I muscled our boxes of Christmas decorations from the top shelf of our closet today. The garland is twirled around the banister, and our stockings dangle in front of the fireplace. And it all feels so sad. Because I thought this Christmas would be different. I thought I would be pregnant, or maybe even on my way to the hospital to have a baby.

The night I delivered Genevieve, I told Greg that I wanted to try again. I could not imagine how that could be my last experience of having a baby. I felt that the only thing that could truly repair some of the damage — though not all, never that — was having a healthy baby. I still feel that way.

We’ve been trying for another baby for eights months now. I’ve hinted at this on the blog, but I’ve been reluctant to write about it. I think people tend to over share on blogs. I know that you don’t want to hear about my reproductive cycles and doctor’s visits. But I also understand why people over share. When you are dealing with infertility, it quickly consumes your life. I’ve eaten fertility boosting foods. I’ve done yoga. I’ve gone to therapy. I’ve taken all sorts of home tests. We’ve even taken a month off from all the regimens because everyone is so insistent that this will happen if we just relax. I was very relaxed that month. But still not pregnant.

Now we’re making decisions about fertility treatments and tests and deciding how much longer we can stay on this journey. And it is an epic journey at this point. We started trying to create a bigger family in September 2007. I am tired, y’all.

I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Our life is beautiful in so many other ways that I sometimes wonder why I can’t just bid adieu to this baby idea. But I really do feel that life, fate, God — something, somewhere — owes our family this.

I feel foolish for hoping at this point, but still, I hope that next year I’m hanging one more stocking over the fireplace.

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