As a mother, there are certain questions I dread answering: When are you expecting? Oh, that belly is just a remnant from the baby who’s now in preschool. When will you return to work? Honestly, I’m not ready to even think about that! And the biggie: Do you plan to have another child? Let’s skip that unless you have tissues in your purse and some time to spare.
From the moment my son arrived, my first wild thought was, I want to do that again! The experience was so profound, and the surge of love and joy was intoxicating. I was hooked and craved another round.
But we started our family later in life, and I was already 40 when we decided to try for a second child. The moment it didn’t occur immediately, I panicked (because panic and conception are a terrible combo) and sought help from a fertility specialist. This led to tests, medications, injections, an unsuccessful insemination, three failed in vitro fertilizations, and several early miscarriages along the way. I experimented with vitamins, supplements, herbs, acupuncture, lost weight, practiced yoga, and even prayed. I gave up caffeine and alcohol for a year, and all I learned is that I’m a real grouch without my coffee.
We’re still attempting—the old-fashioned way—and it’s a struggle. This situation is known as secondary infertility. You’ve had one child, and you think, Wow, my body is great at this; could I manage 10 more? While you’re contemplating the possibility of another child (with a partner who thinks you’re a bit crazy but indulges you), your body decides to take a break. For me, the issue is declining egg quality, but I know younger mothers facing similar challenges. It’s incredibly frustrating and painful not to be able to create the family you envisioned.
As a mom, I want to give my child everything. I wish for my son to have a sibling. Although he might not see it as a significant gift compared to a new toy or a bike, I’m thinking long-term. I grew up with a younger sister, and while we had our fair share of arguments at first, we are now best friends. I want to provide my son with that lifelong companion—someone who shares memories of growing up in our home and will be there when I’m gone.
This is a bit of a morbid fixation of mine. Conversations about our fertility struggles usually lead to me tearfully exclaiming, “I don’t want him to be alone!” My partner reassures me that he will have friends and loved ones, but as a mom, I want that extra assurance.
Call me irrational (or laugh at me), but I also want to experience raising siblings. I can only imagine how challenging it must be—probably harder than what I am dealing with now. But that’s my Everest. I want to tackle the shared schedules, the squabbles over toys, and that classic line, “I will turn this car around!” even if backseat arguments are less common nowadays with car seats and screens. I want to witness how different or similar my children could be. I crave the chaos and the joy of it all. Ovaries, are you listening?
One of the peculiar challenges of secondary infertility is that it seems like everyone around you is pregnant. I’m not exaggerating. With a preschooler, I’m surrounded by families where most moms are either expecting or have just welcomed a new baby. Conversations at playdates often revolve around the ideal age gap between siblings or pondering a third child. These conversations, while completely valid, start to feel like humble brags. It’s like asking, “Should we get the Ferrari or the Porsche?” I don’t want my friends to feel awkward around me, so I try to put myself in their shoes and view these discussions thoughtfully. I’ve realized it’s possible to genuinely be happy for others while still grappling with jealousy. At least there are always adorable babies to hold.
Then there’s the issue of gear. Each time my son outgrows something, I find myself in a quandary. Should I keep toys, books, and clothes for a child who may never come? What about the nursing bras and breast pump gathering dust in my closet? It’s overwhelming. I ended up donating most of the clothes to our new niece and passing bulky items to a neighbor, but I can’t seem to part with the crib. I guess we’ll be vacuuming around that thing until menopause hits.
Emotional triggers abound, and I’m certainly emotional. It’s not always easy to find comfort. Some friends avoid the subject, as if infertility is contagious. When I do share our struggles, the well-meaning responses often include, “At least you have one child,” which only amplifies my guilt. I know there are many couples who would give anything to have just one child. Meanwhile, I have friends who are childless and would love to be mothers. In their presence, I feel greedy for wanting more.
I know that, in time, I’ll learn to accept things as they are. It helps that the one child I have is truly remarkable. Sure, he has tantrums, constantly asks “why,” and can wear me out, but he is the funniest, sweetest, most incredible person I could have ever hoped to bring into the world. I am fortunate. I am grateful.
Yet, when I watch him playing with his toys, pretending to feed his “little brother” (a stuffed owl) with a bottle and rocking him to sleep, it’s impossible not to yearn for a real baby. I want to experience that miracle again, but this time with more confidence, less fear, and my son by my side.
For those considering at-home insemination, check out this home insemination kit for support on your journey. Additionally, if you’re looking for ways to boost fertility, this fertility booster for men may be beneficial. And for more insights on in vitro fertilization, this resource on IVF is a must-read.
Summary
Secondary infertility can be an emotionally taxing experience, especially when surrounded by friends who are having children. While the desire for a larger family is strong, acceptance and gratitude for the one child you have can provide solace amid the struggle. The journey is filled with challenges, but it also offers moments of joy and reflection on the family you are creating.
Keyphrase: secondary infertility
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