So the thing about feeling like this all over again is that, having been there before, you try subtly drop the whole topic into a casual conversation. While laying down for a family nap on a Saturday. Which, of course, results in a similar conversation as before:
She: Are you ready?
He: For what?
She: Next month.
He: What's next month?
She: We start trying.
He: When does that mean the baby would be born again?
She: Around July.
He: (sharp inhale of breath) Whoa.
She: We talked about this before, remember?
He: Um well um. . .
She: (in a huff) I'm going to sleep.
He: (backpedaling) Well, it's just that I, well . . .
She: You should probably pray about it.
Then, the next morning, the conversation continues.
He: So, you wanted to start next month?
She: (defensively) We've already had this conversation!
He: I know, but I want to talk about it.
She: I don not want to talk about this right now. I'm tired!
Turns out, the poor man was up with a tempestuous stomach at 2:30 in the morning and was praying and took his wife's advice and felt good about it and figured why wait another month?
And this is precisely how the trying for numero dos began. (Essentially, we jumped right in with total abandon.)
Try as I might to convince myself not to immediately start stressing over the subtle signs and symptoms, about impending implantation or infertility . . . in short, what my body is or is not currently doing - after all, we're a whole month early so no biggie, right? - the heart just doesn't work that way.
The heart is filled with hope and issues a bodily decree that now is the time to catch, stick and stay a pregnancy.
The heart is uncomprehending that there are women who have this internal struggle each and every month.
The heart worries overmuch about the pain of a miscarriage and whether it will be called upon to endure that ache again.
The heart weighs those happy women who seem to have no problems getting and staying pregnant with those who battle with unexplained secondary infertility.
The heart wants to wrap all those women up in a hug. And to wrap itself up against such trials at the same time.
The heart wants to simply will the spark of fleshy newness into existence.
The heart wants to personally oversee that the building of an entirely new little person goes off without a hitch.
The heart wants to play armchair conductor, orchestrating the whole lovely physiological symphony from its high perch.
But of course, even though the heart wants what it wants, it is not the boss here. In fact, the heart has very little to do with it.
And yet, it is everything.