So, as though it hadn't been half a year since the last post, here I am, right where we left off.
I am still in an odd mental limbo, reproduction-wise. I can't stop wanting to be pregnant, baby dreams tickling at the edges of my thoughts as I go through my day. Sometimes I can even smell that heady new-baby scent. But then I also can't stop being vaguely relieved each month when my period arrives. To be clear, we are not actively trying, but I have these irrational moments of magical thinking in which, sure, why not, I could be pregnant even though it would be nigh-on impossible, followed by a little tug of anticipation and fear capped off by that odd half-relief when it's proved otherwise. Which is followed by a little aftertaste of depression, an underexposed print of the old misery each month brought before Olivia and Josh.
I used to be so certain of myself when it came to big decisions, and now I'm living in some kind of fuzzy fog-realm where what I really want is for someone else to simply tell me what to do. I want to shirk my responsibility and just wait for a clearly worded directive. For once in my life, I do not want to be The Decider.
Unfortunately, while the obvious candidate for Decider is Jeff, he is never one to simply say, This is the way it is and this is what we are going to do about it. His thought processes are too complex to distill into simple yesses and nos, and the pros and cons of another child are in so many shades of gray for us both that it seems impossible to form a clear picture.
Even fretting about this may be a preposterous waste of energy; I'm forty years old for heaven's sake, forty years old. This perceived choice may be completely illusory: What are the odds that I would be able to achieve another healthy pregnancy? (Seriously, what are the odds?)
And I'm not one of those forty-is-the-new-thirty women, with their toned legs, smooth skin and chic clothes. I was thirty-four when I started this blog and felt then like I was starting to deflate; the intervening years of children and career have not laid gently on me. I look forty and I feel forty and I have basically accepted it, crow's feet, pudgy thighs and all. I presume that my eggs have gone downhill right along with the rest of me.
I kept thinking that I would blog again once we'd made a decision, that I'd chart the next attempt to conceive or bemoan the end of my reproductive life. Maybe I still will, if I find myself able to make that choice instead of letting time make it for me. Maybe I won't be back here in another six months, still stuck in this timorous, seasick limbo.