Today marks 24 months of waiting.
It doesn’t count the 3.5+ years of trying to conceive, failed treatments, somehow conceiving after all, and repeated pregnancy losses.
If you count all of that, we’re at 74 months.
And you know what? It feels like it’s been 24 months of waiting. And it feels like it’s been 74 months of waiting in the grander scheme. There is definitely no “Oh, how time flies! I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed!” happy-go-lucky attitude over here these days, my friends. It feels like it’s been SIX. LONG. YEARS. of wanting nothing more than to be a mother.
We are a month into “any day now” mode and it is utterly exhausting. I alternate between high anxiety and wallowing in self pity. It’s a whole lot of fun at our house lately, let me tell you.
My head tells me that better days are ahead, but my heart is just too damaged and guarded to understand that right now. I will survive, I know that. But, in the meantime, to put it bluntly, this sucks.