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Labor Pains: Grappling With the Inherent Pressures of Infertility — Societal and Self-Imposed
Yesterday, I took my zillionth pregnancy test. It was negative… again.
At this point, I’m not sure how I’d feel to actually see those coveted two vertical lines. Not sure I ever will.
I’ll be 40 this year. It feels metaphysical to type that, to accept the reality of that fact. In a million ways I still feel like a kid — a teenager if I strain myself “upward.” Don’t get me wrong, I am a highly functioning human. I pay my bills early — all of them. I clean my home on a schedule. I fondly refer to myself as a diet alpha female. For all intents and purposes, I am a grown-up. But… not so deep down, I’m really just a kid. My Netflix algorithm certainly suggests it.
Here’s proof
Some years back, I attended a Bible study with some women at my church. The host was a woman with a son about six years old or so. At one point during the evening, I found myself conversing with him. Children always tend to seek me out. If I remember correctly, he was asking me if I wanted to ditch the old ladies and go play with him instead. As I was trying to explain to him that I thought I should stick around for the Bible study, he paused, squinted his eyes, and cocked his head to the…
