For the past 6 months, my posting here has been spotty at best. It's not really that I am so busy that I forget that I have a blog. And it's definitely not that I don't care. I want to write but the moment I sit down in front of the blank white box, the words escape me. I remember years ago how my thoughts would just pour out of me onto the page. I could succinctly express myself in some profound, poetic way without even really trying. But that was when I was struggling. When I'm in pain, it's so easy for me to write. Subtracting infertility from the equation has seemingly deducted my writing skills.
I've debated putting an end to this blog. Moving on. Telling myself that I just don't have the time or the talent anymore. But my heart won't let me give up. I don't want to just accept my current state as fact. So, here I am, in the midst of Infertility Awareness Week, committing myself to Bloggy Rehab so I can get back my groove back. I may have lost my way but I'm going to dig deep for that compass so I can get back on track.
The best word I can use to describe my current state of mind is: consumed.
Not so much with our day-to-day routine. After our first year of mass confusion, we finally have that down pat. Wake up at 7am. Breakfast at 8am. Morning Snack at 11am. Nap at noon. Lunch at 2pm. Playtime/errands until 6pm. Dinner at 7pm. Bath at 7:30pm. Bedtime at 8pm. (Betcha wanted to know all about our monotony, am I right?!) There is little deviation from this schedule. No surprises. Moreso, I'm consumed with a sense of tremendous guilt.
I know I'm not the only mom on the planet who feels this emotion and I realize it is normal to an extent. I've always been one to hold myself to a high standard. And it was okay because if I failed, I was only affecting myself. With parenting, I have so much more at stake. My screw-ups now could affect my son for the rest of his life. So, I am acutely more aware of my mistakes. And well, those are aplenty.
At 21 months, Nate is still pretty much a mute. Don't get me wrong - he babbles incessantly. But it's a foreign language that only he seems to be able to comprehend. He's only said about 15-20 "real" words. And even those aren't consistent. He's perfectly content to point and grunt rather than enunciate his wants and needs. MIL assures me that DH was a late talker and that Nate will eventually gain vocabulary - probably after the age of 2. But naturally, I am concerned for his development. His comprehension is perfectly fine and he can follow simple commands like "brush your teeth", "brush your hair", "grab your shoes", "where's the ball?", etc. That's the only reason I haven't yet consulted a speech therapist. However, children younger than him are speaking in 2-3 word sentences. I'm trying not to do the whole comparison thing because I know there is a HUGE range of "normal" amongst toddlers. But I can't help but feel as if this is somehow my fault. Have I not communicated with him enough? Is he watching too much TV? Is he not socialized enough since he is an only child and I'm a SAHM? Guilt, guilt and more guilt.
And then there's the issue of TTC #2. We've been trying nonchalantly for almost 8 months now. Of course, I haven't ovulated once in that time. Par for the course. I didn't start charting until January but I've yet to see anything close to a temp shift during my 70+ day cycles. I can't say I was surprised but my OB/GYN wanted me to come in for some bloodwork, just to make sure my thyroid wasn't to blame. Come to find out, I do indeed have PCOS. As in polycystic ovaries. Why my RE didn't catch or disclose this in the year that I was her patient, I haven't the foggiest. I suspect I've had this problem all along, even though I am not technically overweight and I don't display all of the symptoms (unfortunately, skin tags and facial hair are ones that I happen to exhibit. Jackpot!) But this pretty much means I am unlikely to get - and stay - pregnant without some sort of medical intervention. So, here I am, back on wonder-drug, Clomid. Yesterday was my last pill and I'm hoping to release a magic eggie in the next week. There is hope. But I am still plagued by the what-ifs.
I am excited at the prospect of another baby. I feel ready to add to our family. But yet I question myself. Is this really the best timing? Do I really want to push my luck again and risk miscarriage? How in the hell would I deal with a loss when I have to care for a toddler? What if I have a high-risk pregnancy? There's no way I could do bedrest. Are we just being greedy? Shouldn't we just be thankful for what we have? After struggling with primary infertility, I feel guilty admitting that my family doesn't feel complete with just one child.
Last but not least, there's the SAHM guilt. I felt guilty working through the first 8 months of Nate's life, walking in the door as the clock ticked to witching hour. I thought putting my career in the backseat to invest my time in raising my son would mean zero guilt. Not the case. DH is working much longer hours (almost 80 hours a week between his 9-5 and running his business). He's under more stress. All because he's the sole provider now. I'm no spendthrift but I feel bad if I spend so much as $4 on a latte. I purchase toys and clothes from consignment and outlet sales. I knew that choosing this lifestyle would mean sacrifices. And luckily, we haven't had to give up much. I don't regret the transition. But I'd be lying if I said I never longed for a time when I could whip out my credit card and spend $150 on a salon visit. Or have the means to afford Mommy groups and summer camps and swim lessons.
I'm bombarded with so many decisions on a daily basis. I just hope I'm making the right ones.