The authors spoke about our “reproductive story” our unconscious and conscious conditioning influenced by family, culture and general society about having children. One of the thing that have confused me was that I never was 100% sure I wanted to have children. the authors state that my hot and cold path was actually quite normal.

When I was in violent relationships I could not imagine having children with these men. When I saw my parents’ marriage disintergrate I thought that it would be better to be a single mother. When I felt so different from my friends because we were Latina, I swore my children would eat “American”. When I was in college I had a vague notion of natural birth and how I would eat all my veggies so my children would eat them. And interspersed throughout these thoughts was the niggling thought that I would not be able to have children.

Yes I suspected infertility because I had such painful periods that I just knew something was wrong. I had no hard proof but I knew. When I came out I was partially relieved when I came out because I  knew I didn’t have to wait to go to a doctor and get everything checked out.

When Mikey and I got together, my biological clock went nuts. I always imagined a daughter, a girl with big brown eyes. I imagined Mikey cutting the umbilical cord. I imagined the things that might happen through the years; how I would react to teen resistance, the first love. When my nephews were born, I began to imagine and lowered my resistance to boys. I mentally recruited the male role models from my congregation. I imagined how we would potty train, debated circumcision (nope, not for us), how we would talk about sex; how much we had to learn since we don’t have brothers.

I imagined AA anniversaries with my family looking on and making a stole decorated by our child for Mikey’s ordination. I prayed that I would not repeat the mistakes that our parents make and that the things they did right we would pass on to our child.

Writing this down is exhausting.  My story looks right now like a bunch of broken dreams, sharp as glass, ready to prick me as I try to put everything back together. I try to walk away, to avoid the pain of being cut  and cut again but what’s a little pain? What’s a little more blood added to the blood I’ve already let on this journey; the blood in tubes the blood coming out of me signaling another failure. What’s pain next to the feeling of holding my child in my arms?

The authors wrote about keeoping a journal. I wonder what they have to say about the infertility blogosphere (the book was written before the blog explosion)?

Head on over to Are We Done Yet? for their take on Chapter 2.