Butt Shots

I started Progesterone in Oil (PIO) injections this week.

Shall I compare them to a summer's day? No. Maybe more like a subzero January morning. An unprecedented winter storm. A flurried downpour of freezing hail.

In short, they suck.

PIO shots are widely regarded in the infertility community as the most painful. The needles are the longest, not to mention that they must be injected into the upper outer quadrant of the buttocks, meaning there is less landmass, if you will, for repeat attempts. It's just plunging a new needle into the same ever-purpling bruise day after day, month after month.

It's worth it, of course, but that doesn't mean I wasn't dreading it. I braced myself, and then tried to un-brace myself, because the only thing worse than the shot itself is a shot shoved into a taut, clenched gluteal muscle.

We were already running late for my daughter's appointment, so I hurriedly set her up in a bouncer in the bathroom, hoping that she wouldn't distract my husband too much from the task at hand.

I told him not to count down—to just stick it; the anticipation worse than the act itself. I held my breath. I think he did too. And then:

"Yay Mama!" our 18-month-old clapped from her bouncer.

My eyes filled with tears, though not from the pain. Gratitude consumed me. Remembering.

The last time we did this was for her—parenthood our singular pipe dream. We couldn't have possibly fathomed then what our lives would look like now. That our baby girl would be in the room, cheering us on, as we hoped and dreamed of another.

That somewhere in her still-developing little person mind, she could sense the anxiety. The fear. And that she knew how to see me through the moment, too.

--

Hours later, as I clutched her little hand in mine for routine vaccinations at the pediatrician's office, I silently chastised myself. For rushing through the day; taking for granted the absolute gift it is to be her mom. For forgetting the journey it took to get us here, even as we set out to begin it again.

I'm ashamed to admit that I feel a little less starry-eyed this time around. Motherhood is not an unrealized fantasy anymore; it's a daily reality. And a damn beautiful one. But I do feel tired imagining juggling a newborn and a toddler. And I also feel thrilled by the prospect of my girl becoming a big sister.

Both things can be true. And both things can be okay, too.

How wild it is to hold both realities simultaneously. An understanding of just how draining raising littles can be in practice. The appointments and the daycare bills and the sickness. For the love—don't even get me started on all the sickness. I couldn't string together three consecutive days this month where all of us were healthy.

And yet, how sacred it is, too. The Saturday morning snuggles and the silly faces and the belly laughs. Watching her grow and become more of who she was always meant to be. Nuzzling into my chest as we read a book and bossing the dog around and singing made-up songs at the tops of her lungs.

There is space for all of it, I think.

So bring on the butt shots. Bring on the cheering and the crying and the laughing. May each one be a poignant reminder of what it is to be fully alive; to know intimately a broad spectrum of joy and sorrow and everything in between.