The Eternal Guest Room

Every year I dread mother’s day. It’s so depressing, and I never feel as alone as I do on that day. I always feel so forgotten.

But this year was different.

On Friday night I was feeling really down; dreading the weekend and feeling resentful that I wasn’t going to D’s improv show because of one the girls in his group is 8 months pregnant and we felt it too big of a risk for me to go and watch her perform on stage for half an hour. I was anticipating a long night at home alone. What a crappy start to such a horrible weekend.

Then the doorbell rang, and I went to the front door, racking my brain trying to remember what photos I had ordered from UPS. But it wasn’t photos.

My parents sent me flowers. Flowers to let me know they were thinking of me and knew how hard the weekend would be for me. I can’t even begin to find the words to say how much it meant to me; I couldn’t even call to thank them that evening because every time I thought about it I got super emotional. I felt this wave of gratitude wash over me: Someone remembers. Someone cares.

It changed my whole weekend. I put them on my desk with the note propped up, and I never felt forgotten, even when Sunday rolled around. I got on facebook that morning completely forgetting what I was subjecting myself to, and instantly was bombarded with cheery mother’s day messages. But between those were other messages: one of my best friends posted a super sweet note that brought tears to my eyes, and then there were even more notes about those who were not yet mothers, greetings of support to the women who were hurting on that day.  I was reminded of all the other ladies I’ve met, whether in person or online, who have shared in this and feel my pain and know exactly what I’m going through. How could I feel alone with a feed like that, and with the wonderful comments that I got on this blog on my last post, and with all the ladies in my life that feel the same way I do?

And then one of my friends sent me a text to say she loved me and was thinking about me that day. I was so touched.

D took good care of me. I didn’t leave the house a single time, and he happily went out to get me comfort foods throughout the day (breakfast potatoes, chipotle, freezer pizza, oh my). It was lovely.

I didn’t feel forgotten this year. I felt remembered. And it made all the difference in the world.

Thank you, my sweet friends, my wonderful husband, and Mom & Dad, for everything, for all your love and support. It means the world to me. You are my light in this darkness.

So here it is…the annual woe-is-me-I-have-to-endure-another “Infertile’s Mother’s Day of Despair” post.

I can’t believe it will be my fifth mother’s day since I started trying to become one. I remember them all vividly: The first one, sitting in church, full of naive hope and happy nervous butterflies, thinking it’d happen any day now. The second, sitting in church again, having my heart ripped out of my chest, unsuccessfully fighting back tears and vowing never to attend another childless mother’s day service again. The third, at a weekend away with friends, trying to forget what weekend it was. The fourth, having a nice weekend away with D, touring wineries and the Bluebell factory and finding good distractions to get through it.

And for this one, the fifth, I have no plans. It’ll just be another Sunday, although with no shoots. We haven’t made any plans to do anything relaxing or distracting, oringinally because some shoots were supposed to happen, but then when they all fell through, I guess we both just thought “why bother?” I’ve just now started to think about it and it’s getting me down.

It’s the day I feel completely forgotten. It’s the day I want to forget. It’s the day that’s plastered all over everything for weeks in advance. It’s the day I hate more than any other day of the whole year. It’s the day I dread and hope against hope that I don’t have to suffer through again.

And here it is. Again.

The last sentence of my mother’s day post last year was: 

“I just really hope there’s not another year of this.”

So much for that.

The seasons keep changing.

I wish they would stop. They remind me of the passage of time, which I try not to think about, because it makes me realize how long this has gone on and how much older I’ve gotten through it.

Halloween is next weekend and kicks off the Holiday Season. Historically this has been the hardest time of year for me, and this will be the 4th year of dealing with this. Four years!!! Seriously? Seriously, I have to go through this again?

Just like the first holiday season, my younger sister is pregnant, and I am not.

Just like the first holiday season, nearly everyone we know has children to celebrate with, and we do not.

We don’t have enough candles this year to represent all the failed attempts. If we did we might burn the house down anyway.

We don’t have the hope we had in the past. We don’t talk about it like we used to.

Life just sort of keeps going the way it goes.

I need to make sure to stay off evil FB next week because I know it’s going to be full of adorable kids in costumes. I want so badly to have photos like that of my own to post. Not because I want to have kids just so I can put them in costumes, but because of what it represents – the life I want, a family, children to celebrate the holidays with…

I’m truly making an effort this year to enjoy Halloween and to put those thoughts in the back of my mind, but they’re there.

Especially as I watch the leaves fall off the trees.

I think Father’s Day is this Sunday – although I’m not entirely sure about that.

Father’s Day doesn’t have anything near the effect that Mother’s Day has on me. Probably because there’s not as much hype, it doesn’t affect me quite as personally, and of course I’ll never be a father, so it’s not nearly as painful.

But I’ve realized something over the last year or so: there’s a “hierarchy” of what I find painful to be around. The first is definitely pregnant women, hands down. That just about kills me. The second is probably newborns, but the third isn’t moms with babies; it’s dads with babies.

For some reason it hurts much more to see a father with his baby or young child. I can’t really put my finger on exactly why. Possibly because I have a hard time picturing myself as a mom, but I can totally picture Darek being a dad. Plus, there’s something just terribly sweet about seeing a father interacting with his young child.

This is one of those things that I have a hard time putting into words, because I’m not entirely sure why I feel this way. I just know that when I see a dad playing with his kid in their yard, or see a new dad holding his new baby, I get tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat. It makes my heart hurt.

Avoidance is my middle name these days, but I live in the world.

Stupid world.