Sometimes when people ask me how long I have been wanting to/trying to get pregnant I have a hard time answering that question. It is a difficult question not only because I inevitably feel like crap with the reminder of how long it’s been, but mostly because I stumble with the math. I don’t think of the time as days or months or years. I measure that type of time in children. Friends’ children who were conceived or born during this time for me, children who I held in the hospital or shortly thereafter, and I remember those moments. Those are the images that pop into my head when I try to count back the years that have passed. The first one just turned 4 years old. The others mark various stages in my journey. The first great-granchild in my family and my goddaughter both will be 3 this summer. Another one I found out was unexpectedly being expected when the call came in while I was on the computer tracking my own cycle failure for that month. Then there’s my nephew who is nearly 9 months old now. I started Clomid when my sister was pregnant with him. And there are many others. The 4 year old is the one I think of most when marking the time. And every year older she gets, the harder it is for me to believe that it has really been that long. Where has the time gone for me?


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