I used to shake my head in disappointment when I heard about another teenage relative getting pregnant. It’s a ridiculously common tale in my family. My youngest aunt was 17 or 18 when she had her first daughter, who turned 16 just days after her first son was born. That means my aunt was a grandmother when she was just 34 years old. Her other four daughters followed the example (although none of the others had babies as early as age 16, all were very young and single), and at age 50, my aunt has 11 grandchildren, one of whom is old enough to make her a great-grandmother. On the other side of the family, my cousin became a grandmother two years ago at the ripe old age of 35.
At 35 and still without children, I can’t help but envy those women. Life wasn’t easy for them, but, honestly, things have turned out pretty great. Makes me wish I hadn’t been so careful with the birth control. (Okay, not really, but sometimes I wonder if I didn’t miss my window.)
What really angers me about infertility is the unfairness of it all. Both my husband and I were responsible enough to prevent pregnancy until we were married and financially secure. We both had ample opportunity to throw caution to the wind in our previous relationships, but we didn’t. We did the right thing. And look where that got us.