This week marks the entry into my thirties. Not in age – sadly crossed that bridge long ago. The thirties in my pregnancy. It’s amazing to me that 30 weeks of this have passed already.
When I think back to months and months of BFN’s, far more than 30 weeks came and went – each one just as carefully counted. Waiting to ovulate. Waiting to see if it worked. Waiting for the sick feeling to pass after another round of one line sticks. Waiting to try again.
I believe you can easily count up the number of days and weeks of pregnancy. But for those who take longer than the ‘average 6 months’ the days and weeks and months of ‘waiting to have a baby’ far, far exceed the 40 weeks that the outside world can see.
In fact – the Bub is set arrive 3 years to the day of the first of the BFN’s.
We were only 2 and some years in the IF trenches – with 3 failed and 1 cancelled iui and then only 1 IVF.
When you’re still ‘trying’ and not considering yourself IF it seems like a long time. But once you cross into the category of infertile, I feel so, so blessed. I read so many blogs of brave women fighting to break past IF and sometimes feel like we had it pretty easy. Sort of makes it hard to keep posting here when I see so many who should have been in the thirties right along with me still fighting the fight.
When I think that Bubble will be here in 9.5 weeks (give or take) why, that’s less than the number of weeks from my go-ahead consult with my RE to the start of stims – and I couldn’t believe how fast that flew by.
My thirties. Remarkably good chance that there will be a baby here soon. A healthy one. (Fingers crossed) One that will do what babies do. One that won’t have any idea that we carried him for 40 weeks, but waited for him for three years – counting it out one week at a time.