The Little Things


Last Thursday we went to the Urologist. I was home sick, trying to take the day slow, yet also anxious to be getting something done. My husband worked a half day, but was getting home later than he anticipated.

At 1:00 I sat in my closet meditation space, a little outcropping of our bedroom, just big enough to store my clothes, set up an alter, and roll out a yoga mat. It has two windows that look out to our back yard and fill the tiny room with afternoon sunlight. I have always had a thing for closets that are big enough to sit in. When I was a child my bedroom was hardly bigger than this, four walls, two windows, and a view into the trees. My sister’s closet was also the¬†perfect hiding space, pushing past rows of clothes, and turning a corner to a space above our stairwell provided sanctuary and alone time in a small house with four people. ¬†Now in my own home, my closet is often where I choose to sit. And on that day I sat organizing the new space of this blog, feeling some sense of accomplishment in an otherwise frivolous day.

At 1:15 my phone rang. Hubby was on his way home. He asked me to make him a sandwich. He’d stayed late at school to finish up progress reports and hadn’t had a chance to eat lunch. I told him I might, depending on whether or not I finished my project before he arrived.

At 1:25 he still wasn’t home. I closed the screen of my laptop, stretched my back, and headed downstairs. I took the bread from above our refrigerator. Whole wheat. I opened the fridge and found deli meat, ham, and some spinach. Depositing all of these on the counter I went back for condiments, mayo and hot sauce, like I had seen him do so many mornings as he made himself lunch before school. I thought to myself, what a rare occasion that I make my husband a sandwich. The mundane beauty of the moment caused me to pause for a moment. Sunlight kissed my back through kitchen windows. Our journey of trying to conceive for the past year flashed through my mind. All the hopes, all the conversations, all the trying, all the vitamins, and supplements, and acupuncture. All the disappointment, the negative tests, the tears. The breakdown in this very kitchen that forced him to drive home in the middle of a poker party so that he could pick my crumpled, heaving body up off this kitchen floor where I had smashed a cabinet in a fit of rage. All of it. And now me, standing here calmly making him a sandwich, before we go to an appointment that takes us one step closer down the path of Artificial Reproductive Therapy.

At 1:30 he walked through the front door. He strolled into the kitchen and smiled at me. “Hot sauce?” “Yeah, I know you like it.” “Ooooo, baby!” He came around the island and folded me into his big, long arms. Arms the nurse would later joke about as she gave him the “large adult” blood pressure cuff. Arms that have held me in all of my good, and all of my heart-wrenchingly bad moments over the past 15 years. We talked and joked a bit as he ate the sandwich I made for him. Then we got into the car to leave.

The appointment went pretty much as expected. Low sperm count, let’s do another test. No varicoceles, no surgery. Clomid. Give it three months. Don’t give up. Just keep trying. You’ll probably need IVF.

We left the office with a little more information, a plan, and a tiny sense of renewed hope. As we got in the car I asked him how he was feeling. “Fine. Hungry. What’s the plan for dinner?”


We picked up E from school after that. As he was led to the car he smiled the biggest smile at us. His teacher exclaimed, “You get mommy and daddy both today!”. He grinned at us from his car seat.

I am so blessed, and so unbelievably grateful to have both of these boys in my life. Our journey to having a second baby is bittersweet. We have all the joy in the world right here. There’s not a moment that I don’t appreciate it.

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