I did it. I packed up the last of the precious baby things I held on to and gave them away. The tummy time matt. Her crib bedding. The fancy felt blocks, BPA free bottles, and Sofie the giraffe.
I think I’m settling back into accepting my reality: Hi, I’m Holly, and I suffer from secondary infertility.
My daughter won’t field calls from her sibling when she’s older and cousel him or her on their love life or job. She won’t be able to bitch about her aging parents and how stubborn we are or deaf we are becoming. She’ll stand on her own. She’s stronger than me, and I handle everything. She’ll be fine.
Besides she’ll tell you all about her other family if you ask, and even if you don’t. She has older sisters who live in space. She has other parents that live in a different house. She has a mean mommy and sister. She’s has an amazing imagination. Perhaps she’ll be a writer one day too.
But this is about me. I learned a friend is pregnant this week. She is in her 40’s. It happened naturally for them. No fertility treatments. No sex on demand or obsessing on conceiving for three years. They are a very lucky family. But they are not us. That is not my path.
What is very natural for me is to feel a pang of grief. It does not diminish my joy for my friend. But I am honoring myself by acknowledging that I am sad that we could not share the same news. So instead of holding on to what once was, or what I wished would be, I let the past and dreamed of future go in a large wardrobe box labeled baby stuff.