8 months

Everyone keeps telling you to stop stressing. You're worrying too much about it. The reality is, I'm not. When we first started trying to conceive our second child in September/October, I was crazy obsessed, but in the following months, I relaxed. Told myself to breath, relax, it will happen in its own time. Just the same advice every other man, woman, and child was giving me. But it's been 8 months. Eight months of trying, sometimes hard, sometimes, not so hard. Eight months of planning, calculating, watching and studying my body. Eight months of failed attempts at conceiving a child. Eight months of heartbreak, each and every time "lady week" rolls around.

All the medical sites and information I've been reading says you should give it a year before seeking medical help.  That's not so far away. Does that mean that after these next four attempts we pretty much close shop and seek out alternative methods? Probably. I have mentioned before that I will not put my body through the grueling process of IVF or any weird medicines that can cause me to have 8 babies at once. Not only can we not afford it but I have principles. There are thousands of children across the world who need homes, and anyone that isn't understanding of our decision to adopt can kiss my ass. (I'm very protective of my not-quite-adopted children already!)

I'm not obsessed, I'm not going crazy trying to get knocked up, I just know in my heart of hearts that I want more from my family. I want more children, I want my son to have siblings, I want ballet recitals, and football games, I want my children to surround me at Christmas, happy and excited. And what the eff is wrong with that?  God did not intend for me to have only one child, but He may have only meant for me to give birth to one. And that's ok, I am already ready to move on in the event that we are unable. I am already making peace with my body, looking into adoption, planning ahead. Just because these past 8 months have ended in failure doesn't mean that the game is over.

I'm staring my infertility in the face and trying like hell to deal with it. But this isn't over....

Sand

Where better to go on a first-date re-do than the beach? It is my favorite place on the planet. A place that rejuvenates and relaxes my soul. 

I hadn't seen him in almost 2 years. We kept in contact, here and there, but he had changed in a way.  Since his brother had gotten married, he seemed to be doing some thinking, he was a bit lonely, like a single soul who has realized his desperate need to join to another lonely soul. Naturally, I was intrigued.

We strolled along the sand, neither of us knowing what to say. But what do you say after the last 5 years? What do you say to the man who has broken your heart a dozen times? Warm sand between our toes, I wondered where this day was going? The same as usual? We'd end up at his place, then see you in a few months the next morning? But it felt so different. Like he was changed, different, like we were going to be different.

As I was driving trough the sandy deserts back to my home in Las Vegas, I made a deal with myself. If he sent me a text message (the things 25 year old girls think of.), I'd do this, I'd go back to him, despite the heartache, despite the horrible first-date re-do where I paid for my own dinner.  I told my best friend, I prayed about it. I made myself a deal, to end this one way or another.


He never sent me that message.


That was 5 years ago this June.


This July, we'll be married for 4 years.


Funny how things work out, huh?

This was a post for the RemembeRED prompt: So this week, we want you to write about sand. Yes...sand. It doesn't have to be summer-related, but the impending summer and my proximity to Lake Michigan and it's glorious beaches are what inspired me to tell you to write about sand. So. SAND. GO.