Saying goodbye to infertility and babies

The pack-and-play sat empty, in my bedroom, for two days after he was gone. Out of the way so we could go through our daily routines . . . it felt like it was staring at me, blatantly displaying my shortcomings and the guilt that’s attached.

Josh and I got married Friday night. His Grandmother and younger sister stayed nearby and we spent a whirlwind weekend trying to hit up every touristy activity we could think of. Which, incidentally, when you’re showing an incredibly rural area to people who are used to life in Tampa, it means a lot of driving through mountains to see hills and the colors changing on all the trees.

I was ready for our routines to go back to normal  – hopefully our sleep schedule would follow suit – when we drove them to the airport Monday afternoon. So I surely wasn’t expecting a phone call.

But there it was.

And then only a few hours later, there He was.

Thirteen months old. Olive skin. Big brown eyes. Long, curly, unkempt locks.

Two years after our adoption fell through, after our decision to become foster parents changed our entire household, the call for a placement of a baby finally came.

But a lot has changed in two years. My mobility, as to be expected with a progressive, degenerative disease, is less than before. Being diagnosed with arthritis in both shoulders this past summer doesn’t help matters much either.

He was with us for an hour before we discovered that, between the set up of my van and the weakness in my arms, I couldn’t lift him to put him in a rear-facing car seat.

And with a single phone call, to let his caseworker know that I wouldn’t be able to physically transport him in and out of the car without assistance, the door to my infertility journey slammed shut.

I’ve spent nearly a third of my life wearing the name tag. Some days it hurt like hell, other days I used it as a stepping stone and got to witness miracles of other women beating the odds and starting families. It is a bittersweet place to be in – a newlywed – and also at the end of this possibility.  My fertility hasn’t changed, but my disease has now officially taken up residence in the #1 reason I can’t have kids.

It is almost surreal to think about. Mostly, it’s just the really shitty part of my reality.

The caseworker picked the baby back up at 10;30 in the morning. I had to be in at the office that afternoon for a visitation for Monster, who is still with us from January. And later in the evening, the whole family loaded up in the car to do our monthly training class. And we saw the baby again, with another foster family (who we adore). The new foster mom caring for him pulled Josh aside to ask how I was holding up, and how terrible she felt for us.

I am grateful for this community that has become such an integral part of my new identity. These women who have gushed with me over babies we did not birth, toddlers who we may never see again once they leave our arms and our homes, children we will love for always and think of for ever.

I guess the truth is, I haven’t been a woman dealing with infertility for quite some time. My days are filled with laughter and maniacal cackles of two mischievous boys who have each spent a wonderful season in our homes. I have been their rock, their warrior, their favorite person to snuggle with. I have loved them, and Hayla, of course, with ferocity that only is known by those in a Mother’s role.

My infertility journey is, for all intents and purposes, at its end.

My desire to soak up the glorious scents of newborns must be let go. But in its place, I get toddler songs and “I Love You Mommy”s and endless years of Kindergarten macaroni art proudly displayed on my kitchen walls.

I asked Josh to box the pack-and-play back up, so we can pass it along to another foster family for babies to come. I’m not going to be the mother to little tiny babies.

But for once . . .

I think I’m going to be okay with that.