Journal

     When we first began this little journey, I went out and bought a journal intended to be written to the baby as he/she grew. Dreams we had for him/her, how excited we were to meet him/her, and lots of cutzie things that bring a happy little tear to your eye. I recently found this dust-covered journal, empty of course, waiting two long years to get an entry. As I sat down to thumb through the pages devoid of my rambling script, a few tears of regret and heartache escaped and trickled down my face.

     When I was graduating from college, someone had asked me where I saw myself in 5 years. I was 22 years old and I couldn’t imagine how my life would be different without homework and reports and classes. By this point, I knew I was going to be in the Peace Corps for the next two years and then I was thinking I would most likely go to grad school. I figured since I didn’t find my husband at college (like so many of my friends) that I was unlikely to find “him” until I was in grad school or beyond.

     In the beginning of August of 2004, I received notice that I was selected to join the Peace Corps as a Food Security (aka Agriculture, aka Aggie) Volunteer in Nicaragua. I would be leaving the end of August for Miami to officially join the Peace Corps and then two groups (the Aggies and the Environmental Education group) would be off to the largest and poorest country in Central America. I was so excited. In my junior year of college I had studied abroad in Athens, Greece and absolutely loved it! I just wanted to see another part of the world. Well, as you can imagine, Nicaragua is drastically different than Greece in just about every way.

     I survived the first three months of training (I lived with a host family who only spoke Spanish and my host mom made me soup for breakfast – Ramen noodle soup with crema (like sour cream) and ketchup with bananas or plantains in it – I kind of miss that soup) living near other volunteers and having regular daily contact with other English-speakers. Then I was sent off to a dusty, hot, dry farming community in a section of the country known as “the oven.” I wanted to be in the mountains, where it is cooler and gets more rain. I got the opposite. I was living with another host family, but they were not as familiar with “gringas” as my first host family (with my first host family, I was their fifth aspirante – aspiring volunteer). Instead of soup for breakfast, I got a sweet bread that was loaded with ants (not on purpose, but they are hard to keep out of things down there – oh yes, live ants), which I gallantly picked off the bread and threw to the (dirt) floor for the chickens to squabble over.  

     Things got better when I moved into my own house (it is nearly unheard of for a single woman to move out on her own) and could cook for myself. I would spend the hot afternoons reading and napping in my hammock. In the evening I would go to the neighbors well to draw a bucket of water to bathe. I was making friends and my Spanish was improving. I had two good friends in the community where I lived. Juana was a petite woman and mother of 5 children. Her eldest daughter, Masiel, was my very first friend in the community and introduced me to her mother. Martina was vibrant and fun-loving. She was also a mother, but her two children were younger. We went to a quinceñera together and that is where I met Juana’s eldest child. We danced together and he kissed me. He declared we were boyfriend/girlfriend and I thought he was joking (he had been drinking guaro – and so had I). Two weeks later he showed up at my door and the rest is history. This was my Flaco. To make a very long story short, we ended up getting married and he moved here to the U.S. four years ago.

     So, the five years after college went by very quickly and without realizing it, I got what I wanted out of those five years and I arrived at age 27 with everything accomplished I had hoped I would accomplish. I was in the Peace Corps and saw a small slice of the world (and tried to help less-fortunate people) and I fell in love and got married. At the time we got married, I assumed that I would become a mother for the first time before my 30^th birthday. As I paged through this journal, the reality sank deeper and deeper into my soul. In order to be 29 when my first baby is born, I would need to be pregnant now. Instead,  I will be at least 30 when I have my first baby. This is not what I wanted at all. And I am struggling so much with this up-coming birthday (keep in mind, my birthday is in October). Generally, I only think about my birthday when it is upon us (you know, to remind Flaco how much he loves me and that I expect something nice for my birthday). But, now I am just dreading the big day in October. My mother tells me I am crazy that 30 is no big deal. But 30 means I am leaving my 20s and it feels like the tipping of the scales (also, Flaco is four years younger than me, so he will still be in his 20s for another four years, while I am in my 30s – ick!). I can't tell you why, but I find it so painful to be ?(nearly) 30 and childless. . . . .

     When I was younger, I always wanted to have a big family. I think they are cool and there is always someone around to hang out with and whatnot. Of course, when you are young you do not understand all that would go into having  such a large family. When I began baby-sitting I was about 12-13 years old and I began to realize that a larger family (and to me, large was like 10 kids!) was not as easy as it looks on TV! So, I scaled back to about 4 kids. And Flaco and I have decided we would like to have 3-4 kids. Ideally, I would like to have 2 years between each child. If I am 30 when the first baby is born, then I could potentially be 36 or older when the fourth child comes along. Of course, Flaco would only be 32. . . . . Maybe we should switch birthdays?

     The regret I have is that we did not start trying to conceive earlier. We would not have been ready if we had a baby, thus the reason we waited, but if we had started earlier then we might have been parents by now. Alas! Hindsight is 20-20 and foresight is blind.  So, here we are! I am beginning my 6^th round of Clomid to get my string of pearls (I read that sometimes this term is used to refer to polycystic ovaries because the cysts resemble a string of pearls around the ovaries – this makes it sound so much nicer than it actually is) to squeeze out a little egg. I tucked the journal back into the corner of my closet to continue waiting to be filled with our thoughts regarding our precious baby. Hopefully, this time will come soon!