The rain outside falls in a steady beat against the window, while the wind rouses the newly blossoming flowers into a rhythmic sway. It is still dark and grey on this dreary Sunday morning, yet we are warm, holed up in different areas of the kitchen, the heated floors working their magic. My oldest, at the table, concentrates on a paper that is due the next day while I concentrate on not interrupting to give a lecture on the perils of procrastination. My middle son sits at the island watching a YouTube video with headphones on. Occasionally, he cracks up from some private joke between him and 674,000 other followers, while my youngest bounces around me asking if the brownies I’m making are ready before they’ve even hit the oven.
I look around, capture the moment and let the love fill me to tears. I’m a mom, I think, and the thought comes almost from nowhere, kind of like my middle son’s burst of laughter. It happens like that for me occasionally, especially on slower days like this where we never change out of our PJs. In the quieter moments, I fully appreciate that I’m actually a mom, and these are my beautiful children. The realization never ceases to amaze me.
My oldest is 15, my middle son is closing in on 13 and my youngest is 10. To know me now is to never understand that for years, pregnancy was a bubble floating just out of reach; rays of sunlight that would never be mine.
Thinking back on that time, it almost feels like our fertility journey happened to someone else. Almost. You never fully recover from years of disappointment. It changes you.