Today has become a bitter, bitter day.

I'm not feeling good and happy for others today, not without a pep talk that I don't feel much like giving myself.

I realized that I am not going to have a 2009 baby. The earliest I can have a baby is 2010 (unless I get miraculously pregnant next cycle in a way that would allow me to deliver a full term baby early in late December -if you follow).

And that is 1 cycle away from the year mark. One year ttc. We started in May 2008, in time for a mid-February baby. As much as I wanted to be one of those lucky cycle 1 pregnant ladies, I was secretly sort of relieved that I would have a spring baby, which is what I really wanted. I am laughing out loud at that, but it's a pretty grim sound. Back when I thought things like that mattered.

Now obviously, the year mark for me is different than the year mark for someone else - after all, the next cycle will only be cycle 6. I've had 2 pregnancies during this time, not bad for 4 ovulatory cycles, I suppose.

It's just grimly amusing - dare I say ironic? I can never remember what is really ironic since Alanis Morrisette screwed me up with her stupid song - that the annoyance I felt with having a baby in an odd-numbered year is no longer an issue. I was supposed to be ttc #2 now, in our original Life Plan. #1 in 2008, #2 in 2010, #3 between 2012 and 2014 and if we wanted, #4 by 2016. Done by 36. It was perfect. Allll planned out.

Then I took a hard, realistic look at our finances and we both agreed - it wasn't the time. It was a bitter pill to swallow, pushing off our plans for a full year. But it was for the best, we were agreed and I tried hard to remind myself of that whenever I felt a wave of jealousy over someone else's happiness. How awful of me, I chided myself, how selfish - especially when we made the responsible decision on our own.

I was desparate for summer of 2008 to arrive. It had been nearly 2 years since we first decided we wanted kids soon and I was already chafing under being so near 30 for the first child. Again, I find myself laughing humorlessly at my old self.

It came, we tried and I was disappointed. We tried again, and I was disappointed. We tried again and I was frustrated by an anovulatory cycle and our intensity, as if it was some sort of competition was making us both unhappy and frustrated with the whole process. Then . . . we got it right. And Chickadee came along. And went away. And then this . . . and 'this . . .' is still going on.

2010. An even year. Better luck next time.

I feel brittle, depressed, a little manic right now. I am desparately craving a shot of something alcoholic and choking and hard to match my brittle mood. I do not know how my friends who have had losses and have had IF do this. They move through with optimism and hope and only the minor occassional freak out and they are so graceful and strong and I am a hot fucking mess.