Definitions

My life is kind of run by definitions.  Even beyond my job, where I might as well tote a dictionary around wherever I go, I feel an uncontrollable urge to look up new words the moment I see or hear them.

 

I'm also defined.  We all are. 

 

Mother

Wife

Aunt

Sister

Daughter

Employee

Court Reporter

Bitch

Tired

Lazy (sometimes)

Sarcastic

 

But the one label that applies to me the most....the one that has shaped my life in ways I never thought possible.......the one that I'm stuck with no matter what happens from here on out:

 

INFERTILE

 

And I'm sure that sounds completely insane to most people, because the most important label I have is "Mother."  It's the most rewarding, difficult, self-sacrificing (also, ab-sacrificing, ass-sacrificing, thigh-sacrificing, cellulite-accepting) thing I've ever done.  But I don't think it's possible to put into words how being a mother impacts someone.  It's intangible.  It's something you don't understand until you have it.

 

Which is why INFERTILE still remains my main label.  Because four years went by where I was positive I'd never get to know that intangible joy of being a mother.  Where I watched my friends and relatives hold their babies, saw them look at them with that look only a mother can give their child.  While I watched,  I felt my entire life crumbling around me, because I was positive I'd never have that.  INFERTILE is what caused all that worry, all those tears.

 

INFERTILE is also what made me appreciate my child.  I don't think I'd have been a very appreciative mother had I gotten pregnant at 24.  My body might have bounced back better.  I would have appreciated that.  But maybe not my child as much as I do now.

 

INFERTILE gave me that.

 

INFERTILE brought friends who I never knew I'd love so much into my life.  Friends who needed help and hope and a shoulder to cry on, and someone to cry into margaritas with.  I needed them for the same reasons.

 

INFERTILE gave me them.

 

INFERTILE made my marriage stronger.  The divorce rate among infertile couples is 50% higher than the national average.  Not my marriage.  We presented a unified front against my uncooperative uterus and bitchface ovaries (a term coined by my good friend, Emma'le), and we fought against it together.  We reminded each other consistently that we loved each other so much that, even without kids, we'd be happy.  Happy and rich, because, DUDE, having kids is expensive.  "Disposable income" is not a phrase you hear from parents. 

 

INFERTILE isn't a word used by most in a positive sense.  And, as we all know, I'm no Suzy-Fucking-Sunshine myself, so I've never thrown the word around lightly.  I never told people I was infertile; I said things like, "We struggled to get pregnant," or, "It took a long time," or, "Hey, look at my hand-made baby!  We got to pick out all the features we wanted, just like when we bought our Honda Hybrid."

 

But I have honestly come to a point where I appreciate what I went through.  I appreciate my infertility for all the things it gave me, the perspective that I now have, the things I've learned.

 

But I still struggle.  Infertility left scars, and they aren't easily hidden.  I've been struggling, mostly silently, for a long time.  Depression runs in my family, and I'm very aware of the fact that I have it.  I think I've had it all my life.  After the infertility, though, it's become much more difficult to manage.  I can't remember a time where I was content.  That's not to say I'm not happy.  They're different things.  I'm happy.  My husband is great, I have wonderful friends, my family is loving -- and insane, but I'll get to that later.  I'm happy.  But I'm never content.  I'm constantly waiting for the bottom to fall out, for the other shoe to drop, for someone to come along and burst my bubble. 

 

And it always happens.

 

It's possible I'm attracting bad joo-joo to myself just by dwelling on it non-stop.  But I always hear my dad in my head, "Expect the worst, and you'll never be disappointed."

 

So I do.  I fully expect one of my parents to come to me soon and tell me that they have incurable cancer of some kind (AHEM, MOM, PLEASE GET A FUCKING COLONOSCOPY & DRAG DAD WITH YOU OR, SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL KNOCK YOU BOTH OUT AND DO THE PROCEDURE MYSELF).  I expect something awful to happen to my child or my husband.  I worry about it constantly.  And I worry that without them, I wouldn't really have a reason to be here.  And I wouldn't.  I'm sure I'd survive it, but I wouldn't really be living life, I'd just be muddling through.

 

I don't like living life only worrying.  It's not healthy, that's for sure.  But it's a pretty hard habit to break.

 

I know, I need therapy.  But you know what therapy will do?  Make me miss work.  You know what happens when I miss work?  I WORRY.  So, you see, it's a bit of a conundrum.

 

I doubt it's specific to my family (at least I hope it's not), but things in that department have not run smoothly for quite a long time.  I was a stressed-out kid for reasons I'd rather not go into.  I was never abused or anything, but always stressed, always worried, always concerned that the people around me weren't happy (and a lot of them weren't).

 

I was a stressed-out teenager.  I was made fun of constantly in the 7th grade.  To the point that my parents had to switch my school to get me away from it.  And I know, I know, everyone gets bullied, but, whether it's because of my sensitive nature or because it really was pretty horrible, it damaged me in a lot of ways.  I had no self-confidence for a very long time.  Which is probably why I ended up in a four-year-long, emotionally-abusive relationship with my high school boyfriend.

 

Again, all things I learned and grew from.  But damaging in a lot of ways.  As an adult I've continued my charming habit of being ever-paranoid.  I jump at every noise, I flinch whenever someone says, "Ooh, I have bad news," I'm convinced that I'm going to be fired at any moment, no matter how good I logically know I am at my job.  

 

I worry that all my worrying will make my child worry, and then I'll worry that she's worrying about me worrying about her worrying.

 

(Is it just me, or does "worry" not look like a word anymore?)

 

And my family, I swear, gets crazier every second.  My uncle almost died this weekend.  His liver is all but dead.  And it's all self-inflicted.  In response to his near-death experience, my grandfather almost had a heart attack and my grandmother had a nervous breakdown (which she does a lot).  My mom had to swoop in and take care of everybody, like she always does, which I imagine leaves her little time to actually deal with her own emotional reaction to all of it.  

 

And my sister is having a bit of a hard time, to put it mildly.  She's doing her best and she's dealing with everything going on, but I'm worried about her all the time.  One of her friends passed away yesterday, and that made it worse.  My sister is actually very brave, and I'm very proud of her.  But she's still my baby sister, and I'm still allowed to worry.

 

And in the midst of all that drama, all the tears, and all the near-death experiences -- which, if I got to run the universe, wouldn't happen multiple times in one family in one goddamn weekend -- Brian, Ellie and I went to the zoo.  It was 80 degrees in Iowa in the beginning of April.  We slathered her up with SPF 100, and drug her around the zoo,forcing her to stare at elephants painting pictures and some very sad-looking goats.  She fell several times and skinned her knees up.  The only animals she got excited about were the giraffes.  She stuck her arm through the bars and waved, "Hi, giraffe!"

 

But the wood chips and the rocks around the zoo?  AMAZING.  Apparently.  The merry-go-round was also super cool.  Probably would've been cooler if her parents had remembered to bring some quarters so she could ride the damn thing.  Quarters would've been handy to feed the goats, too. 

 

The best part of her day, though, even after seeing elephants and goats and chickens and giraffes and lions and a bear and OMG ROCKS!!!!!! was when we handed her a roll at Texas Roadhouse.  She immediately started clapping and yelling, "Yay! Yay! Yay! Yay!" 

 

But even if we didn't get all the adorable photo ops I wanted at the zoo, we had a lovely afternoon just us.  Just the three of us.  None of The Crazy in sight and no cell phones ringing the entire time.  After dinner, we went shoe shopping and got Daddy and Ellie each a new pair of Sketchers.  Ellie's are full of bling and, "STARS!  MOM! SHOES! STARS!"

 

And then we met my parents and grandparents for ice cream.  We sat outside and ate and played with Ellie and chatted as if nothing crazy whatsoever had happened that day, and we commented on how Ellie would sleep great that night after all the fresh air and her short nap. 

 

Sometimes it's nice to play pretend. 

 

This is where I'll note that we learned an important parenting lesson Saturday night:  Giving your 17-month-old chocolate ice cream at 7:30 p.m. is ill-advised.  You will be up all night.  You will absolutely not sleep more than an hour at a time.  You will definitely put her in bed with you in the hopes that she will fall asleep there.  And you will most certainly have to get up because she rolled off your king-size bed onto the floor and is now screaming. 

 

But then on Sunday?  On Sunday you will play in the yard.  You will go for walks and enjoy the fresh air (until your house heats up to 90 degrees because it thinks it is actually a wood-burning stove and not a home where human beings have to survive and all that shit), and you rock your tired, slightly hungover-looking baby while she continues to clap sleepily and mumble about her day around her pacifier.

 

And that makes it all better

 

(I still refilled my Xanax, though.)