never tell me the odds

I turn 42 this weekend. It was almost two years ago now that my husband and I realized that, despite what we'd been telling ourselves since not long after we got married, we did in fact want to have a child. That was quite the epiphany, I must say. The thing is, we got the opportunity to come to this realization when I missed a period. [We were both really sad when the pee stick said, "Nope," and then it was like, Wait a second...] And as I would soon learn, that happened because I had a little thyroid problem called Grave's Disease, which, in addition to making me more hyper, more sensitive, hungrier, and sweatier than usual, was tweaking my body's hormone soup in ways which would have made it nigh on impossible and even dangerous for me to try to concieve before clearing it up.

It took about a year from then to take care of that problem. And somehow I've whiled away the year since the clean bill of health, sort of trying to concieve but sort of not trying all that hard and not really worrying about it. My doctors both told me that that was the best approach, which was refreshing.

But it hasn't happened yet. And I just made the mistake of doing a little internet research on fertility after forty. Stupid, stupid. Let's just say the odds may not be in my favor. I mean, I knew this, but I didn't really break it down because I believe that if I truly intend something, if it's meant to happen the odds don't mean doodly. I suppose I could have paid more attention sooner to boosting my odds, but I really didn't want to mess with my easy-going attitude about the whole thing - my secret weapon.

So why did I look at this information? Well for starters, the number 42 sounds inordinately larger than the number 41, somehow. And I have an appointment with an Ob this Friday; I guess I wanted to be passably familiar with the standard M.O. for women like me. All I can say is that I hope the doctor I'll be seeing is extremely cool, and sensitive to the importance of optimism and fierce, faithful belief in situations like mine. I get that it's possible I won't get what I want. I do. But that's always possible, isn't it? I am not about to dwell on that aspect of things out of some misguided idea about what's "good for me." I think what's good for me is to stay as open as I can possibly be to my true dreams and wishes and intentions, and then to pursue them with all my power in the way that feels most right and least fearful (fear-full). The path that opens up that way can certainly lead to unexpected outcomes, but it doesn't lead to undesired ones. Something this important can only be in God's hands. I trust that the right thing, the best thing, will happen. I'm doing my very best to both do my part and stay out of the way. I know that one way or another I will be a mother.

I still think it will happen the old-fashioned way, actually. Why not? Besides, no one ever thinks I'm as old as I am. That can't hurt. People in doctors offices and such are forever confirming my birth year, thinking it's a typo or something, and when co-workers and such find out my age they often seem downright stunned. This used to happen even when I got sick of coloring my hair and let my copious grey grow in. I got lots of comments then about what an interesting dye-job I had. I guess I have a youthful presentation! I do have good genes and all in this regard, but I figure it must be at least partly due to my spry spirit. And I imagine that sort of thing helps.

Anyway... don't want to start protesteth-ing too much. Just please do me a small favor if you're so inclined, and picture me with a nursing infant from time to time. I could use some support as I work on my ultimate creative project. Thanks, friends.