I don’t talk much about us trying again. Not here. It has felt…disrespectful? Disloyal? Not so much to talk about it or think about it–because really, it’s in my thoughts damn near constantly, right next to you and I talk about it sort of obsessively. Luckily your daddy is both patient and adept at filtering out my monologue when it doesn’t really matter if he’s listening.

But this has sort have been my just-for-you place. Certainly I usually feel like no one here is reading it (Oh dear, is that blog-queen envy? Must we be a BNF in every fandom?). I don’t really know why, because it isn’t like I don’t talk to you. But not the way I do here.

I’m rambling. I hate it when i do that.

The truth is the only thing I really want is to be pregnant again, and its damn near an obsession. I am very flip about it when I talk about it. “Maybe this month.” “It’ll happen, I’m not worried.” “Fertility isn’t our issue.” And I know for so many reasons that I have absolutely no right to complain that I’m not pregnant yet. It has only been two cycles. I got pregnant on the first try twice. Granted, that didn’t work out the way it was supposed to, but I know more than one woman struggling with infertility who would be grateful just to have had so much as a positive pregnancy test, let alone the precious weeks I had with you. I know that I am already incredibly lucky, even with the Ectrodactyly.

And its only a few weeks until the next chance to try (don’t worry, I’ll spare you any details of Mommy and Daddy’s sex life). And another two weeks after that to wait to see if this one worked or not. And another month to see if it’s alive enough to have a flicker of heart. And then holding our breath until week twelve, when they do another ultrasound to count the bones in the baby’s arms and legs. Four more weeks after that to see if it has hands and feet and if the bones are all long the way they should be. And finally to twenty weeks, to count the fingers and toes. Not including the amnios, the quad-screens, and god knows what else.

At any point we could be back to zero.

And the “meaningful dates” keep slipping by. We conceived on your due date, the weekend of your “funeral.” How perfect, how meaningful. Oh, wait. No. Nevermind.

But then, it was Testing Day on Christmas. I wrapped a pregnancy test and left one end open, all ready to pee on, do a silent happy dance over, seal up and stick in your Daddy’s stocking. What a perfect way to tell him! Because really, it’s the only gift we want (except he still wanted that map. He got the map). Oops. Scratch that.

But this time! This time was meant to be. It’d be the first baby conceived at Bitchmas. Made right in the middle of that circle of love and family.

You know. Or not.

And there are babies everywhere. I counted the pregnant bellies that came through my line at work. In one five-hour shift there were eight bellies.

I feel like I’m waiting for life to start again. We’re in a stagnant place. Stalled.

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