An infertile woman’s confession

I was playing softball with around two dozen neighborhood kids and my siblings after the water truck had passed, we’d all gotten drenched, and Hereford Drive had become a tamped down oasis ready for play. As I waited my turn at bat, I doubled over from a stomach cramp, called time out, and went to the bathroom.

I never returned to the game. I thought I had gas or had eaten too much bacon at breakfast, but when I lowered my underwear and saw blood, I panicked, and called for La Jefita. My mother teared up, looked at me funny, then took me into the inner sanctum, her delicate wallpapered bathroom, and told me I was now a woman. Me, a woman! A dorky, pedal-pusher wearing ten-year old with a bad haircut had become a woman, all because I got my period?

Yep!  After getting all the equipment and explanation, my mother, my grandmothers, my aunts, their friends, and anyone else who ever found out I was menstruating informed me, I could now have  baby. And you didn’t want a baby until after you were married. It never dawned on me to ask any of them the particulars, so I spent the next four years, on guard, like I was playing dodgeball with all of the school bullies, who loved to throw the ball at me with such force that I’d fly like a bowling pin.

When my classmates in ninth grade gave me the sex low down, I was grossed out at the thought of a penis going inside me; I’d seen my brothers and they peed with it. Then I was horrified that the baby was going to come out of me. I took a fervent oath that day–I wasn’t going to get pregnant or have a baby. Nope. Not me. Never.

Chapter I – December 27, 1991

“I’d spent most of my twenties and early thirties avoiding motherhood and taking all precautions. Truth be told, I wanted to be the center of attention. Maybe being one of eleven had something to do with it. Maybe it was becoming a woman during the feminist movement and thinking that anyone could have a baby, but not a college degree. Maybe it was looking around at my mother, my aunts, my older sister, all saddled at home by endless demands. The only things on my horizon were career, travel, and not sharing the spotlight with anyone. Those aspirations were meaningless now. I wanted a baby and couldn’t have one. I was deeply hurt and humbled.

Anyone who moves away from a large family learns that you can never step back into that family and expect to be in sync with the pack, but I knew I belonged. I shared flesh and blood, memories, and secrets that bound us forever. There’s no better feeling than reconnecting with a brood of people who know you, warts and all.

Now, I wanted in the most esteemed pack of all—the pack of motherhood—but the portal had slammed shut in my face.”

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