Change is constant.

If the acronyms “TTC” and “BFN” popped up in conversation six months ago, I would have pretended to know what they were by nodding meaningfully–head tilted slightly to the side, showing that I’m really listening AND understanding–or I would have ignored my ignorance and tried to change the subject.  But I wouldn’t have had a clue.  Over the past few years I’ve adopted several cutesy, annoying acronyms thanks to social networking norms.  BTW I’m still putting the kibosh on “BFF”.  LOL.  But I wish I never knew what TTC and BFN meant.

Years and years of selfish living should have rendered me immune to a world where these letters could stand for anything personal.  The teens-and-twenties me never wanted to get married.  I got married.  The twenties-and-early-thirties me never wanted kids.  Now I do.  The now-husband/potential-father-to-be swears I never told him such things, but he knew.  He must have just nodded meaningfully, head tilted slightly to the side, whenever I said it.  But my friends knew this of me.

The anti-marriage stance stemmed from examples of trapped lives.  The anti-baby stance stemmed mostly from a desire to break cycles.  The whole “coo coo goo goo” baby behavior just grossed me out.  Still does.  “But it’s different when it’s your kid,” say They.  And I had a whole host of affects and effects to sort out for myself.  Part aftershocks of a difficult childhood, part poor decisions, with a little dash of random thrown in for kicks.

As I hit 32, 33, I felt a change in my mental state (and to no small extant, I suppose, hormones) and I began to think, “Fuck it, I’m so awesome, there should be more of me.”  So I started trying to make more of me.  Well, not me by myself or this whole thing really would be pointless.  The Plan was pure genius: take the best of me, combine it with the best of my better half, and we’ll try to take over the world!  Then graduation loomed on the horizon, and I was faced with snipping the tether of student insurance.  Right from the gate, the husband and I were slapped with a “Thou Shalt Not Procreate For Six Months” decree from the insurance powers that be.  Then came three months of lalala bliss followed three months of doctor bills, and now I know these acronyms well.  Trying To Conceive.  Big Fat Negative.  All thanks to one cystic ovary.

I thought he would just have to look at me and we would be pregnant.  I told my derby girls, “Watch, I just know it.  First time we actually try, I’m going to get knocked up so I can help bench coach next season.”  But life is funny.  I can play Tetris in 3-D.  I have seen the rain in Spain.  I am ambidextrous.  I can be crafty, calculate the decay of radioactive phosphorus isotope 32 for use in enzymatic activity assays, complete the Triforce, sing all the words to Eminem’s “Shake That”, but I can’t get the BFP.  I can, however, get more prescriptions, more medical bills, more hopes up, more let downs.

For a few months now, it’s been really hard to be happy for anyone else getting pregnant and having kids.  All of those years of cracking terrible jokes, making horrible comments about other people having babies who shouldn’t have (and who am I to judge, teenage mom-hood got me here)…I guess karma has to have a laugh every now and then too.  Wah wah wah.  Woe unto me.  BFD.

So it’s more “have fun trying, back to the drawing board, cheer up, it takes time, don’t stress out, you’re not the only one, it’s only been a few months.”

And I really, truly am happy for the new moms and moms-t0-be out there.  I hope to be one soon.

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