One Foot In, One Foot Out

That's how I'm feeling these days. Like I'm in that shadowy no-mans land. Not happily ensconced in pregnancy, nor railing against infertility. I'm a few days past 11 weeks - still in that first-trimester haze, wanting to believe in happy endings, but still too battle-scarred to do much more than quietly hold my breath and attempt to shield my heart as I count the days passing. Mo is as joyous as I've ever seen him - he proudly proclaimed the news on FB (and to everyone else he knows) after our last ultrasound. But I've held back, still cautious, waiting for that traditional mile-marker, even though I know that telling or not telling will have absolutely no effect on the viability of this pregnancy. I go in again on Friday for my 12-week appointment, and I hope that I can begin embracing this opportunity a little more. Because that's how it feels -- I've got this one shot, this one chance to finally make all our dreams come true. There will be no more IVF's - we are emotionally, physically, and financially spent. I feel incredibly grateful to have this chance, a chance I honestly thought I would never have again. At the same time, it still seems impossible that this one could end differently than our last three pregnancies did. 

Mo keeps telling me that we're going to have a baby in March. But, to be perfectly honest, after ten years of trying to make exactly that happen, it's hard to imagine that it actually could. I can discuss the abstracts -- possible names and nursery ideas, daycare options -- but when it comes down to it? I simply can't imagine the reality of it. I can't imagine going to sleep with my baby safe and sound next to me. I can see myself rocking an infant, I can imagine those sweet pudgy arms encircling my neck, and I can almost smell that sweet baby smell. I've done that often enough with other people's babies. But the idea that I could have one of my own, one that I don't have to give back? One that is ours to raise, to snuggle and laugh with, to learn and grow and ponder with? I haven't let myself go there in so many years. It seems as though I've forgotten how. 

And so it may seem, even to my sweet husband, that I remain fairly detached from this little person growing inside me. And there is some truth to that. A heart that has been broken will often seek to protect itself from similar, future harms. But there's another part, that one foot, that has already begun sinking its toes into the water. I'm moving slowly, that is true. But I'm making progress, delicately balancing my need to keep my head above water (and my feet firmly planted on the shore) with my desire to dive head first into the unknown. 

Half in, half out. Neither here, nor there. Waiting, hoping, for some sign that the water is safe. But it's murky water, my friends, and I can't quite see the bottom. I'm going to have to leap eventually, but for now, slow and steady caution is the only way I can make any progress at all.