June 26, 2012 at 9:37 am | Posted in A Year of Mindfulness, Choosing Happiness., IVF #6: Quiet Hope, My life | 10 Comments

Charlie Brown is teaching Lucky how to cook. Every day when he makes dinner, he asks Lucky, Do you want to help me make [insert foodstuffs here]?

Cooking for me is a chance to focus on one thing. I’m abysmal with knife safety; if I try and hold a conversation while I’m chopping I invariably end up bleeding. I am also a worrier when it comes to the stove and my kid getting burned.

I really want Lucky to experience the joy in making a meal for our family, though. I just know my limits and that, at this point, I’m not the person to help him.

So I happily allow Charlie his bonding time with Lucky over making a meal.

I love how patient my husband is with our son.

I love listening to their conversation.

I love watching them work, two heads bent over bowls and cutting boards and the sink.


For all the burgeoning independence Lucky is being insistent on, he still needs my reassurance and love, especially at the end of the day.

He climbs up into my lap whenever I’m seated and folds himself into a comma, resting against my chest. And I get to wrap my arms around him, all angles and limbs, and kiss his hair.

We still use baby shampoo whenever he showers, a product of buying the massive three pack at BJ’s a year ago.

That’s the only thing that still smells like baby – his hair.

I love those moments, the time where our bond and connection is tangible, palpable in the summer air.


I haven’t been sleeping well these past few weeks. The likely combination of hormones and the summer warmth, I wake up in the middle of the night hot, and it takes a long time for me to fall back asleep.

My wake up time in the morning has crept backwards, what with the monitoring and traffic to my client and birds starting their call at 4am. Right now, I’m generally up for the day at 4:30.

So I’m tired at night; so tired. And I end up in bed before Charlie most nights now.

But whenever he gets into bed, careful not to wake me, I roll over and rest my leg against him. And he rests a hand on my thigh.

Always, every night I fall asleep grounded in the solidness of my husband beside me.


Every night before bed, I go into Lucky’s room to check on him before I head to bed myself.

I tell myself it’s to check the temperature in his room and adjust his covers for him.

But every night, I look down at his sleeping form, otherworldy in the dim light of his nightlight.

Who will he be?

And how did I get this lucky?


I’m struggling, emotionally. Physical discomfort, the timesuck of waiting for my monitoring appointments, and the hormones make me irritable and always on the verge of tears, it seems.

Back in the car, I NEED to talk with someone.

I call my sister. Even though I feel a blinding guilt for complaining about trying for my second child when she doesn’t know if she’ll ever BE a mom.

I choke out how hard this is, how greedy I feel, how much I hate cycling and that I don’t know why I’m doing it. And how much I hate myself for keeping at this when I SHOULD be happy I am a parent in the first place.

She always knows what to say; her voice is a hug over the phone. And I am so, so thankful that she’s my sister.


I collect these moments like when I was a girl and used to collect fireflies. I kept them in a mason jar with a special cover my dad helped me make so that the fireflies were able to breathe.

On days like today, where I am in danger of drowning in the muck dredged up from actively cycling, it’s what keeps me from being overwhelmed.

I can’t wait until this part is over.



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  1. I want to give you a hug, too.

    So beautiful, so bittersweet, so honest.


  2. Thinking of you in these moments and sending you a hug.

  3. This is a lovely post, Serenity … the metaphor of fireflies gives me chills. Exactly.

    And, I know you “know” this, but there are no “shoulds”: you don’t necessarily become contented to be a parent of one, when you want two. Try to be kind to yourself … and to your heart, which doesn’t have logic of its own.

  4. Hoping this part passes quickly for you.

  5. I love this post. W likes “helping” in the kitchen, whether I am cooking or putting the dishes in the dishwasher. And I surprise myself with the patience that I find in myself.


  6. Great post! I let my DH teach the kids how to cook too. Especially Phoebe as she’s old enough. The boys just watch while they sit on stools at the island in the kitchen. And I check on the kids in bed before I go to sleep too – one 11yo and two 3yo. Good luck with the cycling. I remember thinking the same things trying to have all three of our kids. Thankfully, I came out the other side and never want to be there again, so we are done. However, my hindsight tells me I’m glad I fought the battle. I think whatever you are going through is a process. Hopefully you’ll end up on the other side with an addition to the family. My fingers are crossed for you.

  7. I love fireflies in a jar. Is there anything the represent better than the collection of our joys and hopes? Good luck.

  8. Beautiful post. Such an intense time for you. xo

  9. Beautiful post! I love your honesty and how you know yourself so well. I still go in and look at my son every night before I head to bed as well. What’s worse is that I kiss him and whisper I love you, but it usually doesn’t wake him. Wonder how long I’ll be able to do that!
    Hang in there!

  10. I loved – absolutely loved – this post. Then I had a brain fart and forgot to submit it to Stirrup Queen’s Second Helpings last week. But just wanted to tell you directly, so beautiful. Quiet and so full of love, and longing.

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