It's Cinco de Mayo...Who Peed in my Margarita?

Today was my due date.  I have spent the past four and a half months trying to ignore how many weeks pregnant I was "supposed" to be, and now I've finally reached the end.  When my husband and I found out we were expecting on Cinco de Mayo, we laughed and joked about serving margaritas in the delivery room. We had announced the pregnancy at 12 weeks after our Level 1 ultrasound came back "perfect" with a photo of the two of us riding a fake burro and wearing giant somberos and ponchos.  We had taken the photo several years before when we were on vacation in Mexico, and had just spent the afternoon downing rum punch and stumbling around the streets in an attempt to make it back to our cruise ship.  Ahhhh, the good old days.

I don't really feel much like celebrating today, but I could definitely use a very strong margarita (or twelve.) The past 9 months have been the best and worst of my life.  The day I found out I was pregnant, the first time I heard my baby's heartbeat, feeling the little guy move and hiccup were all amazing and indescribable. I was so happy that I literally woke up smiling every single day, even when I had been up until 3am the night before, gnawing on chalky Tums and grimacing through extreme heartburn.  The day that my husband and I went in for our Level 2 Ultrasound and found out that our baby was suffering from a lethal skeletal dysplasia, and the 48 hours of procedures and pain that followed the diagnosis were my rock bottom. 20 weeks have passed since then, and I am still waiting to wake up in the morning with a smile.

I wanted SO badly to be pregnant by my due date; a small victory that would help to dissipate the sadness I feel. After getting the "go ahead", we tried Clomid for one cycle, and then Clomid + IUI last month.  Of course neither worked, and all I got were a wastebasket full of negative pregnancy tests and a bunch of empty wine bottles.  Currently we are trying our third round of Clomid (they only let you do 6 rounds total before you move onto IVF.)  I've been so worried about our 3/4 odds that I think I forgot just how difficult it is for me to conceive in the first place.  My husband keeps telling me to focus on the big picture, that it won't matter ten years from now which month we ended up conceiving our healthy little one(s).  I know that he is right, but every month that passes is another month that I don't have the baby I was supposed to bring home today.