I have a confession to make: I took a pregnancy test this morning.
It was negative.
I have been fine for weeks. In fact, I have been fine since December 14th, retrieval day. I admit that I tried this past cycle, but my heart wasn’t in it like the two cycles before. My period came around December 28th and was different than usual, but I expect that coming off a donation.
Then I noticed that I wasn’t sleeping well; I was waking up constantly and not able to fall back asleep for hours. I noticed that it looked like my abdomen was thickening, even though I have been making healthy eating choices. My sense of smell perked up last week. Then I spent yesterday absolutely exhausted, sleeping in front of the fireplace on the hardwood floor of my living room.
But the test stayed pure white.
I was a little disappointed, but not upset or sad like I would have been six months ago. I have slowly come to the place of understanding that R’s count really is zero, even though we do not have the labs to back that up. It has been thirty months since his surgery: if there was anything available, we would have been pregnant by now.
And that is okay.
My life is much different than it was when I first began talking about another child.
Back then, Little K was newly three. She is now six. I feel like the window for peer-sibling bonding has closed.
Back then, we were in a town home and knew we would eventually move into something bigger. We are now in a home that is the perfect size for our family of four. Another child would cause housing concerns.
Back then, I had my little red car and planned to upgrade to something bigger within five years. I now have a new vehicle and, while larger than the little red car, a family of five would be a tight squeeze.
Back then, we were tight financially and I was a SAHM. I am now working and we have more debt than before. I have no idea how to swing childcare on this budget.
Back then, I was 27 and R was 43; I felt young and hopeful. I am now 30, going on 31, and R is 46, going on 47 in less than three months. We are aging (at least R is) and a toddler at age 50 is not something I want for him.
So, I am adapting. Instead of thinking “Another child would be nice” with regularity, I am thinking “Another child would have been nice” in passing. Instead of watching for pregnancy symptoms, I am looking at metabolic changes after 30. Instead of looking at supplemental income for maternity leave, I am looking at LTC insurance.
It is time to start embracing my real future instead of my imagined future.
Will I ever get to a place where a pregnancy would be a burden instead of a blessing? No.
Will I get to a place where a pregnancy is the last place my mind goes when symptoms arise? I know I can.
And I will be okay.