For the last eight years, Mother's Day has sucked. I'm not talking flat tire sucked or even broken arm sucked. I mean the kind of hurt that feels like your soul is being torn from your body very slowly to cause the most pain possible. It seemed like the entire day was centered around reminding me that I not only was denied the only thing I wanted but also that people who didn't want it could have it every single damn day.
It was a day for reminding me that I was broken and no one knew why or how or what. It was a day to remind me that "sometimes things just happen". Three times. Every pregnancy was scarier than the last. Every moment that should have been exciting and full of anticipation was instead overrun with fear and apprehension. Every end was worse than the last. Every complication was more dangerous than the one before. Every passing Mother's Day reminded me that I was a year older and still a failure. My own body was killing my dreams.
My mom is a great person to have around in the moment of crisis. She is the person I need when things go pear-shaped. Two days later... get her the hell away from me until I have gotten to a better frame of mind. "These things happen for a reason." "Maybe your body is just waiting for the perfect one." "Think of all those babies that don't have parents." My responses? "I'd dearly love to hear that reason," "They were all perfect," and "Yes, Mom. Think of all those babies. Their parents didn't want them, and yet they were able to have them. I
want one and it seems I can't reproduce to save my soul... Thanks for that reminder."
Every person I knew was having babies and to add insult to injury half of them were upset about it or had said to me that they never wanted to have kids. Some of them were truly happy. I wanted to be happy for them. I tried to be happy for them. I hated them. It got to the point that my friends were afraid to tell me they were pregnant. My best friend from high school waited until she was six months pregnant to tell anyone because she was afraid I would be mad. When she told me it was like she was breaking the news that my favorite grandparent had passed away. I wanted to shake her. I wasn't mad at her. I couldn't blame her though. She was tiptoeing because my actions warranted it.
I was scared out of my mind when I found out I was pregnant with Lily. After an obscene amount of blood work following the last miscarriage they still didn't know what was wrong with me, and that one had come very close to killing me. I spent every single day trying not to get attached and trying not to be happy. The date for the first ultrasound came and I was prepared to see nothing. The silly little intern with the Doppler couldn't find the heartbeat. This was not a shock. There was never a heartbeat. They all died. My doctor came in and mashed around until this amazing little whooshing came loud and clear over the speaker. In the most triumphant manner possible he proclaimed, "That is your offspring!" Sure enough. That was my offspring. I cried. I cried a little because I was so happy and it was amazing. I cried more because in my mind it was just going to make it harder to lose this baby.
Every ultrasound I expected the worst, but there she was... every time. A friend of mine had gotten pregnant about 2 months before me. When she was in the middle of her eighth month she miscarried. It was her second late term miscarriage. My heart hurt for her and the panic set in. I had been lulled into a false sense of security. I had passed the mark. I had made it to the third trimester. Miscarriages are so much less likely then... but it can happen. Hysteria swept over me and I didn't sleep until exhaustion knocked me over. I made myself as busy as humanly possible and did absolutely NOTHING that could have hurt her. She had a name. I could not lose her.
My water broke at 1:30 in the morning two weeks early and 21 hours later I still hadn't had her. My labor was not progressing. My mind went to horrible places like maybe losing her now was going to be retribution for all of the awful things I had thought when other people were having kids. Maybe I hadn't lost her because I was going to die in childbirth. Maybe... maybe... I didn't tell anyone any of this. I couldn't. They were so happy. My husband was so nervous. To the outside world I was calm, collected, and smiling. That should have been a clue.
She was born. We were fine.
I spent the next month a neurotic mess. There was literally someone awake 24 hours a day in our house. I was convinced that if she was asleep and someone wasn't watching her, she would die in her sleep. I know. Crazy. I get that. I own it. I wasn't the woman who wouldn't let anyone hold her or even the one who wouldn't lay her on the floor to play... I just had to watch her... so she wouldn't die.
I still worry that I am going to wake up one morning and she is going to have been a dream. I still worry that I will wake up and someone will be saying "crib death" to me. On the other hand I am enjoying every single moment and every single smile.
Mother's Day came and she had to go to the doctor. Pneumonia. Funny how that diagnosis shares a lot of letters with neurotic... My mom got strep throat and an ear infection. My darling man is still in TX with what appears to be a nasty case of food poisoning. Mother's Day could have been crap, but I had waited far too long for it. My poor sweet sick girl didn't feel well and only wanted Mommy cuddles. Every time she snuggled her face into my shoulder and put her hand on my arm to go to sleep I did my best to burn it into my memory. It was worth it. She was worth it. If all of that is what it took to get her... bring it all on again.
My friend... the one that miscarried in her eighth month, adopted a little girl. They found out they were getting her on the day Lily was born. She's a couple months younger than Lily and possibly one of the most loved children in this world. They decided not to try again. I don't know that I could have made that decision. I'm too selfish. I am so glad that there are people who adopt. I'm adopted. God knows I think it is an absolutely amazing thing... I wanted my own. I needed her. I may be broken, but I'm certainly not going to be able to do it if I don't try.
We are trying. We have been trying since January. The trying part is fun. The negative pregnancy tests are not fun. Last month I was seven days late. No go. Seven days! Who does that? The month before I was five days late... seven still feels like more of an insult. I'm scared. Yes, Lily is here and happy and healthy, but what if she is a fluke? What if she was a gift for perseverance and now I'm being greedy? What if... What if?
I miss the hubbs. He's his own brand of crazy, but he calms mine. Two weeks is too long. He is finishing up his semester and heading here. I feel bad because I think I end every conversation with "come home now." I don't mean it. I just feel it. We function better together. We are a good team. I like that. I like that a lot. We have so many friends that are married and don't hardly even like their spouses... It's weird. He's my best friend.
So yeah... He needs to come home and we need to move. Right now Lily and I are staying with my parents. It's really not bad. Really. The only two hang-ups seem to be that everyone is sick and my
entire hometown is underwater. Seriously. My whole family is there with the sole exceptions being my parents. They are safe and sound. Well, they are as sound as they were before the flooding anyway. My dad on the other hand... not so much. He's here and physically fine, but worried out of his mind about the rest of them and there is nothing he can do about any of it. This is normal. I get that. Please don't take your frustrations out on me.
The man has a way of reducing me to tears in a half a sentence. I am damn-near thirty. How can one sentence/ look/ unidentified noise reduce me to a sixteen year old idiot with only two braincells rubbing together? Yeah. It's not been pretty. I know that he doesn't do it intentionally. I would like to exclaim that every question or conversation starter is not an open argument or act of defiance, but that wouldn't help. I'll get over it. Bygones.
Ally McBeal by the way. Love it. Who knew? I hate when I fall for a show that I swore up and down I would never watch. It's hilarious. Completely enjoyable. Not too heavy, not too fluffy. Fabulous. (at least the first season has been.)
I have been working on Lily's scrapbook. I am beginning to believe I have a few unresolved emotional issues. I have done May '10-July '10 and had to stop for August because every time I thought about captions for the pictures I got hysterical. My father passed away two days before my birthday, when Lily was six months old. August was the first time he ever held Lily. It is the only photograph I have of him in the last decade. I'm having a hard time with it. The "tougher than that" kid in me keeps slapping little miss "obliviously optimistic and sentimental" and neither are winning. I am taking a break from scrapbooking.
I suppose I'm back to making tons of baby clothes. Like she doesn't have enough. I am toying with the idea of opening my etsy shop back up and filling it with dresses and tutus and such, but... that's scary.
Why am I not asleep?
Sweet dreams.
