Directions to the new digs
So… Not sure anyone cares or needs this, but the new (If last October still counts as new) blog is called Searching For My Voice. It’s at www.searchingformyvoice.wordpress.com. You’re welcome to follow the (increasingly sparse) breadcrumbs or friend me on FB – I’m at Facebook.com/Bree.Davidson. Just send a comment with your friend request so that I have enough context to support/cheer/laugh/commiserate with you.
Eight Months and a Perfect Moment
Rilo is eight months today. I don’t have the energy right now to write a big eight month post, so instead I’ll share a perfect moment.
Most of yesterday was less-than perfect. Rilo woke up too early and refused to be set down even for a second. This threw off the normal morning routine that Kyan and I have built together, and I was cranky about it. I skipped my shower to give him more attention, but when I set him down while I hurriedly dressed, he screamed his head off. He continued to crank through our morning drive (45 minutes counting school dropoff). Even before I started work, the day was shot.
It was a sucky day at work capped off by a monster traffic jam on the way home, again with Rilo in the car. What normally takes 40 minutes took 1:38.
When’s the perfect moment coming, you wonder? Now.
Not only did Rilo sleep like an angel through the entire frustrating traffic jam, but when I got him out of the car at home, he looked at me with big eyes, then very deliberately hugged me. I stood in the driveway with my little guy in my arms, and enjoyed a perfect moment.
I like eight months. And I love hugs.
Gushing About My Little Man
I’m a baby person. I love when they’re eensy weensy. I’ve been known to hold a sleeping baby for hours, responding to each sigh and snuggle like it’s a little tiny hug.
My baby isn’t eensy any more. He’s more like a middle-aged baby. Suddenly he’s giant and semi-mobile (not crawling yet, but not staying put either) and so incredibly engaging. He is going to be a funny kid. He laughs a lot already. He has a special playfullness reserved for Michelle alone. Kyan is without a doubt his favorite entertainment, with her tried-and-true comedy routine called Here I Come. (All she has to do is walk towards him and he chuckles and snorts.) And I am the go-to mom for snuggles and love.
I think I’ve mentioned before how much I like mothering the second time. It’s stunningly easier this time, mostly because I’m so much less worried than last time around. I trust that I’m a good enough mom and follow my instincts. I can sit back and watch Michelle be a fantastic mom without being jealous. I notice that we don’t hover over him the way we did with Kyan, and I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing. I trust that Rilo will thrive, even when he gets a cold or bumps his noggin on the (carpeted) floor.
There are certain parts of life that are much more challenging because we have another child. We have to be conscious of our spending in a way we’ve never had to before. It takes us a dog’s age to get out of the house these days, so we aren’t having as many spontaneous adventures as in summers past.
But those challenging parts just melt away when I see the smile in my little man’s eyes. Can you see it?
Here’s the look he saves for Mommy. It melts my heart to watch them together. Every time.
On Being Done
This is a poor little rich girl sort of post, so if you’re in a bad place and still in the TTC trenches, feel free to skip it. Nothing groundbreaking here.
One of Michelle’s exes is pregnant with twins and just announced their genders (a boy and a girl).
Guess who’s jealous? I’ll give you two guesses plus a hint: it’s not me.
It turns out that Michelle, despite her very real reservations about my TTC process (she was skeptical that it would work, she was worried I’d lose my rabbit-ass mind, and she dreaded the doubling of our childrearing expenses), misses the thrill of expectation. And the planning. And the attention, even.
“It feels weird to be done, and I kind of miss it,” says she.
In another reality, I would have jumped in with “Let’s do it again!”
And yet, I’m done. Really truly done. But it DOES feel weird. And I do kind of miss it.
I find that I still put a lot of energy into cheering for those still in the good fight. Part of this is because I feel like “Leave no woman behind” is an unspoken motto of the TTC community, but there’s something else to it too, something that I haven’t quite figured out yet.
I know that some IF veterans take the fight to the enemy, as it were, and become surrogates. In my heart of hearts, I harbor a little wish that one of my gay boyfriends will ask me to be his surrogate, but he doesn’t seem super paternal AND I’m pretty sure that my third-trimester complications would disqualify me anyhow.
So it’s not about being pregnant again. I really do feel like our family is complete, and it’s not like I think about surrogacy much except for that one circumstance. I wonder if it’s about letting go of my long-standing alter ego, Brave Subfertile (with my trusty sidekick, Non-TTC Supportive Partner)? Yeah, maybe that’s it.
Six Months!
Dear Rilo,
Tomorrow you will be six months old. (So will Puffer’s boys… happy six months little dudes!)
You are a spectacular little guy and I can’t imagine our family without you. Before you were born, I had a feeling you would be a happy boy. So far so good. You are happy-go-lucky, with an easy smile and an infectious laugh. At any type of gathering, you end up getting passed around and cooed over, and you seem to love the attention.
Here are some of the things I love about you right now:
- You love food. Love. It. You get so excited for the next bite that you sometimes spray your current bite back at us. When you’re not busy with the food spraying, you’re usually opening your mouth wide and kicking your feet. (Just for posterity, you’ve tried avocado, banana, pear, rice cereal, carrot puree, green bean puree, mango and applesauce. The only one you’ve been unsure of is applesauce.)
- You’re a huge fan of your sister. She can make you giggle just by walking up to you. She can do it over and over again, and you just keep laughing. You love to touch her face and tug her hair, and she knows the trick of tickling your palm to make you release. Whenever we ask you, “Where’s Kyan?” you swivel around to find her in the room. Thus far, she’s the only family member you consistently identify this way.
- You have a very special connection with Mommy. When you see her coming, you get all smiley and wiggly, then turn bashful just as she walks up, burying your face in my chestal region. She loves you so much, and seeing the two of you together just melts my heart.
- You tend to wake up so happy. Sometimes you just lay quietly in your crib, then break into the widest smile when you see us. What a wonderful way to start the day.
- We need to break this habit soon, but for now we have an hour or two of just-Rilo time after your sister goes to bed. Since she’s struggling with jealousy right now, we tend to save our schmoopiest moments with you for this time. It’s one of my favorite times of day.
We also have some challenges, like your current yelling phase, but thankfully your sister taught us that the only constant of babyhood is change. In a few weeks, you’ll have better volume control and will be on to something new.
Speaking of your sister, we spend a lot of time reminiscing about her babyhood lately. Looking back at her baby book, we get a little peek at what to expect with you, plus we see some fun commonalities:
- You’re both good sleeper and eaters
- You both have huge noggins
- You look just a little bit alike. Okay, a lot bit.
| Kyan at 6 months | Rilo at 6 months |
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- You both have huge fans in your Mommy and Mama
The One Where I Become an Apologist for Supplementation
[If you’ve posted anything about supplementation or milk supply lately, you’ve probably received an overlong comment from me. For that, I apologize. Sometimes I don’t know how strongly I feel about something until I go back an re-read a comment. Obviously it’s time for me to write something here and stop with the hijacking of the comment sections already!]
A Quick History of My Supply Challenges (fairly boring and repetitive if you’ve read PJ for any amount of time. Feel free to skip to the potentially-controversial part.)
I planned to be an exclusive breastfeeder. I didn’t anticipate any real barriers to this goal. I knew that a c-section could slow my milk’s arrival. I also knew that some women with PCOS have low supply. I still assumed that everything would work itself out.
When Rilo dropped 10% of his birthweight while we were still in the hospital, I didn’t fight the attending pediatrician’s recommendation to formula feed, and didn’t feel like I’d failed in any way. At three days of life, my boy was hungry, and I wasn’t going to make him wait another three for my milk to come in. Before we started supplementing, I requested a consult with the hospital’s lactation consultant and asked for a supplemental nurser. I went home with a hospital-grade pump, a tube-and-syringe system, and a plan (feed him at the breast every two hours, then pump for at least 20 minutes after each feeding, keep supplementing until my milk came in, and have him weighed regularly at the pediatrician’s office).
My milk came in on day six, but I could tell something was wrong. My pumping sessions yielded less than 15 ml of milk total (both breasts) and I felt faint every time I looked at the pump. It was all pain and no output. I called the lactation consultants and made an appointment for the next day. The LC was a wonderful and kind person, but the visit was disappointing.
- A weighted feeding showed that Rilo was transferring less than half a tablespoon from me at each feeding.
- My hope that we could stop supplementing was dashed and replaced by a longer-term plan (most of his nutrition would come from formula via the SNS, I would continue pumping for at least 30 minutes per session, I would try Reglan for a weeklong course, and we would continue doing weighted feedings for check for improved supply).
- A quick exam of my widely-spaced and squashy breasts (even with three hours to refill) garned me a referral to a renowned physician who specializes in breastfeeding medicine.
- A discussion of my ongoing swelling and dizziness led the LC to recommend that I talk to my OB’s office about getting Lasix. She theorized that all the swelling might be inhibiting my milk output.
If the LC had not mentioned Lasix, I might never have gone back to my OB’s office in time to catch the fact that I had postpartum pre-eclampsia. Holy scary blood pressure. I was readmitted to the hospital and given IV magnesium sulfate, Lasix, and iron. As the swelling decreased (thanks to 25 pounds of water weight coming off overnight), my supply increased exponentially. Suddenly I could pump an ounce per session, and I assumed that Rilo was transferring more during the SNS feedings as well, as he regained his birthweight and was sleeping soundly for up to five hour stretches.
My appointment with the breastfeeding doc brought some difficult news:
- Even though my supply was increasing, it was unlikely that I would meet 100% of Rilo’s need. Ever.
- A weighted feeding showed he was only transferring half an ounce.
- She examined my breasts and thought they looked hypoplastic (widely spaced, tubular, and lacking enough glandular tissue to make lots of milk).
I grieved during that session, and probably made an ass of myself. The good doctor hugged me, congratulated me for all that I’d done thus far, and wrote a three-word prescription: “Love your baby.”
That appointment was a turning point in the journey. Up until then, I thought I just wasn’t working hard enough or had somehow ruined my supply by agreeing to supplement. I was hypersensitive about my low supply and didn’t feel comfortable going to baby groups where formula might be frowned upon. I was eye-crossingly jealous of those with even adequate supply, and wanted to jump through the screen and strangle women who bragged about their freezer stashes or complained about oversupply. The doctor’s reassurance and encouragement helped me move the goal. I wanted to continue breastfeeding, but it was also time to embrace bothfeeding.
Remember that hospital readmission? While I lost 25 pounds of water, I gained a UTI-turned-kidney-infection, and ended up on Cipro, an antibiotic not safe for breastfeeding. So I stopped using the SNS and switched him to bottles for two weeks. I pumped and dumped, hoping that I could at least maintain my supply and that he would willingly return to breastfeeding. Ironically, I was prescribed Reglan to help with the nausea (kidney infections can cause severe nausea). This time, the combo of pumping, Reglan and more sleep (thanks to the fever) jumped my supply again. I was pumping 14 oz a day, and Rilo was eating 24 oz of formula.
But would we be able to return to breastfeeding? Poor little guy was just four weeks old, and had already been through fruitless breastfeeding, syringe feeding, using a supplemental nurser and bottle feeding. Who wouldn’t develop nipple confusion? Rilo. As soon as I had clearance to try again, he was back to it like a champ.
At the follow-up appointment with the breastfeeding doc, Rilo transferred three ounces and seemed very content. What a huge change. She was very encouraging and sees no reason why we can’t maintain our bothfeeding regimen for at least a year. She discouraged me from using domperidone or any other galactagogues because long-term use is unstudied, and I’d already reaped the short-term benefits of Reglan.
At 23 weeks, we’re going strong. He has great feedings before bed and in the mornings. When we’re home together on weekends, I feed him about five times and he has two or three bottles. My supply continues to increase, and I can pump up to 5 oz in a session. Of course Rilo’s needs have gone up too, so I’ll never catch up, but that’s okay.
I had to mourn my low supply. I had to work through guilt and jealousy and feelings of inadequacy. But I’m or less there. I’m a bothfeeder, and better for it.
Here’s The Part Where I Become an Apologist for Supplementation
I’ve noticed a trend on breastfeeding boards that troubles me. Whenever someone writes about their child losing 10% of birthweight and needing to supplement, there’s this chorus of comments like “Stop supplementing NOW, your supply will tank, your child won’t want to return to breastfeeding, etc.” One woman even wrote, “… I would at least exhaust all my options before I supplemented because that usually leads to weaning.”
These comments seem to be made with the best of intentions, but they smack of a superiority that reminds me of smug fertiles. Remember those helpful comments about relaxing or snorting baby dust? (I assume that’s what you’re supposed to do with the stuff, although I never could find a clean dollar bill when I needed one, obviously.)
So I’ve become an apologist for supplementation. When someone is beating herself up about supplementing, I try to chime in with some encouragement. While it seems like most people can achieve an adequate supply, I acknowledge that some of us can’t. I let her know that it’s possible to maintain a great breastfeeding relationship, even with long-term supplementation. I congratulate her for the hard work she’s already done.
But there’s something I rarely acknowledge on the boards, because I don’t want to open myself for attack. Even though I would not have chosen to bothfeed if I had adequate supply, it’s made my life easier. Because I’ll never keep up with his need, I don’t have to worry about a freezer stash. At best, I’m able to build up a 15 oz fridge stash, but it never sits for more than 48 hours. I don’t beat myself up if I occasionally miss a pumping session. When we’re out an about, I can choose to breastfeed or bottle feed, depending on the situation. I can go up to five hours without breastfeeding or pumping, which gives me a great deal of freedom. Because Michelle can take the early-morning feeding, I get to sleep for eight-hour stretches on weekends.
While I was home on maternity leave, I heard an NPR story about Elisabeth Badinter’s book, Le Conflit, in which she suggests that societal pressure to exclusively breastfeed is anti-feminist. It became an NPR “driveway moment” for me. I was just a few weeks from returning to full-time outside-the-home employment and was just settling into bothfeeding. While I don’t necessarily agree with Badinter on her premise (that women become oppressed by their children in their pursuit of ideal motherhood), I had to acknowledge my own privilege. Bothfeeding, in concert with having 40+ week of paid childcare, a full-time outside-the-home job, and an equal coparent seems to give me more space to be an autonomous woman. Not that I’m doing anything special with that freedom at the moment, but there’s a certain rush in knowing it’s there.
One Year Ago Today
I woke up early, took a test with shaking hands, and wrote this.
This morning, I’m waiting waiting waiting for my sweet boy to wake up so that I can feed and cuddle him.
I am so blessed. And grateful.
Instead of Bullets, Let’s Call Them “Vignettes with Dots,” Okay?
- I’ve had a horrible case of blogstipation lately. I think of things I want to write about, then can’t quite get the words out.
- Kyan is starting to express feelings of jealousy and replacement, and it breaks my heart. Not just because she’s hurting, and not just because there is no magic fix for such sadness, but because she’s on to me. As much as I want to say that I love them exactly the same, I don’t. They are different people, and I love them differently. I’m doing my best to assure her that she is deeply loved, but that doesn’t feel like enough. My love for him is unconditional and fierce, and my love for her… sometimes I worry that it seems conditional, if that makes any sense.
- I’m going to need to spend more time on the previous Vignette with Dots, obviously.
- Rilo is just wonderful lately. As sad as we were to see Michelle return to work, our new childcare setup (three days at daycare, four days at home–two with my mom, two with us) seems to be perfect for him. He smiles so much that his whole body wiggles, and he appears to be on happiness overload with all of the new caregivers and other babies he’s meeting.
- I’m starting to hate pumping with a capital H (and A and T and E). Given that I spend an hour of my working day (over two sessions) and only get 6-8 ounces, it feels like a huge waste. The only thing that’s keeping me going is my desire to maintain as much supply as I can for the times I’m with my boy. I really do cherish that time, especially since my low supply experience has taught me not to take it for granted. But the pumping? Meh!
- We’re trying to plan some good family adventures for the Memorial Day weekend. Kyan’s at an age where relaxing at home is anything but, so we need to stay on the go. Some ideas include a drive to Portland for pancakes and a trip to the zoo (oooh, and some bacon donuts if we have time), or a day exploring Vashon Island. We’re lucky to live where we do, because there are lots of great options, but I must say I wish it were warmer at this time of year.
- I think I’m going to play hooky one day next week. I’ll spend a few hours blissfully alone at home (I don’t think I’ve been properly alone since December), then pick Rilo up early from daycare and spend the afternoon sitting in the grass with my sweet boy.
- Guilt. How can I even think about spending just-Rilo time without planning some just-Kyan time too? I think I shall take her to a movie over the weekend.
- I’m glad I bulleted vignetted some of my thoughts out, but there are still more more more. Our life is now exponentially more complicated. It’s what I always wanted, AND it’s harder than I thought it would be. And I’m struggling with all kinds of guilt about that.
A Boy and His Mommy
The greatest benefit to our family was time. I’ll try to explain how/why this was by comparing her work life and her leave life.
What If?
I’ve been riveted by Project IF on Stirrup Queens. If you haven’t read (or contributed to) the list, you might find it cathartic. Or heart wrenching. Or both. This post is in response to Part 2 of the project: write a post about your own What If. It bears noting that I’ve been working on this post since last Thursday. I’ve avoided thinking and/or writing about this for a long time.
What if, despite my ultimate success, I never let go of the emotional baggage I picked up during my struggle with subfertility?
Just one cycle shy of my self-imposed end point,* I saw my third faint positive. Three years and one week after my first IUI, Rilo completed our family. I felt his profound absence for so long that his presence is still a wonderful surprise. I can’t believe that he’s here, that he’s ours.
My subfertility journey should be over, and yet it isn’t. I’m still dragging the baggage I picked up along the way.
Some of that baggage was inherited. Four years before I was born, my mom lost a baby late in the first trimester. The doctor who performed her D&C warned her that she wouldn’t be able to carry a child to term, given her small stature. (The woman wears size 3 3/4 shoes and weighs just over 100 pounds.) She continued to try, avoiding other people’s babies and social situations where the inevitable question would arise. And then she had me, her only living child.
My mom’s fertility struggle has always been part of my narrative. She wanted me to understand that I was a wanted child, a beloved child, a special snowflake. I did come away with a sense of specialiness, a sort of inflated self esteem that didn’t go over well on the playground, but I also picked up an incredible sense of responsibility and guilt. My mom knew a lot of other women who were infertile or subfertile (although how they knew each other without benefit of the interwebs will forever baffle me). When she shared their stories, I could always sense the unspoken postscript. That was almost her story too.
When Michelle and I started going to Maybe Baby (a GLBTQ family-building support group), we discovered how differently we viewed the journey. Michelle wanted children, but she could have happily lived childfree as well. She wanted to try for a set amount of time (six months or six tries), then get on with her life. She was stunned to discover that there are people who feel differently about such things. People who would deeply mourn their childlessness should they not be able to conceive or adopt. She was even more stunned to discover that one of those people was me.
Michelle’s TTC process was relatively quick. She got a little bit pregnant on her first try (a chemical pregnancy), then lastingly pregnant with Kyan on her fourth. Even though they were short in the grand scheme of our lives, those six months were hard. Michelle struggled with the uncertainty of the process, not knowing how our lives would change in the next year. I struggled with a deep longing for our children. I could feel their absence, and it already hurt.
Once Michelle was convincingly pregnant, all thoughts of TTC were put back into our mental hope chest, to be revisited when Kyan was two or three. At least that was true for Michelle. For me, knowing that the next round was my turn, it was hard to put it out of my mind entirely.
I had a feeling that my journey wouldn’t be as blissfully simple. For one thing, I have a family history of subfertility. (At least four generations back, there are signs of both primary and secondary infertility. Generations are spaced more than 30 years apart; first and second children are four, five, and seven years apart; and there’s a certain melancholy when it comes to reproduction.) For another, I had suddenly gained weight (more than 30 pounds in six months) and was far more hirsute than I wanted to be. I suspected something was wrong, and just a few weeks before Kyan was born, an endocrinologist confirmed that fear. My testosterone levels were out of control. My girly hormones were all atilt. She diagnosed me with PCOS and put me on Metformin (2000mg/day) and encouraged me to lose as much weight as I could.
It took me almost a year to take action with weight loss, but once I did, I threw myself into the project. I kept telling myself that in order to be ready for TTC, I had to be as physically fit and hormonally balanced as possible. By the time Kyan turned two, I was down 60 pounds, had great abs, and had picked up a raging case of baby fever.
And yet, it just wasn’t quite time. Michelle wasn’t all that excited about starting again and was even backpedaling on the two kids plan altogether. This sparked major relational discord and triggered a major depression for me. That was a horrible time. I had all the longing and angst that goes with trying to conceive, yet no idea if (or when) my actual TTC process would commence. It was torture.
But things slowly improved. We went to couples counseling. I found equilibrium and stability in the combination of drugs and therapy. Our lives evened out. Kyan continued to amaze us with her wonderfulness, yet we could finally agree that we’d rather she be a big sister than an only child. The time had come.
In January of 2007, I cycled for the first time. There was a wonderful and exciting newness to the process, and yet I was already scratched and dented. I feared for my own fertility due to my family history and my PCOS diagnosis. I was worried that Michelle would suddenly change her mind and pull the plug. I was worried that my own worry would sabotage my chances.
I only made it through three cycles before I had to take a long hiatus. While I knew that TTC would be stressful, I wasn’t prepared for how much each negative could hurt, how a coworker’s accidental pregnancy could send me into a tailspin, or how easily I could slip back into depression.
During the hiatus, something changed for me. I realized that I had put way too much pressure on myself. I realized that what I already had was pretty wonderful. I realized that when I returned to TTC, I would need an end point and I would also need to take lots of mini breaks.
When I returned to TTC, I had a different outlook. The next four negative cycles were all hard, but they weren’t as soul-crushing. I kept telling myself that I still had five tries left. Five seemed like plenty. I still had reason to hope.
Then, on my eighth try, nearly two years into the process, I saw a positive. The line was so faint that it was hardly reassuring, but it was still the first one I’d ever seen. My first beta was low. The second was still low, but it had doubled. My progesterone, however, was dismal. I wanted so badly to celebrate, but I just knew that something wasn’t right. I spent an angsty weekend taking countless HPTs and trying to convince my RE to put me on progesterone supplements. Then Monday’s beta came back surprisingly strong, and I let myself believe it would all be okay. Unfortunately, my first ultrasound showed an empty uterus. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as hard as I did on the table that day. Even though I had a bad feeling early on, there was no way to prepare myself for that loss.
In the weeks following the loss, I discovered that Michelle either couldn’t or wouldn’t be the support that I needed. I was mourning something very real to me. She believed that since the ultrasound had showed nothing, there was nothing to mourn. In a two-week span, I had lost my pregnancy and my support person.
And yet, I clung to the idea that if I was able to get pregnant once, I would be able to get pregnant again. That turned out to be true. The next time that I cycled, I saw another faint positive, another low beta, and a loss just a week later. That loss didn’t hurt in the same way, because I never let myself really hope. I worked hard to maintain a positive attitude, but I wasn’t surprised when it failed. That time, I expected very little support from Michelle, and wasn’t surprised at her indifference. Between the first and second loss, I reached out to blogosphere, and found an incredible group of women who understood why I needed to mourn and hope all at once.
I still clung to the idea that my body was just practicing for a real and lasting pregnancy. That also turned out to be true. The next time I cycled (after a two-month break), I saw another faint positive. I spent the first fifteen minutes crying huge gulping sobs, fearing another loss. But the beta number was great, and it doubled right on schedule. I was a nervous wreck for the first 10 weeks or so, but ultimately I had a smooth(ish) pregnancy and a wonderfully healthy boy.
You might remember that after Rilo was born, I had some health complications. Pre-eclampsia eight days after delivery. A kidney infection that stemmed from my second hospitalization. Dismally low milk supply. The ugliest complication of all, though, was my genuine worry/belief that I had brought all of these things upon myself by cheating the fertility gods. A few days into my postpartum health debacle, Michelle said “Well, I guess some people just weren’t built to be pregnant,” and I agreed with her. Despite my ultimate success, I still felt like a failure.
While the pre-eclampsia and kidney infection are so far behind me I can hardly remember them, the milk supply issue still brings me to tears (all chipper updates aside). I hoped and planned to be an exclusive breastfeeder, and was so looking forward it. I expected it would be hard at first, and even anticipated that it would take a long time for my milk to come in (given the induction and c-section). I never anticipated supply issues, and it is incredibly disappointing. I do celebrate what I am able to provide (50% on a bad day, 75% on a good one), but I struggle with ugly feelings of envy when I see someone’s post about their freezer stash or someone else’s celebration that they made it to a certain milestone “without one drop of formula.”
No, I haven’t let go of my baggage yet. I still think of myself as less-than because of my subfertility. I see my low milk supply as one more example of my less-than-ness. I still feel pangs of sadness when an uber-fertile announces their pregnancy. I still regret that my kids are spaced so far apart. I still feel the need to put an asterisk on my success.
But what if I did let go? What if I could redefine myself as someone who is blessed beyond blessed, no asterisk needed? What if I retain the memory of subfertility (since it was an incredibly formative time) but let go of the parts that no longer serve me? What if?
www.resolve.org/infertility101 or National Infertility Awareness Week (NIAW) at: www.resolve.org/takecharge.
Project Kjetil 
