Today I was cleaning up the house and unearthed some remnants from the time in my life when we were trying to become parents.
The log where I tracked my temperature, my ovulation predictor kit results, and my periods.
The notes I wrote to myself during an exercise I did in counseling, which I attended for awhile after my ectopic pregnancy.
The stacks of information we gathered from adoption agencies.
The vision board I made, daring to let the universe know my hopes and dreams.
Now that I can hold my child in my arms so readily, it seems like such a different life. That life when I was consumed by the process of becoming (and repeatedly failing to become) a mother. In many ways it feelsso far away now, yet at the same time it's still very fresh in my mind. I still relate deeply with others I meet who are in the midst of their own struggle. And I still feel a fresh pang of hurt and anger whenever I witness a pregnant woman being utterly ungrateful for her blessing. Even though, in retrospect, our journey to parenthood was much less bumpy than it could have been, I still relate more to the people who have towork hard and wait long to realize their dreams of having chlidren than I do to the people who come by it easily.
I tell Mo daily how happy and lucky we are to have her. And I often tell her how much we wanted her, how hard we worked for her, how long we waited. It may seem like I'm giving her a lot to live up to, but the truth is her mere existence is enough to satisfy our hopes and dreams for her life.
I still think I would have rather skipped all the stupid shit I went through to become a mom. But it is interesting to think about how all these factors had to line up perfectly, the exact timing had to occur, the exact egg and sperm had to meet, the exact events had to happen in the exact order to result in my Mo. My exact Mo. No other series of events would have lead to having exactly her in my life. And to end up with her, I can definitely say it was all worth it.