At the church I currently go to there are babies everywhere. Every fourth woman I meet is pregnant. Kids of all ages race around after Mass while their parents hold the littlest ones and try to drink their coffee. It’s a beautiful, vibrant sight. But what are you supposed to do when babies make you cry?
Some weeks I just feel a little weight of sadness, but I make it through. Other times, I have to hide in a toilet cubicle while I cry. I’ve learnt to get quite good at a quick, quiet cry. After all, there are heaps of little kids who need to use the bathroom, so you can’t hog it for long.
Crying at the sight of happy families is not something I ever imagined I’d do. It’s a confusing mix of feelings, but I think it’s mostly fear, isolation and (if I’m honest) a bit of envy as well.
Afraid it will never happen for us
When I see all the happy families or pregnant mums, I get afraid that I’ll never experience this. Before I got married, I never even questioned this, but now it’s a real possibility. There is such sadness in that thought.
In the loss of the last year, I see how children come to the aid of their parents in life’s hardest moments. Even if that’s just providing a reason to get out of bed each day. I can’t imagine what it would be like to go through that without children. Not to mention all the happier elements, like watching them grow, holding chubby little hands and finding my husband’s eyes or nose or super smart brain in them.
It’s scary to think that this might never happen for us. But I’m not just fearful of losing the chance to have children. There’s a fear that over time, my friends will all have children and will drift away from me. It would be understandable if they did. Having children adds a new dimension to how you socialise. Hanging out with other mums is probably a lot easier. You have similar schedules, shared experiences and other kids for your children to play with.
Perhaps I’m underestimating my friends. I hope I am. Whatever happens, I want my home to be a welcoming place for all kinds of families. If I can’t have my own children, I still want to be the awesome aunt who has cool toys and fun animals to play with. But, my anxious brain reminds me, what if that’s still not enough?
I guess the fear in infertility is a fear of being alone in some way. Of not being able to fit in, drifting to the edges of the community.
Infertility can be deeply isolating in a closely knit community
Finding a tight-knit community is full of blessings. It’s easier to make friends. People come through when you need help, whatever form it takes. I’m really happy to be part of a community that values family life and supports people to live that way.
That said, there are downsides. There’s the worry I already mentioned, that people who know me will see me crying. I know they’ll offer help, but in those emotional moments I just want privacy and space. But there’s also a fear of being judged.
What if they think we don’t want children?
Are they judging us for being one of the few married couples without kids?
My brain loves to throw me these questions, and I’m a sucker for worrying what people think of me. It doesn’t help that some people have literally asked prying questions and offered incredibly unhelpful or insensitive advice. When it’s a stranger, it’s easy to brush off. When it’s someone you know, it gets harder to manage gracefully.
Infertility can feel isolating, and strangely being part of a tight knit community isn’t always the solution. Honestly, I’d much rather deal with people being too involved than not enough, but that doesn’t mean we don’t sometimes feel alone in the crowd.
Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m jealous of their blessings
I was caught off guard the other day but the littlest thing. A young family sat in front of us Just mum, dad and their baby girl. The mother casually passed the chubby little bub over to dad. He took her, giving her bobbly head a little kiss. Got me right in the heartstrings. Man, I want that so much. I want to see my husband holding his babies so much it hurts.
Part of the sadness is certainly jealousy. I try to fight it, but it’s there. On the surface, I see other women who don’t appear to have any fertility issues. Sometimes it’s hard not to feel a bit bitter about that, despite knowing from experience that appearances can be deceiving. Now, I don’t want to underplay the struggles that mothers have. I know kids aren’t a walk in the park. They require a huge amount of sacrifice, from both parents. But I still want that. I still see joy above the suffering and long to experience that too.
So, what can you do when babies make you cry?
I hope you don’t face this issue, but if you’re going through infertility odds are you might. At the moment I’m still ‘doing the work’ to quote the ubiquitous Mrs Brown. Given I’m still learning, I won’t pretend I have all the answers for you, but I’ve found some helpful ideas here. I find writing these posts, to this silent little community, is a helpful release. Journaling, finding beauty in the every day and trying not to cling to my plans are also helping.
I still believe that one day we’ll have our own little bundle and these days will be behind me. But for now, I’m hoping I can learn to sit with this unexpected grief and start to enjoy all the babies without feeling sad. If you’re feeling the same, I hope you’ll get there too.
Do you have an infertility experience? Let me know in the comments below. I’d love to hear from you!
