You don’t exist yet, but I’m writing to you anyway. At the moment, I imagine you floating in the air around us—not quite a being yet, but not nothing either. You’re just waiting for the right moment to make your appearance.
Your father and I are doing everything we can to make you real.
So many months of trying, of tracking, of ingesting hormones, of blood draws and medical appointments. So much time and effort. So many tears shed.
If love could bring you here, you would have graced us with your presence from the moment we had that weighty discussion—“Should we have a baby?” I’ve loved you from the very second my brain conceived you. You would be bouncing on your dad’s knee, grinning and cooing, as babes are wont to do. I’d hold you at night, feeling your soft, sweaty body in sleep, eyes closed. We’d trip over your toys littering the living room, and then laugh in gratitude.
If love alone could bring you here, we wouldn’t be having this discussion.
Sadly, that’s not the way it works. Instead, we fall into the same steady routine—trying to will you into existence. Wake up. Take temperature. Record in ovulation chart. Take hormones to try to make my body behave like…well, a body. Schedule appointments. Pray and pray again that this month, this time, will be when it works.
Please don’t take any of this as a complaint—we are so happy to do this for you. We recognize our privilege in having the opportunity and resources to undergo treatment. To even have a safe, healthy baby in the first place.
In a way, all this effort has become my ritual, a meditation of sorts. It’s the only way I know to keep myself busy. It’s the only way I can feel like I’m doing something to bring you here.
Without you, we are still a family. We still love, fight to keep the good things in this world, and lean on each other. If God or the Earth or whatever controls us decides that we’re not the right fit for you, your dad and I will survive. We will weather this storm, drenched and exhausted, but still a united team.
But with you…well, I don’t even have the words for how wonderful life could be.
So, my darling child—I’m not blessed with enough insight to know when you’ll arrive, or even how, but please know that we’re here. Waiting for you. Our arms and hearts are open, and we will emerge from this hardship stronger than before.
Take as much time as you need, but don’t wait too long. We have a pup who is very excited to meet you.
Your Infertile Mother