Tiny Gramma told me one night a few months ago while I was sobbing into the phone “I don’t know why I was a rabbit and you ended up a panda.”
If you’ve ever watched Planet Earth (which if you haven’t you have no business being on any sort of technology whatsoever) you’ll know that pandas are like the worlds most unluckiest pro-creators despite being devastatingly cute. (Much like me in both respects.) Why can’t cicadas or sloths have crappy odds at procreating? Because I’ve seen sloths and I’ve seen cicadas and trust me the world needs no more of either.
In the passion and fury of my post yesterday where I segued into the whole infertility thing without meaning to I didn’t really acknowledge that I live in two different infertile worlds.
One is online. Where people understand. People get it. People talk about it. And the people who end up pregnant understand how much it means to me when they take the time to tell me before it hits the twitter fan. For those of you who have done that for me? A thousand fuzzy kisses (uh, yeah. I need to pluck a little more.)
The other world is what surrounds me on a daily basis. I am a member of a church that pretty much puts Catholics to shame when it comes to multiplying and replenishing the Earth, especially when we have the option of using birth control. (And no, we’re not told to make dozens of babies. Families are just really really important to us, so a lot of LDS people choose to have a lot of babies before they turn thirty. Personal choice. Not religious decree.)
I have watched…wait for it…over 60 pregnancies in the last three years since moving to Indiana. These are just people that live by me.
In the past week I have had three pregnancies made known to me from people that are in my congregation. That is not counting the previous two that already existed or the other two that just completed their nine month run. I have watched at least a dozen women be pregnant twice since living here and just this week I have now seen someone pregnant three different times within three years. After some of your confessions yesterday I don’t feel so creepy that I’ve kept count.
Outside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I was married just after my 18th birthday (and am enjoying it immensely thank you very much,) had a child at 22 and sometimes desperately want another before I turn 30.
Inside the stereotypes of my religion I am abnormal. I have been married for eight years and yet I only have one child.
My mom didn’t even have me until she was 32.
I find myself wondering so often “Why am I so worried about this? Is it because I can’t? Is it because the people around me are procreating at breakneck speed? I’m only 27 followed closely by OHMYGOSHIAMALMOSTTHIRTY.”
I’m very conflicted about being stuck between the “normalities” of these two very different worlds. I’d like to just be comfortable in my own little world. But there’s not enough medication for me to do that just yet.
Two of my closest friends are having babies before July is over. I have received news of other pregnancies of Internet/IRL friends as well, all of them giving me hope that one day it will happen for me. And for their miracles I can’t thank Heavenly Father enough for answering the prayers I’ve poured out in their behalf.
Sometimes my happiness for others is diminished by the irresponsibility, disrespect or overwhelmingness of it all.
(Which BTW? Dr. SallyForth? My old OB had the option of different appointment availability for infertility patients so I never had to enter his office face to belly with a room full of unwed pregnant teenagers. You *may* want to look into that.)
God doesn’t need/want me pregnant right now. For whatever reason. Today I’m okay with this. Tomorrow could be different.
But no matter what? If you have a little floater down there in your uterus? I want to know about it. And I want to know how I can help.
I just hope you can understand that some days are better than others.
I’m learning how to deal with this.
And sometimes it’s just very very confusing.
Please don’t take the panda personally.