Hugs, chocolate and Pamprin ...

I have actually thought long and hard about posting this, since it's still incredibly close to me, but then I remembered that I'm me and that I can't really hide anything deep within the recesses of my brain for too long because it just pops out like a cork under too much pressure.

So, here goes.

I'm not going to lie: when I was ten, I was positive that I wanted to have five children, and I even had ten full names for them all, depending on whether or not I had girls or boys. I'm sure my list is somewhere in my boxes in storage up in the attic, written in my full preteen self's handwriting. As I got older, much to the amusement of my mother, I whittled the number down to one, where I firmly stand. First of all, kids are damned expensive, and secondly, I'm not sure I would really want to deal with any more than that. Granted, this could probably change at some point in my life, but a lot of that kind of depends on whether or not Three and I can have children.

We've been trying since we got married to get preggo but with few results. Although it was never confirmed by a doctor, I do believe that I had a miscarriage about a year ago, thanks to the most extreme period that I've ever had (and hoo boy, do I have some Extreme Menses [TM]), and I've been tracking my cycle like a damned hawk. I even downloaded TWO period trackers that had a different ovulation day, (ick alert) monitored my vaginal discharge, took prenatal vitamins, etc. etc. etc. Still, we got nothin'. Around seven or so months ago, I nearly had a breakdown. Poor Three was just joking when, after a full two weeks of daily sexytimes (and then three days' rest because, shit, sex is a workout and he was working 12-hour shifts), he asked after he found me unwrapping a tampon, "Aw, honey, what's wrong with your uterus?" I saw the transition in his eyes from "haha I am jokes" to "OMG WHAT DID I JUST SAY TO HER I AM HORRIBLE," and I knew that he wasn't trying to be cruel, but that didn't stop me from bursting into tears and bawling, "I am broken!" He felt like the worst husband on the planet and spent the next four hours consoling me with hugs, chocolate and Pamprin.

I've been told by several medical professionals that because I have regular periods (yay and boo, obvs) I am probably fertile, but that they wouldn't be able to say for sure until I got tests done and HAHAHA ARE THEY KIDDING THOSE ARE EXPENSIVE. Fertility tests and treatments are not covered by insurance, understandably, I guess, but it's very discouraging and, honestly, super depressing.

Then I ran across this website that is dedicated to celebrating what they call "Not-Moms." At first, I was a little skeptical because I am still not entirely comfortable with the idea that I may or may not have Teh Bebeh, but reading a lot of the articles that they posted actually got me thinking about why I was so desperate to have children. A quote on their "Famous Not-Moms" page is as follows:

In particular, this list exists for any woman who mistakenly believes that without giving birth, she will leave no legacy.

I don't think that this is necessarily the entire reason that I want to have at least one kid. Part of me wants to raise a child with the knowledge that I would try to make sure that they understood that they are loved and accepted for who they are, even if they don't follow my prescribed set of values or desires. Another part wants to live vicariously through someone who is just experiencing things for the first time, to feel the joy and terror and skepticism and thrill of learning something new, so I can get a new perspective on things. There are a thousand other reasons why I'd like to give birth to a kid, but yes, I would like to leave a legacy of sorts. To know that somehow, a bit of me lives on and can affect other people even when I'm gone. Not that I don't believe that my art or my writing won't do that, but there's a certain static nature to that sort of thing. But with a living, breathing person? The possibilities are endless! Which yes, I know can also lead to hahaha I'm the great-grandmother of a serial killer! Wheeeee!

So of course I'm torn. Of course I still feel a little stab of jealousy when I see my friends' status updates about the cute thing their two-year-old did or when the media does nothing for a few days but cover the birth of the future king of the UK. Of course I start to count the ways my life would be just as fulfilling without a child as it would be with one. And I'm still young, so of course my current childless existence may change, save an early menopause (for which I am at high risk, THANKS, GENES). But this little voice in the back of my head lets me know that I'm not really ready to accept that I may never bear crotchfruit (and I say that with the highest regard possible). I may never be okay with it, but at least I'm taking the time to think of it, I guess?

All I can do right now is live my life as it currently is. I can't change what's going on in my uterus obviously, whether or not it has to do with me or with the husband, which THANKS, LACK OF MONEY. Today, I took the time to read the Beatitudes, a piece of literature from the Bible that I think Christians should want in our courtrooms instead of the Ten Commandments, and found myself reading further into the Sermon on the Mount. Even though I don't hold the Bible to the same level of sacredness that a lot of Christians do, it is a book that I've read through several times, and this verse was the one that stood out to me: "Therefore, do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day's own trouble be sufficient for the day." Oddly enough, I felt a lot better. THANKS, JESUS!

I may be childless now, and I may forever be known as the Lady Who Has No Kids, but I really shouldn't worry about that right now. There's no point. And really, that's all I really needed to hear.