Age. It is something we focus on our entire lives. Our first birthday, an ‘oh so important’ birthday with our hands stuffed into cake and a bazillion photos. Our sweet sixteen, we can finally drive and are likely in love for the first time. Twenty-one celebrated in a pit of shots and throw up, to then move on to celebrating thirty like it is the beginning of the end. One thing I do know is that unlike our parents my generation felt as though they had time; we have time to find the right career path, the right human to share our lives with, and time to start a family (especially with today’s science). Time is on our side… so I thought.

I met my husband at twenty-seven, we married when I was just shy of thirty-one, and at thirty-four we were living a very happy life in New York City after leaving behind our friends & family in the Midwest. My husband had just finished up business school and I survived nursing school; things really were moving forward in textbook fashion.

During my engagement and early years of marriage I began hearing stories of acquaintances that were having issues conceiving, which turned into friends having troubles, and then family joined ‘the club’. This was a group of people that kept growing and growing before my eyes, but I never thought that I would one day make myself the self-appointed President of this club.

In 2014 we began trying, and each month resulted in nothing but good old aunt flow. After about three months my sister-in-law sent me her super fancy ovulation detector contraption; after 2.5 hours trying to figure out how to use it and a few more months of peeing all over the place... still nothing. Each month I would think every fart or yawn was a sign of a microscopic perfect baby in my belly; until it wasn’t. Someone had given me advice at a party after asking if we were trying, she said “don’t wait the year, if it’s not happening just go see a fertility doctor”. She stressed that after many years of working to make a baby she wished she wouldn’t have wasted those initial months. For those of you that are new to this, you must try for an entire year before being considered infertile. So after six months I did what any honorable woman would do, I lied and told our new doctor that we have been trying for over a year. More than four years later, after we started trying to conceive, I don’t regret the decision to tell that white lie while my husband stared at the floor guilty AF.

This was the start of a journey that we are still on, and it is one hell of a ride. I will do my best to drudge up our story throughout the entries of this blog in hopes that it helps at least one person feel a little less alone. Well, it’s also a bit therapeutic so I would be the liar I just admitted to being if I denied that.

Happy reading and please refrain from judging my grammar… this isn’t my day job.

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