(S)he's a cold-hearted snake.

I smiled at a baby today.

That may not seem like a big thing to you, but, for me in this moment, it's about the equivalent of climbing K2 in my underwear in the middle of the storm of the century. I thought it was damn near impossible. Smiling at babies is not something I've been making a habit of lately.

There I was, walking Daughter X into school and coming the opposite direction was a mom and her two young boys. The youngest was a chubby little guy - not a day over 10 months old. He was grinning, clearly proud that he can hustle along to keep up with his mother and brother. 

I couldn't help myself. He was so adorable! I smiled back at him. 

I guess miracles happen.

Or so I keep telling myself two weeks after my doctor told me it's unlikely I will be able to have more children. If miracles happen, maybe there's a smidgen of hope yet for me. Maybe I shouldn't sort through Daughter X's baby clothes and give them all away. Perhaps I shouldn't sell her old crib bumper in the neighborhood garage sale next week. 

Maybe. Or maybe I should just get on with it.

I've run through all the scenarios in my head. Yes, I know I'm lucky. Yes, I realize how blessed I am to have Daughter X.  Yes, I know it could be so much worse.

Then why do I cry almost every morning when I go to take my vitamin? I certainly can't get rid of the practically brand-new bottle of prenatals even if they are tougher to swallow now. And why can't I just be happy for people who always seem to get what they want, when they want it, including baby number three or four? It doesn't pay to be Catholic when you have fertility problems, let me tell you. All of those big families... packed in the pews... Maybe I should become Presbyterian.

Everything happens for a reason - I'm a big believer in that. Understanding the reason for this is something I will probably never do. Nor do I care to. I can't even begin to figure out why this happened to me. 

What I did do today is smile at a baby. It's a start. A sign that, eventually, I'll start releasing that imaginary baby, letting him or her go - that sweet figment of imagination that occupied my thoughts for over a year now. The baby in my mind who I dressed, and named, and stumbled up and down the stairs for in the middle of the night to feed, stubbing my toe and griping at Dr. X.

So, I smiled at a baby. Miracles happen. And maybe the miracle here is that, some day, I'm going to be OK.