Monday, November 12, 2012


Every year there's a gigantic New England craft fair near where we live. It's a great way to get some unique gifts, and since money is tight just now, I'm leaning more toward unique and special instead of big and expensive. Therefore, to the craft fair we go.

We spent a couple of hours wandering around, and I scored numerous awesome gifts: handblown glass rings inside patchwork coin purses for my sister, sister in law, step daughter and mom, an assortment of hot sauces for one brother, tequila pistachios for another brother.

It was a good time, except for one thing: The sheer number of booths dedicated to baby stuff. Baby quilts at amazing prices, cute little clothes, hats, toys. I had to push past them without looking, because we still don't know how long this journey we're on is going to be.

The worst was when I went past a booth only to get stuck there by a woman pushing a MASSIVE double stroller. Her kids were my kid's age and older, and my kid was on foot, so why she had to push that thing was beyond me, but what really killed me was watching her push her TWO kids.

My son has a little friend who was conceived via IVF. Her mother has been trying for number two as long as we have, and we've shared our struggles with each other. They'll be cycling again in January as well.

She's admitted to me that she also finds it hard when she sees a woman with two or more kids, because in the back of her head, she has to acknowledge that this might never be her despite what she does or tries. I so get that. Every time a friend of acquaintance announces another pregnancy, I get jealous. I get jealous because they don't have that breathe held worry that they'll lose it any second. I have one friend that announced the second the stick turned pink. I couldn't be around her for a while after that, listening to her plan for her perfect pregnancy.

I know that some women have it even harder: I have one awesome, wonderful son. There are women who don't even have that, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm still struggling to have another. That even if this new cycle with drugs works, I'll be holding my breathe through the whole thing. And not just the first trimester, due to the abruption I had with my son at 33 weeks. I won't be safe until the baby is in my arms, and that's a long, long time to worry.

And a long, long time to avoid looking at baby quilts and mothers pushing their two kids around, too.

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