fast, which she kind of freaked out about." Yeah, she said she realized it was a good thing to be in her position (the "rather than yours" went unstated). And no, I didn't cry or make a big deal out of it. But still, it stung a little. It stung that she could find overwhelming the very circumstances that from my perspective sound like the luckiest stroke a person could get.

A similar moment occurred in the conversation with Bridesmaid-With-Baby. She asked how the "baby situation" was progressing and was genuinely interested in and supportive of my response. She told me she thought skipping the shower was a great idea and that I was finally putting myself first rather than everyone around me, which she has always encouraged me to do more of. But in her description of the challenges of relocating cross-country to an unfamiliar city with an eight-month-old baby--and in a few comments about how the "timing" of my future assumed pregnancy will be better than the previous miscarried one--I got the weird impression that she envied me for being childless right now. She kept talking about how hard it is to find a home that fits all their criteria and accommodates all Baby's things, how hard it is to adjust to a new environment while caring for him. She said "This would be so much easier if it were just Husband and me. Having a baby makes things so much harder."

Was she trying to make me feel better that I don't have one? Was she trying to impress upon me the awfulness of her situation? Just venting to a good friend? Because all I could think was: This is just "stuff." This is "extra." These are not major problems. They will sort themselves out. Maybe you have to move while the Baby's in school-- you just do it, plenty of people have. Maybe you have to get rid of some of Baby's things--it's fine, he'll survive. This is all fixable. This doesn't even really need fixing!

I worry that I put my problems ahead of everyone else's. Maybe in her situation (or in Clueless's) I'd be equally worried and stressed, I'd feel equally ill-equipped and equally overwhelmed and equally afraid of everything not working out just the right way. Maybe--when I'm fortunate enough to be in their shoes--I'll go back to that detail-stressing self I've somewhat abandoned and feel just as wrapped up in everything that could fall short as a result of every decision. Maybe it isn't fair of me to compare them to me and find their problems petty.

But today, I don't think so. Today I think I understand more about the kinds of problems you can fix and the kind you can't, of what you can plan and what you can't, of just how much that happens to us is luck or chance or divine plan (take your pick) and how little we can say what will lie in our futures.

I don't know, maybe acting like Confucius makes the whole awful situation a little better. If I can't have a baby, I insist on excellent vacations, skinny jeans, and some righteous moral superiority.

To All My Weirdos; or, Resolutions, New Year's Unneeded

To all my wonderful internet weirdos: Thank you so much for your supportive posts. As much as I tell myself that my mom doesn't understand, it's really hard not to internalize the things she says and start beating myself up for being a self-indulgent mope, a whiny brat, or a defeatist loser. Having you say that I'm okay, you're okay helps immeasurably.

I've been thinking the past few days. I was serving on the jury of that case I told you about, so I had some time to think. Some late mornings at home to cry, hoping my eyelids would de-puff before I made it to the courthouse (but honestly not really caring if they did). I came to a possibly upsetting realization:

I wish I weren't trying to conceive right now.

Ladies, I'm tired. I am so, so tired. This is draining my soul. And the grief over losing my m&m-- a singular, precious individual who will never again appear in this world--is all tied up in anxiety over long cycles and short cycles and irregular cycles and luteal phases and strong temp shifts and weak temp shifts and no temp shifts. I wish I could have had six months to just be sad and not worry about the rest of this shit that's clogging up my life.

But (and there's always a but, right?) I want a baby. I don't want to push off the arrival of that baby any longer than fate and biology have already done for me. I want to give us our best shot at conceiving as quickly as possible, and I know that means pee sticks and temp checks and timed sex.

And truthfully, there were outside factors motivating jumping back into TTC right away. My doctor told me not to wait, for starters (she seemed to think we'd be more fertile post-miscarriage). I thought TTC would help me move on and heal. And then there were the less admirable reasons for trying: I wanted to be pregnant when my SIL gave birth (didn't happen). I wanted to be pregnant by my 30th birthday (12 days away, not happening). I wanted to be pregnant by my EDD (June 26th, unlikely to happen).

I think if we don't get pregnant this month--and based on 9 High readings with no ovulation, I'm feeling rather pessimistic about our chances--I want to take a month off. Still continue with unprotected, regular sex, but take a break from the monitoring and the temping.

Past breaks didn't work. They didn't actually relax me. They also didn't get me pregnant, as I hoped deep down they would. Only the monitor did. But the thought of a little breather from worrying about my ovulation makes me feel happy, so it's probably the right choice.

And then maybe I can stop having so many freaking downer posts on here. Jeez, what happened to me?

Mama Told Me There Shouldn't Be Days Like This Anymore; or, When's It Too Much?

Last night, my mother and I had another one of our unproductive conversations about the miscarriage. They happen like clockwork, once a month, and it's always the same scenario-- her offering well-meant advice that completely invalidates the feelings I've experienced in the last 5 months, and me responding with (I admit) rather hysterical distress.

This one started off because I mentioned that I'm definitely NOT going to spend Mother's Day at my in-laws with the new nieces this year, and followed that up by saying that I really don't want to go out to brunch or do much of anything and I'd rather not spend time thinking about it.

My mom got her panties in a wad over that and told me I should be grateful to have a mother and should think about people other than myself. Which I could have expected. She's always offended when we don't make a huge deal out of Mother's Day, even as she tries to act like she's above it and doesn't care (and for the record, I have taken my mom out to brunch in the city the last three years, alone, because I was the only sister living close to home. Now two of my younger sisters live in the area). But I honestly don't think it's asking so much to be spared thinking about a holiday that makes me so sad!

The Mother's Day issue aside, we launched into a variation on the same conversation we've had multiple times in the past, except my mom was more explicit than ever about telling me she thinks I'm dealing with things the wrong way. She said I'm turning this into a "negative" experience instead of trying to see the "positive" sides of it; she told me I seem to have a "chip on my shoulder" about other people's pregnancies/babies and she doesn't like to see it; she said I never seem "cheerful" any more; I don't seem like myself; I should feel grateful for all the good things in my life; and she thinks I have something chemically wrong with my brain as a result of the miscarriage hormones and I should talk to my gynecologist about it, rather than my therapist. She also thinks I need to find a support group (in real life, the internet doesn't count because there are so many "weirdos" on it) of women who are dealing with this "productively" instead of ranting about their bad luck like "a bunch of NOW feminists who blame men for all their problems" (yeah, I don't know where that last bit came from, either).

She also brought a bunch of people she knows who had a miscarriage (her new friend from her bible group; our close family friend; my cousin) and claimed that none of them have the depressed, despairing attitude about their miscarriages that I have. My mom loves to bring up comparative examples, so she's done this already many times before. And my objections are always the same: a) all of those people have gone on to have other children (sometimes as many as three or four!) so their situations are rather different from mine; b) some of those miscarriages were 25 years ago; c) my mom has no idea how those people actually felt or handled this when it happened to them. All she knows are the stories they tell years after the fact.

She fundamentally doesn't understand what this is like. And I know she's worried about me, I know she loves me, and I know it hurts her to see me upset. But is this something else I have to feel bad about fucking up? I can't get pregnant, I can't stay pregnant, and now I apparently I can't even deal with no longer being pregnant the way I should.

The other really frustrating this is that I'm trying to do all the things she says I'm not! I'm trying to feel grateful. I'm trying to believe that good will come of this experience. I'm trying to be a more compassionate, kind person as a result of this. I'm trying to use this time to strengthen my marriage. I'm trying to redevote myself to my schoolwork. I'm trying to not be jealous or envious or angry.

I'm also really fucking sad a lot of the time.

We "made up" and it was fine. But this is just further confirmation of the fact that people in my life are tired of hearing about it. My friends (with few and rare exceptions) don't ask me how I'm doing any more. My mom and mother-in-law do, but it's because they're not-so-secretly hoping I'm going to say "Great! Life's never been better! I'm walkin' on sunshine, whoa-hoah!" (which I know by the way they are SO FREAKING DELIGHTED when I do anything that denotes "moving on").

Even I'm tired of being depressed. I never wanted to be Oh Woe Is Me Miscarriage Girl. That wasn't on my bucket list. But this isn't the SATs and I can't make myself get over grief by pulling a few all-nighters. What more can I actually do?

It's all confirmation of the brilliant post at Knocked Up, Knocked Down on "When to 'Get Over' Your Baby Loss." Yup, two months sounds about right.

The Raveled Sleeve of Care; or, Knitting for the Nonexistent

You probably don't know this about me, but I'm a knitter. My best friend taught me in my junior year of college (so around 2001) and I started making scarves and hats and mittens and even sweaters, all of which were completely unappreciated by my family, who soon asked me to return to buying them gifts instead of making them. (Lawyer Guy never received a knitted gift in those days, as I stuck to the maxim that a woman never knits for a man until she is married. After our wedding I made him a Christmas stocking).

But I kept on knitting because I liked it and found it relaxing and engrossing and satisfying. And I kept knitting unwanted and unworn gifts, because knitting for myself never inspired me in the same way that knitting for others did. And so this state of affairs continued...until I made a happy discovery.

Baby knits!

They were the answer to all my dreams. They are cute. They are small (so they don't take as much time). Babies are always growing, so fit matters less (no guage swatching necessary). And prospective or new parents LOVE getting handknits, even imperfect ones.

Thus began my career as a knitter for babies. I made sweaters, shrugs, sweater vests, toys, booties, and hats. But my crowning achievement was the blanket I made for my niece when she was born. $500 worth of pale pink cashmere yarn in an intricate waffle pattern, with a scalloped crocheted border and a white velvet ribbon woven through the border loops. It took five months of steady work, the ripping and reknitting of countless stitches, and many lessons in crocheting, which I taught myself (I ripped out that border three times before I was satisfied). But it is beautiful and the in-laws loved it, despite Lawyer Guy's warnings that they wouldn't appreciate a handmade gift.

About a year ago, I had two close pregnant friends and plans to knit blankets for each of their babies. I bought the yarn and went to work, thinking to myself These are the last gifts I'll make before knitting for my own baby.

I never finished them. I haven't touched them since June. I bought them gifts off their registries.

When I was pregnant, I planned out a list of gender neutral knits I'd make for the m&m--I'd finish the two blankets I already started (nicely, one of them is chocolate and green, similar to the colors we've picked out for our nursery) and get to work on some sweaters and outfits for both boys and girls.

But I didn't actually start (or restart) any of these projects. I wanted to wait until I felt "secure." I wanted that strong heartbeat. Every day I thought of the things I would do to prepare for my baby, but I didn't feel comfortable enough to do them.

Now, I don't knit at all. I tell myself I don't have a lot of free time for knitting, with all the reading I have to do, but that was always the case, and I used to find time.

I just don't want to knit for other people's babies. I don't want to knit for the upcoming Niece #2, and I feel bad about that, like she's already getting the second child's familial neglect. But I just can't do it. I can't make my hands work for other people's children anymore.

I think I'm going to start knitting for my own. I've held off for a year, afraid of "getting my hopes up" or "setting myself up for disappointment." But my hopes have already been dashed and knitting can't possibly make me feel more disappointed than I already do. I no longer believe my baby will magically come if I just pretend I'm not waiting for it. I no longer believe that acting as though pregnancy is the farthest thing from my mind will help it arrive sooner.

I just want to start getting ready for my baby. I know he or she may take a very long time to get here. I've learned the lessons about counting chickens and banking on potentialities. But I like to knit. I like to knit for babies. I think this might make me happy.

Maybe I'm actually getting better at the waiting.

Happy New Year

"Visualize a being you are responsible for," she said.

I thought of my m&m--a little pink shrimp curled around its own tail with big black spots for eyes, safe in a gelatin sac.

"Think of something you can do for this being. Some way you can improve your care of it."

Hope, I thought. I can have hope.

I breathed in (baby) and breathed out (hope). I'm not very flexible and I'm not very strong, so sometimes I thought more about my body, more about the pain of the stretch or the stiffness of the joints, than about my breath. But whenever I remembered, I breathed in (baby) and breathed out (hope).

Lying on my back in the dark, eyes closed, the room still, the m&m floated through my interior vision, a crystal champagne bubble on a field of black.

"And now, let that image go."

The sac drifted away, melted into darkness. I felt my cheeks wet, but I didn't try to keep it with me, to hold it back from where it needed to go.

Goodbye.

Hello.

Unexpectedly Expected; or, A Different Kind of Hopefulness

I'd come to expect the unexpected when dealing with my reproductive organs. Cycles of varying lengths were par for the course. Unpredictable ovulation times were routine. Even my luteal phase liked to keep me guessing. So waiting for my period to come post d&c isn't an unfamiliar experience to me. A 4-8 week timeframe? Yeah, I'm used to that. And I fully expected it to fall in the latter range.

What's not expected is this: two days shy of the four week mark, I'm crampy, bloated, and spotting just a little bit.

This could be nothing. It's probably just my uterus smacking me around a little more. But if I get my period this week, right on schedule--heck, even early!--I'll feel the kind of hopefulness I haven't experienced since the morning I peed on my first positive pregnancy test. Since the day we decided, "Let's make a baby."

I never thought I would look forward to peeling off a tampon's paper wrapping with so much relish.

What We Think; or, What We Can't Say

Before I started trying to conceive, I spent a few months visiting IF and loss blogs. I'm not sure why--intuition? fear? happenstance? I found one blog through The Nest (as it was pre-Bump), became entranced in the writer's story, cheered when she got her BFP after two long years, rejoiced when she brought her daughter home. And from there, I discovered dozens of other blogs that made me laugh, cry, and--eventually--gave me comfort of my own.

In my early blog reading, I encountered an essay, or a prose poem. I can't remember all the lines, but I know it began with something like "There are mothers who have everything come easy to them, and I know they are good mothers, but I will be better."

I didn't agree with this, in those pre-TTC days. In fact, I was a little offended. "There are fantastic mothers who get pregnant at the drop of a hat," I thought (assuming, of course, that I would soon be one of them). "And there can be abusive mothers who struggled with IF, loss, and adoption." And of course, the opposite can be true, too. How one becomes a mother does not dictate the kind of mother (or person) that one is.

But now...how to confess what I now feel? What I tell myself to make this pain more bearable?

I tell myself that I will be happier when I hold my first child in my arms. I tell myself that the joy nearly every parent feels on that incredible day will be just a little better, a little sweeter, with the memory of my sadness to heighten it.

I tell myself that my family and friends will cry with me and laugh with me and celebrate with me in a way that they couldn't or wouldn't if we hadn't been through this. Just as I celebrate with my whole heart when a woman who has faced conception struggles (whether a blogger or real life friend) finally welcomes her child.

I don't tell myself I'll be a "better" mother. But when I talk to my pregnant and recent-mom friends--even my dearest and most beloved--in the back of my mind is a little thought. "One day I will be happier than you can even imagine."

I don't know if it's true. I doubt that it's fair. And maybe it's not healthy. But for those few moments I have that thought, I feel like I can suck it up and muddle through.

So that's what I tell myself.

Thankfulness; or, Counting Blessings

I am thankful this weekend for so many things:

For my family, for the fact that we can all be together tomorrow, that we love each other and are always a stable force in each others' lives, even when we fight. And for my in-laws, who show me the love and kindness they would give to a daughter of their own.

For my friends, who have been so supportive these last two weeks. So many people have shown me how much they care about me, how sad they feel with me, and how hopeful they are for me.

For my education, that I'm paid to study a subject I love, and that I have the opportunity to introduce students to books they may not choose to read, but that they will (I hope) remember for all their lives.

For my home. It's comfortable and big enough for us and our dog and in a neighborhood we love. We have plans to fix up a few things and money to afford the improvements and we're not in danger of losing our place to live.

For our health and (maybe even more important!) our health insurance. I'm so grateful that all of the ultrasounds, doctors' visits, test and procedures were covered by insurance. I'm grateful that I was able to be proactive about seeing my physicians during my pregnancy, about testing to try to find out what went wrong, and that I can trust I'll be in good hands going forward. And I'm grateful to have mental health coverage and a therapist who is helping me through these struggles.

For my husband's job, which is secure (as secure as things can be right now) and allows me to pursue my academic dream instead of working in a better paying industry.

For the pregnancy. Even though it was short and even though I'm sadder than I ever imagined being, I loved my baby for the four weeks I knew I was pregnant. I'm grateful the baby had those seven weeks to live. And if there was something irreparably wrong, I'm grateful the baby felt no pain during its short time alive.

For the moments of hope and optimism, when I feel confident that we'll conceive another child and that we'll have the family we dream of.

Most of all, I'm grateful for my husband. He is my partner, and I couldn't survive any of this without him. I've never felt as loved and supported as I have these last two weeks, and I thank God every day that he is the man I married and the man with whom I will one day have children.

Happy Thanksgiving

Back to School; or, Back to Life

I'm up at 6:45 am because I'm going back to teaching for the first time in two weeks. I keep thinking about the fact that at the last class I taught, I thought I was still carrying a healthy pregnancy. I was puking between my courses. I scarfed down two slices of pizza at a staff meeting. I drove home and puked some more.

And then the next morning everything changed.

I really don't want to go back. I want to curl up in a ball in my bed and drink tea and hold my hot water bottle and watch bad tv. But my students have missed out on a week-and-a-half of their course. And while they wouldn't mind never coming back in again, I'm sure, I can't let them down like that.

Only three weeks left. I can make it.

I guess that's what being a grown-up is about.

D&C; or, Done

I'm not pregnant anymore. I guess, technically, I wasn't before. The baby died probably about a week and a half ago, so I hadn't had a living, healthy pregnancy since, I don't know, last Monday? Or Tuesday? But now, I'm really, truly not pregnant, with the empty, scraped-clean uterus to prove it.

The D&C was not fun, but the recovery has been better than I expected. They drew blood and gave me an IV to administer the sedative, and I panicked like I always do, but I got through it. And afterward I puked three times from the anesthesia (again, as expected, I'm super sensitive to it) and lay there moaning with the worst cramps of my life. But eventually the ty.lenol kicked in and I felt a little better and was able to go home.

We paid extra out-of-pocket for the "VIP" treatment, which meant a comfortable, private room with a bed in which to wait for and recover from the procedure and extra attention from the nurses. It was expensive, but worth it to be able to have time and privacy to recover without feeling like I was a cow in a cattle stall. We joked that this was my Christmas present.

The nurses were all lovely and kind, and the doctor was nice too. They all reassured me that this was just an accident and doesn't mean anything about my ability to have children. One of the nurses was alone with me in the OR for a little while before it started, and she told me how sorry she was for my loss. I started to cry for the first time that day and thanked her. She told me she had been where I was and she now had three children. That she miscarried her first, too, and that it had taken her a year to get pregnant the first time. A lot of people have told me those kinds of stories, or told my mother (they're mostly older women who are done bearing children). They do help. I try to hold on to them when I feel scared about the future.

I've been popping ty.lenol every 4 or 5 hours and that seems to keep the cramps at bay. I'm also using my trusty old hot-water bottle. I bought it 10 years ago at Bo.ots' pharmacy during my year living in England between high-school and college. I never knew it would get me through so many awful times, but it's been there for me through periods I didn't want to get (and, long ago, periods I desperately wanted to get) and now through this.

I seem to have moved into the anger phase of this process. I've been a cranky bitch these last two days to my mom, my husband, the voices inside my head. I snapped at Lawyer Guy last night for nothing! Because he was talking to his mom about being upset he'll have to miss his family's Thanksgiving this year for mine. I sniped "Screw you" and stomped off to the bedroom to sulk and cry for three hours and then try to make up. Is it hormones? Am I angry at him? He's been so wonderful.

I don't know what I'm feeling half the time. I don't cry all day any longer, but I don't feel like myself, either. I need my husband and family so much, but I also push them away.

Real life starts again next week. I think I'll be ready for it. I think I'll be ready to move forward.

Ten True Things; or, Promises

On the eve of my D&C, I make to myself these promises:

1. I will be pregnant again one day.

2. I will have a healthy, beautiful child one day.

3. I give myself permission to cry, to moan, to huddle in a ball, to avoid their babies and their swollen pregnant bellies without punishing or hating myself for being weak and selfish.

4. I will remind myself that their babies didn't take mine away, that their happiness doesn't cause my unhappiness, and that being there for others even when times are tough is the mark of character.

5. I give myself permission to laugh, to smile, to have happy times and moments without feeling guilty and callous or like I'm forgetting.

6. I will show my husband every day how much I love him and how indispensable his comfort and support are to me.

7. I will never complain about being pregnant. I will never bitch about vomiting, or getting fat, or people touching my belly.

8. I will never assume I know another woman's story. I will never assume my pregnancy or my child are of interest to the world.

9. I will never respond to another woman's struggles--be they infertility or miscarriage or loss--with silence.

10. I will practice patience every day. I can't control this. I can't force God's time. But I can love my life as much as possible at each moment.