Though much of my writing on the topic of conscious conception is focused on serving our eggs sunny side up, I also realize the importance of being real about just how hard being hard boiled truly is.
There are moments, that should we choose to drown in them, will quickly consume us and turn our desire for a child into desperation. This desperation can lead us down a dark alley into a dumpster at the dead end. There is no way out.
Yet to pretend it is not there is also not an option, for surely it will find ways to remind us of its dark foreboding presence.
When we love our partners to the moon and back, a crater the size of Kansas is bound to find a home in our hearts for the one piece of the puzzle we can’t produce from our bodies for them. They may never, ever speak of a disappointment, or of loving us any less, yet a part of us perhaps loves ourselves a little less because of it.
Then when we hold teeny tiny babies, whose genetics flow through our family yet not through our body, the Kansas size crater finds a friend the size of Texas to hang out with. And these craters only get more treacherous when we hear time, after time, after time, how incredible we are with the babies, and how soothed they are in our arms.
Scabs cover over those craters, they hide them like Band-Aids from our everyday lives, yet we know that still they remain.
I like to believe that one day these craters will simply become a part of our internal landscape that we only rarely notice when we walk through that back desolate corner of our soul.
Yet to pretend they do not exist is to be subsumed by their size, as though blindly stepping off the ledge of the Grand Canyon and starting to plummet to the bottom. They are there. They are a part of us. They hurt, and they are real.
So while we can’t force these scabs to heal and fall away, we don’t have to pick at them either.
And maybe, just maybe, if we love and nurture ourselves as we will love and nurture our future children when they have fallen and scraped their knee, the boo-boo will turn to a dark plum-colored scar. And when it does, the pain will no longer be as acute, and the memory of what lies hidden beneath the rough protective skin will fade with the covering of time.