People my age are getting married.
I am having a text conversation right now with one of my college roommates. She’s a sweetheart and asked how “everything” is going. Don’t you love that question? “How are you. How’s everything going?” I mean—we all know what these people are really asking. “Are you pregnant yet? No? How bad is it?”
We are talking about summer plans. (Mine: None.) She’s going to a wedding every month from April to August. I’ve only been to two since I got married. I love weddings! I want to go to more. Some of the girls who are getting married are mutual friends/former teammates of ours.
Weddings are so wonderful. There’s chaos and drama, sure. But—they are just so happy. Who doesn’t love a wedding? Who doesn’t love what it represents? I don’t know; I love them. I feel genuinely happy for whomever I know is getting married.
Right now my friend and I are discussing if/when her boyfriend might pop the question. I’m thinking all the upcoming weddings will give him the itch. It’s like I’m 21 again. It’s a refreshing feeling.
I can’t help but worry, though, for these girls. I know that is such a shitty attitude. Like, seriously? Buzz kill. But will their wedding day just be the start of an infertility journey? Yikes. Okay, let’s get real: If they get knocked up before I do, screw ’em, right? 😉
To me, weddings are kind of bittersweet. Or at least the memory of mine is.
You don’t prepare for these kinds of things. You just don’t plan for it all.
My boss has been bugging me about what I want to do when I grow up for six months now. I nearly broke down in tears in his office—on Monday morning at 9 a.m.—because he told me how valuable I am, how much potential I have, how he wants to support my career the best way he can. He wants me to send me off into this epic career—but clone me before I go; that’s how much they believe in me and need me. And all I had to say, all I was thinking was: I don’t have time or effort to plan my career when my life “over there” is a mess. My philosophy is to kick ass at my job, but keep it simple because I can’t keep “that stuff over there” simple. I don’t know when CD1 will arrive (speaking of which, I’m on CD34 today and no sign, but do I ever have signs?); I don’t know when my trigger will be, my retrieval, my transfer; I don’t know if/when/where/how my doctor or social worker or whomever will want to meet with me. Ugh, I have to remain flexible, so tell me what you want me to do and when it’s due, and I’ll do it.
And not only do I not have the time, but: What do I want to be when I grow up? A mother!!! That’s all I want; that’s all I’ve wanted.
And—I’ve been a shitty dog owner to Sarabi. I mean, I guess I’ve done kind of the best I can, but here’s the combination we’re working with: a petite woman with generalized anxiety disorder and a non-petite, muscular, protective, dominating Boerboel—who might also have anxiety … not that my anxiety is spilling over, surely. 😉 I don’t know if I just can’t be dominant, am not trying hard enough, or she just can’t fathom the ridiculous idea.
Or maybe it’s that I’ve buried the issue because I just can’t deal with it. Okay, I can deal with it but don’t want to. She’s fine; she’s perfect; she listens to me; I can control her if I want to; bluh, bluh, bluh. I could do that if I could do that. I could stop smoking or drinking or eating junk or having premarital sex if I wanted to … bluh bluh bluh.
I know I’ve been a disappointment as her mother. I know my husband is a little disappointed in me. I love that “little” girl so much, but how much can I carry? The day I found out my FET failed (way back in April 2013), we were dealing with a baby girl who was developing quite the attitude, was sick, and ate my husband’s enchilada for dinner. I mean, sue me. I surrender: I can’t do it all.
My husband and I hold each other to high standards. Everybody’s got to pull their own weight around here. I like that he challenges me, but it hurts when I fail. It’s a blow to my ego for sure. I want to excel and please my loved ones (especially him). Lord knows he likes to be challenged. But, sometimes I’m human. Sometimes I just forget or bury issues. Sometimes I’m a shitty mother to my sweet Sarabi.
My home is picked up and reasonably clean. Meals are prepared or at least purchased and organized for the week. Dry cleaning is taken care of. Recommended exercise is kind of sort of accomplished most of the time. I bring home a big girl paycheck. I’m not Super Woman or anything. I don’t need kudos for emptying the damn dishwasher in the morning. But it adds up, you know?
I don’t do everything, but I do a lot. I get through each day—just trudge on through—when all I really want to accomplish is so far out of reach right now.
Is that an excuse, though, for when I screw up? Is it NOT an excuse, and rather just plain legitimate? Or, should I know better? I feel like it’s an excuse; I feel like anything is only worth “doing” if you give it 110%. It’s my own fault. Maybe when I get (pardon me) butt hurt after being criticized, it’s not that I’d prefer a more gracious delivery of the criticism; maybe my ego is just getting in the way, and I need to deal with the fact that I’m not perfect. And, yea, when you screw up, people get upset or annoyed or whatever because you screwed up, and maybe—just maybe—they’re not perfect either.
And then I also am feeling annoying and clingy and awkward and stupid and a little bit fat … for various reasons.
Update on my “life over there”: Well … We had our consultation with the financial coordinator, so that’s special. We have all our blood work done. Next Tuesday we will meet with a social worker who will cram it down my throat to recommend I tell my babies that I’m not their real mother—even though I was already planning to. Why not give them even more ammo for when they’re teenagers? I’ll have a mock embryo transfer sometime between CD5 and CD12—even though I’ve had one mock and five real ones. No biggie. Then, I’ll have a follow-up with my doctor to talk about everything involving my “life over there.”
Aaaand I’m hoping that someday soon my Baby Fund in YNAB will hit $10,000 so we can get this party started. The good news is that we’re at $6,000 already!
And no, this isn’t going to just cost $10,000.
Debt? I’mma just bury it—just shove it way. down. there.