- ‘Pooparoos’ Are The Hot New Toilet Toy No One Asked For
- Viral Post Perfectly Nails Every Mom You’ll Find In Online Mom Groups
- Jonah Hill’s New Tattoo Honoring His Sister’s Success Is Why Siblings Are The Best
- Why Going To The Gym Sucks
- Dear Daughter, I’m Sorry I’m Hardest On You
- My Son Is At College, And I’m THAT Mom
- What I Wish I Could Say To The Child I Didn’t Adopt
- When You’re Dealing With Infertility The Second Time Around
Posted: 31 Mar 2018 07:51 AM PDT
‘Pooparoos’ are the new hottest toilet toys and they’re kind of…cute?
There’s a new set of toilet toys selling like hot cakes right now and they actually look weirdly adorable. I mean, once you set aside the fact that they’re poop-themed and involve creatures coming out of a small toilet. Because what goes together better than kids, tiny toys, and toilet humor?
So, basically, Pooparoos are tiny blue plastic toilets with lots of surprises hidden under the lid. Not gross surprises, though. Open the toilet up and you’ll find a brightly colored squishy little creature.
Then, open up the tank lid, and there will be a couple of “magical paper packs.” You’re going to want to pour water into the toy toilet, drop those paper packets in, stir them around, and voila! You’ve got yourself a whole array of treats, including hot dogs, macaroons, and donuts. Also, brightly colored poops — sorry I told you this was kind of a cute/gross situation.
Your child can then feed the treats to their squishy new toy, and then — erm — squeeze them out while the creature sits on the toilet. This will probably be very, very fun for them and mildly amusing for you. Win-win. Also, the reviews are glowing. “Don’t worry – this poop is cute,” one person wrote. “Some are glittery and fun colors.”
In case you’re having a hard time visualizing the whole process, take a look below. The ad asks: “which pooparoo will you get?” and I’m keeping my fingers firmly crossed for the unicorn one.
C’mon, you have to admit that the whole thing is kind of adorable. I mean, just look at those squishy little creatures.
If you do opt to get your child this admittedly insane toilet toy, I think you probably deserve your own adult toy to balance the whole thing out. Like maybe a really, really tall margarita.
Posted: 31 Mar 2018 05:41 AM PDT
Online mom groups are truly a thing to behold
Ahhhh, Facebook Groups created exclusively for us moms. They can be a lifesaver when you need to know the best way to get spaghetti colored barf out of your (formerly) cream carpet or when you need to know exactly what this raised, red bump is because you just know these women have seen it before and can give you 97 homemade remedies.
But they can also be a source of stress because you’re running bling into a zillion different personalities and some people are just…kinda nuts.
Enter Reddit user PM me your smile, who thought it would be funny to share a post from his wife’s Facebook Mom’s Group and we are so very happy he did. The title is, “Mom Groups Be Like” which nails almost every single one of us.
There’s the mom who posts: "My house is on fire and my child is inside screaming. What do I do?! Picture for attention!” — which is handy for the essential oils-hawking mom, closely followed by the "I'm a realtor and I'd love to help you find a new home!" mom and the “has he had his fire vaccinations yet? That will herd immunity protect him from the flames" mom.
Listen, we all know the one who posts every single solitary moment of her child’s life online, the cringier the better (sidenote: OMG please, for the love, we don’t want to see their kidney stones in a tiny tube moments after they’re passed) and the other who posts nothing online because it’s “lame” though she knows every single thing happening to everyone because she’s creeping online constantly. We may know them. We may be them. We may as well laugh at the absurdity of it all.
Honestly, this post nails every damn one of us. From the mom who’s asking for pregnancy test affirmations five seconds post-ovulation to the moms who tell you to just put breastmilk on everything from diaper rash to an ear infection. And we can’t forget about the moms who think formula is equivalent to arsenic.
He obviously struck a chord because the comments are almost as funny as the post itself:
We’re all doing our best and feel like our way of parenting is the best because, duh, of course it is. But there is nothing like a group of moms to make us feel even more unqualified than we already feel at momming.
So, in the wise words of our fellow Online Moms: “Don’t listen to any of this! Follow your mom gut! You’re a great mom!”
Posted: 31 Mar 2018 05:18 AM PDT
The relationship between Jonah Hill and Beanie Feldstein is sibling goals
Siblings share a very unique, very specific kind of bond — no matter how old you are, or how close you are, the bond is still there. But it’s extra awesome when you have a really good relationship with your sibling(s). Jonah Hill’s relationship with his sister, Beanie Feldstein, appears to be the awesome kind of sibling relationship.
Jonah isn’t the only star of the family — Beanie is most recently known for her fantastic co-starring role in Lady Bird. She’s even headlining Hello, Dolly! on Broadway alongside Bette Midler right now. I mean, does it get any better than Broadway with The Divine Miss M? (No. No it doesn’t.) So yeah, Beanie is on fire right now. And being the proud big brother he is, Jonah decided to honor his sister in the most perfect (and permanent) way possible.
He got a tattoo on his forearm that says, “Hello Beanie.” HOW CUTE IS THAT? Bonus points for the tattoo being in the show’s signature font. Next level, indeed.
Beanie told PEOPLE that landing the role in the musical that turned big brother Jonah into a musical theatre lover. "Now he loves theater and he wears his Hello, Dolly! hat around wherever he goes,” she says. She apparently made him watch a documentary about Stephen Sondheim’s Merrily We Roll Along and he became an instant fan. “One day I came back from whatever I was doing and I had 10 texts from him and it was like, 'Beanie, I love Sondheim. I'm obsessed with him.' Like, yes! Finally. He's coming around. He's starting to get it more.”
YASSSSS. As a musical theatre kid myself, loving Sondheim is basically a requirement.
The bond between Beanie and Jonah is undeniably sweet — especially after they suffered a heartbreaking loss with the sudden death of their older brother in December. Jordan Feldstein, a successful music manager, died from a pulmonary thromboembolism, resulting from a blood clot that originated in his leg.
While not everyone may be as close to their siblings as these two are, I know what it’s like to love a sibling so much you want to permanently honor them in some way. My sister is my literal lifeline in every single way — literal and metaphorical. Always has been, always will be. So about three years ago, when I learned I was expecting a little girl, I decided to give her the same middle name as my little sister. It was a no-brainer.
Being the older sibling has been one of the greatest privileges of my life. So, cheers to all the Jonah Hills and Beanie Feldsteins of the world.
Posted: 30 Mar 2018 06:00 PM PDT
Entry is hard.
But reentry is the devil. Because at this point, you know that it's going to take all of your God-given patience and hard-work and dedication, to show up and make it through.
I'm talking about the gym. Obviously.
When you first sign up for the gym, you're filled with all of the butterfly feelings that this Earth and your fantasizing and hopeful brain can offer.
You make a plan. A schedule. You have a mental timetable for approximately how long it's going to take you to resemble Beyoncé. You buy the green things and you eat them, cheerfully.
And then life happens. And a baby happens. And another baby happens.
And you're stuck on the couch with nausea that not even a football field of organic ginger could combat. And despite your plans of participating in a Whole 30-ish pregnancy diet, you end up living off microwaved baked potatoes for a month because you'd like to not die of starvation and also not throw up anymore.
Then somehow you wake up one day with a 4-year-old and an 8-month-old and you decide it's time. It's time for reentry.
But this time around, you are not filled with butterfly feelings because you know how pilates actually makes you feel. You know that bootcamp class will not make you feel like Rhonda Rousey, but more like a Sumo Wrestler playing jumprope. You will buy the green things and you will feel full with all of the sustenance that they offer—for about 32 minutes.
But despite your knowledge of aforementioned trials, you take a tour of your local YMCA because you know that exercise is essential to being "healthy."
You tour the facility and gobble up the information about the childcare that is included with the family plan…and immediately imagine yourself listening to an audiobook on that sunlit patio that you're walking past.
No, stop. You will listen to that audiobook on the elliptical, because you are reentering.
You will take note of all of the other people in the gym and begin to feel really confident, and beautiful — you will begin to feel really proud of your youthful looking skin and the mobility of your joints — something that you've never really appreciated before.
You will feel like Kate Hudson in a fabletics advertisement as you stroll from room to room. You suddenly realize this is because you are the only person in the weight room who doesn't qualify for social security, but you shrug it off and say a prayer of thankfulness for your youth.
You realize you really like this place. You accept a 3-day pass and you make a plan to try out spin class on Thursday.
You show up to the gym a good 25 minutes before class starts so that you can make sure to get a towel from the front desk and get reacquainted with the bike that you will be straddling for the next 45 minutes.
You go to the front desk and ask for your towel and the kind people point you to the only Arnold Schwarzenegger-looking man in the building. You take a deep inhale and proceed to his counter. You tell yourself, "I can do hard things," and you convince your brain to make audible words come out of your mouth. "May I please have a towel?"
He hands you the towel, and now that you've touched it, you realize you can't find your water bottle so you have to set it back down on the counter so you can retrieve it from your car. You go to your car to realize that it is not in your cup holder.
Immediately panic, and bring your hand to forehead, like that cute little emoji you use all of the time in your texts, and hit yourself in the face with your water bottle.
Tell yourself it's not embarrassing to look for things that you're already holding in your hands. Everybody does it.
Avoid eye contact with Arnold as you make your way back into the facility. Walk quickly to the spin room, and introduce yourself to the instructor. Be courageous and actually ask her how to properly and safely use the machine. Make a couple friends on the bikes next to you.
Realize that everyone in this place is super friendly and feel so comfortable in that space. Emotional coddling is essential to fitness success.
The music begins and you start slow; it's been a while since you've done this and you don't want to push it too hard this first time around.
Feel great that you've made it through 20 minutes of your 45-minute class and begin to ride your stationary bike like you are freaking Jillian Michaels. Ride that bike like you are Lance Armstrong training for the Tour de France. Make it through a whole song while doing the standing thing where you are pedaling to the beat.
Finish the song and sit down in the saddle. Prepare to reward yourself with a few dainty sips of water.
Feel impending nausea. Tell yourself it will pass.
Barely move your feet through the next song because all of your energy is being used to keep down the 4 bites of oatmeal that you consumed this morning.
Tell yourself the nausea will fade, and have flashbacks to pregnancy and realize that nausea, for you, doesn't just fade.
Without making eye contact, slyly remove yourself from the spin room and proceed to release your 4 bites of oatmeal into the YMCA toilet.
Feel good about your 25 minutes of heart pounding exercise because it's more cardio than you did yesterday.
When Arnold takes a break from his towel folding and glances at the clock, asking you how spin class went, confidently respond with, "Great!"
Decide that even though you could be embarrassed about the outcome of today and never finish days 2 and 3 of your 3-day pass, that you will, in fact, come back. Because every single person at that place is kind.
And realize that while looking like Kate or Jillian would be really nice, it's probably not in the cards for you, but you will do your best to show up and do more hard things the next time.
Because health, I guess.
And there's nothing bad about going somewhere and surrounding yourself with people that make you feel your best.
Posted: 30 Mar 2018 06:00 PM PDT
I catch a glimpse of you in the corner of my eye as you sit at your desk and entertain yourself doing whatever it is your doing. I don't come closer to peek over your shoulder and ask you about the project you are working on so diligently. I don't worry that maybe you need help nor do I worry that you feel left out because your brother and sister are playing together again and you were not invited to join in with them.
I glance over you quickly and my gaze moves to your siblings. My eyes stop at your brother and sister as they giggle loudly and whisper to one another and let out a larger, full-belly laugh this time. My heart sinks and my mind races with questions about their well-being.
I do worry about them. I am overcome with worry about your older sister and younger brother. I fear that your sister doesn't love me unconditionally and that I am losing her to her friends, sports, and the teen years. I envy the connection she has with her father and think, why not me? I worry that she is holding every emotion, every fear, every joy and every sadness inside, not sharing it with anyone and thus, not learning how to cope with life's trials. I see her take the weight of the world on her shoulders, trying to please everyone else, feeling the need to always be okay, to always take care of herself because she doesn't want to be a burden on anyone.
I worry about your brother, too. He is such a sensitive boy and he feels everything so deeply. He reacts to everything with intensity and his emotions are so extreme. I worry that my patience is too thin for him. I worry that I don't know how to teach him the coping skills he needs, and that I am not comforting him enough. I am sad for him because his parents divorced when he was only a baby and he became the third child in a single parent home. He has received the ultimate parenting shaft in so many ways and I wish I could stop the world and give him the full attention, love, and support he needs to make up for those first few years when as a toddler, there just wasn't enough of me to love him how he most deserved.
I worry about them because they are nothing like me. I can't quite figure them out. I don't know what they are thinking, how they are feeling or what their unique, emotional needs are and, well, they don't tell me. But with you, middle child, I don't have that worry.
You, my middle child, are just like me; you do tell me what you need, what you are feeling, and what you are thinking. I don't have to spend extra time figuring you out, wondering what is going on in that head of yours, or wondering if me just being me will damage you in the long run. I don't worry, because I get you. You use humor to deflect, your mind is swift and overactive, and you take care of you first. You don't hold back and you say what you mean and you mean what you say. If you want something, you ask for it, perhaps even demand it, but you don't leave me guessing. You can react with a little tween 'tude, but I never feel rejected or hurt because I once had that exact tween 'tude.
I have never second-guessed myself or my reactions with you. Until now. Now, I realize that in my thinking that I had you all figured out, I expected you to always be okay. There were times when you became my scapegoat. Just yesterday you asked me to go upstairs and get you your soccer shin guards, to which I curtly replied, you’re capable, why don't you go get them. That is when it hit me! I would never, ever speak to your siblings like that. I would never speak to them like that because I worry so much about them. And so, it is time I start to worry about you.
I have taken your easy-going personality, your independence and transparence for granted and I have used it against you — without even knowing I was doing so. How many times have I snapped at you, just because I wanted your siblings to hear the lesson I was telling you? I was too worried about them to teach them, so I spoke to you, hoping they would hear it. How many times have I given you an attitude because I was upset or irritable about something that your brother or sister did? I was too worried about them to address them directly, but I was not worried about you. I mistook your easy-going nature for invincibility.
How could I have let this happen and go on for so long? I have been so busy thinking that you are okay that I may have made you not okay. I promise you from this day on, I will worry about you, too.
I am worried now. I am worried that I have parented you all wrong. I am worried that you do feel left out when your siblings play together so closely so often and don't invite you. I worry that you don't feel as loved by me as they do. I am worried that I have not helped you enough with your homework, or praised you enough for your beautiful character, kind soul, and maturity. I worry that I have been too hard on you and that that will manifest into some awful type of mental health issue in adulthood. I worry that all the years I spent not worrying led you to feel less than or unloved. I am sorry I did not worry sooner.
My own mother always said you are only as happy as your saddest child and god knows that is true. But when does the worrying stop? I mother each of you differently because you are entirely unique, yet I love you each the same; my heart is so full of love for all three of you and I try my best to parent you in a way that will make your own individual journey on the road of life just a little smoother. I worried about them out of love and I didn't worry about you out of love, too.
I don't really know what I am doing as a mother, but I know I give it my all every single day. I know exactly what it is that I want to accomplish as your mother. I want each of you to feel 100% unconditionally loved by me every single day of your life. There is nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you, and my job as a mom is to make sure you know that, feel that and believe that. I want you each to feel safe with me; safe enough to always express your fears, thoughts, anxieties, hopes, and needs with me. I want you never to be envious of one another; I hope you share in each other's joys, sorrows, heartbreaks and accomplishments with your egos aside and hearts full of compassion.
I want you to know that I am doing — and from this point on, will do — my best, and to understand that my best will never be enough. I am an imperfect mom, trying too hard. I am exhausted more often than not, and I fall short every single day, but I promise you, I am doing my best and some days my best will be better than others. Each day, I wake up and I make a promise to myself to try again to be the best mom I can be, learn from my mistakes, and try again.
And so, sweet Nora, rest your head on your pillow tonight and know that you are loved. I love that you and your siblings each have individual talents and personalities, and I love that the relationship I share with each of you is unique. My love for each one of you is beyond measure and in this way, the identical. I may show my love to you differently, but most definitely feel it the same; that feeling is beyond measure, beyond action, and beyond description. It is infinite, unconditional, and rewarding, and it bonds all of us, so that together, the four of us share something formidable. I would not trade that for the world.
Posted: 30 Mar 2018 06:00 PM PDT
The tears surprised me. The weepiness I felt driving away from my first parents’ weekend. My son is a sophomore, but I had missed last year's event, so I was so thankful to have spent this weekend with him. He wouldn’t be home for Thanksgiving this year, so I did expect to feel a pang and to be a little sad leaving him, but honestly, I'm not really the weepy type.
Dropping him off for his freshman year, I teared up a little saying goodbye, of course. But I wasn't that mom who looked at his closed door, or went into his empty, very clean room and cried. I was too happy for him; he was in his right place. When we talked, he was happy, making friends quickly, playing soccer and tennis, and doing well academically as well. How could I cry when he was so clearly thriving? I didn't—I was honestly just too excited he'd found his perfect fit school.
That's not to say I didn't miss him. I did. The house was a little too quiet, even with Kylie filling it with laughter and dance parties in the kitchen. We were down a debater for dinner—it was just the three of us duking it out now. I totally over bought at the grocery store. But I knew we had done our jobs as parents. We had raised him to be independent, strong, and to go after what he wanted. And that's what he was doing.
So I didn't anticipate the shift this year. I didn't expect to feel the heart tugging when he had too much homework to meet on Sunday. I didn't allow for the sting of tears in my eyes when we were driving away. I didn't really recognize the feeling of leaving a little piece of my heart in Connecticut.
I was excited to see him on Friday and my heart felt so full hugging him hello. The weekend was great. We sat by the water, ate lobster and ice cream, took a walk and ate more lobster. We saw several a cappella groups perform one day, and watched soccer the next. We went to Target and I found myself trying to buy a million things for him, but he didn't need much at all.
He's been busy growing up at college. Without me. And he's doing a damn good job of it. I'm so proud of him. He is in the right place doing all the right things—just like last year. But this year, when I leave him I am crying. I get choked up a few more times on the drive, and I have tears in my eyes writing this.
Who knew? I may just be that mom after all.
Posted: 30 Mar 2018 06:00 PM PDT
It was something about the phrasing that got to me. Something about the cadence of his words, the staccato of his speech.
"Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me."
It is an odd turn of phrase, isn't it?
Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
He was buckled into the backseat of my Toyota, still too little to sit up front. At seven, he had already moved more times than the total number of years he had been on the earth. And this time, like the times before it, he moved with his belongings in a trash bag. A suitcase, at least, would have added a small degree of dignity to the whole affair – to being "placed" in another and another and yet another foster home before reaching the 3rd grade. Trash bags break, you know. Trash bags can't possibly support the contents of any life, and certainly not a life as fragile as this.
They break from the strain, eventually.
This move was harder for Stephen than most. It was a home he thought he would stay in, at least for awhile. He had felt affection there. When I went to pick him up, after his foster mother gave notice that he could no longer stay, he came easily with me; head down, no reaction on the surface of it. It was only when he got into my car that he began to sob the kind of aching sound that leaves you limp in its wake.
He could barely get out the words. Nobody loves me. Not even my mother who gave birth to me.
Months later, in a repeat scene (another foster mother, another removal), he would put up a fight. He would run around the living room, ducking behind furniture, refusing to leave. But on this night he had no fight in him.
That was Stephen at seven.
Nine-year old Stephen grips his report card in sweaty hands. We're headed to an adoption event, where we will meet families who want to adopt an older child; families who do not automatically rule out a boy like Stephen with all of his long "history." And he wants to impress them, these strangers. He wants to win them over, and so he brings his good report card along as tangible proof that he is a child worth loving.
A child should never have to prove they are worth loving.
Twelve-year-old Stephen tells me that I'm his best friend. I'm his social worker, and he should have a real best friend, but I don't say this to him. We're at a taping for Wednesday's Child, the news spot featuring children who are up for adoption. Stephen is engaging on camera. Maybe somebody will pick him this time. Maybe he is offering just enough evidence, at twelve, that he's a boy worth loving. And he is lovable, truly. But it is not enough. A family never comes.
Years later, long after I've left the agency, I get an email from my old boss asking how I'm doing, and ending with a short P.S. "Stephen is in DYS lockup after running away from his foster home. You need to adopt him." My stomach drops. I've had this thought many times. I should adopt him myself. But I don't.
I heard about his murder from a friend who had seen it in the news. Shot outside a party over some foolish dispute. Dead at 18, dead just as he became a man. Not my Stephen, I prayed. When I realized that it was really him – that it could be no other – I sobbed gripped by the kind of anguish that leaves you limp in its wake.
The newspapers ran very little about the murder, as if it were an afterthought. Barely worth a mention, really. Anonymous strangers posted nasty comments online: "Just another gangbanger," they said.
You don't even know him. You don't know the first thing about this boy. You don't know that as a child he would trace letters into my back with his finger to pass time at the doctor's office, asking me to guess what phrase he was spelling out. "I U" he traced between my shoulders, the last time we played this game.
Stephen had been wrong, that night in my Toyota. His mother did love him, in her way. She was there, at the funeral. She greeted me kindly. I think she knew I loved Stephen as I knew she did. We both failed him in the end, and that joined us I suppose. Neither of us could give him a family.
There were no photos from Stephen's childhood at the funeral home. No images of the green-eyed boy with the sweet smile to remind us of what had been lost. There were no pictures of Stephen with his brothers, and so I printed up snapshots of the four boys together, taken on a supervised visit, and brought them to the funeral to give to the family. It was something I could do, against the larger backdrop of nothing I could do.
There were very few social workers at the funeral, and none of Stephen's many foster mothers. Did they even know he was dead? Stephen spent more of his life being raised in the system than out of it. If you claim legal responsibility for a child, you best show up at his funeral. You should show up when he dies. He was yours, in a way, wasn't he? You owe it to him. And if he did not belong to you, then who did he ever belong to?
His mother was there, at least. His mother who gave birth to him. I hear the echo of his voice from those many years ago.
Somebody does love you, Stephen. I want to tell him. But it's too late.
Stephen was the one, for me. The one who embodied all the failures of a system so broken that to heal it would take far more than the casts that heal the literal broken bones of the children growing up within it.
They break, you know. These kids we leave behind. Eventually they break.
For information on adoption from the foster care system, visit the Dave Thomas Foundation for Adoption.
*Stephen is a fictional name for a real boy the world lost.
Posted: 30 Mar 2018 06:00 PM PDT
"I'm nervous about doing the two week wait again," my infertility buddy confided to me just weeks before she found out Parker was on his way. We found out we were pregnant just weeks of each other after dealing with what felt like an eternity of infertility, and her son was born only 12 days after my daughter.
Mason was the first to become a big brother, followed quickly by Wyatt. And then Stella became a big sister, and just a few days ago, Cadence, too. One by one, the women I met in the online world of learning-to-cope-with-infertility have announced their second pregnancies. Meanwhile, I'm still broken.
I've lost track of their stories. When I post my congratulations and they say they were "pleasantly surprised," I don't know if they mean it happened the way it's meant to or if the treatments went unexpectedly well. I don't know if they implanted their frozen embryos or turned out to be one of those magical infertility unicorns who somehow gets pregnant without medical intervention after their first pregnancy.
I am not a unicorn. Womp-womp.
No, I am one of those who experienced primary infertility and who, should she ever work up the courage to give it another real shot, will experience secondary infertility, too. I know enough now to recognize how screwed up my systems are, and I'm not so much bothered by the knowing I'm broken as I am with the knowing I might have to deal with a second round. My daughter just turned two, and I still feel so traumatized by the experience of getting pregnant, despite "only" having needed three rounds of Clomid to get that BFP.
That's why I unfollowed the blogs, after all. That's why I don't know what it took for my friends from the blogosphere to get a second positive pregnancy test. It just became too much to constantly relive those moments. Phone calls from nurses with disappointing test results. Another blank pregnancy test with no second line. Forever teetering between insane optimism and complete nihilism. I spent most of my pregnancy utterly terrified of the worst-case scenarios, too, so the years between "I'm ready to be a mother" and holding my baby for the first time really just feel like a blur of stomach-churning anxiety and depression.
I feel guilt for leaving my sisters in the trenches, but I'm not exactly prepared to do it all again. I don't know if I ever will be, and I'm just so full as a girl mom to an “only” that I can't imagine it being any other way. We aren't actively trying to get pregnant. We aren’t peeing on sticks morning, noon, and night. We aren’t on drugs, making doctor appointments, having blood draws. We aren’t hoping against hope that the cycle doesn’t reset again. In that sense, I'm not really experiencing infertility, am I?
But the knowing.
What can you do about all the things you know now?
As I learned to cope with primary infertility, I remember so distinctly thinking, at least those women have a child. At least they got the experience of carrying life. At least they know.
I believed (on some level) that secondary infertility was just as painful, but that didn't diminish my pain and anger and fear that I might never get what they had. I always chastised myself for thinking that way, because I shared the pain of wanting a child and the indescribable disappointment of learning that there are some things in life that you just can't work hard enough for, that there really are no guarantees. I shared the feeling of being let down by your own body. I empathized. I understood.
But I didn't know.
Primary infertility is fearing what you'll never get to experience.
Secondary infertility is knowing what you're missing.
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