It has now been more than three months since I received word from my specialist that I was unable to have children. They were — and for this I am oddly thankful, since I hate uncertainty — quite blunt about the reality of my situation: there wasn’t anything I could do but adopt, since my body would neither produce viable eggs or host anyone else’s without attacking them.

That was hard. Is hard. Will be hard? I don’t know. Dealing with the physical difficulties of the autoimmune stuff and my subsequent treatment will eventually die down to a dull roar, and then I’ll be left to see if the emotion of everything is easier to wade through once I no longer feel sick and sleepless and frustrated with my body.

But I don’t think it’s going to be easy. I’ve already done my share of crying. And yelling. And sitting very quietly waiting for the ache to pass.

It would have been easier, perhaps, if I’d never been the sort of person who wanted to have kids or had much to do with kids, but if you’ve read this blog for long, you know this is not the case.

I have been dreamily attached to babies since shortly after I stopped being one, and working with kids has pretty much defined most of my life up until a couple of years ago. I’m good with little ones. It feels natural. I love them and value their little hearts and minds more than I can express. I feel committed to the wellbeing of each one that crosses my path. The connection is always quick, and always strong. It’s just a part of who I am.

So.

Like I say, hard.

The funny thing is, I’d never really considered adoption. Isn’t that crazy?

Maybe adoption would be something I’d do after having a passle of my own biological children, but it was never the first step I’d had in mind. It seems a bit odd to me now, but I certainly wasn’t basing my decisions on a lack of appreciation for the concept, or on the notion that adopted children were somehow less connected with their parents.

I just wanted to experience the birth process. To grow big. To breastfeed. All of that stuff. None of which is the definition of parenthood, but all of which were in my list of benefits.

Maybe I was being limited in my scope, but I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve read enough infertility articles and blogs to see that this is a longing I share with many, many women. And I don’t think there is anything wrong with that, just as there is nothing wrong with people who wish only to adopt their children, or to do both. It’s a matter of choice.

Although, oddly, as soon as I started coming across these blogs and reading their archives, a few of these struggling women actually started getting pregnant. Or once I’d read forward in their archives, it turned out they’d eventually had a child and that I was actually reading a couple years back. People would pile on the hope and congrats when test results came back positive, and I felt that elation for them, too, even if it was bittersweet.

Hell, a ton of my friends are pregnant or have been recently, and I celebrate each amazing story, regardless of the fact that this aspect of the parenting experience will never be my own.

But for me, it’s no longer a debate or a hope or a process or a goal. Now it’s a concept that exists in my history. Which makes me want to accept and celebrate something else entirely for my life.

Which brings me to the now.

Now I have to think about what adopting will mean. About going on lists. About looking at laws. About analyzing my income and making plans. About dealing with all of this potentially before I even have a partner on the scene. I’m 32, after all. On one hand, I’m very much ready for the next stage of my life.

But will I find someone who shares my dreams? And if I don’t, then can I do it alone? I won’t be really alone — I have family and friends galore — but it’s something I have to consider. Am I enough of anything and everything to be a single parent? And is someone else’s lack of desire to adopt a child going to be a dealbreaker for me?

Some people have told me that it’s too early to be asking these questions, but to them I say: when, then? I’m not a kid. And this is the new playing field, so this is what I have to explore.

No one would dream of telling a 32 year old that she was too young to worry about her fertility. By that same token, I’m not too young to worry about my options now.

So.

A million questions. How much will it cost? Domestic adoption or adoption overseas? Foster care adoption or international relief? Newborn or not newborn? My own race, or another race? Do I care about gender? And how many times can I afford the process?

To be honest, when I break it down into thoughts like that, some part of me mourns that I’ve lost a particular angle on the mystery of having a child, even if this has created a whole other set of mysteries for me.

But this much is true:

Within five minutes of receiving my “news” (as it’s come to be known among my friends and family) I was on the phone to my mother in a concrete stairwell telling her that maybe this was all supposed to be this way, because I had never, ever had a problem connecting to children that didn’t come from my own body. That I could love a baby in my arms within seconds and feel as protective of that child’s life as of my own. This is why it was so hard for me to deal with abuse cases at camp. This is why the children’s hospital work ripped me to shreds.

I think I was saying it to comfort her at the time, to make this all seem like grand destiny and not just a horrible kick in the head. She knew that, but she also agreed with me.

And three months later, I’m even more aware of how many experiences in my life prepared me for this moment in time, and all the moments going forward.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell and that my stomach isn’t twisted into knots right this very second.

What it does mean is that I’m being practical.

Because, at the end of the day, that’s what a mommy has to be.