...how many Z's is that?

I have been trying not to write this post, because I am fairly certain that it will devolve into whining or ranting, and I am not sure that this is a healthy outlet for either. And I'm not sure I want to show you how mad I am at somebody for something that I have no right to be mad at them for.

As I have mentioned before, my husband and I are trying to get pregnant. Every book I've read said that after trying for a year for a woman under 35, it's time to figure out what is wrong. It has been over two years for us. I went to try to figure out if there is anything wrong with me in June, but once my GYN learned of my husband's medical history, she said that in all likelihood, the issue lies with him. I told my husband that she wanted him to get checked out before moving forward with me.

I know that this is a very difficult thing for a man, especially a young man who literally wants nothing more than to be a daddy, and so I decided not to push him into it. We both need to be ready for what we find out about from the appointment. I would gently bring it up over time, not to force him to get tested immediately, but to get him to think about it and deal with the idea of it a bit in order to get him to a point where he is okay with setting an appointment. I have a relationship with a counselor so that, whatever happens, I can talk to her about it; I asked him if he would be willing to do the same, and he started seeing a therapist a couple weeks ago. After his first appointment with his therapist, he set a date for his testing: middle of March.

We went out to a celebratory dinner last night because of a raise and a promotion I received last week, and on the way home we were joking about his appointment. We talked about how we both kind of hope that it is both of us, because then there won't be negative feelings about whoever has the issue. I told him that we both knew our medical histories when we got married, and we talked about the fact that we would likely have issues (which is why we started trying immediately). I told him that when I married him, I knew that with him came the possibility of not being able to have children with him, I accepted it then, and that has not changed a bit. This isn't a surprise to him or I, and finding out the issue lies with him, or with me, or with both of us won't surprise me either. What we do know is that if we want to figure out a way to have children that are half him and half me, we first need to find out whats wrong. I told him that we are both very loving people, and that we feel connected to every child we hold; if adoption is our only option, we will make for great adoptive parents.

And just to make it a little worse, my mother was finished with menopause by time she was 40, with it starting in their early 30's. So was her mother, and her mother's mother. I am 25 years old, and I can hear the clock ticking.

But this post isn't about our baby journey, really. Reader, I want you to understand my mindset when I tell you this next part.

Mike's sister had her baby. They gave her a ridiculous name -- cute for a baby, but, not as a legal name to put on passports and job applications. It is so unique that I can not type it here, or my blog will be found by searching her name. Suffice it to say, when I tell people her name, they ask me how to spell it and how many Z's are in it.

All through the pregnancy, his sister talked about how happy she is to be adopting the next one. Within days of having the new, beautiful baby, she's talking about adopting the next one. She doesn't work right now, yet her husband -- who is working full time -- splits night shifts with her 50/50. She doesn't breastfeed, but she pumps; and I can't help but think that's to make sure the feedings get shared.

And in the middle of it all, this wonderful, beautiful, quiet little baby. The kind of baby that, if all your babies were like this, you'd probably have a hundred of them. Whenever I hear a negative tone in her mother's voice, I think -- she has no idea what she has. She has no idea that not everybody can just make a little baby like it's nothing, and she's taking it all for granted.

You hear it, don't you? Even I hear it, and that's why I'm writing this post. My head is filled with jealous rantings about my sister-in-law for having this baby and every decision regarding her they make. I can't stand it. I am not happy that she gets this wonderful second child. This baby is less than a month old, and she's looking forward to adoption of the next one. While I dream of babies almost every night.  I often dream of having an adopted Asian little girl, and when I wake up, it has me researching Chinese adoption. And when I'm not dreaming of babies, I'm dreaming of puppies, which are my brain-equivalent to babies. I feel as if she doesn't deserve the baby she has, and my husband and I do. And I know how terrible that is.

In the family, only my mother-in-law knows about our issues, and that we're in the midst of getting them checked out. I so badly want my husband to tell this sister, so she can have some idea of what sort of hell I am in around her. I want her to know that the first time I went to the doctor for it was days before they announced that she's pregnant. I want her to know so that when she talks about adoption -- especially how  foreign adoption is a immoral fad -- she has the context that her brother and I may not have a choice but to adopt, and foreign adoption has many advantages. I want her to know that I take prenatal vitamins like my doctor told me to, and that there is never a time when there isn't a pregnancy test under the sink in the bathroom (it's an indicator I have hope, I suppose; but it mostly mocks me). I want her to know that quitting drinking was, in part, so easy for me because I knew it was a step towards being a mother. I want her to know that when people ask us when we'll have babies because they see how good we are with them, it takes everything I have not to cry or tell them everything. I think I want her to know all of this because I want her, too, to feel this pain. I'm tired of carrying it.

I know how terrible this sounds, and how terrible it is. But I don't know how to make it stop. I've talked to my counselor about it before, but I've never felt okay about it afterwards. I know that I am not supposed to attempt to make stop feeling a certain way; that it can't be helped. The only thing I can really do is change how I deal with it. I'm not sure how to.