Waiting

There is so much about this process that just feels like a cruel joke. The waiting room at the OB/Gyn is its own kind of torture.

The receptionist greets me with a smile and a form to sign and asks me if I'm looking forward to my ultrasound. She must not know.  So I feign a smile and simply respond, "Sure." As I sit among expectant mothers in the waiting room, there is an air of excitement: "how far along are you? Do you think it'll be a girl or a boy? We're almost done with our nursery. This is our first! This is definitely our last. Do twins run in the family?" Proud expectant fathers smile wide. And there I sit, surrounded by burgeoning bellies and newborn cries, fighting the urge to join the little ones' chorus.

Hands comfortably rest on swollen midsections. And suddenly I feel conspicuously thin. (For the first time ever.)

The nurse appears at the door and calls my name. As I get up I try to avoid making eye contact with the other women. The one in the purple, stretched-to-capacity maternity top catches my eye and gives me a smile and a slight thumbs up. She has no idea. I lay on the cold exam table, warm jelly on my stomach and probe pressing in on my full bladder and empty womb - all while the rapid thump, thump, thump of a baby's heartbeat can be heard through the exam room walls from the next room over.

Sometimes, it all just feels like a cruel joke.

Brave

It was sandwiched in between "Do you smoke?" and "When was your last cycle?" A question that was innocent enough, and yet, how could she have known the gravity behind my, "Yes,"? She asked it so quickly, so nonchalantly. It's a question she probably asks every patient, but I knew the version she asked me was slightly altered:

"Are you still trying to conceive?"

Still.

Yep. We sure are.

*****

There's a Starbucks exactly two blocks away from my doctor's office. I almost always stop there after my appointments. When I was younger, my mom would take me to McDonald's or Dairy Queen after a rough doctor appointment that required shots or uncomfortable tests. It was my reward for being brave.

And now I'm rewarded with a vanilla latte. If I reward myself for acting brave, perhaps one of these days, I'll actually be brave.

*****

They drew blood yesterday. And I have the bruising on my inner arm to prove it. Step one. The road looms long before us, and it is a scary, scary path to start down. But here we are. Two small, scarlet-filled vials. Deep breath.
Step one.

Insanity

We have been married for five years today. There's something about that benchmark that makes me feel like we should be adults by now, or something. In five years, we have seen so much fun and so much adventure and so much heartache and so much joy and so much of God's hand at work in our lives. In five years, we have moved six times. In five years, we have welcomed four nieces and nephews (soon to be five!). Five years ago, I'm sure we figured we'd have welcomed one of our own by now.

In five years, I've had about 60 periods. The last 15 have found me crying in the bathroom.

I had an anniversary gift for him wrapped in the closet in my office. (To be fair, it has also been a birthday gift, a Christmas gift, a Valentine's day gift, a Mother's Day gift, and a Father's Day gift.) Last August, I bought this figurine when I was just *sure* I was about to tell him that he'd be a dad. Three negative tests later, my monthly reminder was two weeks late and extra heartbreaking. So there it has sat, waiting month after painful month until I have good news to share.

And now, it looks like it'll stay in the closet for another month.

I had a teacher in high school who would often remind us of his favorite (and, in his mind, most applicable to high school sophomores) quote from Einstein who said, "Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Frankly, this whole thing is beginning to feel a little insane.

Ordinary

We sat outside on our back patio last night reading. Half of a glass of red wine sat in front of each of us on the wooden table, and the hot summer day finally relented to a pleasant cool evening. The neighbor's cat brushed across his leg and he greeted her with far more tenderness than I would have. She definitely knows which one of us to prefer. But all living things are like that: drawn to him. Especially kids and animals. I think it's because they just know they can trust him.  (And, perhaps, because he's so gosh darn fun!)

I looked over the yard as the last of the day's light cast shadows and colors on the fence and sighed contentedly, "I love it here." "Me too," he said, "Thank you for being willing to live an ordinary life with me."

"I wouldn't trade it for the world."

And yet, we both agreed, we wished that our life was just a bit more ordinary.