"REPRODUCTIVE CHOICE"

Photo stolen from my friend Lauren's Facebook page and used without permission

Last week I organized a ladies’ wine night with some girlfriends. I did this for a few reasons: I had a gift card to a wine bar. I like these ladies. I like wine. I can drink wine because the only thing inside my uterus is a tumbleweed. It’s nice to get dressed up for other girls and talk about things like hair extensions and inappropriate teacher/student relationships and how gluten-free pizza is terrible.

But by far the topic we lingered on longest was reproductive choice. Specifically — how many kids would you have if you could choose, and what genders would they be?

I used to have these conversations in earnest. In earnest! Like I had any effing say! I was going to have four kids — two boys, two girls. A big household just full of my offspring and their friends.

Welp, that dream is looking a little, shall we say, unlikely. I’m now 33, without ever having gotten even one positive on a pregnancy test.

None of the six of us sitting around the table last week — ages 30-38 — have children, and not exactly by choice. Two of us are infertile, two are single, one got married later than originally planned, and one is dating a guy who, years before meeting her, had undergone a little snip-snip, if you know what I mean.

But we all went around and shared how many kids we’d want and whether they’d be girls or boys. And it was fun to have the conversation again, knowing it was all fantasy, all play.

It got me thinking about how often things don’t turn out how we planned or how we wanted. To the reader who had exactly the number of kids in the exact sexes and in the exact health condition at exactly the time they planned — gold star. This post isn’t for you.

This post is for the mom who wanted a daughter but got a son. It’s for the dad who wanted a little boy but got a girl. It’s for the expectant woman who’s unexpectedly getting two for the price of one, and her body is paying the price. It’s for the father of a child with developmental disabilities and the mother who is ready to try for number two, but the finances just aren’t there. It’s for the girl who’s pregnant before she’s ready and the same-sex couple confronting all the challenges of infertility in the face of society’s judgment and prejudice. It’s for those waiting for “the one” — or waiting for the one to be ready, to grow up, to change. It’s for the would-be parents grieving a pregnancy loss, a stalled adoption, an endless barrier of red tape in the foster system.

And of course it’s for the infertile, whose bodies fail without explanation while our biological clocks work perfectly.

And here’s what I say to all of us: We are badass. We know what it’s like to look disappointment in the eye, stand up straighter, and say FUCK YOU, DISAPPOINTMENT. We won’t give up. We will count our blessings. We will grieve our losses with all the strength we possess, and it will only make us stronger, more sensitive, more grateful, more aware. We will ride the current of our lives, accepting the gifts and releasing what’s not meant to be. We will work like hell to make the changes or fixes that are within our power, but we’ll surrender when there’s no other choice. We’ll find new resolve each morning. We will care for each other and pray for one another. And we will drink wine and laugh, because laughter really is the best medicine.