An Unexpected Post; or, Scared of Perfection

Once upon a time, My best friend and I dreamed about the day we would have children. We were married one day apart, we planned to start trying within a few months of each other, so of course we would have babies on the same day! They would grow up to be best friends. Everything would be perfect.

Everything was not perfect.

She got pregnant her first month trying, and I...didn't. I threw her baby shower and then four days later had a miscarriage. She gave birth to her son, and I cried tears that were both in celebration and mourning. But through the next months and years, she was there for me. She even sent flowers on the m&m's due date, the only person in my life who remembered (and yes, this includes Lawyer Guy). She was the first person I told about Smudgie, at 5 weeks, when I was losing my mind with fear. She knew just what to say to comfort me without giving false hope.

She e-mailed me last night. She is 12 weeks pregnant. Her husband wouldn't let her tell anyone before now. She is due three weeks after me, also in October.

This is great news. I've mentioned before that she is a navy doctor and she was in fact scheduled to be deployed to Afghanistan this summer. That is now, thankfully, off the table, for which I am beyond glad. Babies are always good news, right? Always a blessing and always a joy. I love her sweet 1-year-old son. I know I will love this little one, too.

And finally, two years later than hoped for, this is it. This is that perfect we wanted. Two best friends, pregnant together. Two babies nearly the same age and destined to be friends.

So why am I crying? And why am I suddenly more scared than I have been since our last ultrasound? Why does something that once seemed inevitable now feel impossible?

Why am I still so broken? Why can't I escape the "What ifs"?

I don't think perfect exists for me anymore or ever will again. And on good days, I don't mind that. I'm even grateful for it.

But right now, I don't know how to end this post. With the excitement I don't feel yet, or the sadness that isn't even close to as cutting as I know sadness can be. With joy in friendship or with loneliness.

I can try to end it with hope. And I can hope to feel hopeful again soon.

Saturday and Sunday; or, Reversals of Fortune

Sometimes there's so much to say, I can't find the heart to sit down and write about it. Last weekend was that kind of weekend. We had dinner with friends on Saturday night in the neighborhood and then met for lunch with my BIL and SIL and nieces on Sunday at their country club.

I was dreading the family visit all weekend. My mother-in-law had called the day before and told me that she had lunch with J (the BIL) that Saturday and that he had asked if "there were any babies yet" for Sloper and LG. My MIL responded by telling him he needs to speak with us to learn about how things are going, and he said, "They didn't have another miscarriage, did they?" in a worried one of voice. Again she told him to talk to us about what's going on, but that we're "struggling."

My MIL brought this story to me like it was some amazing evidence of how deeply my BIL and SIL care about us. "See?" she said. "He's thinking about you. I know they want you to have kids."

Yeah, I kind of figured that already. Obviously they want their kids to have cousins, and LG and I are the only way they're getting any. And they're not evil. I know they don't wish us ill.

But hearing that he made what basically amounted to small-talk chit-chat at lunch about our problems (over a year later!) isn't evidence of some extreme compassion and sympathy. I'm not angry that she told me this, but it also doesn't change that I think their reaction to our situation has royally sucked. It doesn't change the fact that I think they are incapable of having real, human connection with us on this point, or that they don't put their own events, needs, and desires over our incredibly deep sorrow. As I said to my MIL, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do with this information." Go out of my way to inform them and make them comfortable with this? Um, no.

So I was not feeling super charitable about this lunch visit and was wondering why we were making the effort to head out to Suburblandia and see them. And yet, it was fine. I held the 8-month-old niece, who is very sweet and smiley, and I saw that she has the blue eyes neither of her parents do (eyes like mine) and managed only a twinge of sadness. Our three-year-old niece was sweet and funny and very cuddly once she got over some initial shyness. LG and his brother disappeared to another part of the club for a while (a sports bar, it turned out, where they could watch some football) and I thought that maybe J was going to bring up the last year and ask how things were going. But he didn't. And LG thought that maybe S (my SIL) was asking me how things have been. But she wasn't.

Still, for all my dread of these situations, I'm very good at getting in and getting out with minimal fuss and distress. And if I wasn't my usual bright and sparkly self, if I was a little more quiet and subdued than usual, I don't think it was extreme enough for anyone but me to notice.

So Sunday was alright, despite my worries. But Saturday...

We had dinner with, among others, our Queens friends and their one-year-old son. These are the friends whose son was born the day we had our first bad ultrasound with the m&m. They are the friends who miscarried their first pregnancy almost exactly two years before we did, then tried to conceive for over a year before finally hitting the jackpot with an IUI. We are very close to them, and while we don't talk about IF and loss frequently, there's a current of understanding that flows through all our interactions and helps make things comfortable.

I noticed at dinner that Queens Wife wasn't drinking, and my radar went up. But Queens Husband was, so I thought that perhaps they designated a "Sober Sister" (as it were) to watch their little boy and drive home.

But as we peeled off from the rest of our party and walked them to their car a few blocks away, they confirmed my suspicions. They were twelve-weeks pregnant, unexpectedly but quite happily. They were due in June, just like her first pregnancy and mine.

I didn't feel that sharp spike of jealousy in the gut the way I usually do. We hugged them both and asked some questions and told them how happy we were. And in that moment, I truly was. Something raw and pointy lay underneath that happiness, but I pushed it far down. Lawyer Guy and I left them at their car and walked home to our apartment, and the night was very crisp and clear, and we both talked of other things and knew we were thinking the same thing, and it felt good to be together, whatever the circumstances.

I didn't let myself think much more about our friends' pregnancy the rest of the weekend. And then Monday morning, Queens Husband texted LG. They just had their NT scan. The results were not good--the baby's skull didn't form right. They had to terminate.

We both cried for them and ordered a basket of food to be delivered to their house and texted and e-mailed and offered to help them with anything they needed. She had the procedure yesterday and tomorrow they leave for Thanksgiving in New England.

As much as I may have felt jealous and a little sad when they told me their pregnancy news, I am devastated that this is the result. It seems so unfair--that they've had to undergo two very different but equally traumatizing losses, and even their beautiful, hard-won son doesn't make up for that. I find myself wondering why this kind of suffering has to be concentrated on the same people over and over again. Why can't it be one miscarriage per customer, no exceptions, and no more than one for everybody? Why can't it be lost pregnancy or IF, never both? I know the world doesn't work that way, and I'm sure people with ordinary, loss-free fertility would be horrified to think I'm "wishing miscarriages" and problems on them. But wouldn't life be easier to navigate if we could all share this burden?

Like losing a parent--it happens at different (more or less tragic) times for different people, but if you live long enough, your parents will die. I think we have tremendous sympathy for those whose parents die because of this sense that it will be us facing the same thing one day. But reproductive troubles aren't like that, so they're easier to dismiss or ignore. It's horrible to wish they were more universal, and yet I do. Hey, I'm surviving them, so Ms. Fertile Franny can too.

I'm rambling now because there's no real ending point to this. Lost pregnancies suck. Infertility sucks. Lack of sympathy sucks. Having to trudge on when you just want to scream sucks.

This all sucks.

Okay, Except When I'm Not; or, 6dpiui

In my mind, I have already started the next cycle. I know I'm only 6 dpiui and I couldn't reasonably expect to have a clear sense one way or the other as to whether this worked or not, but sometimes you just know, right? I'm not sure how I would expect to feel if I were pregnant right now, but it's not like this. So I don't think I am.

And I would be okay with that--not thrilled, but okay, able to cling to Dr. Wonderful's confidence in our future chances and determination to get us to Destination Baby without any further delay--if not for...well, if not for any number of "not fors."

If not for the fact that I am leaving for a conference in Portland the day my period is due, meaning I have to decide whether to test the day before (in order to let my doctor know what's up before I leave) and see one of those BFNs I swore many, many, many months ago I would never let myself see again or wait and get the definitive proof that IUI #1 failed while alone and thousands of miles from home.

If not for the fact that I visited Clueless Preggo over the weekend, who is now Clueless Mommy, and sat there cuddling her sweet baby girl and wishing so heartily that things could be different.

If not for the fact that my best friend, Doctor Lady, is planning on starting to try for Baby #2, like, tomorrow, and I both want her to have an easy time of it and know I will resent her, just a little, for getting so quickly what has been such a struggle for us.

If not for the fact that Safely Married Friend--the one who insisted over and over that children were a long way off in her future--just took the infamous Last Big Trip with her husband and confided that they will start trying in January.

Is it so wrong that I want, desperately and with a jealous fervor that I thought I'd left behind in junior high, to get pregnant before ONE of my friends? To beat ONE person to the punch? To not be lapped by EVERYONE I know? To get to announce my own pregnancy to ONE person who won't be able to look at me with a been-there-done-that-got-the-nursing-bra-to-prove-it smile?

It is. It's stupid. It's meaningless, and I know that. I just hate watching the time slip away, whether measured in calendar months (2.5 left in 2010, that year I had such high hopes for) or in the size of my friend's bellies or in the numbers of children smiling from the Christmas cards that are due to start rolling in any day now.

Dr. Wonderful said these treatments will work, but we have to be a little patient. And I'm good with patience when it's just me in my house with my dog and Lawyer Guy, a stack of nineteenth-century novels to read and some trashy television to watch. But even after all these months (nearly twenty of them) of practice, I find patience in short supply when I step outside my door.

Are You Feeling Lucky?; or, Always Something There to Remind Us

My dinner with Clueless Preggo was really kind of swell (I'm on a Mad Men bender now that the new season has begun, so expect lots of "gangbusters" and "donneybrooks" peppered throughout my posts for the next 12 weeks). She loved the gifts, particularly the cotton sweater. We talked about a lot of things other than babies, though I asked a few of the obligatory questions and listened to a few of the obligatory stories. And she asked at the end of the evening how we were doing with our efforts, to which I said something evasive and vague about enjoying the summer. But mostly we talked about work and school, her new apartment, things going on the city, tv shows, and gossip about friends-- the usual New York chit chat. (With more on gossip about friends to come).

Since then, however, I've been thinking about luck: who's got it, how we find it, where we see it, how we define it.

I blog a lot about how lucky I am. It's mostly to remind myself to feel lucky, even though making a baby has not turned out as I thought it would. It's also because I know my life is really good, no matter how depressed I get at times, and I want to treasure all the beautiful blessings that have been given to me.

For Clueless Preggo, I think I'm a walking, talking, occasionally-bleeding-out-a-baby reminder of her own luckiness. And this is because I suspect she's been feeling rather unlucky generally in this pregnancy. She didn't belabor this, but in explaining why she decided to find out the gender (girl) of her baby, she said that she "thought it would help her bond" after "being so sick and unhappy at first" and "not wanting to be pregnant." She of course immediately retracted the last statement when she became aware of her audience ("It's not that I wanted the pregnancy to end, of course not, etc. etc.). But I get the impression that with working until midnight many nights a week and being really ill she was feeling pretty sorry for herself for a while. Which, you know, may be valid and understandable, but I don't have a lot of sympathy for it and I won't cluck and hover and give ah-babies to someone who gets to have a baby right as soon as she decided she wanted one.

So yeah. I get to be a great big blinking reminder of "Be Happy That You're Pregnant!" just by sitting down for dinner.

But I'm not immune to the reminders, myself. At the end of dinner, Clueless told me a little about a mutual friend of ours, a former sorority sister of mine who wound up going to business school with Clueless and becoming her very close friend. Sorority Sister was married a year ago to a very kind, smart man (who happens to have gone to high school with my best friend, Doctor Lady. Just another day in the urban Northeast, I suppose).

Clueless told me that Sorority Sister and her husband learned a few weeks ago that he has an incredibly rare type of lymphoma. He's thirty years old. They're going to have to freeze his sperm before he starts treatments so they can hope to have children one day. There's a 70%-80% chance of remission after five years. Which is better than they feared, but still.

Clueless told me not to be prurient and gossipy, but to ask for my thoughts and prayers for this couple. I was completely gobsmacked at this news. I can't believe that this is happening to one of my peers, to someone in the same place in life that I am. Lawyer Guy and I held each other extra hard that night, reminded of how incredibly lucky we are to have each other right now, no matter what comes in the future.

It's not nice to be the indicator of someone else's good luck, so I'm not going to contact Sorority Sister and say anything. She didn't tell me this news, and she and I haven't spoken since Clueless's Christmas party last year, so I just don't think it would be appropriate (though I'm open to hearing otherwise). But I will be praying for them and thinking of them and hoping that they can leave this episode in their lives behind as quickly as possible. They're a wonderful couple who I can tell truly love one another, so I'm sure that even in this they've managed to find the joy and luck in being together. But I hope that they have even more to celebrate soon.

Among the gifts I gave Clueless was an elissa hudson Etsy print that I had framed. AMB linked to these prints at her blog a few weeks ago, and I loved them just as much as she does and quickly picked the one for me. A family of giraffes--Big, Medium, and Little--and right below them the statement "Lucky Little Family."

I didn't get that one for Clueless, lucky though I think she is (I gave her the penguins in pink). I'm saving the giraffes for myself. I'm saving it for the kind of luck you get after misfortune, which is maybe (if you make it there) the luckiest luck of all.

Mental Holidays; or, Requirements of All Kinds

Ich bin frei! Or something. I only learned how (poorly) to translate German into (bad) English, not produce it. Still, the spirit of the above utterance holds, however garbled it may have come out, and I declare today a half holiday in honor of taking (and maybe even passing!) my translation exam this morning and fulfilling one more requirement en route to the doctorate.

Said holiday has thus far consisted of: walking to the Union Square Greenmarket to clear my head of German fumes; picking up baby shower cards and gifts; and eating guacamole and hummus. In an hour or so I have to head back into Manhattan for my therapy appointment and then on to dinner with Clueless Preggo (for whom I picked up said card and gifts).

I was so focused on my exam over the past week that I didn't have time or mental energy to worry about tonight's dinner. And since the exam ended I've been focusing on getting just the right card and wrapping the gifts with just the right paper to keep from worrying about how much we'll talk about the baby, how long I'll be able to keep up a bright and interested facade, how much she'll ask me about our baby-making efforts, and how little (for what ever reasons I don't care to examine too closely right now) I want to share about the last couple of months of shit and sadness.

It will be fine, I know it will be fine. And it may also be frustrating and upsetting and depressing (or--here's a crazy thought-- maybe even fun). It will be what it will be, and since I've decided I'm going through with it, I'd rather not think about it too much beforehand.

I have more important matters on which to dwell, anyway. Like pondering the best way to eviscerate the card designer who came up with this gem I encountered at the card shop a few hours ago:


Seriously, barf, right? Just what smug pregnant ladies need, encouragement for their vile self-absorption in printed-, folded-paper form. Do you think anyone would mind if I torched the store tonight?

Lou-Ellen Returns; or, Answering E-mails

I got an e-mail from Clueless Preggo today thanking me for the note and book I sent her a few weeks ago. It came at just the right time. I'd been wondering if she received the package, becoming increasingly annoyed, wondering if I should contact her, fantasizing about yelling at her, worrying that she was offended, berating myself for being a bad friend. Dramatizing and staging entire five-act tragedies of revenge and betrayal in my mind, all of which ended very badly. As usual, reading far more into an innocuous silence than existed.

The e-mail was nice. She let me know how sweet she thought it was that I sent the book and card and that she does know I'm going through a hard time and is thinking of me. She also wrote "I have total confidence that you and [Lawyer Guy] will become parents very soon. I can feel it. And you'll be amazing. I can't wait for our kids to play together!" Which is nice (rather than naive), because I want that confidence back: the confidence I had even in the worst days after the miscarriage that this would happen again for us, the confidence that dissipates a little more with each negative cycle.

She said she would love to get dinner or coffee or to hang out on the weekend whenever I want and that it's been too long since we've seen each other. And then she let me know that her mother is throwing a baby shower (which I'll receive the invite for next week) in August. She would love for me to come but understands if I don't feel up for it.

I know it's the right thing to go to the shower, so I will go to the shower. And I expect there to be some very hard moments. But it takes some of the hurt away to have her acknowledge that it might be painful for me.

So, there it is. My third bridesmaid's shower to attend before I get a babe of my own. At least I'm not throwing this one myself like I did the other two.

I need to respond and let her know that I want to see her. And then I need to see her. I think it will sting, though the moment is always less painful than the anticipation of it. Time to call up Lou-Ellen again and survive another round.

Cinema Verite; or, The Moment That Calls For Laughter or Tears

People say that we're each the lead character in the movie (or novel) of our life. Now I don't know who these people are, but I suspect they are right. And if this holds true, then naturally it's also true that we are but supporting roles, minor characters, and even walk-on parts and extras in other people's movies.

Nothing makes this clearer than facing fertility troubles in the middle of a baby boom. All around our Token Subfertile are fecund Mamas-To-Be enjoying their moment in the spotlight, their chance to take center stage in the Nativity Play: blue wimples on their heads, flour-sack babies in arms, Josephs standing by ready to beat back the Christmas crowds with a sturdy walking stick. Meanwhile, the Third Shepherd From the Back gets left off the program.

This past weekend, the distance between the Story of My Irritating Process of Trying to Conceive and the standard baby-making genres surrounding me (generally of the Oh Wow, I'm Knocked Up! variety) felt farther than ever. Allow me to present a dramatic moment:

(Scene: The kitchen of a suburban home. Brown cardboard boxes are everywhere along with newspaper-wrapped objects. A family is in the process of moving.)

Sloper (to audience): Hi! I'm Secret Sloper. I've been trying to have a baby for about a year and a half now. It's been very frustrating and I tend to whine a lot about it. This is even more difficult because it seems like everyone I know is pregnant or just had a baby. Friends, family, acquaintances, colleagues. They all get pregnant as soon as they even think about trying to have a baby. Did I tell you that I've heard 20 pregnancy announcements since March 2009? And that every single one of my or my husband's married cousins or siblings has had a child in the last year? Thank goodness there aren't any family members left to worry about!

Mother of Sloper (taking a break from packing): Did I tell you that Older Unmarried Cousin is going to be a father? Yeah, he had a one-night-stand at a wedding in October and now the girl is due on July 4th. He's so embarrassed that he didn't use a condom. At 35 he should really know better!

(Sloper collapses to the floor in what appears to be a convulsive fit. After a few moments, her laughter is audible over the grinding of her teeth and beating of the floor with her fists. A mumbled, "You win, universe," is barely discernible between her hysterical shrieks).

End Scene.

Of course, in contrast to this darkly comic horror tale about a young woman whose evil, empty uterus eats her mind and turns her into a raving zombie, we've got an ABC Family special about a wedding-night gone wrong and the two crazy kids forced to raise a baby (and a little hell) while realizing how perfect they are for each other! Minus the perfect for each other part and plus the Older Unmarried Cousin's New Girlfriend throwing him a baby shower. But that's clearly the third act complication immediately preceding the inevitable romantic finish, right?

Here in brain-eating-uterus land, however, the baby-makers' happy ending is beside the point. This little anecdote is just further evidence of the universe's desire to completely fuck with Secret Sloper's shit. You think it's hard to see people getting pregnant around you as soon as they want to try? The universe asks. BAM! An unplanned pregnancy. Double BAM! Due one week after your dead baby. Triple BAM! From someone you never suspected in a million years! Ha ha ha ha!

Universe, you're totally funny, okay? I get the joke, I swear. You can stop telling it.

* * * *

Having survived the frying pan of Pregnancy Announcement #21 with no tears, I jumped immediately into the volcano pit of Father's Day Dinner with the In-Laws. Just Lawyer Guy and me, his father and step-mother, my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, their kids, and sister-in-law's parents. You know, exactly the kind of event thoughtful family members invite their barren relatives to the week before they had expected to have a child.

It was mostly fine. I was nervous and uncomfortable at the beginning, but that was nothing a large vodka gimlet couldn't fix. My older niece wanted me to read her a story and to follow me to the buffet, which was cute. And I'm used to the rampant fawning over the children on the part of all the aforementioned adults.

But then immediately after dessert came the moment I was dreading: the opening and exchange of Father's Day gifts right there at the table in the middle of the country club. Yet another reminder that Lawyer Guy and I are spearholders in the back row of the chorus, not even given sheet music to learn everyone else's parts.

But if being completely left out sucks, being tossed a pity line or two sucks even harder. Father-in-law and his wife handed LG a gift as the other men dug into theirs. You see, he's the daddy to a puppy.

I spent the next ten minutes crying alone in the bathroom. So much for walk-on parts.

Bitch Stole My Bagel...Again!; or, Welcome to My Black Hole

Does my empty uterus emit high-pitched signals audible only to pregnant women when I'm PMSing? Is that why they like to announce their happy expectations to me right before I start my pre-period spotting? CAN I PLEASE HAVE ONE FUCKING MONTH WITHOUT HAVING TO ACT EXCITED ABOUT SOMEONE ELSE'S UTE FRUIT???

The faint brown spotting started today, 13 dpo. AF will start tomorrow. At least this is predictable. At least I didn't feed my stupid, pointless hopes by taking a pregnancy test.

Not so predictable was the email I got yesterday from the incoming co-chair of my Junior League committee entitled "News!" Oh, I definitely waited about an hour before opening it.

Sigh. Of course she's pregnant. Of course she's due on November 18th: the fucking anniversary of my d&c. Of course she's going to be giving birth and going on maternity leave right when I'm planning to take my oral exam and was counting on her to pick up the slack for me. Of course I'm going to have to carry the committee on my back all year, when I'm trying to become ABD (All But Dissertation, the last stage of the PhD process) AND when I'll most likely be undergoing fertility treatments.

And sure, she's a few years older than me, so maybe in one sense it's "her turn." But she WASN'T EVEN MARRIED YET when we started trying. In the sixteen months that we've managed to conceive one non-viable pregnancy, she was engaged, got married, went on a honeymoon, spent some time as a couple with her husband, got knocked up, and gestated to the point where she can announce it.

And now I have to work with her all summer while her fucking belly grows and arrange things to accommodate her pregnancy and I'm just pissed off about the whole situation.

COCKSUCKINGMOTHERFUCKINGSONOFABITCHGODDAMNPIECEOFSHITASSMUNCHINGCUNTWIPINGFUCKBALLS!!

Sorry about that.

The worst of it was the sound of the silence on the other end of the phone this morning when I told Lawyer Guy I started spotting. Just pure devastation. I thought it was hard back when I was the only one worried, the only one stressing, but this is 1000% worse. If Mr. I'm Not Going To Worry Until There's a Reason to Worry thinks we're doomed, we're really screwed. And I just feel so guilty. Especially because I know he's worried that this is his fault. Oh, this sucks from top to bottom.

It's not all bad, and I do know that. We booked the trip to Scandinavia last night-- seven days in Copenhagen and Stockholm in August. A last blast before we meet with the RE. And yesterday afternoon, FedEx delivered a package from my best friend, Doctor Lady--a beautiful bouquet of flowers to let me know that she's thinking of me as what would have been the m&m's due date approaches. I started to cry when I opened them, shocked that she remembered the month when I haven't spoken of it once since the miscarriage. I felt so alone, thinking I was the only person who remembered I could have had a baby in a few weeks, the only person on earth who still thought about my baby and grieved the life that he or she never got to live. I know how blessed I am to have a friend like this.

And I promise that I'll be okay tomorrow. I'll pick my spirits back up and start drinking my tea again and peeing on sticks and hoping that this will be the month. And I'll schedule some RE appointments and mark them in my calendar and hope that we'll get pregnant in the next two cycles and tell myself it's okay if we don't.

And I'll study and write papers and go to Father's Day dinner with my inlaws and help my parents move out of my childhood home and go to a Mets game with my husband and tell him every day how much I love him and walk my dog.

But right now, I need to revisit my friend, the sobbing bridesmaid:

Wasting My Time in the Bagel Line; or, More Messages From My Subconscious

On Monday, after much dithering, I mailed Clueless Preggo the book and card I had decided to send her to explain why I haven't been a very involved friend since she announced her pregnancy just about a month ago. It felt good. I love scratching another item off my to-do list, and I was glad to get these feelings off my chest and unburden myself to her. I didn't write the note expecting any particular response nor did I even want one. Or so I told myself.

Early this morning I had another one of my patented "Hello Sloper, Allow Me to Tell You How You Really Feel" dream messages from my subconscious. Such a pesky subconscious I have, never letting me hang out happily in denial.

I dreamed I was at Clueless's birthday party (which she didn't celebrate this year thanks to the pregnancy). We were on a rooftop balcony, her friends and family and I, but the only people I recognized in the crowd were her and her husband. She was pregnant, of course, and we were talking and the whole time I was wondering if she'd received my letter and what she thought of it and why she hadn't said anything about it and if I should bring it up. As she was called over to blow out her candles, I sheepishly asked if she'd gotten my note. "Oh, yeah," she said in an off-handed manner and walked away.

Later, she and her husband were giving me a ride home, and when we stopped at a red light, she got out to go stand in the median of the road for some reason (dream logic, remember). Alone in the car with me, her husband told me that Clueless didn't mean to hide her pregnancy for so long, but that she forgot that it would be a sensitive subject for me that needed to be dealt with delicately. Then I woke up.

It was about 5:30 am, and I lay there with that icky discomfort that follows an unpleasant dream, a mix of anxiety and frustration and restlessness. I realized that she either received my note yesterday or will have it delivered today. And I wondered what she will think and what she will do, if anything. And I didn't like wondering. I realized that I am incredibly angry with her, and for an incredibly unfair reason. I realized that she doesn't deserve to be pregnant when I'm not. That she hasn't earned this pregnancy the way I have (and, yes, this flies in the face of everything I've written previously about how we don't "earn" babies, but it was that kind of morning) through sadness and suffering and horrible, horrible waiting. I've been in this bagel line for sixteen G.D. months and she just cut right to the front. And now they're making her bagel and slathering it with cream cheese and piling on the tomatoes and I'm standing here eating my own fingernails I'm so hungry.

At that point, I realized I was crazy. Hungry and crazy. And then I did something very stupid.

You see, Clueless is an infrequent Facebook user and hasn't posted a single thing about her pregnancy, despite being 5-6 months along. On the one hand, I'm grateful to her for that, grateful to avoid the gut punch of logging in and tracking her progress week by week. And yet, knowing that she was going to learn the gender back in May and knowing the only way to find out the gender was to ask her and knowing that I did not want to ask her anything at all about being pregnant--well, all I can say is that being both incredibly nosy and incredibly passive-aggressive and avoidant makes life difficult for me.

But lying awake in the morning light, I suddenly remembered: baby registries! Surely she is registered by now, especially now that she knows the gender. And I can look it up and find out what she's having and never have to talk to her about it at all! Brilliant, right?

Wrong. But I did it anyway. I registry-stalked my friend at 6 am. I found out they are investing in primarily gray and red items--car seat, high chair, bibs and bath toys. But there, toward the bottom of the registry, were a little pink hat, a little pink onesie, and a lavender romper.

She's having a girl.

This doesn't make me feel good.

I am officially a crappy friend.

Biting the Bullet; or, Sending Out An SOS

After weeks of dithering, I finally decided what to do about Clueless Preggo (aka the Friend Formerly Known as Recently Trying). Every option I'd considered sounded both appealing and dismal. Getting together for dinner would make me feel like a strong, capable person, but would probably lead to days of weeping and self-laceration of emotional wounds. Sending an e-mail would be quick and direct but brusque, impersonal, and too open to interpretation. Calling her on the phone would allow for honest and open communication but could also turn into an all-about-me sob fest. And sending a card would show thoughtfulness but also might seem too much like a goodbye.

I didn't spend too much time thinking my way through any of the options in detail but let them rumble around in my mind, watching to see what seemed to attract the most stress and what attracted the least. The least stressful option was definitely sending a card, so that's what I decided to do.

Today I bought an adorable yellow card. On the cover is a baby clothesline and the word "congratulations", but as it doesn't say "on your new arrival" or "on your little one" or something like that I think it can work for a pregnancy congratulations card as well as a new baby card. I also picked up a mini-book of baby names filled with lovely photographs. And then, when I returned home, I sat down and wrote the following:

Dear "Clueless",

I am so happy for you and Mr. Clueless. You are going to be amazing parents, and this baby will be very loved. Your families must be so thrilled to welcome the new baby. I'm truly glad that it sounds like everything is going so well with your pregnancy.

Things with me have been hard, and I say this not to dump cold water on your happy time, but just to let you know why I haven't been as involved a friend as I would like to be. I'm still sad a lot, still wondering when I'll get to be a mom, and starting to consider seeing a specialist in the next few months.

It's difficult sometimes when I'm so down and disheartened to be excited and cheerful for other people, even when I want to be the same happy kind of friend I used to be. I need to take each day as it comes--sometimes I feel up for more, sometimes I need to protect my heart a bit.

I guess I'm trying to say that I care a lot about you even when it's hard for me to show it. And that I can't promise to be there for you in the same way I once could, but I can promise to do my best. Things could improve for me soon--I hope they do! This could also be a very long road ahead. Either way, I look forward to better times with you and your little family.

Love,
Secret Sloper

Clueless knows about the miscarriage and about how long ago we started trying, so I didn't see the need to spend much time explaining our situation. I also realized in ruminating on the card option that what worried me about it was the fact that I don't really know what I want from Clueless. I don't want to ask her to leave me alone and then feel in a few weeks like I'm capable of handling her pregnancy after all and have to backtrack. I don't want to make a big deal about how hard this is and how sad I am and then call her in two months with a "Guess what?!?!" and force her to pretend like this never happened. I don't really want anything from her other than space to feel what I feel when I feel it--and for her to know and accept this.

So the card is much more about me and my feelings than about her and her actions (or potential actions). It's trying to explain where I am, not asking her to do anything.

I'm going to send it along with the book next week after I get back from my youngest sister's college graduation. I hope she takes it well. I haven't a clue how she'll respond, and for now I'm okay with remaining the Clueless one.

Purple Dresses, Red Velvet Cake!; or, Weekend Recap

Only time for a quick post today. Life is a bit crazy with day-long grading sessions and paper writing and Junior League meetings and sisters' graduations to prepare for. But I wanted to fill you all in on my incredible weekend!

Lawyer Guy threw my 30th birthday party-- not a surprise, but exceptionally fun, nonetheless. My family and friends were there, including my NYC roommate of 3 years who now lives in California. She and LG coordinated a surprise visit and she came singing into my room at 8 am the morning of the party to wake me up! She and I had brunch together, got our hair done, and went to Bloomingdale's in SoHo before the party to get our makeup done. I went unusually heavy with the smokey eye, which may have been ill-conceived, but hey, I only turn 30 once and if I want Cleopatra cat eyes, I'm gonna sport Cleopatra cat eyes.

Then came the party at a restaurant downtown with delicious food and lots and lots of Cava for everyone! I had friends from all over the country come in for the party. There were old friends from junior high, high school, and college and my fabulous new friends from the last few years-- how amazing to see the way I keep adding people to my circle while still deepening my long-term friendships! I felt so much love and support. It was just a wonderful evening, topped off with the most delicious red velvet cake ever and lots of presents!

The next day, a little hungover and very tired, Lawyer Guy and I bid farewell to Roomie (who spent the night of the party in our guest room) and drove down to my hometown for the baptism of my BFF Doctor Lady's baby boy. She and her husband flew in from California, as well, for the weekend's many festivities. I got to meet the little man for the first time, and it was great. No tears (well, from me. He shed quite a few!). The service and lunch afterward were family-only with the exception of LG and myself. Watching my friend mother her son was amazing.

I must confess I was a little deflated yesterday and today. Only natural after two such special days, I suppose, and some recalcitrance from Pissy the CBEFM. But my mother-in-law told me to remember how loved I felt at my party when I'm blue in the future, and I'm trying to hold onto that. I have so many good people surrounding me in this life, I am truly lucky.

To finish, a picture of me and Lawyer Guy (faces mostly obscured, of course). I want to show you all the dress, which wound up not resembling any of the options I gave you. It's short, I have a black sash tied around the waist pinned with an antique gold broach in the shape of a leaf, and I'm wearing strappy black Manolos.


Have a great rest of the week, lovelies!

In Which I Do My Best Impression of an Antebellum Heroine; or, Odds and Ends

Thanks for the advice on the Clueless Preggo front. I'm still pretty stymied about what to do. Sometimes the thought of sending her an e-mail or card feels best. Sometimes the thought of dropping off the face of the earth feels best. And just yesterday I felt like I could handle a face-to-face dinner, somehow. I think what I'd like best is a face-to-face where we agreed not to talk about or acknowledge her pregnancy, but I'm not sure how I can get that (since I'm sure on her end, the whole reason she wants to get together is to talk about the baby and the baby-mandated move to the suburbs I'm positive is on the horizon). That's how my SIL and I handled things during the last months of her pregnancy, but she and her husband aren't big sharers anyway, and we never had to have a conversation about ignoring the elephant in the room.

I have a therapy appointment scheduled for Thursday, so I think I'll go over all this then and see what my therapist thinks. Maybe she can help me tease out what I really want.

* * * *

I got some good news this week. The semi-half-assed abstract I sent off to a conference two weeks ago was accepted! So I'll now be heading out to Portland in October. This is of course calling to mind the first conference I attended in London last July. When I applied and was accepted to that conference I was positive that I'd be pregnant by the time I attended. No socializing over pints at the pub for me, I thought. Now here I am, almost a year later, still not pregnant. But at least I'm making no assumptions about this trip to October. I'd like to be pregnant by then. I hope I'm pregnant by then. But who the fuck knows anymore. Maybe I won't be able to go because of monitoring appointments at the REs. I'm not going to worry about it until the time comes.

One little additional thing: this is the second conference I've applied to and the second conference where I've been accepted. The first was the biggest conference in my field for UK academics. But you are very, very wrong if you think this makes me feel confident about my work. Nope. I've assumed that either: the conferences didn't get as many submissions as they expected; these conferences aren't actually all that good; my abstracts were good enough to trick them into accepting me, but my presentations will depress and appall them. Eh, I'm just going to go back to not thinking about it again.

* * *
One of my younger sisters is getting married next summer in California. August 2011. So far away, right? But being 9-months pregnant in August would mean conceiving in December. That's seven months from now. That's two months after we're planning to make our first visit to the RE. That's entirely possible.

So I very well may be forced to confront the possibility of delaying treatments in order to guarantee I can attend my sister's wedding. I envisioned this possibility back when I had the miscarriage in November. I don't need to tell you guys how much either would hurt: missing the wedding of my first sister to marry; delaying getting started making babies even more-- pushing it ever closer to the two year mark.

I'm not actively fretting over this. I recognize that a lot can happen in seven months. It's just there in the back of my mind. One more worry-stone to add to the pile. One more thing to not let myself think of, Scarlett O'Hara style.

Fiddle-dee-dee. Tomorrow is another day.

Two Friends; or, How to Handle a Preggo

Yesterday after my session in the library, I had drinks with a Grad School Friend whom I've grown very close to since the beginning of the year. She's the friend I took to the opera a few days after learning the m&m had died, and since she learned about the miscarriage she's been incredibly supportive. She is yet another Recently Trying Friend, but as she's 38 years old, I'll be much more okay with her getting pregnant first (plus she several cycles in now, so not another first-time-lucky friend to deal with).

I wound up telling Grad School Friend all about last weekend's pregnancy announcement from Girl Formerly Known As Recently Trying Friend-- whom I would call Recently Pregnant Friend, except that she's almost five months along, so that's not Recent at all, and she should really be called Clueless Preggo for being so clueless and so pregnant.

Where was I? Oh right, drinks and conversation last night.

Grad School Friend (who has done her time in the therapy trenches) had an interesting perspective on my situation with Clueless Preggo. She suggested that my desire to be the strong, competent, together friend who helps other people--the friend who listens to everyone else's relationship problems while she basks in the glow of her own drama-free decade-long union--my desire to always do the "right" thing in each situation, and my fear of being a big downer all the time has placed huge barriers to intimacy between me and some of my closest friends. It's true that I'm much more comfortable in the counselor role than the sad and needy role (unbelievable as that may seem to readers of this whine-fest). It's true that I have rarely brought up my anxiety and sadness and jealousy and all-around crappy feelings to my friends with babies since the miscarriage. I also had not spoken to Clueless Preggo about the above in months, so perhaps she is to be forgiven for not assuming her pregnancy announcement would hit me like a house falling on my head.

So Grad School Friend suggested a phone call to the Clueless Preggo in which I am (amazing as it may sound) honest. That I just tell her that I'm glad this has been easy for her, but I'm so sad for myself and hearing her news brought up a lot of painful feelings that were hard to deal with. That talking to her about her pregnancy is more than I can handle right now.

It seems so simple. Why would someone have a problem with those feelings? What sort of person would object to my struggling with grief and disappointment?

And yet the thought of making that phone call terrifies me, and I'm not sure why. I'm not sure what exactly scares me so much. I know I'm afraid that I'll push people away while I'm struggling and they won't be there anymore when I come out on the other end. I know I'm afraid that my friends will think I'm selfish or morbid or self-absorbed or fixated on my own problems. But the ultimate fear is even beyond that, and I'm still not sure what's at the root of it.

Any thoughts on what to do in this situation would be most appreciated, because I'm doubting everything I think and feel these days.

Spontaneously Occurring Mood Swings; or, Turn that Smile Upside Down

It's amazing how fast my mood can turn around.

This morning I was feeling pretty good. I'm only on CD 12, but I'm already getting high readings on the CBEFM and am starting to suspect I might ovulate before day 20. Exciting! Thrilling!

I've been drinking my raspberry leaf tea and I haven't had any spotting yet. Wonderful! Optimistic!

I had a good session at therapy, a great meeting with my adviser, and a Junior League meeting tonight. Productive! Accomplished!

And then I signed on to Facebook when I got home to see that a former fellow volunteer was announcing her pregnancy with a 20-week ultrasound. I've been on the verge of tears for the last hour. I'm jealous as hell, and it's completely unfair of me to be so. This girl is a good six years older than me, had to put off having kids for years because of MS, and had a miscarriage about two months after I did.

I was afraid to call my high school friend on her birthday today because I know she and her husband started TTC in January, and I'm dreading their inevitable announcement.

My cousin had a baby yesterday, and I can't even stand to look at the pictures.

I hate my jealousy and sadness, and I wish I could make it go away.

But more than that, I just want to be pregnant again.

Introducing Lou-Ellen; or, Getting in Touch with My "Southern" Side

I am going to confess something to all of you. Something that no one else knows. Not my husband. Not my mom. Not my therapist.

I have an alternate personality. Her name is Lou-Ellen.

Lou-Ellen is older than me, around 50 to be exact. Lou-Ellen is a classic Southern lady, gracious and poised. She's always impeccably put together (she favors pearls, diamonds, silk shells, St John suits, and perfectly knotted Hermes scarves). She has the ability to charm anyone into conversation, to make anyone feel important and appreciated. She's had some rough times in her life (I can't share them with you without her permission, I'm afraid) but you wouldn't know it when you met her. And then when you hear about all she's been through to get where she is, you'll think "I can't believe someone could still stand up after a life like that, and she's doing so much more."

Lou-Ellen brings a casserole to the family nextdoor when their wife dies (even though she just learned her husband was cheating on her). Lou-Ellen holds the hand of the pregnant lady on the bus who's having a panic attack over one day giving birth (even though, which five miscarriages in her past, you'd forgive her for being dismissive). Lou-Ellen is the queen of flowers and favors and compliments you never realized you deserved until she gave them to you.

On days like today and yesterday, I don't much like the woman I am so I think of the woman I'd like to be one day (aside from the Southern thing. That's not happening). I ask myself, What would Lou-Ellen do? And I always know the answer right away: the kind act, the generous gesture, the phone call that makes people feel loved, the comment that puts them at ease. That's what Lou-Ellen would do.

I called my SIL last night to give her my congratulations. I'm going to the hospital today in between my dental appointment and my 4:15 class. Because that's what Lou-Ellen would do. (Well, Lou-Ellen would probably bring a hand-knit nursery set and a dozen peonies, too. But I have my limits.)

Birth Day; or, I'd Hit the Bottle If it Weren't Still Lent

Niece #2 arrived at 8:55 this morning, while I was in the middle of showing my students an episode from season 2 of Mad Men to cap off our unit on Constructions of Gender. My husband forwarded me the e-mail from his brother. She's here. She has a name. And there you have it.

I'm feeling a lot of emotions right now. Primary among them: anxiety. The queasy stomach, fluttery heart, sweaty palms kind of anxiety. The anxiety I've felt off and on for the past ten years during crappy times with J and S. The anxiety that used to make me shake with the chills whenever I told a friend or a therapist the story I related to all of you last month, the story of rejection and unaccountable cruelty that formed the majority of our relationship with them for so many years.

I'm also feeling sadness. It comes and goes. It's not linked to any particular word or thought or mental image. Every so often it wells up and I get teary. And then it subsides.

I'm feeling annoyed. I just don't want to be bothered with this right now. My spring break starts next week, and I have a lot of things I need to get done. I can't be distracted by depression. Lawyer Guy's father is hosting Passover Seder next Tuesday. I was banking on the baby coming right around then (S was set to be induced the 29th) and none of them showing up. Now the whole evening is going to revolve around the baby and analyzing every aspect of her face to determine whom she most resembles. And I can't even drink until Easter.

I'm feeling angry and aggrieved. I didn't want any harm to come to this child, and yet I resent the fact that S has never known the pain I'm living. I wish she would. I hope they try for another baby and can't get pregnant. I'm actually wishing the sadness of this hell we all face every day on two people who did nothing but have sex and get a baby out of it. How's that for karma?

I'm feeling guilty. This is my niece. She was born today. And all her life I'm going to have to remember the fact that the day she was born, in my heart of hearts I wished that she and her family would pack up and move to Bora Bora and never contact any of us again. I have to look at myself in the mirror and think about the person I am: so jealous and bitter it warps happy things and makes them sad. Unkind, unfair, ungracious and well on my way to being the sort of old childless woman who snipes at little kids for messing with her cats or picking her flowers.

I'm feeling alone. Lawyer Guy's family is happy. Lawyer Guy is happy. Only I feel no joy. And as much as he tells me that everyone understands and no one will hold my sadness against me right now, that doesn't make me feel any less like an outsider looking in.

Lawyer Guy is going to the hospital tonight. I am not. I can. I could. I'm strong enough to handle it, I know I am. But I don't want to. I don't think they will really miss me all that much if I'm not there, so why should I torture myself just to prove a point about resilience that no one but me even cares about and that I've already proven to myself?

But the other stuff-- the Seder, the possible visit we'll have to make this weekend to "see the baby," the gift I've got to buy; that stuff I have to do. And again, I know I can, even if my whiny inner three year old moans, "But I don't want to!" I know I can, even when my heart feels like a big lump of dead meat in my chest.

On the phone, Lawyer Guy said to me, "I know this will be a hard day for you, and I'm going to try to be sensitive to that and not get upset. But you need to not be upset that this is a happy day for me."

That's the part I'm not sure I can do. And of course, that's the most important part of all.

So guys? I'm gonna need some help. Because these are just about four feelings too many for a Tuesday afternoon.

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.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire; or, Universe, Please Stop Sucker Punching Me

I gave you the overlong family history last weekend for a few reasons (see, there's always a rationale behind what I say or do). Not only to prepare you (and me) for my no-doubt inevitable break down when Niece #2 makes her appearance in this story, but also to establish the parameters of that relationship before delving into the particulars.

We had dinner with J and S and Baby #1 on Sunday night in New Jersey. And the whole time I was typing out the chronicle of ten years of in-law-hood, I was dreading that dinner. Dreading seeing my sister-in-law with a nine-months pregnant belly. Dreading the pang of longing on watching Lawyer Guy play with his niece. Dreading my emotional volatility.

And...it was fine. I was fine. I held it together. I even managed to ask S a few questions about how she was feeling and when she was taking her maternity leave and to contribute one or two general comments about the upcoming new arrival. I'm pretty sure they think my avoiding alcohol due to Lent was a cover-up (I'm Not Pregnant! I wanted to blurt out, but didn't). But other than that, everything was copacetic. I didn't even cry on the car ride home. I didn't even want to cry!

Naturally, my stellar karma couldn't let me enjoy a moment of unselfish maturity and rational acceptance for, oh, twenty-four hours without reminding me that I'm pathetic, envious, sad, and unstable.

I had dinner last night with a college friend who was in town for work (leaving her 1-year-old daughter back in Miami with her husband). There were two other friends-of-the-friend at dinner, both of whom I'd met before.

And guess what? One of them is five months pregnant! And when's she due? July, two weeks after my EDD with the m&m.

Fun. Fucking. Times.

When friend and preggo started chatting about big bellies vs. big boobs and live web-caming the birth, I jumped in. Because hey, I was pregnant! And my boobs grew really big in only two months! Not as fun a story when there's no baby at the end of it, but I can (over)share, too.

And honestly, the dinner was okay. Yeah, I revealed my miscarriage history to two virtual strangers at a casual fun dinner (I'm guessing Miami friend was less than thrilled about that, though she didn't say anything), which makes me a Debbie Downer extraordinaire, but I hustled along and smiled and told funny stories and gossiped about old sorority sisters and didn't cry once.

Until last night in the shower, choking back sobs as I smacked the white tiles, repeating to myself over and over, "I can't believe I'm still here. I can't believe I'm still crying in the shower after a fucking year."

And this morning in the grocery store parking lot, listening to Debussy on the radio and sheltering my wet, snotty face behind big sunglasses, the steering wheel, and my folded arms.

What more do you want me to learn, God? I'm trying so hard to be strong and kind and hopeful, but you keep making this so difficult. I want to believe there's a plan. I want to believe that you have something wonderful in store for me. So, for the love of yourself, STOP TORTURING ME ALREADY!

The kicker? The waitress handed out those fortune-telling fish at the end of dinner. You know, the little red plastic fish-shaped disks that contort in the heat of your palm, indicating your emotions.

My fish's head moved. Which means: "Jealousy."

I told them mine was "In love."

Messages From My Subconscious Mind; or, Family History

In about three weeks I'll be an aunt (by marriage) again, and I've been having dreams that, while not precisely nightmares, are not the sort of dreams a doting aunt should have about her future niece.

Let's take a little trip back in time--and brace yourself, this is likely to get long, but I need to get this family history out so you can understand my current reactions.

I have not always had the best relationship with my brother- and sister-in-law. In fact, for many years I would say I had a terrible relationship with them, one of the worst in-law relationships I've seen. When I met Lawyer Guy ten years ago, he was in the middle of a two-year spell of not speaking to his older brother (let's call him J.). Literally, no words exchanged but "hello" and "goodbye" at the (numerous) family gatherings they both attended. They lived five blocks from each other. Their paths never crossed.

And no one knew why. Not even my husband. J. had slowly stopped speaking to him over a series of months. Had stopped returning phone calls. Had shrugged off invitations. Had quietly but inexorably pushed Lawyer Guy out of his life. There was no fight, no conflagration. He never even mentioned my husband's name to his other family. There was no explanation for this cruel behavior.

Which he soon extended to me, the twenty-year-old, sophomore-in-college girlfriend. For years, I tried to make small talk with this hostile person almost ten years my senior, my palms sweating, my legs shaking, and was favored with responses just barely above the level of grunts. But I kept trying. And when J met my sister-in-law, S (a reasonable and polite, if somewhat self-centered, person), I tried even harder to make the situation better. I would e-mail them invitations to events (like a concert I was singing in, or a picnic in the park on a nice day) only to receive one-line responses: "We can't make it." "We're busy."

Events came to their crisis (as they must) five years in, after Lawyer Guy and I became engaged. Following a series of hurtful actions on J's part, I snapped. I'd had enough. (And let me explain, that I am a hugely patient and tolerant person, but when I reach my breaking point, you know it.) I stopped making even the bare minimum effort with J-- I nodded across the room instead of greeting him at events; I avoided him and his wife at all costs; I fumed in my anger.

And the entire time I was tortured with guilt and anxiety. I began having panic attacks and had to go on medication. I hate interpersonal strife, particularly familial. I can't abide it when people don't like me. When I see a stressful situation, all I want to do it make it better, not worse. So eventually, my kinder self woke up again and I decided to try to improve matters.

I reached out to J's wife, arranged to meet her for dinner. We spoke for two hours about the situation. And I bit my tongue. I recognized that she would never see her husband as responsible for what had happened, she would never agree, "Yeah, he's a jerk." The important thing was to begin the reconciliation. So I didn't defend myself or Lawyer Guy. I just focused on how to go forward.

I think that by making that gesture and controlling my anger I allowed the reunion to take place, and I will always be proud of myself for that. Slowly, over the subsequent five years, the relationship improved. J began speaking to both of us again. Then they had their daughter two years ago. I started visiting S in New Jersey while she was on her maternity leave. And J is very invested in Lawyer Guy's role as uncle to the little girl, so he sends my husband videos and phone messages of her and always encourages them to see each other more.

This is still not the relationship of my dreams, and certainly nothing similar to the relationship Lawyer Guy has with my three sisters. While J will speak with me, he has still never (not once) asked me a question about my life in all the time I've known him (not, "How's school going?" or "How are your sisters?" or even "What's new?"). We meet up nearly always at Lawyer Guy or my instigation, and in two years, J and S have visited us in Brooklyn once (we have met them in New Jersey a dozen or so times).

I can (and do) accept all this. All I ever wanted was a reasonable, polite, adult relationship. I am very different in many ways from the two of them. We will never be intimate. That's okay, I'm genuinely fine with how things are now.

But I'm also still angry. I'm still hurt, and resentful, and aggrieved. And I have a block on my heart where my niece is concerned. She's sweet and cute and I enjoy spending time with her. But I don't love her.

Isn't that a terrible thing to say?

I don't mean that I dislike her or wish her ill or have no affection for her. I do have affection for her. She's a two-year-old kid, what's not to like? But I have no more affection for her than I do for my friends' babies, and in some cases I feel more like an aunt to my friends' children. Maybe this is a common way to feel about nieces and nephews related to you through your husband. Maybe I'm a terrible person. But these are my honest emotions.

And now, very soon, there will be another baby girl. I sobbed my heart out after they told us they were expecting again. But when I was pregnant with the m&m and due just three months after S, I told myself that our children would be friends, that this would be wonderful, that I'd finally feel a real family connection to my nieces.

After losing the baby, I stopped thinking about S's pregnancy. Internally, I pretended that she wasn't pregnant. I didn't look at her belly. I didn't speak about it with her or anyone else (and no one mentioned it to me). I rarely even brought her up here! I could socialize with her without it hurting because I resolutely ignored the elephant (or developing fetus) in the room.

Well, obviously my subconscious is displeased with this course of events. I get the message, loud and clear: THERE'S A BABY COMING AND YOU CAN'T IGNORE IT ANYMORE.

There's a baby coming and I can't ignore it anymore.

Shit.

(PS: Because I am--deep down--a bit of a spiteful person, I need to share that J's behavior in sum hasn't changed, it's just no longer targeted at Lawyer Guy and me. He now refuses to speak to his stepfather and stepsisters. And because I am also--deep down--a fair person, I have to point out that both J and S were very kind and very sad after we lost the baby).

Just Deserts; or, How to Earn a Baby Without Really Trying

I'm 10 dpo, so to keep myself from going crazy (checking for hints of pms zits, spotting in my CM, or other surefire AF signs), I'm going to post on some general, non-2ww related conception stuff.

I've been thinking a lot of desert (as in "just deserts", not the Sahara) and how we conceive of what we do or don't deserve when it comes to making and having babies. On the message board I frequent for women trying to get pregnant after loss, we frequently write "You don't deserve this" or "No one deserves this" to stories about recent or ongoing miscarriages. And I believe that with all my heart. You don't deserve a miscarriage (or infertility) because you're not married yet. You don't deserve it because you already have children. You don't deserve it because you're too thin (or too heavy). You don't deserve it because you're too old or too young. You just don't deserve it.

And so far we're all in agreement, I'm sure.

But then a lot of time, women on the board will complain (understandably) about how unfair it is to read or see on the news or personally know drug addicts getting pregnant easily, or women who sleep with men in prison, or women without jobs with too many children to care for as is, or... you get the idea. And most of the time they ask, "Why them? I pay my taxes, I'm financially sound, I 'm responsible and have a job and got married and bought a house. Why not me?"

But I think the implication of this question is: "They don't deserve it. I do."

I have a lot of problems with this line of thinking. Because if no one deserves a miscarriage--if infertility is a fact of fate and biology, not a measure of success or worth--then no one doesn't deserve a child, the flipside of our struggles*.

Or to put it another way: I don't believe I deserve to have children. I don't believe you deserve to have children. I don't believe anyone deserves to have children.

No one is smart enough, kind enough, patient enough, wise enough, present enough, interesting enough, artistic enough, athletic enough, involved enough, detached enough, calm enough, and sane enough to earn the right to have children. None of us is truly worthy of this privilege.

On one of my darkest days in November, during the awful week between our first and final bad ultrasounds, I told my parents about my pregnancy, over the phone, while crying. (Not how I dreamed of that moment, for sure).

And my dad said, "This is why children are called a gift. We're so lucky when they come to us."

So where does this leave me? I'm forced to admit that women with infertility, women who've suffered miscarriages don't deserve their children more than women who don't or didn't. We don't "earn" our children.

But we also don't deserve them less. Super fertile women are not worthier or better mothers or "born" to do this.

They're luckier. We're unluckier.

Because it's not about desert.

*Obviously some people don't deserve to raise their children. Molesters, abusers, neglectors: you can forfeit your right to be a parent through your actions. But the simple fact of conception and delivery--let's just take the idea of desert out of that.