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The 700 club

Four years and a day ago, I wrote the first post on this blog:

"I am one smug motherfucker today."

...which, when you think about it, nicely set the tone for the 700 posts that have followed. 

Four years ago, I knew exactly what I was: Someone newly pregnant, infertile but happy and hopeful.

Now I don't know what I am.  When I started writing here, I thought my blog would be a simple chronicle of an average, run-of-the-mill pregnancy.  And it is that, if you're willing to expand your definition of "simple chronicle" to include "illustrated encyclopedia of the macabre," "bizarre collection of non sequiturs," and "how-to handbook for rainy day fun."

It became that, and more.  It meant the end of my isolation.  It kept me from being alone.  Okay, so I didn't get my first comment until I'd been writing for almost eight months.  But back in the day — why, yes, I am wearing a truss!  How kind of you to notice!  I find it both stylish and supportive — there wasn't much of a blog community of infertiles.  That we somehow found each other felt, to me, like a miracle.  It still feels that way today.

But writing right now is hard.  I mean, sure, not being able to get pregnant and feeling extremely uncomfortable with adoption yet being certain I still want another child sounds really funny, practically comedy gold, but...

I guess I must not be telling it right.

I am finding it difficult to write about our situation at all, and almost impossible to write about it with the furious humor I used to find in every aspect of our pursuit of parenthood.  Just now I am feeling my way much more slowly and much more carefully than I ever have before, both in my life and on my blog.  I am more grateful than I can say that you've been here with me during the worst of all this, and I thank you with all my heart for sticking around as I struggle with what comes next.