A couple of years ago, in a rare moment of infertility-induced hysterical clarity, I pulled into a tattoo parlor on my way home from work and had them stamp the word "Acceptance" on my back. Courier new, font size twenty.
I should have had this stamped on my forehead.
People who see this tattoo might think I'm bragging about my ability to roll with life's punches. And sometimes they probably think I'm a recovered meth addict. Neither happen to be true.
It's simply a reminder. A reminder that might serve me better if I had really committed the first time around and slapped it on my face rather than between my shoulder blades, where, incidentally, I rarely look.
I thought infertility was life's lesson to me in acceptance. I got it. I gave myself over. I let go.
It only seemed logical that in my happily-ever-after, life would always be easy to accept because I GET IT NOW and people who GET IT don't have to get spanked by life's little lessons.
I have these two perfect little beings. I waited and waited for them. They are here and I cannot stop being acutely aware. Aware of my love for them, my amazement that they're real, the absolute miracle of it all.
Aware that I feel resentful at anything and everything in my life that takes me away.
I don't know if I want to acquiesce to that.