Here I go again, wearing my heart on my sleeve.

A couple of weeks ago, I was playing Monopoly with Lily and Tim on a Sunday.  The other kids had gone to bed, and Lily was pleased as punch that she got to keep us up late (even if we were only doing it to deprive her of sleep in preparation for an EEG the next morning - story for another day).  I was tired already but the game got off to a pretty good start and was relatively even-handed for a good hour.  That's where my luck ran out.  Lily and Tim both slapped down a bunch of houses and I managed to land on every single stinkin' one before I could get around the board again to collect $200 for passing "GO".  It got downright depressing from there on out - I pretty much couldn't get ahead again, and I turned into more of a spectator than a participant - suffering loss after loss, mortgaging my properties and finally bowing out thanks to the time.  Still, for over an hour I had to suffer through a torturous game in which I merely endured blow after blow after blow.  It was not fun.

I didn't go down without a decent amount of whining and complaining - but, in my defense, my anger over the Monopoly game was merely a reflection of my emotions over something much deeper.  Two days earlier, I had suffered my third miscarriage in the last year.  I really threw Tim for a loop, when, after cleaning up the game and putting Lily to bed, I started moaning and groaning about "wasted time" and how I loathe it.  Then the tears started flowing and he didn't know what to make of it.  It's a stupid Monopoly game, for crying out loud.  But it wasn't.  I was mourning the 27 weeks I've spent since November being pregnant with no baby on the way to show for it.  I was grieving over the hours I'd spent feeling crummy and tired and grouchy - feelings I was willing to endure so that we could add another child to our family.  But it just isn't to be right now.  And probably never.

All of the kids have been anxious to have a little sister (or brother, depending on who you talk to) for some time now.  We had them all so close together that they were too young to recollect what it was like to have a baby in the house.  Anna, when I told her why we probably weren't going to have any more children said to me, as only a child could say, "Mom, why don't you just keep trying?"  Oh, if only it were that simple.  For those with recurrent miscarriages, a reason is found only half of the time.  And among those with a diagnosis, it still requires a fair amount of emotional energy (and financial investment) to take the steps necessary to carry a baby to term.  Tim and I are still reeling from the last nine months and feel unwilling to make that investment(especially given my age).  We prayed about having more children and felt good about it.  A part of me will always want that "big" family of five or even six.  But we also feel incredibly blessed to have four beautiful, healthy daughters and, for now, have decided that four is, in fact, enough.  So much so, that I sold all my baby stuff in a yard sale last week (maybe a little hasty, but whatever).  And I might just feel a little bit relieved that I will only be 50 years old when the last of my children leaves the nest.

In summary, here's how I feel about the whole thing.  I'm somewhat sad.  I'm a little ticked off about the wasted time and effort that never materialized into something measurable.  The activities I'd postponed because of that due date in August, then the one in October, and another in March.  Still, I have been through enough in my life that I know that the majority of challenges we face carry long-term benefits, if we are but willing to see the big picture.  I don't see it all yet.  But I have faith that I will someday.  And let's be honest, I have four kids.  Four wonderful kids!  No room to complain, really.