**WARNING: In the following post I say the word a** and also talk about fertility stuff so if that makes you uncomfortable, then maybe you should re-read Lila's post about how to get what you want instead. It's a much more fun read anyway. This one's kind of a downer, but it's how I'm feeling today.**
I'm sad. I really thought I was pregnant this month. I felt nauseous, exhausted, had headaches, and (I know this will mean nothing to most of you who don't chart your fertility cycles) I had this weird little dip in my temperatures that, when googled, assured me was an "implantation dip." Turns out the Internet is not a reasonable substitute for a home pregnancy test. Which I also used. Two of them. And when they were negative, I just thought I was testing too early. I wasn't ready to give up hope.
When we were trying to get pregnant with Lila, it took us five months. I know that's not a long time, but it's longer than I thought it would take and it's longer than it took most of my friends to get pregnant. So when we decided to try to get pregnant this time, I prepped myself for another five month trial. Well, this was our fifth month.
I knew I was more disappointed than usual, but I didn't realize just how deep that disappointment went until this afternoon at Chick-fil-a when the manager (who, to be fair, seemed very frazzled by the craziness of "Dress Like a Cow, Get Free Chicken" day) made me cry. She was irritable with me when I questioned why we weren't given the full meal free. Turns out our cow costumes - which we printed from the Chick-fil-a website - were only cow "starter kits" and therefore only earned us a free entree, not the full meal. Which is fine, I just thought it worth the ask. She acted like I was trying to scam the good people of Chick-fil-a out of their free meals with my half-assed cow costume.
I could feel the tears coming and I felt like I reverted back to 5th grade when I was made to sit on the bleachers in the lunch room for talking when I hadn't been talking. The injustice of the punishment brought me to tears then and my shame and embarrassment was only heightened when the lunch lady accused me of crying crocodile tears. At the time, I had no idea what that meant, but I knew from her tone it wasn't a compliment.
So here I am, sitting in an insanely chaotic environment (picture 100 people - men, women and children - dressed up as cows and terrified, screaming children because grown men wearing cow noses and ears are just a little scary), crying about having to pay for the french fries and drinks that I wouldn't have ordered had I known my cow costume wasn't up to par. (Okay, I still would have ordered the Dr. Pepper because, duh! it's Dr. Pepper and I love it.) And as I feel my eyes burning, my brain is telling me, "This is not a good reason to cry. Why are you crying?"
And that's when it hit me that I wasn't crying because the manager was snippy with me. I was crying because I wasn't pregnant. I hadn't really allowed myself the permission to grieve the baby that I thought I had growing in me. The baby I thought was a boy. The baby the Husband and I had started talking about names for. The baby that never existed except in my heart.
And to be honest, I feel really silly that I put that much thought into something that never was. I feel silly to be grieving the loss of something that I never had. I feel like five months of trying is not long enough to deserve those emotions.
But they're there. And yes, they're amplified by the other hormones surging through my body, but they're real emotions nonetheless. And I think I need to give them the permission to be what they are.
So I'm going to drink my Dr. Pepper and eat some dark chocolate raisinets and look at pictures of this cute girl who, with her mouth full of grapes told me, "Don't cry, Mommy. Daddy will give you a grape, too!"
But I'm also just really sad.