Yesterday we were on our way to a late lunch out when we stopped by an open house. We are not buying a house; not with a realtor; have been agonizing over whether or not to put an addition on or move to a new house...but all of that has been dependent on infertility. So we haven't tried to find a house very seriously, but then stumbled upon The House, just by chance. It's nearly perfect: a 1925-built but recently-renovated colonial with a boatload of character, four bedrooms, the kitchen I salivate over, an office for me and an office for him, a room for exercise equipment, a mudroom, built-ins galore, and they even had a room for their WINE FRIDGES, plural. (Negatives: inground pool, ginormous size, ginormous lot, a bit pricey for our comfort, double-yellow-line street). This house was very nearly made for us...but it's just not the right time. I am headed into our tenth IVF cycle, our second-to-last if we hold tight to the No More After The Frozens Are Gone decision, and we will need the adoption money at the ready if the frozens prove to be failures (plus it's the holidays, and our house is not even remotely on the market or market-ready). The kicker was the couple with the baby carrier who walked in after us, who will probably have the children to fill a house that size, who probably (but maybe not) didn't have to pay a sizeable down payment to try for their baby, and who will, in all probability, be buying what should be OUR HOUSE. Oh, infertility, your sting reaches so far beyond the immediate disappointment of reproductive failure.
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