Standing in the baby aisle at the grocery store choosing new sippee cups next to a very pregnant woman. She is discussing with the woman next to her how soon she is due and how excited she is and how HUGE she is, etc. I abandon the sippee cup train of thought and leave, unable to listen to more, and unable to stay WITHOUT listening a little too intently.
Passing a pro-life billboard with a picture of a baby and the caption, "Eighteen days from conception, my heart was beating." Doing mental math to figure out that if the pregnancy stopped developing at five weeks, which means the BABY was actually three weeks old, and three weeks is twenty-one days, then... Sinking feeling.
Running into someone who had heard that I was pregnant, and having to tell her I am not any more. Hearing her first words: "Oh... Are you so relieved?" Feeling the heat rush into my face, unsure if it is from anger or shame.
Seeing Eli standing at the table, running his cars back and forth and looking so much like a toddler and so little like a baby. Trying to figure out how long it might feasibly be before there will be a tiny baby around here again. Trying to figure out how long it will be until I will feel ready to wish for that scenario.
Thinking about the step by step process of trying again. This time there will be medical supervision and hormone supplements, and probably Clomid as well, to correct my luteal phase and boost my progesterone. It seemed to work with Eli, after the first miscarriage, so why mess with success? Then there will be more supplements, and if those work, weekly shots until the baby is born to hopefully prevent preterm labor. All of this leads to the depressing and admittedly self-pitying conclusion that I am not nearly as good at having babies as I once assumed I would be. The actual birth seems to be the only thing I can successfully handle on my own.
I KNOW how lucky I am. I have two healthy kids. This is all anyone could reasonably wish for, and I know wanting more kids, more luck, is almost greedy. There are people who have NEVER carried a baby to term. Any sadness I feel, any sense of failure or anger I may have towards my body for not doing its job pales in comparison to the pain of unresolved infertility, and I am aware of that. But I can't feel that. All I can feel is this.