I think I heard a collective sigh when Christmas was over. I hope that it was a good one for all of you! I was anticipating the worst, had a lovely day with family and then spent the next two days in a mood… which I learned is kickback from expecting the worst. Sometimes you just can’t win! And now here we are, counting down to a new year. If you’re like me, you’ve already been thinking about all the things you hope 2022 has for you. But maybe you’re still in survival mode, waiting for the last event to finally be over. Wherever you sit, grab a hot drink and let’s talk about goals for a minute.
When our Lindsay, our founder, told me about our theme for December, I was discouraged. This is my ninth holiday season of infertility and at this point, I’ve stopped hoping for that positive pregnancy test. The recurring disappointment makes hope a bruised shy little flower, afraid to bloom or move or make a tiny little sound for fear of being crushed yet again. And when I’m not hoping, how am I supposed to write about it? How do I encourage you all to keep hoping when I’m not myself? A Christmas movie showed me the answer. Hope small.
I blinked my eyes open to the soft light of Thanksgiving morning. My head throbbed. My stomach churned. Full blown PMS migraine hit like a train. Socks on, tiptoe down the stairs to not wake the house guests, boil the kettle, swallow the pills, back up to bed with a steaming cup of tea. The morning progresses and I rub my throbbing temples, drifting in and out of sleep as the muffled sound of the Thanksgiving activity below reaches my ears. My nieces and nephews were watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade for the first time and I was missing it. My sister-in-law and her husband were drinking coffee and laughing with my husband as they tried to scramble a turkey into the oven and I should be there. I appeared downstairs just as they bustled the kids out the door to Grandma’s house and I wasn’t well enough to join them until late in the evening when over half of the family had already left. As I ate Thanksgiving leftovers, I’m sure that my disappointment for missing out and guilt for not being there was evident on my face.
This year is my ninth Christmas season without a baby. Each year, I’ve let myself fantasize just a little bit about how next year I might be snuggled on the couch with a little one, watching their fascination with our big glowing tree. And here we are yet again. Christmas for two. It always stings a little bit. Some days more than a little bit.