Torture

Let’s be real for second: IVF sucks. In every way.

Sure, it’s a scientific wonder, and it’s amazing it even exists, and it’s helped thousands of people start families who otherwise wouldn’t have been able to (myself included). So, fine, it’s got that going for it.

But the worst part is, you can put yourself through all of the pain, agony, and expense of IVF, and it’s still not a guarantee.

So for me, when I went through it the first time, I researched everything — ev-er-y-thing — I could do to improve my odds. If it didn’t work, I wanted to know I’d done everything in my power to have the best odds possible.

Yes, yes, I know, car seats save a lot of lives. Our parents shuttled us around in plastic buckets in the passenger seat of their cars, and it’s a miracle any of us survived that. But that doesn’t mean car seats weren’t created by an evil sadist who wants to watch the world burn.

This blog is served with a heavy helping of snark, which doesn’t always translate appropriately, so I want to be very clear: my baby is very, very loved. Like, obnoxiously so. He’s for sure going to be that overconfident jerk who thinks he can do no wrong when he’s older. (Sorry about that.)

Sure, I make fun of him occasionally (a lot). Yes, I complain about my exhaustion (if you’re not going to whine about how tired you are, are you even a parent?). And yes, I call him names like “monster” and “demon baby” sometimes (okay, almost all the time…). But hey, I bought and paid-in-full for his crazy ass; you better believe I’ve earned my right to a sarcastic comment every now and then.

You see, he was a long time in the making. Over two years, to be exact.

Ah, the breast pump. A nursing mom’s best friend and worst enemy. On one hand, it gives us the option to continue breastfeeding when we go back to work, or when baby struggles with his latch, or any of the multitude of reasons that could otherwise prevent a mom from nursing. But on the other hand, it sucks (…see what I did there?). It’s uncomfortable, it’s time consuming, and it downright messes with your mind at times. Between watching the ounces creep along in the collection bottles while simultaneously watching the minutes of your life tick by in solitude, the inner monologue can be confusing, to say the least.

Do you have the next three days off work? Do you have a small child? Do you hate yourself? Then by all means… Hit the road this weekend.

I’m sure you have grand visions for this trip: showing your kid quirky landmarks, playing fun car games, singing songs together as a family… It’ll be downright idyllic!

Well go ahead and set that picture on fire because that’s a better representation of the fresh hell that awaits you on the open road.