One.

I remember that morning.  Walking downstairs, pulling out the last pregnancy test, and for my own peace of mind, peeing on it.  The results read positive immediately as the liquid soaked across the strip.  I had never gotten a positive.  In our almost ten years of marriage, and countless test, there had never even been a possible hint of a second line.
My whole pregnancy, I resisted the urge to take more test. Just to see it again. I wondered if I'd ever have another positive test, or if we'd go back to 'unable to get pregnant.'  It didn't end up mattering because we made the permanent decision after things went horribly, to prevent any future pregnancies.  The risks for my life and our sons were too much for us to take again.

That test. That one and only positive pregnancy test, it resides in my underwear drawer. I still look at it occasionally.  I try to figure out how I feel about our whole journey.  It's such a mixed up thing that I can't think on it too long. Most of the time.
But, even with the aforementioned permanent procedure, I know there's still a small possibility.  Occasionally, things will play out and I'll get anxious enough to take another test.  And, every time, despite logical me wanting it to be negative, I whisper, 'Be positive, be positive.'

For a long time I refused to call myself infertile.  And, I certainly didn't struggle with my infertility.  It just was. We were content with our children being adopted.  I had long since stopped wondering what it might be like to have biological children.  It didn't matter to me.
The whole and honest truth is that in the parenting, the day in and day out stuff, it doesn't matter. They're all amazing, and silly. Maddening, hard, and wonderful.  They each come with their very own set of incredible gifts and challenges for us as parents.

So my longing is separate.  My longing is for that of feeling like I finally belonged as a woman.  I didn't feel excluded before so my words may be hard to completely understand.  But, it's the best I can do with the words I have available.
If I'm completely honest, it's the longing to redeem the things I feel like I still missed out on.  Asher never had hiccups in utero that I felt.  He never woke me up moving or kicking.  The further along I got, the less I felt him move (likely from his small size, my ample fluid, and his low muscle tone).  The birth. Even if I could just be awake and have my husband in the room, that would be enough for me.  To hear his first cries.  To see him still connected to me through his umbilical cord.

So I keep that test.  I moved it to our new house.  Jason asked about it.  He thought it seemed weird.  And, a little gross.  It is.  I know this.  I hope that someday I'll be able to just take a picture of it, and throw the actual plastic test away.  But, for right now, I need it.  I need it tucked in that drawer, reminding me, that even if it was only that one time, I didn't carry the label of 'infertile.'  And, when my heart longs to do it again, as it occasionally does, I can look at it, hold it, and grieve the way things went. I can wonder for a bit if things hadn't gone so wrong, if we might have gotten to experience it again.  Then, I can tuck it away safely, with all of my other hopes for what I wanted things to turn out like, wipe the tears, and move on with my new set of hopes and dreams.

c-sections or, when your child had been cut out of you.

in just a few days, 18 months will have passed since the day a doctor cut open my abdomen and uterus to pull my son out.  the act saved my son's life.  while his heart rate had started to drop with contractions, more importantly, we had no idea that his two vessel cord had very small amounts of Wharton's jelly around it.  this is the substance that keeps the umbilical cord from collapsing, twisting, etc. so that it stays open supplying oxygen and nutrients.  if Asher had been born vaginally, it's very likely that he would have suffered brain damage and possibly even have died as a result of this. it's the reason his heart rate was dropping during contractions.  as it is, we're pretty thankful he didn't pass away in utero.

but, that's not entirely what i'm here to talk about it.  C-sections are often seen as the easy way out.  no work. no pushing.  you get a spinal block so you don't feel the contractions.  it's like you didn't even really experience birth.
there are reason upon reason people have a C-section.  some are medically necessary.  some are by choice.  not a single one of them gets my vote of disapproval.  i'm learning that the best thing we can do is support other people's decisions, even if they're different from ours. even if from the outside, they make absolutely no sense, at all.
i'm not sad, at this point, that I had a C-section.  it was necessary.  it happened.  my son is alive, and doing great. 
but, let me tell you a few things about my experience so those who think that delivering vaginally is somehow better, can possibly empathize.
some people have to be put completely under for a C-section.  my epidural, and then spinal block only worked on half of my body.  I missed my son's first cries.  I don't even have a video of it because things happened in an emergency fashion.  I didn't get to see him at all until 8 hours after he was born.  then, I was wheeled to the nicu where I got to look at him and touch him for a few minutes before going back to my room, because one of the many meds I was on made me unable to walk, stand, or stay awake for long periods of time..
I woke up from surgery, on my abdomen, to someone pushing on my abdomen.  it's probably the closest I've ever come to punching someone.  for me, I couldn't have Tylenol because my liver was failing, narcotics because I had, had a spinal block (that didn't work), and ibuprofen because of one of the other meds I was on.  I woke up from abdominal surgery with NO pain control on board, and someone pushing on me. 
getting in and out of my hospital bed, literally, required me to sit the bed up, and still took me at least five minutes because of the pain.  coughing required holding myself, and bending over.  and, when you've been intubated, you cough. 
I couldn't lift anything over ten pounds for six weeks.  at this time, I had a 25 pound three year old who couldn't walk, or climb, and a two story house.  so for the next six weeks, I had to have someone home with me at all times to help me care for little.  while i'm SO thankful to the friends who stepped up and sat with us, it was hard on the days that I wanted to just spend time figuring out breast feeding, and being a mother of three all by myself.
there is not a day that goes by that i don't see my scar.  when i go to the bathroom.  when i shower.  when i change clothes.  there it is.  the reminder that my son was cut out of me.  i can physically run my fingers over the place, and feel where the scalpel was.

but, the real kicker, for me, is that almost every day, for eighteen months, I've continued to have pain.  I've had growing issues, and am amidst appointments and imaging.  i likely have adhesions-a type of scar tissue that can happen with abdominal surgeries, and it's likely bad enough that i'll have to have something done.  sometimes, when i cough or sneeze, i still have to put counter pressure on my scar to keep the pain at bay.

i'm not looking for a badge of courage for the way my son came into the world.  i'm not looking for sympathy because of everything that went wrong.  what i'm looking for is people to just walk along side and encourage others on their journey.  everyone's journey can be different, and still good.  it can be different, and still right.  it can be different and still beautiful.
also, C-sections aren't an easy way out.

hospital stays and littles.

shilo spent half of the first year of her life in and out of the hospital, and has had other short stays off and on since then.  our longest stay was three months straight.  i had lots of things i had to work through as a result.  Jason and i have talked through our emotions a million times.  as new layers come up, even now, i know i can go to him and talk it out.  i've also seen a professional counselor to work through some of the issues.
when you're three, the words to describe how you feel are limited.  no matter how much we talked with big during all of this, and how much freedom we give her to share her thoughts and fears, even now, almost three years later, her ability to completely and adequately share her emotions regarding all of this, are limited.  even seeing a counselor who is amazing, she still isn't able to put all of her fears into words.  they come out, just in other more subtle, and generally annoying ways.
so the last few weeks with big have been atrocious at times.  she goes from yelling and telling me no to being unwilling to do anything other than stand or sit right up against me, and tell me she loves me over and over again.  and then, doing the same thing with Jason.

turns out, that the idea of her mama going to the hospital, and her little brother being born in the hospital might just be causing her a bit of anxiety.  it took us a little bit to figure it out.  but, it makes sense.  her reference for hospital stays is half of her family being an hour and a half away, her parents stress levels being through the roof, and spending lots of time at other people's houses.
today, i sat down and had a conversation with her about what she thought was going to happen.  it's a tough road to navigate because while i can give her run down of what usually happens when someone has a baby, i cannot tell her that everything will be okay.  i cannot tell her we will be home in a couple of days.  i can't make any guarantees to her.  so i can just give her the basics of what to expect.
i have a call in to the hospital to see if we can walk through with her to show her where we will be, and what it's usually like.  but, to be honest, this is super hard.  there are no children books on how to help your kid navigate a 'routine hospital visit' when she has some ptsd from hospital stays.
at this point, i'll spend the next eight weeks telling her over and over what it will likely be like when i go into labor.  i'll reassure her about who will be taking care of her and little.  and, even then, she will continue to tell me things throughout the day like, 'i don't want tiny to be in the hospital' and 'i hope tiny doesn't have seizures.'  all i can say is, 'me too.'