We started trying for a family 8 years, 4 months and 24 days ago. I have a library of “how to get pregnant” books. A long, depressing and desperate search history. I have shed enough tears to fill an Olympic sized swimming pool. We’ve spent thousands and thousands of dollars on mind and body altering drugs at an attempt to get my body to do what it was supposedly designed for (shout out to my health insurance companies who haven’t covered a dime).

We didn’t know just how hard it would be. We didn’t know we would have to dig deeper into ourselves than we ever had for strength and faith and hope—even when no hope could be found.

But on this day, exactly 8 years, 4 months and 24 days into trying to build our family, I am lucky enough to reflect and look back with a warmth in my heart. After 4 years of trying (one of which was spent in the local fertility doctor’s office) we were blessed with Lucy. The doctor said our odds were low with this cycle, we should look into IVF, they still didn’t know why things weren’t working. And my body said lol to science and defied those odds. Our angel baby was the perfect way to start our family, even if it took us four years to get her.

After two miscarriages (one technically a chemical pregnancy), we almost lost hope… again. I was getting older (evidently 35 is ancient in fertility years). Fewer follicles were developing. Etc. Etc. It’s these moments when the questions swirl in your head. Am I not a good mother? Did I not try hard enough, put enough of my heart into it? What did I do to piss off the fertility gods? Is Lucy not deserving of siblings? Why did I see a flicker of a heartbeat, only to have it taken away 2 weeks later?

It’s these moments that creep up, even if you think you’re handling it well. Even if you’ve been on this journey for YEARS. It doesn’t get easier. You get numb and used to the disappointment, but it never ever gets easier.

Then a year later, once again, my doctor gave my body a timeline. “You’ve done a few IUIs now. We should probably talk next steps and other options. blah blah blah. disappointment disappointment disappointment.”

If my body laughed in the face of statistics with Lucy’s IUI cycle, it said “go ahead and fuck right off” with this cycle. Not only did it work… it was giving us two. babies. Identical twin boys who are a crazy answer to an almost decade of uncertainty. They will be here in four weeks and our infertility journey will come to a close. No more drugs. No more ultrasounds. No more wondering when or why. It’s over. The scars are still there. They are fresh. They are deep. But this chapter is closing.

I realize how deeply lucky I am. I know so many women who won’t get an ending like this. My heart aches for them. Tears flow for them. I will never not be deeply saddened when I hear of another person struggling to get pregnant.

Infertility comes in many forms with many disappointments. Sometimes you get a success, often times you don’t. So this week and every week, I think about the statistics. I think about the tears. I think about how many people in my circle, my community and beyond are living in that same, silent hell.

You are seen, you are known and you are not alone.

“But you had a miscarriage. You cried. You complained… a lot.” Yes, this is true. But in all honesty, this has been the most content I’ve been in a long, long time.

For most of my life, I’ve felt pretty bleh. I’ve lived with depression and anxiety. I’ve never really been consistently “happy” (whatever that actually means). Yes, I have had many, many happy times. Married my best friend, gave birth to an angel, changed the lives of two little terriers, made some bomb ass friends, lots of laughs with my family.

But, I’m the kind of person who can get eaten alive by one negative aspect in my life. One thing can overshadow all the greatness. I’ve had a string of jobs that broke my spirit and had me questioning who I am, what I’m doing and what would happen if I just went back to the check out lane at Target. Eaten alive by negativity, over and over.

And then in 2019, that changed. It was like a veil lifted. For the first time in my entire career, I felt smart. I felt appreciated, fostered and part of a team. I started to actually like the field of work I went into. And suddenly the rest of my life started to feel brighter.

This small town seemed bigger and roots started to grow. I met new, amazing people. I went on vacations without dreading coming back to my thankless 9-to-5 reality. I realized I have actual, true friends (you know, the ones you can text about poop and childbirth. The ones who tell you how bad ass you are and make you laugh out loud).

Because of this huge change, I was able to look past the negative. I stopped letting little things bother me, because they really weren’t that big. And when big, horrible things happened (like miscarriage) they were big and horrible. But the positivity planted in my life helped me move past it. I was able to get back up. I was able to just. keep. going.

So yes, 2019 had a big, black hole punched in it. But the weeks and months before and after that hole were amazing. Sandy beaches, sankalpa, sunshine, snow, the crisp north air, kambaba jasper, big kid undies, ice cream cake, hey girls, champs, smoked meat, baby sharks, wagyu, unicorn boots, bangs, bubbles, geraniums, orchards, butterflies. A. Mazing.

So here’s to 2020. Just. Keep. Going.

My November miscarriage stole my joy in a matter of days. Positive test one day, miscarriage the next. It changed my fertility experience. It hardened my heart. And then it stole the joy of my recent pregnancy.

From the first to the fifth positive pregnancy test, I was skeptical. Even after a blood test, I kept my joy at arm’s length. I just needed to see a heartbeat. Then I could reach out and touch joy. Try it on for a day then tuck it away until the next milestone.

On July 18, I got what I was hoping for. A tiny little flicker of a heartbeat. A strong one, too. And yet, my joy was still not quite in reach.

But we celebrated. We told family and friends, always with the disclaimer that it was “still early.” We gave Lucy a picture of the little bean and she declared it was a sister named Fiona.

Despite the nagging thief in my head, I was quietly excited. I looked at maternity clothes. We told daycare. I bought a pregnancy pillow because I was already incredibly uncomfortable. Cautious optimism.

But if November taught me anything, nothing is promised.

On July 18, we saw a perfect heartbeat. Three weeks later we were back to check the baby as a precaution. At exactly 10 weeks pregnant, joy was once again snatched away.

“I’m sorry, there’s no heartbeat.”

So here we are. Hunkered in. Recovering from a D&C. Showered in wine, flowers and food. Angrily cursing the thief.

I like to think I have a decent idea of what’s happening in my body and what happens when a baby is made (I mean, I made one). Yet here I am—once again—amazed and confused by the female reproductive system.

We are currently in the two week wait phase of our fifth IUI, and of course I can’t just surrender to the process. I need to know what is going on in my body. I need to visualize it.

“OK, Google. What happens during conception?”

Google’s answer? It’s a fucking war zone in there.

I watched this video in its entirety, multiple times. I just… you guys…. how are there even any human beings in the world. There is so much death and turmoil happening in my body right now. SOLDIERS ARE DYING AS WE SPEAK.

It starts with hundreds of millions of sperms. So free, so happy, so determined. But before they even have a fighting chance, millions will die or fall out (yes, fall out). The remaining soldiers venture through the cervix (that is only open for a few days) to meet even more death as they struggle in the cervical mucus. Once inside the uterus, the little guys get attacked by immune system cells destroying thousands more. DEATH.

Then, half the guys go into the WRONG FALLOPIAN TUBE. Only a few thousand make it to the right tube where the egg waits (assuming the female’s reproductive system is better than mine and ovulates normally). The soldiers have to fight up stream where they encounter, you guessed it, more death.

After all of these battles, only a few dozen men are left. A FEW DOZEN. They are battered, bruised and presumably traumatized by the horror they endured. Then they have to try to breach the egg like the God damn death star. If one happens to be successful, we have to hope all the chromosomes are in check and it attaches to the uterus.

I repeat, HOW ARE THERE ANY HUMANS IN THIS WORLD. The sorcery that it takes to create a human child is beyond my realm of understanding, and I did it. I managed to not kill every sperm that was shot into my body. I feel very accomplished.

So now, I must wait to see if my body cooperated and the soldiers endured the long, death-riddled journey to the egg.

Fingers crossed.

During our latest round, I’ve taken to Instagram stories to detail the process. So many people have reached out with their own stories, encouragement and a lot of questions. Why do you have to get ultrasounds? You have to get a shot in your ass? What does IUI even mean? Let me break it down for you.

WTF is an IUI?

An IUI is NOT IVF—which seems to be a common confusion. So WTF is an IUI? According to americanpregnancy.org, intrauterine insemination (IUI) is a fertility treatment that involves placing sperm inside a woman's uterus to facilitate fertilization. Placing, that sounds so… sweet and gentle. Honestly, the IUI part isn’t that bad. But, it’s only part of the process.

Step 1: Diagnosis

Way back in the day when we started our first journey, we went through a barrage of tests to be diagnosed… with unexplained infertility. Sperm was tested, blood was taken and a Sono HSG was administered. (Pro tip: if you ever have one of these, DEMAND Valium. Friends of mind who had this procedure were shocked they didn’t give it to me. Make sure you load up.)

I went through all of that, for the doctors to tell me they really weren’t sure why we hadn’t conceived yet. Maybe I wasn’t ovulating right, maybe my hormones are off, they just couldn’t be sure. The bright side? I only had to do this step once, so no more Sono HSGs for me!

Step 2: Drugs

In order to be sure I ovulate correctly, I take drugs. As soon as I start my period, I call the doctor and they prescribe 5 days of meds starting cycle day 3. During our first journey, I took Letrozole for the first 10 months (a drug often used to treat breast cancer). This drug f*cked. me. up. I was so tired, so emotional, so bitchy. And, it didn’t work. So we moved on to Clomid—the first time I took this, we got Lucy. Flash to round 2, and I went straight to Clomid. In some women, it causes the same side effects as Letrozole. But for me, I have so much energy and pep in my step for the first 4 days. On day 5, I get a raging headache and I sleep for hours. Overall, not too bad.

Step 3: Ultrasound

The meds are meant to stimulate follicle growth (the things that pop out eggs). After I’m done with the drugs, I go see a lady about a vaginal ultrasound. During this visit, they see how many follicles I have, measure them to see how mature they are and then calculate when to get my trigger shot and IUI. The average woman has one follicle per cycle. With Lucy, I had 2 follicles. During our first IUI this round, I had 3. My body is clearly not very reliable.

Step 4: Shot

Anybody who knows me, knows I HATE needles. Even typing this raises my blood pressure. Needless to say, this step is my least favorite. At the ultrasound appointment, we get our trigger date and the nice nurse marks an X on my ass where my husband has to give me the shot (lord knows I can’t give it to myself). They order our shot from an online pharmacy in California and I wait anxiously at the mailbox. To add insult to injury, we have to mix the shot ourselves. It’s a whole process—draw up air, insert into this vial, take some solution from this other vial, put it into that one with the powder, mix it up, draw it up, change needles, sterilize, shoot!

Step 5: IUI

Finally, D-Day. Husband gets up bright and early to… collect his sample… and drive it to the clinic for “scrubbing.” The technicians weed out the stragglers and make sure we have only the very best. An hour later, we head into the clinic. They make me look at the vile of my husband’s… collection… to double check that the name and birth date on the vial are, in fact, his. I kick back, relax and throw my legs into the stirrups. They stick a catheter directly into my uterus to make sure the… collection… gets as close to those eggies as possible. And, done!

Step 6: Progesterone

With Lucy, I had to do progesterone suppositories (as awesome as it sounds). So for two weeks, I shoved a little progesterone pill up my hoo-hah to be sure my progesterone was high enough to sustain a pregnancy. Because my progesterone wasn’t an issue once I got pregnant with Lucy, I don’t have to deal with those this time.

Step 7: The wait

After the IUI is complete, we wait. For two weeks, we wonder, hope, pray. So far I’ve had two unsuccessful IUIs. A bummer, but not the end of the world. With Lucy, I did 11 rounds of drugs and three IUIs. So it takes my body a while to finally get it’s shit together. I am currently on week two of our two week wait. Here’s hoping this one sticks. If not, we start it all over again.

“Oh, she doesn’t hate you.” Sure, she doesn’t actually hate me—I’m not even sure her beautiful little angel heart knows how to hate at this point. But she’s definitely sick of me. I walked in her room this week and she flinched away from me and screamed “NO, MAMA! NO, MAMA!” like I was going to murder her. And this is not an isolated incident. For a while now, she just can’t stand to be near me.

I get it, though. In her defense, I’ve literally been in her grill every day for the last two years (minus the infamous pneumonia weekend). That’s 750 days. Seven. Hundred. Fifty.

750 days of this crazy lady smooching your cheeks, not letting you jump on the couch, dressing you like a dork, saying no to cookies for dinner (girl, we don’t even have cookies in the house). Hell, even I’m sick of me. But, being around someone who is sick of you… starts to make you not want to be around them, too.

I know, I know. It took me four years of soul-crushing drugs, needles and tears to get her. I’m so lucky. I’m so grateful. Of course I’m not sick of her. But, I’ve literally spent 3 nights away from her in her whole entire life.

Maybe my toddler is right. Maybe she’s actually teaching me a lesson right now. I have been trying to “do it all” for too long. I’ve wanted to be the one to wake her up, feed her nummies, play with her in the tubbie, smell her breath while she sleeps. I’ve wanted to “live in the moment” because “tomorrow’s not promised to anyone.” Blah, blah, blah.

And while I do subscribe to “take time for yourself,” when you’re a working mom with a husband who travels, “time for yourself” is often limited to showers and sleep.

Maybe it’s time to try harder. No, not to be a better mom or look past this “NO, MAMA!” phase (it’s a phase, right)? Maybe it’s time to give up some of that need to be a part of every little thing. Time to give her some space. Give me some space.

This article showed up yesterday on Facebook like a GD divine message from the big guy himself. I think it’s a sign. There is nothing in the world that sounds better right now than a lazy day alone on a warm beach with a book and a drink.

Or maybe a snuggle from my goose.

Our super awesome Thanksgiving weekend started on Wednesday with multiple positive pregnancy tests and a lot of surprise. I was on zero fertility drugs and we weren’t really trying because we had planned to go back to the fertility doc in January. But to our surprise, there was a 4 week 2 day old bun in this oven.

Of course we decided to tell people right away. We were very excited, but we were also heading to a family Thanksgiving filled with bottomless old fashioneds, gallons of coffee and a hot tub—my lack of partaking would surely give us away. So we told people and were met with hugs, clapping and joyous celebration. Thanksgiving went on as normal—minus soft cheese and booze—and all was well. Until I woke up in the middle of the night to my period.

Except… this was not just a period. I will spare you the gory details (remember when Will Byers coughed up slugs? That times 1000. And not out of my mouth.) but I was clearly having a miscarriage. At my in laws’. In the Northwoods. After we had just told our families that were were having a miraculous angel baby.

My overactive brain did all the things I’m assuming are normal in this situation. I cried. I got angry. I shook my fist at the sky and asked what I did to deserve this—on top of all the fertility struggles with Lucy. I told myself that it could be worse. I wasn’t far along. I already have a beautiful, magical angel baby. Things could be worse.

Except having a miscarriage is the worst. It’s sad, painful, disgusting, lonely, heartbreaking and every other way to say that it fucking sucks. I tried to think of the bright side.

“Hey, we got pregnant this time with no meds, so it can happen.” But it can also unhappen.

“Hey, we already have a miracle baby and she’s so great and lovely and fun and amazing.” But, I want to have more great, lovely, fun, amazing babies.

“Hey, you aren’t the only one this has happened to in the history of time.” Yes. But it still fucking sucks.

The only bright side that I can come up with is that it is so common that I had some really amazing, strong, lovely ladies that I could text as I was hemorrhaging and sobbing uncontrollably alone in the Northwoods. Without them, my husband and my delightful toddler, I would probably be laying in a psych ward somewhere.

So as I must do—and as I did when we struggled to get pregnant for four years before—I will just keep existing. I will wake up every day. Go to work. Play with my baby. Walk my dogs. Binge watch Netflix with my husband. And hope beyond all hope that some day we can have another baby.

1. Does my baby love me, or just my boobs? 

2. Will I ever be able to eat leafy greens and not immediately fart the most horrendous odor? 

3. How long until I stop wanting to squish my baby so hard she absorbs back into my body?

4. Back to farts, will they ever not smell in general?

5. Or sound like a bomb went off?

6. Mamas with multiples, single mamas, single papas: how. do. you. do. it? 

7. Is this linea nigra permanent?

8. How about the hemorrhoid? 

9. Will my hair ever stop falling out? 

10. Or grow back?

11. Am I feeding my baby too much?

12. Can she sleep in our room until she’s 12?

13. Will I ever get a period again?

14. Will it be the murder scene I’ve been told to expect?

15. When can I get pregnant again?

16. Is 5 kids too many?

17. If I have more kids, will she hate me?

18. How long until I stop worrying about every rash, cough, weird cry?

19. Never?

20. Why did we ever think 2 dogs was a good idea?

21. Why don’t we have more dogs?

22. What’s the law on animals in the city?

23. Will I ever get 8 hours of sleep again?

24. Hell, how about 7?

25. Am I talking to my baby enough?

26. Is she getting enough sensory play?

27. Is this 90s rap sending her the wrong message?

28. Can I tape her legs to the rug so she never crawls? 

29. Or leaves me?

30. Ever?

31. Does she think about me when she’s at daycare?

32. Will she resent me for being the first there and last to leave?

33. Can daycare open on the weekend once a month?

34. Are my boobs just permanently 2 inches and one cup size bigger?

35. Can I wear nursing bras forever?

36. Will I ever be able to sleep on my stomach again?

37. Should I get her a gmail account?

38. Can I block her from social media already?

39. Can she just be Amish?

40. What weird technology will be available when she’s my age?

41. Flying cars? 

42. Killer robots?

43. Shit, what do I need to do to safeguard her against killer robots?

44. Am I doing this right?

45. Am I doing anything right?

46. What can I make for dinner with ramen noodles and parmesan?

47. When was the last time I pumped?

48. Is she laughing at me or with me?

49. Will she look back on her childhood and think I’m a nut?

50. Is this day over yet so I can go snuggle my girl?

The IUI that our fertility specialist said wouldn’t work. In fact, she recommended it be our last. The odds of a successful pregnancy were just too low. And based on our two previous IUIs, the odds kept getting smaller and smaller. 

(For those of you who aren’t familiar, an IUI is where they take your husband’s sperm and turkey baster it up into your lady regions after you’ve been hopped up on drugs and hormones to force you to ovulate. Super sexy, super comfy, all around good time. Oh, and you prepay for those bad boys.)

We had written the check. We were at the office. And the doctor had my husband’s sperm in a tube (TMI?). So eff it, let’s do this. 

After we left the office, I cried. I went to work. Cried. Drove home. Cried. Made dinner. Cried some more. I’m pretty sure I cried myself to sleep that night.

Our doctor said not to worry, we would just move on to IVF. Well, we had decided early on in our fertility journey that IVF wasn’t for us, so this was our last chance at a biological family.

The next week we mourned the unborn Zei children that would never be. Sounds dramatic, but 1000% necessary. We had pictured our little babies before we got married. Hell, we decided on our baby names before we even got engaged.  We had to accept the fact that little Luke and little Emily would not exist, and move on.

And move on we did.

We had already started the adoption process (just in case). So we hopped in the car and drove to our two day intensive adoption education classes. It was overwhelming, emotional and so. completely. invigorating. We met some amazing couples, we learned what it means to adopt and all the challenges and life changing aspects of it. We were on board and so enthused about it. We could not wait to head down this path.

Then we came home and I realized my period never came. It couldn’t be. Probably just the progesterone suppositories (overshare?) wearing off slower than normal. Maybe I’ll take a pregnancy test. Just to see.

Well, I got two giant. big. fat. positives. I don’t remember how many negative pregnancy tests we got in the last 1,580 days, but those don’t matter when you get a positive. And I got two.

For those of you who follow me on Instagram and Snapchat you know the outcome of this story. We have a three month old angel baby. Sent to us from the magician in the sky who somehow managed to get my ovaries to function and one single, little, perfect spermie to swim all the way up stream.

Shit, I’m tearing up just thinking about how totally insane and wonderful and magical it even is.

“That’s awesome, now you have a baby. I bet you’re glad that’s over.” Yeah, we heard various versions of this and felt a collective sigh from friends and family. But we still have a journey ahead of us (and I’m not talking about when she decides she hates us because we won’t let her take the car past curfew).

Infertility is still a thing. Sure, a lot of couples have fertility troubles with the first baby and then can have the rest by just blinking at each other. I don’t know the exact statistic, but there are a LOT of couples with a successful IUI that have to go back to IUI again and again. 

All I know is that we are lucky. We have an angel baby that gives me life.  And while she was extremely difficult to get, she was worth the thousands of dollars, the meds that made me cuckoo for cocoa puffs, the shots in the ass (needles, get your mind out of the gutter) and the gallons of tears. 

Whether we get pregnant easily with the next or go back to the Clomid/Pregnyl/IUI magic cocktail, I don’t care. We have this delicious little monkey. That’s more than some people can even dream of.

1 in 8 couples experiences infertility. That’s a lot of fucking people who go through this. We are 1 of those 8. It was awful. It was horrible. It was a grey, sad, dark, thunderstorm of a time, but now we have the most amazing little creature.

I will never forget the 4 years of trying to start a family. The horrible tests (don’t Google Sono HSG). The meds and procedures that are NOT covered by our insurance (but abortion is, that’s for another post). The epic sadness that hung over our lives for 1,580 days.

But without all that horrible shit we wouldn’t have this: