Hope, I have learned, doesn’t always get us very far.
I once hoped to be a marine biologist. A psychologist. A teacher. A nurse. A very successful author who was more like a rockstar (think: J.K. Rowling).
I hoped to take a leap of faith, to move to London, and to fall in love with a sexy foreigner.
I hoped be a young wife and a young mom of a large handful of babies.
I hoped I’d get pregnant quickly with my first child, that I’d be so fertile I could conceive with just a kiss, or at least that wishing on a shooting star and praying with all my might would be enough to create a baby.
I hoped that I would never know the pain of a miscarriage.
And I hoped that, if nothing else, when I weighed myself this morning, at least one thing would go my way and I’d have lost a couple pounds. Just a couple. I didn’t think that was too much to ask.
I’m a nursing school dropout and a stay-at-home mom who writes a somewhat pathetic and poorly written blog and can barely carve out two hours every Wednesday to work on The Novel That Maybe Will Be…One Day.
And while I have traveled to London several times, my all-American husband came into my life four months before the big move and I chose him over a hypothetical foreign romance. (Well, that’s one way that Stupid Reality didn’t totally screw with my life…I do love him so!)
And I married at age 24 (which did not feel so young to me at the time) and had my first baby at 27 (which felt really, really old after the struggle to get there) and will probably struggle for each baby thereafter, if there ever are any more babies.
And I am not fertile. I am infertile, though you will rarely hear me use that word. And no amount of prayers or wishes has changed that yet.
And I do know how much a miscarriage can hurt, how it can make your heart explode with the grief of it and all that is left is the shrapnel in an empty hole, and how you can’t know if another full heart can ever grow in its place.
And in the last two weeks, though I have worked out over an hour every day and spent the last few days living on a daily limit of 1000-1200 calories, when I weighed myself this morning in all my naked glory (because clothes might add a few ounces, you know!), I lost a measly half a pound. Yes, that’s right. All my hard work was for practically nothing. And so now, in just the next 8-12 days, I have three pounds to lose to reach my goal. It doesn’t sound like a lot and I’ve done it before, but can I do it again? Clearly, time and my body are not on my side.
So thank you, Stupid Reality, for really wrecking my life. Here’s hoping that some day Hope can be enough…