by The Wannabe Mom
When I decided to write this column, I begged the chambanamoms for anonymity. The idea of writing from behind the invisibility-cloak of a pen-name made me feel safe and secure.
Saturday night while we were enjoying dinner with friends, it happened. That cloak was lifted. My girlfriend asked if I was the Wannabe Mom. And I nodded yes.
Now six people know. The chambanamoms, who so graciously offered to let me share my thoughts on their website each Friday. Two good girlfriends, one who fought her way through infertility and has four beautiful success stories, and one who is fighting her way through it right along with me.
A very good guy friend-because he has no shame in reading chambanamoms.com and guessed within minutes of my first column posting that I was her and she was me. And, of course, my super-duper sperm donor hubby. I’ve sworn them all to secrecy.
We haven’t told many people we’re trying to have a baby. I can count on one hand the number of people who know our true struggles with infertility. The heart of the matter is, I’m weak. I can’t take the looks of pity that come from someone knowing we’re failing miserably at getting pregnant.
I don’t want anyone feeling sorry for us. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable wondering if it’s happened for us yet. I really don’t want to have to muster up the strength to answer no when they actually ask.
I’m not ready to put a name and a face on this story yet. But I do exist, an I’m pretty easy to spot.
You can find me in the doctor’s office on cycle days 3, 9, 10, 11, 17 and 24-sometimes more.
Or standing in the check-out line at the grocery store with tampons and home pregnancy tests in my cart. Plus, an entire stack of celebrity gossip magazines.
I am the girl who isn’t drinking caffeine — my favorite drug. When we’re out I order club soda with a lime to fool my friends into thinking it’s a vodka and soda, hoping they won’t ask why I’m not drinking.
I’m the girl on the treadmill at the gym constantly checking my heart rate. God forbid it gets over 140 beats per minute.
I’m pretty sure I’m the only non-pregnant girl wearing maternity pants because at certain times in my cycle — after all the drugs and injections — my stomach is pooched-out to the point of no return. I have no shame. I love a stretchy waistband.
I assure you I am a real person. I read and appreciate your comments. I can feel your love, hugs and support. But I’m not ready to lift my cloak just yet.
I hold out hope that, someday, we will have our baby. I have faith it will happen.
There. I said it. And on that day, after Baby is here and breathing, and my hair and make-up are done, I will share a picture of the two of us with all of you.
But you’ll have to wait at least nine more months for that—and at the rate things are going (or NOT going!) maybe even longer. Until then, I’ll be down at the coffee shop in my stretchy-maternity jeans typing away and drinking my decaf latte.
The Wannabe Mom has been trying to conceive for more than a year and was recently diagnosed with unexplained infertility. She and her husband live and work in Champaign, and they desperately want to drive a Toyota Sienna minivan someday. We’ll be following her journey, so buckle up and get ready to cry with her — and cheer her on, too.