Infertility still sucks…

Over the weekend, I requested to join a couple of Infertility groups on Facebook.

As I got approved for the groups last night, I popped in and read a couple of posts.

Wow. Holy emotional blindside, Batman!

The vast majority of the time, I’ve made peace with my infertility – I even almost went to a baby shower earlier this year! 1 Thessalonians 5:18 tells us “in everything give thanks; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.” I truly believe that God has a plan for me – and I am indescribably grateful that His plan has led me to foster parenting – and I’m not sure I could have convinced SuperDad to foster if we’d been able to conceive.

But reading the stories of women that are still in the trenches – still fighting infertility… That was intense. I was definitely caught off guard by the rush of emotions.

I feel pulled to participate in these groups – to provide support to these women that are still struggling, if only to serve as a witness to their battle with unspeakable heartache – and maybe a ray of hope to those looking for alternatives to the fight… I want to let them know that it IS okay to stop treatment – to stop trying. I want to let them know that it is possible to fall absolutely head-over-heels in love with a child someone else gave birth to.

So I’m going to do my best to stick it out with these groups. If I can help one women find peace, or help another family discover the joy of foster parenting… Then I can help save more starfish.

How did I get here from there?

I decided to be a foster parent when I was 8 years old. No, really. I read Little Men by Louisa May Alcott the summer before 3rd grade (Little Men is the sequel to Little Women – if you’re on the fence about fostering, go download this book, RIGHT NOW) When school started in the fall, we had a new classmate – one who lived in the Catholic Children’s Home on the edge of town. Mandy shared with me the details of her life in foster care and orphanages (we still called them that then – at least in my little tiny hometown). She was also 8 years old, and had already lived in over a dozen foster homes before landing in the Children’s Home. That’s when I decided that I would have a foster home when I grew up and take in dozens of kids that didn’t have anywhere else to go.

Mandy lived in my hometown for only half of our 3rd-grade year – and I not only still remember her name, I can clearly see her face in my mind. I don’t know what ever happened to Mandy, but she has been a critical guide star on my journey through infertility and into foster care.

Because I’ve known -practically forever- that I wanted to be a foster parent, when we realized that we’d gone as far as were willing with fertility treatments, getting licensed for foster care was the obvious next step. At least, it was for me – the husband, not so much. But like so many hare-brained schemes I’ve hatched over the years, he was game.