My formula for happiness

Those of you who are married: When you were single, did you ever make a list of the qualities any man you married absolutely had to have? One late night, I sat in bed composing just such a list. My “non-negotiables” included a non-smoking Christian man who knew how to manage money. I was lucky; I got what I was looking for and much, much more.

My point is that I knew I could never marry someone who didn’t meet these criteria. It’s a simple formula: Husband = non-smoker, Christian and good with money.

Now, I find myself in a similar, non-compromising position. Happiness = pregnancy. The funny thing is, I now know from experience that pregnancy does not always = happiness. I remember days during my pregnancy in which I felt so blah I could practically scream. I felt that I was living vicariously through both a friend who was in the beginning stages of a promising relationship, and another friend who was about to undergo her first IUI. “Your lives are so much more interesting than mine,” I remember thinking. How foolish I was. If only my life could have remained boring for another four months or so.

Yet now, I look at my friends and family members who are pregnant and can't imagine they could have any legitimate reason for not being deliriously happy. They have what I want; shame on them for not fully appreciating it.

The area where we live is rather bleak during the winter, but fun and alive during the summer. Any other January I would be eagerly looking forward to June, when M and I would be able to take evening strolls around one of the many lakes in our county. Instead, I think, “How in the world can I enjoy the summer if I’m not pregnant by then?”

I want what I had. And depending on the day (or hour), I either view pregnancy within the next four months as a probability or an impossibility.

I know, I know—I shouldn’t be setting a time limit for myself. It’s incredibly unhealthy. But I feel like the world is passing me by. I was talking to a diabetes educator today (during a work thing) who told me that a PCOS woman in her 30s with her first pregnancy has a higher chance of gestational diabetes. “Don’t treat me like I intentionally delayed TTC,” I wanted to shout at her. “I was in my 20s when I first started trying! It’s not my fault!” (Before you get upset at this RN, understand that she wasn’t accusing me at all. I just didn’t like the facts she was throwing at me, and I’m a tad sensitive these days. She was actually a very nice woman.)

Now that I actually have a shot at being pregnant, I feel like the rest of my winter is defined by the results of that pee stick nine days from now. Positive pee stick = happiness. Negative pee stick = at least four more weeks of misery. (Hell, it’s like I’ve got my very own groundhog!)

I can’t remember if I felt this way before we conceived the first time. I know I certainly wasn’t isolating myself nearly as much, which, ironically, is a big part of my misery. I want my friends and family back. But the only way I feel comfortable with having them back is if I have that trump card in my back pocket—a new pregnancy.