Many of you probably saw this postcard through Postsecret. Would you believe that even now, the sentiment is still true for me?

It was through our baptimsal classes that those feelings really came to a head. Here we were, participating in these classes out of necessity and tradition, not those of faith, sitting amongst several couples, many who were still pregnant and wanting to crawl out of my skin.

One of the exercises presented during the class was to think of a moment or event that completely shifted the dynamic of our marriage; something that made us closer. Mr. DD whispered to me that we should share our miscarriages and treatment with the group. I shook my head no. One, with the church frowning on IVF, I didn’t think it was a good idea to open that can of worms; and two, after the couple who were sponsoring the classes shared their miscarriage story, I just couldn’t.

Her story started like so many others: a heart beat that was too slow; a follow-up ultrasound to see what was happening to the baby, which was on her birthday; an immediate D&C. My heart went out to her knowing that the date she lost her son would never be forgotten. But then she said something that I just couldn’t relate to, that made me grit my teeth and curl my nails into my palm: There was a reason – a purpose – that her son died. Knowing he was in the Holy Mother’s arms gave meaning to his death.

Her announcement made me angry…and envious.

I wish I could have that kind of faith so I wouldn’t feel my heart constrict in jealousy when I see other pregnant women. I don’t even give them the benefit of the doubt, that it might have been difficult for them, too. I am not just jealous of how easy it probably was for them, but of how they get to complain about the pregnancy without guilt or judgement.

As I said in my last post, infertility has shadowed my views on just about everything around me. I don’t get the rose-colored glasses. Mine are peuce-green. Maybe now I’m just trying to excorcise all the infertilty demons and that’s why I’ve been writing about them again. I want to enjoy being a new mom as the days and weeks are floating away from me like the seeds of cotton trees. ZGirl turned 8 weeks on Wednesday. I go back to work in just three more. I don’t want to find myself so preoccupied with what could have been that I forget to stop and enjoy more of this: