But, can't you see that I'm NOT normal?!?

So the boy will be going to preschool in the fall. Today we got a big packet of information in the mail: medical forms, contact information, a class list, fall calendar... The fall calendar stood out. It listed the events that will occur in his classroom throughout the semester and which one parents would be invited to/asked to help at. Before that moment, I hadn't really pictured myself helping out in my son's classroom: assisting with holiday parties, chaperoning field trips, sewing costumes for pageants. Those things are such mom things to do. And I am being asked to do them, just like all of the other parents. But there are still so many days that I just don't feel like all of the other parents. I think my packet of information should have arrived amidst a bit more fanfare. Balloons, confetti, perhaps a marching band, Ed McMahon shouting: "Congratulations!!! You did it!!! You're a mom!!! And as a reward, you get to help out in YOUR VERY OWN CHILD'S classroom this year!!! Just like all of the other normal parents!!!" But instead, it arrived in a boring, white envelope, just like everyone else's. The person who put it all together and addressed it and sent it saw nothing special about my packet. Our mail carrier was not awed by it. But I'm still not like everyone else. Infertility sets you apart, makes you feel alienated from those around you who are conceiving their children with such ease. And when you finally do succeed in having children, everyone else treats you like a normal pregnant person, a normal parent. But you aren't. I'm not. And maybe I never will be. I don't love my kids any more. I am no more proud of their accomplishments. I am no more heartbroken by their pain and I am no less frustrated when they are difficult. But our journey to them was different, life altering in fact, and I suspect that it has changed the way I will view parenthood forever.

Quatro

...or more accurately, Quatra, is here. She arrived a month early, but perfectly healthy. And beautiful. And wonderful. I am still pinching myself. As happy as I was to be a mom to my son, I am doubly happy to be a mom to my son and daughter. Being a minivan-driving stay-at-home mom to the ever so mundane family of four- one boy, one girl (how very June Cleaver!) might sounds like unadulterated hell to some. I am not one of them. I am downright giddy, possibly pathologically so. No, it is not always perfect. In fact, it is never perfect and is sometimes even really rough. But one of the gifts of infertility is that when you have experienced the lowest low, the highs are that much higher and even the ordinary middle ground seems pretty darn good. As for my earlier proclamation that my uterus is closed for business... perhaps a Cinco wouldn't be the worst thing ever? A decision for another day (and for God, since I have long since learned that it's not our decision anyway). Today, I am happy. Truly happy.