When my husband and I got married, at age 30 (him) and 33 (me), we were in our prime, radiant and well-dressed, shiny and hopeful. My mom looked at us and said wistfully, “You two will have beautiful children.”
It was such a dream come true. Our children, a natural blend of the best (and worst) of us. I had never wanted anything as much as I wanted his kids. And it seemed like it was just around the corner, close enough to touch.
As it slowly became clear that our gametes weren’t working as well as we hoped, it felt like that happy little dream was dying. There was some bitterness in remembering it. That particular thing — our biological children — will probably never happen. My mom’s naive certitude became a totally unintended weight around my neck, another burden among many. She was so sure she would be the grandma of our bio-kids (just as I was), and so wrong. There was just this feeling of letting everyone down.
Not an easy pill to swallow, especially with a husband as sweet and handsome as mine.
But at some point, something flipped.
And I realized: Actually, she was exactly right.
We will have beautiful children. One way or another.
They will be so beautiful.
And I can’t wait to meet them and raise them to be a blend of the best (and hopefully not too much of the worst) of us.