Ripe off the wedding vine, we started our new marriage spending summer months walking the shore in New Jersey to scope out fat, bobbling, beach babies.
Forget the shells.

The bobblers that could barely walk gave my heart the tighter squeezes – Look at that little bumble, Matt! 
We'd stare like oblivious, stalking kidnappers. In the conversations that followed, they were all called bumbles. And a bumble was obviously the next stop on our list of life's milestones.

Five years, three surgeries, a hundred doubting doctors and a couple stomachfuls of in-vitro shots later, we were finally handed the bumble we'd fought long and hard for.
That day in October 2009, my heart exploded.

I'm Meghann.
I get to stay home with my two-year-old and live the life I wished and prayed for yesterday.
I get to pretend that high fives knock me over. I get to use my magical kisses to heal boo-boos. 
I get to explain in exuberant detail the things I'm doing at any given minute of my day. 
I get to listen for the feelings behind my child's words. I get to be present. I get to appreciate. I get to tuck purpose into my love.

I get to be someone's superhero.

And I'm not going to sit here and tell you that it's all because infertility's defined me as a mother. But I won't deny that coming face-to-face with something as devastating as outright defeat isn't an excellent teacher.