A Letter to Waiting Mamas
Dear Waiting Mama, The weeping cherries I pass on my evening power-walk look like fireworks this spring. A few short years ago, these same trees appeared to be bowed in mourning. Bursting with blossoms of alabaster and rose, the trees have not changed, but I have. At 32, and nearly five years into failed infertility treatment, I had discovered that life was not like the Choose Your Own Adventure novels I'd torn through in sixth grade. It was more like a story of "God chooses