Pregnancy

If infertility has taught me anything, it’s that I am not in control. Of anything. Ever. And just when I start to think I am in control, I get knocked back to down to size.

This is one of those stories.

My husband and I had been talking about maybe, sort of, possibly, looking into trying for a second baby. Our embryo storage bill was looming in the next few months, serving as a big, expensive reminder that our future babies were there, just waiting for us.

“I’m just not ready,” I kept thinking.

“But it’s time,” a voice in my head kept responding.

The baby registry. So much excitement and stress all rolled up into one task. Registering can be one of the most fun stages of being pregnant, but if you’re a psychotic over-analyzer like me, it’s also a massive undertaking. I felt the need to make sure I was choosing the “best” of everything. Like, literally everything (thank god for Lucie’s List). I researched the best crib mattress cover, the best changing pad, the best bottle brush… I was insane; believe me when I say those things don’t matter. Do not do this.