On Infertility and Impaired Fertility
Introduction
I have three daughters: ages twelve, ten, and seven. After having them in my care for so many years, I feel it safe to say that they are, in a word, awesome. For the most part, they’re obedient, helpful, and kind; they can feed, clothe, and bathe themselves, and they change the toilet paper rolls. In other words, they can fend for themselves while Mom sleeps in. My life for several years was easy.
Perhaps a little too easy.
So God decided I needed a shake-up.
Enter Baby Boy.
After no live births in seven years, I naturally began to assume that part of my life was over, and so I did the unthinkable: I started getting rid of the baby gear. And of course, blammo! Baby! Whether this is the start of a second wave of children or just my encore performance remains to be seen.
When people found out I was having my first boy, there was great rejoicing in the land. Everyone — friends, family, the librarian, the cashier at Food 4 Less, the sample lady at Costco, and pretty much every nurse while I was in labor — gave me the lowdown on boys, and let me tell you, each 100 percent guaranteed statement contradicted the last. Either this child is assured to be the easiest ever, or a little terror. I have yet to find out. He’s too young to roll over, let alone either burn down small villages or convert the residents to Christianity, so we still await his grand purpose in life. Though, kicking my husband in the face when he kissed my pregnant belly might not have been a good sign.
I always did want a priest in the family, so each time I rejoiced “Yes! Another girl!” my loving husband reminded me that “You can’t have a priest in the family, if you don’t have any boys.” So, Baby Boy is my shot. But for now, I’m back to the days of wondering why onesie designers make the top halves so much dirtier than the halves that hide under the pants.
I won’t spend much time talking about babies in this book. Lord knows you’ve already received advice on the matter from everyone and their cousin’s half-sister’s babysitter’s free-range chicken inspector. The usual advice is to sleep when the baby sleeps, which is fine and well so long as that’s your only child. Other advice for newborns is more in-depth, and a myriad of books on the topic will let you know how many naps are normal at a particular age and warn you that babies sometimes go days without soiling a diaper. What they don’t tell you is when baby finally does go, you’ll need a hazmat suit.
Motherhood has taught me a few things about babies that books can’t. For instance, if you want a crawling baby (or toddler, for that matter) to come to you, pretend to hide. Then peek around the wall or couch and gasp when you’re spotted. He’ll come as fast as his little arms and legs will allow.
Another discovery is that babies — like dogs and honeybees — sense fear. When I’ve tried to get mine to sleep and am all stressed out, as in, “Go to sleep, already! Please!” their little eyes stay wide open. On the other hand, if I’m sitting there spacing out, picturing my dream home, the kid falls asleep before I know it. Suddenly I’m like, “Oh, hello there, sleeping Baby Boy. When did you get here?” Try it sometime. If not the dream home, I recommend the dream vacation. Perfectly acceptable for it to not include Baby. No judgment.
I firmly believe there are as many different ways to parent as there are parents. You do what works for you, and don’t worry what everyone else thinks. And especially do not compare your child to others. A mom who had a baby around the same time as I had my first made a comment about teething. I mentioned that my daughter had four teeth coming in at once, only because I thought it unusual. The other mom seemed upset by this news and got defensive — over teeth — as though the rate at which children sprout teeth somehow determines who will go to a community college and who will go to Harvard.
And so I learned early that it’s best to resist the urge to talk baby with other parents. The comparing seems endless. Don’t worry how other babies measure up. This is a key to happy parenting, as is learning to let go and laugh even when the household chaos or calamities make you want to cry. Crying is still an option, but isn’t laughing more fun? When in doubt, laugh it out.
From one parent in the trenches to another, we’ve all been there. Parenting is hard, but it doesn’t have to be a burden. Why? Because parenting can also be a blast. I hope the tricks of the trade I’ve learned along the way and am sharing with you, will help you be a happier parent by making the job easier. If you can discipline effectively, you’ll have fewer tantrums to deal with. If you can teach your kids to pick up after themselves and do chores, that’s less cleaning for you, and a more peaceful, organized home. If you can wrangle them at church and instill in them a lasting faith, getting them to heaven will be that much more successful. And furthermore, the less time you need to spend parenting, the more time you have to enjoy having fun with your kids. All around, having fun with your kids makes you a happier parent.
And you being their parent, well, you wouldn’t have it any other way.
Enjoy!
Chapter One
Being a Happy Parent
“True holiness consists in doing God’s will with a smile.”
• Saint Teresa of Calcutta •
For most people, parenthood begins with an infant, and that’s sort of a raw deal. Sure, they’re cute and cuddly and they can’t dump all your Tupperware on the kitchen floor yet, or unravel an entire roll of toilet paper into the toilet, but they’re still difficult. I know because I currently have one. Or rather, we have one. I made the mistake of referring to him as “my baby” within earshot of my seven-year-old. “He’s not your baby, Mom. He’s our baby, too.” I stand corrected.
So when our baby was overdue, my fellow mom-friends felt so much sympathy for me. I, on the other hand, relished how easy he was to take care of while still inside of me. All his needs were being met, no poopy diapers had to be changed, and I could cart him everywhere with my hands free. He was like a Bluetooth baby.
Now things are more difficult — and I know difficult. I’ve earned two PhDs and three masters, completed both a decathlon and a triathlon, was CEO of a Fortune 500 company, swam the English Channel, rode a barrel over Niagara Falls, and flew on the Apollo 13 Mission. (I wasn’t in the movie because I accidentally insulted Kevin Bacon’s mother.) Despite having totally, totally done all those things, I find parenting is still the hardest job ever. And the most rewarding.
During a homily at Mass, the deacon said, “Think about how God loves you,” and so I did. Almost immediately the image of my baby boy popped into my mind and my heart swelled with love. This is how God the Father loves us, his children, despite how frustrating we can be. Baby Joseph doesn’t listen to — or do — what I say, cries inexplicably, and gets bored easily even when he’s given lots of shiny new toys to play with. Sound familiar? Joseph has no idea all I do for him and the sacrifices I make. God’s like, “Yeah. I might know a thing or two about that.” Yet, I love my child completely and unequivocally, like my heavenly father loves me. (Baby Joe is also astonishingly cute, so there’s