Alright, alright, I know I'm supposed to feel like all women are my sisters, and we're all in this together, and normally I'd be all for this. I LOVE women. Huge fan...you know, since birth. I went to an all-girls school for goodness sakes. I refer to my extended family as a matriarchy. But I have just about had it up to the proverbial "here" with some of my "sisters."
And yes, I know that this is because I'm in Hell Week. Give me a break. I'll pray about it.
The last few days, I've just been so sensitive to, as a dear friend calls them, the "norms." Non-loss preggos. The holy grail of naivety. And their cockeyed optimism is just pissing me off.
I was a norm once. I remember what it's like to worry about gaining weight and looking "so not cute." I remember the color of the nursery being the biggest ordeal. I remember shoving my "pregnant glow" in everyone's faces and almost demanding they ask me about my baby. I remember petty fights with my husband. I remember insisting I knew what was best. I remember thinking nothing could go wrong, and the minor things that did were catastrophic.
And then I buried my son.
Now I remember that "cute" doesn't matter. That no one cares what color the nursery is, especially my baby. That having a person ask if I'm excited can quickly lead to tears from either party. That I have no control over anything at all in the grand scheme. That pregnancy is a gift--a beautiful, scary gift--that can be taken away in a second.
This weekend, a norm visited my family, and I couldn't even bring myself to look at her. She's the kind who is determined not to gain a pound. She is obsessed with setting up the nursery just so.
And it's all working out just fine for her.
The jealousy (yes, I know that's what it is!) bubbled up so high I had to cry it out. I blubbered on Mike's shoulder, demanding I knew I was ridiculous, and I needed to cut it out. And what did that wonderful man say to me? "No, you're not being ridiculous. It's not fair."
He's right. It's not fair.
I want to be worried about a nursery.
Not a heartbeat.
(I feel the need to mention that I do have so many friends who are "norms," and I love them dearly. I wish for them nothing more taxing than worrying over baby names. These are merely the harshly-thought words of a jealous woman. Hugs.)