Today is my thirty-second birthday. It sure doesn’t feel like a birthday, and frankly I’m not at all interested in having a birthday right now.
This is the fourth birthday that I’ve been waiting for my family. I honestly don’t feel a bit of joy over this “special day.” I feel that emptiness; the hole that cannot be filled. That infertile feeling.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was going to have my kids by 30. And, for sure I would have at least one now and be working on the second. Just like everyone else.
Birthdays are sucky reminders of everything that was supposed to be. And everything that hasn’t been. This birthday is just another step in the long, long wait to meeting our child.
Is our baby here yet? Oh. Nope. I guess I’ll eat more cake.