The Infertile Mother

Three kids call me Momma (or some form of it). I often even refer to myself in the third person that way.

I push a double stroller behind a toddler who is getting incredibly fast on her balance bike as we go to the park every week and play on the slides and swings.

I drive a mini-van. And I love it. It’s the best car ever!

I spend 2 hours at the children’s museum every Tuesday afternoon.

I change diapers, lots of them, all day long.

I pack sippy cups and a mix of Cheerios and Craisins with us wherever we go. And diapers. Always pack the diapers.

I have stretch marks and a c-section scar.

I step over toys and blocks and books all day long, helping children pull them out and put them back, all day long.

I have a large portion of Sandra Boynton’s board book collection memorized and her “Blue Moo” CD on repeat in the afore mentioned mini-van.

I filled a large jar with at least 200 syringes.

I have two sets of laparoscopic surgery scars.

I have folders upon folders of medical documents and especially medical bills. Which means I also have little faith in the insurance company to get it right the first time.

I have photos of 8 groups of embryos, representing 8 IVF attempts.

I have stacks of ultrasound photos, of not just the three kids who call me mom, but of two who never will.

I have a quick answer for most of the “innocent” comments people make or the questions they asked about when we were going to have kids and now if we are going to have more. Because the comments and questions hurt. Sometimes they still do.

I have endometriosis. And for us that means we are one of the 1 in 8 couples who have infertility.

I am a mom. But I am an infertile mom.

Having children does not change my medical diagnosis. But rather my medical diagnosis makes our children just that much more of a miracle.