Infertility and Fatherhood: Holding on to the Daydream

There were many reasons why I fell in love with my husband, one piled on top of another somewhat like the rocks in a hand-built rock wall. Each reason blending into the next so one was no longer distinguishable from the other.

However there is one reason that I remember the most, one that I continue to be reminded of, often on a weekly basis. That is the way he is with children. The man was made to be a father.

With his nieces he will always be “Uncle Silly,” and with his nephews he is forever the one who starts the WWE wrestling match at every family get together. I still vividly remember his nephew at two-years-old running up to him, out of nowhere, and body slamming him–I suppose because that’s what all the other kids always did. Recently even our five-year-old niece (who granted is the baby of a family with four older brothers) head butted him.

My husband is built like an NFL linebacker, but he always meets them at their level and to them he’s the Super Hero they one day want to be. Every time I see him playing with them, teaching them, encouraging them, laughing with them, my heart expands and cracks all at the same time. He was made to be somebody’s daddy.

I look forward to the day when I glance out our kitchen window to see him rolling in the grass with his own son or daughter, that magical sound of a pure-joy giggle filling my ears. That will be the day I know it was all worth it. Every single step that led me to that moment will be forgotten for its smallness next to such perfection.

One day.

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