The inability to concieve a child naturally takes a toll on a couple. Making love for years and never getting pregnant. Some months when you're busy living life without worrying about a new baby it's not something you think about, and others you feel a dull and constant ache through every fiber in your mind that just causes you to yearn for it.
You see around you people making joyous announcements with large smiles and hands all over beautiful bellies, and people surrounding them with happiness. And you feel empty, and guilty for it. Why shouldn't you feel blessed enough with what you already have. "You already have G, why do you need anything else?" He asks me. For the last two years he's slowly turned the tide on the plans to have another baby and pushed continuously to leave those plans behind and just live our lives without one.
I always had this dramatically romantic idea that the ultimate celebration of love and togetherness was to have (or want to have) a child.
That ache is mine, and mine only. It's not a pain I share with him. It's only mine.
I'll turn 33 this year. Not hardly old enough to be watching the grains of time slipping faster and faster, but old enough where I'm seeing more gray hairs moving in, and I've noticed deeper lines where I smile and squint. Times not going backwards, that's a definite.
There's a reality that I've been tonging around in my mouth and haven't dared spoken to many, but it's that if I stay where I am, I will be fighting alone to have a child with someone who doesn't want one himself.