When they came into the world, I knew I was complete.
I always wanted to be a mother.
I loved kids and they loved me. In fact, I was convinced that I was born to be a parent. So while my friends planned take-no-prisoner careers, I thought about baby names and nurseries. The only problem was, my defective reproductive system didn’t get that memo.
Ironically, when the career I never really wanted was flying high, my career-minded pals began falling pregnant. So taking advantage of my steadily increasing income, we stashed away the dollars to buy a home fit for a big family and my hubby and I got on with the business of getting pregnant. For a year. Without success.
All around us women seemed to be falling pregnant by merely glancing at a penis, so we decided to up the ante. I undertook a fertility friendly diet, gave caffeine and anything else remotely enjoyable the flick, gorged on vitamins, and invested a small fortune in weekly acupuncture and peeing on very expensive sticks to predict the perfect time for baby making. At the end of another year, all we had was a $10,000 dent in our bank account to show for our efforts.
Not one to give up, I visited several expensive specialists, tried every imaginable over-priced medical test and scan only to one day discover a little something burrowed into the lining of my uterus. It was a rather nasty fibroid that needed to be removed. Which in turn removed another $3000 from our bank account.
Three months later I was smugly pregnant. For nine whole weeks.