This weekend has been tough.
I’ve catered for 14 people over two days. I have spent the entire weekend cleaning, cooking, baking, pouring wine, making cups of tea, shopping, wrapping (and giving) gifts and generally ensuring my mum and mother-in-law had a great Mother’s Day.
It’s been a good distraction. But everyone has gone home. The dining table has been cleared off. The dishwasher stacked. The kitchen has been cleaned. And now it’s just me, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a cat cuddled up next to me while Husband irons his shirts ready for another working week.
It’s been three and a half years since I made the decision to become a mum. Three and a half years of appointments and invasive exams. Three and a half years of vitamins, unprotected sex, false hopes and disappointments.
I’ve lost count of the number of sticks I’ve peed on. Every time my period was more than half an hour late would induce a spike of cautious excitement. Of course three minutes later the crushing sadness brought me back down to earth.
Logging onto Facebook today was a massive mistake – all those posts by friends, school chums and cousins saying how much they love motherhood, how becoming a mum was the best thing they ever did, how perfect their child is and how much better life is now that they’re a mum have left me feeling fairly shit. And jealous. I’m so fucking jealous.
For the past six months I’ve been telling myself that it doesn’t matter if I don’t have a baby of my own. I have two sweet little nieces. Without kids Husband and I can travel, we can have an exceptionally neat and tidy home at all times and we won’t have to think about school fees. We can be selfish and do whatever we want, whenever we want.
But I do want to be a mum. And Husband wants to be a dad. After three and a half years of trying to conceive, I’ve come to the conclusion that it won’t happen.
That empty ache inside of me is never going to go away, is it?