First and foremost, let me say how thrilled I was to wake up this morning in an America with a new president. O-ba-ma!
I was, today, going to write about cross stitch and a stitchalong sampler I’m doing. Then I realized that it was just an excuse to avoid talking about how stompy and sad and frustrated I feel this week. And we all know that won’t do. So the sampler will wait. After all, it won’t be done ’til the end of the year.
Part of the reason (rather a large part, really) that I want to make our house more homelike is so that when we have kids they will have a sense of comfort, belonging, and happiness. I love my parents, and my mom tried and tried but I don’t think their house ever really felt home-like or safe. And some of that was the fact that (at least in my memory) there was never a real housekeeping schedule, and nothing that granted personality to the house. It still feels oppressive when I visit. I feel like crap just saying that, but it’s true, and it’s a huge part of my motivation here. I want my kids to feel safe and loved and I think there’s a reason for the nesting instinct. So it seems to make sense to me to have goals and rituals in place before they arrive.
So I’m working on that. And I’m happy to work on it. But we’ve been trying to conceive for sixteen months now. Sixteen. That’s well over a year. I’ve participated on message boards and watched almost everyone I know “graduate” and get pregnant, and it’s been long enough that many of them even have their babies by now. And of course I’m happy when a friend gets pregnant, but it’s also a reminder that I am not. And it just sucks. It makes me angry, sad, irritable, and disappointed. I don’t like being any of those things. More than anything, I just want to be happy.
Before anyone asks: Yes, I am pursuing treatments and therapies intended to result in pregnancy. I use OPKs and charting and it’s not like we’ve just been occasionally going at it and hoping that will work. And if you leave a comment telling me to relax and that it will happen when it’s meant to I will PROBABLY leap through the Interwebs and punch you. I know it’s supposed to be helpful. It’s not. It just makes me think, “Wow, that person doesn’t get it AT ALL.” So don’t go there.
I started this blog to try to consolidate all my various writing-places to one, so it’s fair to assume that infertility and the sadness and trials and all the baggage that come with it will make an appearance from time to time. And even when I don’t overtly mention it, you should probably know that every time I make something, or post a menu plan, or talk about developing good habits, under it there is the thought that I hope someday it will all be part of making a cozy home for my children. When I wash the dishes with a cloth I’ve crocheted, I think, “Someday, my kids will grow up and remember that in their home their mom always used these colorful dishcloths.” There will be a sense of order and routine and belonging and while it’s for my benefit, too (clearly I need these things), it’s really motivated by wanting a wonderful life for my non-existent kids.
Before this turns completely uninteresting and melancholy, I think I should haul myself off and work on some sewing projects. I just don’t feel like it, today.