Something I wrote a while back...

I wrote this at one of my lower moments in the past several months, then decided not to post it because it sounded really depressing. But I feel like it's a good piece of written work, from a technical standpoint, at least as a rough draft of something better, so I decided to post it anyway. Watch out, it's personal.

```````````````````````````````````````````

Can you have an identity crisis at 28 years old? Because that's how I feel best describes me these days.

All my life, I grew up believing, expecting, that I would be a mother. I had baby dolls I lovingly dressed and fed, played with, and put to sleep. Even better, I had little sisters who I could pretend were my babies. And in all my playing, was the dream of the future, when I actually would have real babies, lots of them, of my own to take care of.

But the road to motherhood has not been an easy one for me.

That we got Aubrey when we wanted her is a monumental blessing that I took for granted until it took four years after her birth, of miscarriage, medical testing, fertility drugs, and more to have another. We have cherished our little boy Andrew, along with his big sister, Aubrey.

My two children bring me so much happiness. From Aubrey running to jump into my arms at the school day's end, to Andrew lovingly patting my back when I lay down with him for a nap, they singlehandedly add life and color to my day. Every day. I love them with a love I never dreamed possible while rocking baby dolls in my childhood.

Motherhood is the single greatest source of joy I know I will ever know.

Joy, yes. But. Here we are, almost four years past Andrew's birth, with no promise of another on the horizon this time. This second set of four years we endured a different kind of testing, spiritual testing, with a trial incident to motherhood I never anticipated-- the stillbirth of our sweet angel, baby Cait. It is an experience that will never ever leave me. I think about her all the time. It still makes me sad.

Motherhood is the single greatest source of sorrow I will ever know.

And yet I want more. I am willing to take that risk-- Give me the risk of sorrow, heartache and loss, so that I can have more children to wrap their arms around my neck, kiss my cheek, and tell me, "I love you." Give me more children to snuggle in my lap, and read stories with, to dance around the house with, and kiss goodnight.

But it's not happening. They're not coming. And it's so frustrating. I feel that what I am, at my very core, is A Mother. And this is my identity crisis-- I always thought I would be a mother of many children. And I know. I am still a mother. I'm proud to be. I love that I am. I'm grateful for the chance I have to raise my children.

But I'm not a mother in the way I've always expected, and always envisioned myself to be. I am blessed to have two children who I adore, but that doesn't take away the love that I am willing to give to others. My love for them, and theirs for me, is entirely separate from this issue, and doesn't fill up the empty space that I feel in the corner of my heart that wishes for more children.

So I'm at a crossroads.

It's been four years since I had a baby. That's a long time. My children are happy, growing, and independent. In a couple years, both will be in school all day. I will be able to pursue various goals I have for myself, among them, obtaining another degree, becoming fluent in a foreign language, and joining the workforce. All of these goals are worthy, wonderful goals I have every intention of attaining. Someday.

Someday-- Because that's not what I want to be doing with my time right now.

I'm not ready to give up my dream.

Which leaves me where? Wishing my life away. Trying to enjoy my life for what it is, while desperately wanting it to be different.

Or do I really want it to be different? I remember all too well what it is like to be single-minded about fertility. It becomes what I live for-- counting days, going to the doctor, and taking tests. It is all consuming. Results become what defines my happiness. It causes me to take my daily life for granted. To take the children I have, who bring me immeasurable happiness, for granted. All because I am pursuing something I think I want.

It's a Catch 22, really. Because I can't see being completely content in my life without even just one more. But I'm not happy throughout the process of trying to have more children either, because as more time goes on, and we receive more negative results, it's tough to keep on trying. Does the end justify the means? Because when does it "end"? Trying may never yield results, and then I've squandered my time being unhappy with something that couldn't have been changed in the first place. If I do nothing, I'm unhappy. If I do something, I'm unhappy.

It's complicated. Sigh.

But. It's just a little part of my life. A little part that's sad, in the scheme of my whole life, which is basically happy. I am happy. I am. But the sad part just kind of takes over sometimes. Writing about it helps. It's validating. It is my way of setting my thoughts free so I can go on living my life, loving my children, and being as happy as I can be.