Fear, Anger and Jealousy

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.)