It’s been a year since my first BFP (ever). I’ve been thinking about that day (a Friday, a day I got my hair cut) as we neared the end of January. It’s been a hell of a year. Motherhood is both everything I’d hoped for and a few things I’d feared.
But a year out and all I can think about is how much I wish I could go give my past self a big hug. Tell her that sometimes, the worst thing doesn’t happen. Sometimes everything goes right. Which is something I need to hear even now, as it appears that fascism and hate has won out. Terrible things happen, yes, but so do wonderful things.
A year ago and Lady Jr was just an extra line on a test, almost too pale to see. A smudge of tiny, fragile hope when I’d long since given up. A reminder that the world is neither fair nor just nor good nor evil. It just is. That line didn’t care about my fear of jinxing it, it didn’t have anything to do with my worry – it just was.
I don’t regret giving up. I don’t think letting go of the dream to have a baby had anything to do with finally conceiving. I blame the drugs for that. I wish sometimes that I’d given up a little sooner, or at least tried a medicated cycle a lot sooner.
But on the other hand, the timing was almost perfect. We got an October baby. She didn’t come until right after we had moved. Any sooner and I might have been 40 weeks pregnant when Tucson hit a high of 114 degrees. After sweltering through 80s, I’m particularly grateful for that.
A year ago, we’d just found out about France (see: no go). A year ago, I was clawing my way out of depression. A year ago, we didn’t know where we’d be living in six, eight, ten months. A year ago, I thought I’d have to completely rewrite my novel to get it published.
I’m amazed daily by our luck. And to think, a year ago it seemed so impossible. Then the impossible happened. Life is strange sometimes.