Late Bloomer and the Art of Reinvention

I have the most gorgeous of friends who shares her feelings about infertility with the most gorgeous of words. Ashley is brilliant in all that she partakes, and I am sure this will follow her into eventual motherhood. Here is her story:

The reptile tongue of discouragement is inventive and convincing. I know it doesn’t make sense in the late hours of the night, but I still listen to his whispering words with baited breath. He's an enemy, I am aware, but I invite him into bed with me anyway and let his persuasive words prick my soft eyes, sending sleepy tears down my tired face. It’s too late to fight tonight. I'll let his sad words about delayed dreams lull me to sleep.

I’m counting on a promise, a dream, a capricious dancing image in a distant mirror. My dream is on the playbill in bold and glitter, but hasn’t made its grand entrance on stage. It promises to grace us with its presence before the end of the show. But my patience sometimes wears thin. I scarf some more popcorn and wonder if we’re in the wrong theater. Who bought these damn tickets anyway?

Oh.

We both did.

So in the meantime while we wait for more characters to emerge onstage, I am learning to reinvent my life in the present. I’m a list maker. I start making lists of educational pursuits, career goals, hobbies, crafts. That last one was a lie. I’d rather file an old man’s toe nails than craft. I get busy doing good things and sometimes I go for days and weeks without feeding my cancer of unfulfilled desire. Life is good.

Then I step on the train in my expensive suit and shiny heels. I feel like a poster child for the modern woman pursuing career goals in my pumps and perfectly creased pants. I pretend that I don’t want a newborn baby against my chest or a toddler’s arms wrapped around my neck. I pretend. But then a two-year-old Asian baby with pig-tails and perfectly creamy skin boards the metro with her mom behind the stroller. My modern woman exterior falls off like an over-sized costume and melts in front of this perfect creature. She giggles and squeals as I make faces at her with the brilliance of innocence radiating through her eyes. I laugh and quiet my voice as my eyeballs start to get wet. I swallow hard and look up at the silver ceiling of the train car to keep my emotions from rolling down my face. Please don't work today, gravity. I wave goodbye and start walking home.

Deep breaths. The slithering snake of discouragement has turned the corner and is following me down the avenue home. Queue the music please. We’ve been through this drill before. It’s always the same.

Just when he almost reaches me, I feel a sudden encompassing feeling. The closest thing I can relate it to is when you step into a shower on a cold winter morning. The prickly shivers on your naked body make you want to dart back to bed. The cold tile on your feet makes it worse and you swear you can almost see your breath in the air. When you finally turn the shower on, the hot water dumps millions of stinging goose bumps all over your body. At first you think it hurts, but then you realize that the harsh water has replaced any former coldness with all-encompassing warmth. It dumps over every curve in your body turning bone-chilling agony into drenching comfort.

That feeling covers every molecule of my soul as I walk down the sidewalk. A smile comes over my face and the tears transform from bitter acid into sweet liquid. Without hearing a single word, the clear thought is communicated to my mind, “You will be a mother someday, Ashley.” In that moment, every fear dissipates. I know it’s true.

But the problem is that I don’t serve a Master who communicates dream fulfillment deadlines. By all reports He’s an organized fellow, but His executive assistant consistently fails to deliver a blessing deadline in my inbox. I keep checking to see if it's in the "spam" folder. I can’t add it to my calendar. I suppose knowing the precise moment might obliterate my faith.

So in the meantime, I’m trying not to spend my life waiting for my golden ticket. I’m trying to enjoy the sweetness I’ve been given without souring its taste with wishful “what if’s” and jealous “when me’s”. I’m reinventing my short-term dreams and expectations. I’m focusing on learning, being a good worker, being a better friend, and being a better lover and friend to my sweet companion.

I won’t feel guilty when I have teary moments at church or on the train. I’ll try not to let it break my heart when I see my husband get emotional about wanting a baby of our own. As long as these sad moments don’t lead me into frequent and soul deafening despair, I’m going to tell myself that those feelings are simply a heavenly reminder of what we both hope to be eternally. I also won't feel guilty when I go through periods where the desire is kept at bay. I'll remind myself that I haven't thrown the dream out the window and that that forgetfulness is a tender mercy allowing me to progress in life.

"Infertility" is difficult not because you simply want what someone else has or because you want to achieve something that’s socially expected. It’s that the label somehow chips away at what you are eternally. It makes you feel that you can’t somehow be what you believe you were born to be.

So I choose to label myself a “late bloomer” instead. God intends for us to be parents. I know that. I feel that at the center of my talents and God-given abilities is the divine nature to be a mother. His greatest joy is seeing His children grow and progress to eternal happiness and He knows that our greatest happiness will sprout from those same experiences. He has not robbed us. In His infinite wisdom, I believe He is letting our roots grow strong before this dream starts to blossom. Hopefully the delay will make that spring all the sweeter.

Whenever it comes.