Day 12: #IFproblems

Okay… glitch with scheduled posting the first time around… but hopefully I’ve learned my lesson.

Today is ultrasound day. Hoping all the nausea bodes well, though I know too much to assume that means everything is okay.

Day 12: #IFproblems

Details of this 30 day blogging challenge details available at I Love You Potato.

My brain is tired. Here is a smattering. Hope I’m not letting you down, Potato!

I was at a restaurant for SIL’s birthday and talking to another couple. Somehow the topic of our loss came up. The wife said something, and over the dull roar of the restaurant I thought she said they couldn’t have children because her husband couldn’t. I proceeded to confide in her my parents’ story—which I don’t normally share with people I know in real life as a courtesy to my dad—and she corrected me that her husband doesn’t want kids. AWKWARD. She did proceed to tell me she had suffered a miscarriage (they’re “not trying, not preventing,” whatever her DH’s preference), so I did feel that in the end she was reaching out, but I felt ridiculous the rest of the night for misunderstanding.

It amuses me in the way private jokes do when people tell me I look or act like my dad, when I was conceived with donor sperm.

And then of course there’s an acquaintance I saw the other day who asked me “how the little one was” and I genuinely felt sorry for her. She was probably congratulating herself on remembering at least that I was pregnant last time she saw me (perhaps 4 months ago), even if she forgot I was having twins, and I paused. “Oh, you haven’t heard” and I felt sorry for HER. She was trying to make pleasant conversation, absolutely well meaning. After I told her what happened, she asked the immediate, “So are you going to try again?” and then seemed to realize as soon as it left her mouth that it was the wrong thing, and corrected herself. She ended with telling me the her mother never would have had her (the last child) if she hadn’t miscarried previously, so weirdly, she was grateful… not that her sibling was lost, but that she herself went on to be conceived and born. An awareness, I guess.

And then of course there’s my MIL, who called me a “fertile Myrtle” when I conceived the twins and I couldn’t help but cringe. They were a blessing, but on the heels of months and months of chemical pregnancies, earliest losses.

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