This rain has me not wanting to get exercise or figure out what to make for dinner. It has me curled up in bed with my kitties, groggy from the nap I just took and wanting to take another. It has me choosing hot cereal with nuts and maple syrup over eggs and veggies in the morning, and dreaming about long walks and sunnier days. Or maybe I’m just blaming the rain and what I really want is a baby in my belly and a full workload. After nine months of obsessing over my fertility, I recently joined a Facebook group for women who are actively trying to conceive. It’s nice having a place where I can speak openly, because not talking about it isn’t helping anyone. I don’t know what I was afraid of before. Maybe I felt like we hadn’t been trying long enough. Maybe I was embarrassed, because I thought it would happen easily. Maybe I was scared and I didn’t want to jinx it.
On a warm day in December, I was hanging sheets to dry on the clothesline. Sheets I bought with you in mind—your dark hair and milky skin, sleeping soundly amongst the violets. I could envision you playing between them as they dried, laughing—mouth wide, cheeks rosy. I felt a hollowness in my stomach, empty and raw. The sheets hung there, cold and wet in the weak winter sun. I didn’t expect this wanting—this longing—to be so visceral. My arms ache for the weight of you.
It’s March, and we are planning our garden. I picked a vase full of daffodils and they made me so happy. It’s definitely a nice distraction, nurturing our green things along, excited by new growth and blossom. And then sometimes I just have to let myself be sad. Sad because I’ve wanted this for so long, and I have to keep waiting. I feel like my whole life has been a lesson in patience, and I’m still not very good at it.