Yesterday Shelton brought in the mail and there was a large yellow envelope. I’m still 12-years-old when it comes to mail – if it looks exciting I want to tear into it immediately. I grabbed the envelope and found it had come from our fertility clinic. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but tore it open and inside I found our IVF training packet. And I froze. It was this bizarre moment and I have no idea what came over me, but I started crying. Shelton gave me one of those odd half-laughs that I’m used to getting (when I sob uncontrollably during the Grey’s Anatomy season finale) and asked what was wrong. I just shrugged and said I wasn’t sure why I was crying.

For so long, five years to be exact, this “IVF thing” has been this “thing” we’re “going” to do. We’re eight weeks away from needles and hormones and lab work and the whole thing is getting very, very real. That packet just represented the reality of what we’re about to dive head first into. It included the information for our IVF prep class. It’s a $195 fee and we’ll spend four hours with the clinic nurses learning the whosy-whatsits of our IVF cycle. More specifically “review specific aspects of IVF, teach medication protocols, and answer general questions.” We’re supposed to read the 55 page handbook that includes a glossary of terms we’re going to hear, instructions, an FAQ, medication explanation, the emotional aspects, lab work and a pile of consent forms.

DID I MENTION IT IS GETTING REAL IN HERE?!?!