15w4d: To The Pain! IF vs. Pregnancy vs. Parenting

Chickenpig (http://chickenpig-betterfullthanempty.blogspot.com/) has a post up (and no, I still can't comment on her blog, or many other blogs...) right now about complaining about parenting, and how it's, more or less, totally a totally legit thing to do. This is in response to a post written by another blogger, complaining about a mom bitching about her mom-duties on Facebook. I don't want to get involved in the original drama, as I don't follow that other blogger.

But it's interesting, nonetheless. Chickenpig encourages us, as IFers, to cut our future selves (as parents) some slack. That parenting is hard, and complaining about it is...justified. And that it doesn't mean you aren't grateful to be a parent or that you don't love your kid(s).

I think she's right.

I mean, how fucking annoying is it, when you complain about your job, to be told, "At least you have a job!" My doctorsister has wanted to be a doctor (no joke, been obsessed with it) since she had her appendix out at age 4 or 5. And now she is. It's her dream come true, and she worked--and works--very incredibly hard to get to where she is, and to be the best doctor she can possibly be. And you'd better believe she complained and continues to complain about med school, about on-calls, about annoying coworkers (and yes, annoying patients). I think we all complain about our jobs--those of us who worked very hard to get to a certain point in our career, and those of us who just sort of stumbled into something. Some of us love our jobs, but...who on earth has a good day every single day? Who on earth never gets irritated?

Not me.

I have a lot of guilt for not enjoying my pregnancy. I've blogged about it (and been told to shut up about it :p ). I worked so hard for this. That's a large part of it. I worked so hard...for this??? You don't even have enough fingers to count how many times I threw up today. You can't even count the number of places I puked today, if you count every bush and patch of dirt I "christened" to and from my car. Why I even bothered going in today is beyond me, because, at 10:30, I had to leave...and everyone was glad I was going, too.

Today has been a bad day. A bad, bad day. A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

And I judge myself for that.

I'm the one who wanted pregnancy. We both wanted kids, but honestly, I'd say I wanted them more. But my husband would have been just fine with adoption, might even have preferred it. he agreed to IVF for me, because I wanted to experience pregnancy. He even, the night we got our terrible fert report, agreed to donor sperm (which is a big deal for him and took him almost 10 months to come around to, in part because his ex-wife cheated on him, and he had a very hard time getting around the notion of me being pregnant with "another man's child", which, obviously, it's different, but still). And here I am, visibly pregnant, living the dream, and I can't wait for it to be over.

Aside from announcing it at 13 weeks, I have been utterly silent about it on Facebook. I've thought of saying something like "hyperemesis gravidarum is not really an enjoyable weightloss tool" or something, but I don't. Because so many people would kill to be in my shoes, so I should be fucking grateful.

I am.

What I'm learning is you can both love where you are and hate it at the same time. That you can curse your mile to walk but be absolutely unwilling to swap it with another. That you can cry on the floor of a public restroom after your knees gave out from an epic bout of dry heaving and think, simultaneously, "What the FUCK have I gotten myself into and I can't believe I paid almost $20,000 for this" and "Thank god, thank god, they're still safe inside, no bleeding, please babies, stay put for 20 more weeks".

I "hid" an acquaintance of mine on Facebook after my first cancelled cycle of IVF because, at just the wrong moment, she posted that, although her newborn twins had lovely names and adorable nicknames, she and her husband mainly called them "this one" and "that one". What a fucking bitch, right? Like hell does she deserve kids if, 3 weeks after birth, she can't even be assed to tell them apart and call them by their damn names.

Looking forward...I'm not even sure if I'll get enough sleep to remember my babies' names until they're about four. I am sure (given how I've felt about various dogs and cats of mine, whom I love, but who have done horrible things, like eating an important love letter and dropping off a live mouse in my bed at 4 am...) that there will be times when I harbor horrible--though momentary--thoughts towards my children, for things that aren't even really their fault.

Will I forgive myself? Will I beat myself up for not enjoying every single moment of what I worked so hard to get? Of not remembering, with every breath, how close I was to the alternative, to having no children at all, and how dreadful that prospect was? Will I post on Facebook?

As an IF vet, I think I'll always have a higher awareness. But I'm still human. Would I trade my hyperemesis and pregnancy with, say, a blogger who just failed yet another IVF cycle? Oh hell no. Can that blogger hate me, for complaining? Yes. Should I, therefore, refrain entirely from complaining? Should I be dishonest? Should I paint only a beautiful picture and leave out the shadows? I'm thinking no. No, because hopefully that woman will eventually cross over, and she shouldn't be lied to about what it's really like "over here". And no, because even if she doesn't...why lie?

Now, complaining about every single thing and never talking about the positive, I can see how that is annoying, and just as dishonest as the reverse.

But all told, I would rather be friends with someone who, regardless of their parenting/marital/employment/whatever status, trusts me enough to share the ups and downs, and expects the same of me.

It's not a comparison. It's not a competition. It's just life.