As It Is Supposed to Be

I've never really identified with women who are undergoing infertility.  I believe it is because I've known since I was sixteen years old that it was highly unlikely I would ever be a mom.  After having a small medical emergency at that age, it was determined that my body decides that embryos are foreign objects that need eradicating.  (No, I wasn't pregnant at sixteen.)

Also, I'm not an overtly emotional person. I'm a "Walk it off. Rub some dirt in it" kind of girl so I don't know that it would occur to me to be upset.

For a long time, I was on birth control to regulate everything but I went off because I didn't like taking any sort of hormone/chemical/medicine.  I stayed healthy so I never considered returning to them.  I mean, really, what's the point?

I've been pregnant - that I'm aware of - three times, twice with the former husband and once with Kevin.  The first miscarriage was brutal, partially because I didn't know what was happening.  (Hello, nineteen years old and already in over my head)  Then about six months later, it happened again but not as horrible. It was more of a relief, once I realized what happened.

I did name them, more out of a sense of tradition than a coping mechanism than anything else. I couldn't imagine them not being acknowledged in any way other than a notation in a medical chart.  I chose Peter and Rachel.  Peter for my former husband's grandfather and I don't remember why I liked the name Rachel so much back then. (this was pre-FRIENDS, so not that and I would have gone with Phoebe, anyway)  It was too soon to have any inkling of gender so this is all pretend, really.

There wasn't a grieving period then because I knew I didn't want children with the former husband.  As it was, six months later the marriage was finished with a permanent protection order in place for good measure.  So, I feel like the universe just intervened on my behalf. Thank you, universe.

Kevin and I had been together for years when I miscarried.  I didn't even fully realize at first what had happened, which is a specific kind of stupid.  But it's an example of how this whole  process has not been a normal one for me.

I named this one as well, Wesley.  It was the name Kevin and I had talked about using.  We didn't agree on a girl name  and both of us wanted a boy at the time, so: Wesley.

(For those who are curious about the girl name, (Swistle ;)    It was Tiffany.  That was such an immediate veto from me.  Apologies to any Tiffany's out there, I just didn't have a good experience with that name.  Kevin thought it sounded "soft and pretty." I thought it sounded Future Strippery)

Neither of us were terribly bothered about it. We had half-heartedly tried IVF a few years prior but after two failed attempts, we just moved on.  I mean, it's not like this was new news to us. In the long run, it worked out as it should. Four grown Nieces and Nephew. NINE grand nephews and nieces

Looking at past relationships, the other love of my life has kids.  If we had worked out, they wouldn't exist and that is an example of how things end up how they're supposed to. While I'm fine with this no kids thing, I wouldn't wish it on someone else.  And yes, there is still  a little pouting anyway.

Now baby Five is three and it's the one time that I've thought "Hmm, I did miss out a little."  I am unsure why I am so connected to this little man over the others but I sure am.  I think it's because Nephew is more of a son to me than a mere nephew.

Creepy Alert:  I also think of Kevin's mom and her firstborn who didn't survive.  She admitted that she was going to name him after her husband so he would have been Three of Five.  Instead, he went un-named, which makes me sad. AND, she gave the next son that name, which I have to admit creeps me out a little.

I'm not even sure why this is a thing in my head today. Maybe it's the approaching hated Mother's Day. Maybe too much Grey's Anatomy.  Maybe it's the family history project. Maybe this is the shiny thing the a.d.d decided to play with today.

And to lighten another dark post: my grown niece calls having her period "Shark Week".  I may never recover, and now so shall you.