I know you don’t mean to stab me when you ask me how old my baby is
I don’t know what I stand to gain by counting the number of times I get asked the question, “So, how’s your baby? How old is she now?” But I feel like doing it anyway.
It was after 13 long and difficult years of waiting that we finally merited our miraculous, beautiful, precious little girl. She was a dream come true and the world rejoiced with us. The joy that everyone displayed reminded me of how much they’d actually cared when I was hurt by their insensitive comments. The gifts, the simchah, the care — it was so touching.
According to the doctors, the next one was supposed to follow easily. According to Hashem, it wasn’t. When our hopes were dashed month after month, we knew we needed to go back to the doctor. He didn’t think it was a serious problem. A few months of medication and everything would be fine, he said. It was great we came right away because, since we’d married a little late, our time frame was limited, but it should sort itself out soon.
A few months passed. The “no big deal” meant difficult medication, regular blood tests, ultrasounds, needles, constantly counting days and hours, and endless stress. But that was nothing compared to our past experience, and besides, soon everything would be fine.
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