(Okay, if you’re squeamish about words like period, then this post is probably one you want to avoid.)
I spent the first two weeks of this new year thinking I was pregnant. All the symptoms were there, and then my period started on Saturday, so yeah…probably not preggers.
This isn’t the first time I’ve thought I was pregnant. In fact I’ve even had a few times when the test has shown up positive, but it’s never lasted. I’ve not been public about those pregnancies, mostly because I felt like such a failure.
This is the first time that I’ve genuinely felt both disappointed and thrilled when my period showed up. The disappointment stems from knowing that this means more waiting. The thrilled part comes from the fact that I’ve actually managed to have a normal cycle for one of the very few times in my life.
My heart has undergone a shift. I’ve gone from being willing to be a mom but feeling unsure about whether I really wanted kids, to knowing that I genuinely want to be a mom, and not just because I know Tom wants to be a dad. I’ve never bought into that idea that you’re not a family or complete without kids. I’ve known for a long time that kids may be just out of the realm of possibility (thanks a lot, PCOS). Our family was formed when we said, “I do.” Children would just make our family bit bigger, and I suddenly find myself really wanting that.
Now, I find myself facing the fact that I absolutely must get healthy. If I want to have a hope of a successful pregnancy, or of having an adoption agency being willing to even talk to us, I have to be mentally and physically healthy.