So, my humanoid life partner and I have been trying to create another human larvae for a while now. We've tried this, method and that until I finally threw up my hands and shouted FUCK IT! and sold all the baby stuff. Ok, I kept the pack-n-play and one tub of sentimental stuff--BUT THAT'S IT! I stopped taking my temps, barely pay attention to my calendar, and ignore all my body symptoms because my body is a big fat liar-head. SCREW YOU HORMONES!
I'm over 40 (BARELY! my vanity screams) This shouldn't come as a surprise. It is completely natural for the baby-making machinery to slow its gears and grind to a halt. We're not on the official halt yet, and I'm too chickenshit to get my blood drawn to find out if it's even started. But I think I've accepted that this sack of bones and water prolly ain't squirting out another critter. And I'd love to say I'm ok with that. But I'm not--and I'm lying everytime I tell people that.
Infertility is like...well...it's like Mr Rochester's crazy wife in the attic. As much as I can PRETEND its not an issue, occasionally it comes down and tries to set fires and terrorize the help.
(and if you don't get that literary reference, well, your teachers obviously did not appreciate the canon.)
I've got a kid, people remind me. A kid that needs my attention. Most of the time. He is pretty high functioning, and I don't bitch about our issues much anymore, only because I feel like a whiny little white girl in the face of Autism parents with MUCH bigger issues. I'm not dealing with meds, or vicious cycles, or non-verbal or even potty issues anymore. He's just a kid in special day with his own set of quirks, that we accept or work on, depending. I've got a husband at home who is actively involved. I've got a college education and a smart mouth that make IEPs a little less daunting. My day is a fucking CAKE-WALK in comparison to my friends--and I get that.
But...
There is that part of me that wants to have another kid, that, maybe, doesn't have these issues. And every time I think that, I feel like my parenting license should just be fucking REVOKED. That my kid deserves a mother 127% better than me for even thinking such a horrid thing. And I think it must be karma shutting down the fallopian highway because I obviously don't deserve to have another kid if I can't fucking appreciate the one purely awesome kid I DO have.
Oh, Bertha--why do you torment me so?
As I write this I'm on day 24 of my cycle--because I still keep track, for all my nonchalance and disinterest. And all my PMS symptoms mimic pregnancy something fierce. And there is that teeny-tiny voice from who-ville whispering "maybe?" And I wish with everything I have that I could just boil that voice in Beezle-nut oil and be done with it.
But I can't. And next month? I do this dance all over again.
Who needs a rabid right wing? I've got my own war on women right here.
