Genetics are a weird thing. Taking something like the shape and color of your eyes and copying it exactly into a shorter, tinier body than yours. Mimicking the propensity to laugh when Thumper says, “That’s not a flower,” or the same fear in the eyes of a toddler who’s standing on the couch, clutching the cushions to his chest, watching the bees chase Winnie the Pooh, some 26 years after his mother did the exact same thing.
Sharing a love of soft-winged things, the ability to eat other soft, doughy things without gaining a pound, and yet, not inheriting the love of wanting to bake soft doughy things for family and friends.
As I sit here and think about the alarming similarities between me and my parents, and between Grayson and me, I can’t help but have a
small slightly larger sized portion of my heart that, try as I might, is feeling very muddled.
I wrote about my struggles with trying to get pregnant the first time around with Grayson. Here, here, and oh, here, and here. Like a good friend commented on one of those, “it’s like boys being told they’re not good at sports. It just hits you where it hurts.” I’m trying not to let it get the best of me. I have so many other positive things going on in my life right now (kicking ass at work, having fun with Grayson, learning with Grayson, great friends, close family, and Grayson), but being someone who hates, HATES not being in control, letting your body do “what it’s gonna do,” and you have to just wait around for it to DO SOMETHING, is tough. Like, really tough.
This time around, of course, I’m not worried about the complete inability to have a child. But clearly, I have some sort of issue where one part of my body isn’t talking to the other parts of my body, and “what we have here is failure to commun’cate.”
I went to my regular doctor two weeks ago for my standard yearly visit and told her about my concerns, and she told me that it could very well take me the same amount of time the second go-round as it did the first. (Typically, it doesn’t, but who am I to abstain from my role as the anomaly?) Most doctors won’t do fertility testing until after a full year, which is still a couple months away, so for now, I continue to wait. And breathe. And pour myself a damn large glass of Pinot as I do so.