I sit here, on a Saturday night, after a day of frustration with the twins. They are on their umpteenth cold, and they aren’t even in daycare. Between the colds and the “almost 2”-ness they have been exhibiting all day, my patience was completely gone by the time we got to dinner. J was especially difficult. In fact, I just had to pause my writing to take their beloved slide away because they have been going down it head first. An hour or so ago, I took J upstairs with me to enjoy a bath (she doesn’t splash as much as N does) to try and give us both new attitudes.
The thing is, during dinner, I was acutely aware that I’m super frustrated by two little beings who, along with my wife, constitute the meaning for my existence. I feel incredibly guilty being frustrated by them, especially as I read the trials of those still trying or dealing with loss.
Part of me feels like I’ve fallen into the role of the “that” mom, the one who looks forward to Mondays at work on days when the kids are crabby, the one who bitches about the same kids she loves so much on days like today, and the one who sounds like the biggest ass complaining about all of it when so many would kill to be in my shoes.
I feel like I should apologize. It’s not that I’ve forgotten how hard it was to come by my kids, and it’s not that I don’t think about every friend and blogger I read out there still struggling. And it’s not as though the irony is lost on me when I think about what will likely be my lone FET cycle in the beginning of ’09.
It’s that idea of being a “recovered” infertile. I have kids. And now, in so many ways, I’m no different than the Moms who never had to deal with the pain of endo, surgery, and IVF. And it’s hard to balance in my head the responsibility I feel to my fellow infertiles with the day to day experiences of simply being a mom.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like anyone would miss me in the infertile set. It’s sort of how I feel about a particular moms board I post on (albeit rarely). I don’t write as well as most, I certainly don’t have the insight that others have, and I clearly don’t subscribe to a lot of the “alternative” parenting theories that would allow me membership into some of the clubs out there.
I guess for me, it’s enough to remind myself to take a deep breath and try to enjoy the fun times more than I am frustrated by the trying ones. And if infertility is what it takes to remind me of that, then I’m grateful for that membership card — even if it’s tucked in the back of my wallet behind the tattered Tar.get card and the never-used gym member card.