Have you ever noticed that there is one lesson, one big, bright, bold, sometimes ugly, lesson that just keeps showing up in your life again, and again, and again? Almost as though it could speak and continues a monotonous dialogue “Are you done yet? Did you learn the lesson yet? Do we REALLY need to go through this all over again? Okay, fine, here we go, AGAIN. When are you finally going to learn? Oh well, I’ll be here with you for the long haul–until you finally do.”
Well, I certainly hope someone other than me has this annoying life-side partner. It’s like the book that sits on my bedside table and no matter how many times I read it cover to cover, and put it back on my bookshelf upstairs, it keeps showing back up on the table. I’m tired of this same story!
And so, I would like to write an infertility book. I know you’re dying to ask: “What would it be called?” Okay, you’re probably not, but let’s pretend. I would call it “Of Mice and Moderation.”
Why the crazy title? Because it’s the classic I’ve been reading over, and over, and over again. And because it’s the lesson I need to learn before I can become the mother I deeply desire to be.
You see if someone gives me five minutes, I will fill it with 10 minutes worth of things. If the sky falls in and I commit to taking a break from something, on a good day I’ll stop for possibly a whole solid week of the three months off I promised myself. I am a do-aholic and do-aholics don’t have enough time/energy/life left over for little people who want to consume every ounce of them.
And so I would write my book “Of Mice and Moderation” about how I finally overcame my addition to doing. I would write my book about how, no matter how many people pulled at me, no matter how many emails flooded all my different “in boxes,” and no matter how many wonderful opportunities came to me as though miraculous through the ethers, I would conserve enough energy for me to flourish first–leaving the rest a distant second.
Because I know, if I can finally master this lesson, my child will finally know that I am ready for them–not to mention my neck will finally not be tied in endless knots.
What would your book be called? Perhaps it’s time that we all started writing . . . .