Today I thought about it, told myself I wasn’t going to do it, and then did it anyway — I checked my hypothetical due date. Thanksgiving! How poetic! Last month was Halloween. I’ll probably be gunning for a Christmas baby next month.
When you’re keeping close track of ovulation anyway, and you always know exactly how many DPO you are (5 for me today, in case you’re not keeping track), it’s hard not to be curious.
Thanksgiving would be very sweet, although again not so awesome with the whole academic calendar thing (not that I care!). Our daughter was due on my birthday, and I’ve written before about how excited my husband and I were about that due date — since his birthday is not quite two weeks after mine, we were going to be a February family. My grandmother’s birthday was the day before mine, and I always loved that bond that we shared.
A couple of weeks ago, one of my coworkers (who has three kids under the age of 7) was in my office chatting and somehow the subject of his kids’ birthdays came up. He mentioned that when his daughter was due close to his birthday, he suddenly felt very protective of his birthday, like he didn’t want to share it with her. I don’t think he remembered that my daughter was due on my birthday, but it made me feel sad, and not a little bit jealous, to think about how I felt about my daughter’s due date compared to how he’d felt about his: I would have been thrilled to share a birthday with my daughter (not that the odds were high — I know the chances are tiny of giving birth exactly on your due date). I would gladly have yielded all birthday celebrations to my little girl. But as with all of these thoughts that pass through my mind, I didn’t feel like I could say anything. There was an awkward pause, and the conversation moved on.
So now every month, even though I know it’s silly, I check, and I daydream a little. Maybe we’ll have a living baby to be overwhelmingly thankful for this Thanksgiving. Maybe I’ll be huge and uncomfortable and my husband will have to be the one helping my mom with the cooking the way I usually do. Maybe someone else will have to make the hard sauce this year.
Or maybe we’ll still be trying. That would be around the time we’d hit our 1-year, back-to-the-RE date: officially secondary infertility. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. For now, I prefer to daydream about our Thanksgiving baby.