Let me start off by apologizing now because there’s a damned good chance I’m going to offend somebody reading this post. I’ll follow that up by telling Those Not Offended that my fingers were crossed behind my back when I said that because I’m not, really. My fantastical smart-ass ways are how I cope with the sun rising every day, the size of my ass, the me being on pharmaceutical grade speed thing which I promise I’ll get into more detail very soon, and pretty much every other aspect of life.

Like my being infertile.

I’m the oldest of five girls. My sister has four kids. Both of my parents came from pretty huge (read: that’s Mexican for average and White People for How Many Fucking Kids Do You Have?) families and The Husband and I just kind of took it for granted that I was genetically-primed to make lots of babies when we felt the time was right. We got married when I was 24. He was 28. And because I grew up knowing that I was the reason my parents got married right out of high school, I was determined to allow our marriage a few years of Adult Only time before we got busy trying to put a bun in my oven. Our plan was to start trying when I turned 26 and get pregnant five minutes later in order to have #2 trying to eat the candle on his or her first birthday cake by the time I turned 30. Instead, I was crying into my Ben & Jerry’s for 18 months straight while everyone I knew was coming up pregnant.

I was more shocked than upset at the beginning. My inability to get knocked up not only pissed me off about the amount of money I’d wasted on years of birth control pills, but made no fucking sense to begin with. I’m Mexican, people. Why couldn’t I have been a good stereotype like the rest of the women I’m related to and pop out babies like a Pez dispenser? Obviously defective, I went to a fertility specialist who figured out I wasn’t even ovulating because of my undiagnosed insulin resistance. Plan A was to put me on medication to control the condition, which might also trigger my ovaries to start working. Plan B was to add Clomid if Plan A tanked.

Miraculously, I didn’t need the Clomid. I got pregnant four months into the process and after a pretty shitty pregnancy, I got to hold my wish in my arms for the first time on June 12, 2007.

We assumed that baby #2 would be much easier to come by. My insulin resistance was under control, after all, and I was taking care of myself. But my four year old is almost five, the most recent round of fertility treatments were a total waste of money, and I’m now waiting to find out if I will need a hysterectomy due to the possibility of an insanely rare allergy that causes sufferers to become allergic to their own hormone levels. The higher the hormone levels, the worse the rash that happens to coincide with the times of the month associated with the allergy I may have. The Husband and I have started to loosen our hold on storage bins full of Buttercup’s baby stuff we had been holding on to for the net baby. I’ve stopped putting the clothing and shoes she has outgrown into boxes Just In Case. We now go to the local children’s consignment shop and trade her too small stuff in for new things like pretty play things and too-big discarded flower girl dresses she loves to use for dress up.

I see my allergist on Monday to discuss testing. I want him to tell me I’m overreacting and that the other two doctors who have agreed I must be allergic to myself are asshats. But I’ve learned to stop counting on the Wants and instead adjusting to the Letting Go of expectations.

Even if the diagnosis ends up being Me Being Crazy and not allergic to myself, my ovaries still aren’t working, my eggs are still scrambled, and I suck at being Mexican.

It’s National Infertility Awareness Week. I wanted you to know my story.