Ana wants a little sister. She has already christened her Emily.
Emily is her best friend.
She would probably tolerate a brother too; she doesn’t seem to understand the difference. She just wants a baby.
And so do we.
But every month is the same …
A lengthy two-week wait.
Second guessing every possible physical indicator of pregnancy.
Was that a strange taste in my mouth?
Am I smelling things that are not there?
Take a test. One pink line.
This test must be broken. Take another.
It’s too early, wait two days.
There is still hope.
One pink line.
One pink line
One pink line.
Well meaning friends tell us “time for another”
Smile. Nod.
Old wives tales get shared…
Eat more pineapple, drink Robotussin, stand on your head after sex, and my favourite ...just relax!
Thanks. I already have a doctor. You know, a qualified one.
Go to the playground. Everyone is pregnant.
Go to the Children’s Museum. It’s a fertility parade.
Everywhere I take my three year old is a magnet for expectant women. Obviously. Three year olds tend to have siblings.
But not mine.
It has a name, apparently.
Secondary infertility.
It feels like a selfish disease.
Can’t you be grateful for what you have?
Don’t you love the one you’ve got?
I can’t help making plans
Calculating expected due dates.
Dates that come and go.
Always living in the next phase of life.
“Next Christmas we’ll have a baby in the house.”
“Better not book that holiday. I’ll be pregnant by then.”
“This could be Ana’s last birthday without a sibling.”
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
So I’m picking myself up.
Living in the moment.
Enjoying the one I’ve got (as if I didn’t)
But not giving up hope. Not yet.
All the kids in her class
