I hate my home office.

It’s a good thing I don’t work from home because I’d have to do it from the kitchen. You see, I hate our home office – the spare room – the other room – the 2nd bedroom. The room that caused us to move out of our one bedroom apartment so we’d have ‘room to grow’.

With no growing in sight it’s now the office, or the den, or the other room. The one that holds our desks and our books and our, well my, dreams hostage. When we first got the house last summer I’d sit in there and wonder how we’d decorate “the room” once it’s full potential was realized. Was there a draft from the window? Did it get too hot in the sun? Was the closet big enough?

We got the keys to the house while we were waiting for the beta from our first IUI. Got the first BFN the day we were picking paint colours. Maybe something neutral for now? Then we can repaint in a couple of months when the time comes.

Natural cycles. Medicated cycles. Two more IUI’s. Then cysts. Then a polyp. New clinic. Waiting for IVF #1.

Every time I walk past that room (rarely entering) there’s this funny pain way deep in some undiscovered place inside me. Some people can go out a buy cute baby clothes and put them away for someday. Have boxes in the garage filled with hand me downs just in case. They have a colour in mind for sweet bedding.  I’ve been known to cross the street to avoid the hip baby store in our neighbourhood. I seriously can’t even bring my self to walk past the store.

I love our house. I do. No really, I do. But I wonder why did I think it was a good idea to buy a whole house that would better suit a family? In a cute neighbourhood. Where kids play on the sidewalks. With a playground 50 meters down the street.Walking distance to the pool and the skating rink and a school, a good school.

And a home – freaking – office. That I hate.


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