Kidlessness.

I always imagined my life being extraordinarily ordinary. Growing up poor the things I dreamt about was having a stable career that was fulfilling, a partner I could count on, and all the stupid things that come with the white picket fence... The dog, the backyard, the 2.5 children, the mini-van, the soccer practices and theatre rehearsals. Being busy, but being happy.

I never anticipated infertility.  Except maybe I did? Didn't I always say that I'd be the only person in my family that wouldn't be able to have kids? Either way, even if I did anticipate this hurdle... I never actually thought about life as kidless.

31 is drawing nearer and I'm having a much harder time with it than I ever did 30. When Drew and I lived in Galesburg, pre-dogs, we would take long walks after dinner and just talk about life and what we hoped from it. We always came to the same conclusion -- 35. 35 was supposed to be the year where we had the house and the kids and the financial stability. But thinking of that number now makes me want to throw up. And honestly, I hate myself a little these days. I hate that babies make me sad. I hate that I loathe seeing facebook pregnancy announcements. I hate that I can't just accept my fate and move on.

I don't know what else to say except for the fact that I'm feeling defeated. And this isn't how I imagined life by now. And it all hurts.