The morning that I turned 35, I spent a good three hours crying. I actually cried myself to sleep the night before, too. My husband did everything he could to comfort me, but I just couldn't shake it. For the first time in my entire life, I really didn't want to celebrate my birthday. I didn't want a cake, I didn't want any acknowledgement of it, I just wanted the day to end as quickly as possible. You see, the only thing I wanted for my birthday was to be a mom. When I was pregnant earlier this summer, I actually picked out a super cute pumpkin shirt to wear since I'd have a baby belly at Halloween. I actually envisioned how I would answer the door and give candy to the kiddos and be full of excitement on how I'd be dressing my little one up in costume the following year. But that dream was taken from me real quick back in June when we found out it was ectopic.
The past few months I've watched a number of people fall pregnant. A few of these were accidental, some were with a month of fertility treatments, others I really don't know their story. Watching other women who are in my family or extended circle of friends suddenly have their baby bumps growing and plan baby showers and other events is just heart breaking. I'm so happy for them, really, I am. But I'm so sad for me. I can't help it but see them and think of how far along I should be in my pregnancy, how we'd be decorating a nursery about now, or how we'd probably officially have a name picked out for our little one.
I'm trying to hold it together and keep a smile on my face, but this year has been tough. In my 35 years, it's probably the most difficult one I've lived. As my friends and I grow older and they "complete" their families, I can only wonder if ours will ever grow larger than two humans and two dogs. And if it doesn't, can I accept that and live a happy life - one where I could go back to enjoying birthdays and holidays?
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