Good-freaking-bye, 30. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out! Never have I been so happy to see a year finally pass. I had no idea, you guys. I had no idea how hard it could really be. Those of you out there who read my previous blog, remember how hard I thought life was? That’s almost laughable at this point. Oh young, innocent, boy problems. HA! (And while I say this, please don’t think that I’m not aware that there are people out there that have gone through so much worse, that have had traumas beyond imaginable.) But for me so far, this was a trauma that was beyond imaginable. And to think, I was looking forward to my thirties for so long! If I had only known!
And yes, I’ve been gone from the blog for a while, I know this. And I’m sorry. I couldn’t post here — a blog that was once a pregnancy blog and now forced into a miscarriage blog. Because you see, if I had posted here, it wouldn’t have worked with what I was trying to irresponsibly achieve. In August and parts of September, I pretended like I didn’t have three miscarriages. I pretended that I still had the innocence of a year ago this month. I pretended I was someone else completely (which, just so you know, isn’t the greatest thing for a marriage. Go figure!). It was a super-sized one-woman denial party. But you know what? There is only so long you can pretend. The tears sneak back, the doubt creeps up, and the fear overtakes you again and you realize no matter how badly you want to, you can’t escape the woman that you are now. (Damnit) Before I had my first miscarriage, all I could think about was how I wanted to be pregnant, how I wanted to feel a baby growing inside me. I pictured myself with my hands to my belly, gazing down at how my body had changed, finally feeling complete. My body craved it. I’d finally be a woman. I didn’t put much thought to after, to the mothering part; the part of me that just wanted to be pregnant was so overpowering, that other part I knew I’d be forced to get to eventually. At that time, it was more of a physical drive. Your body wants to grow a baby from every ounce of it’s being. Even if you’re not ready, you can’t ignore it. But now it’s no longer the pregnancy that I crave. Now what I want the most is the baby that can only be soothed by his mother; the toddler whose face lights up when you walk into the room; the quirky preschooler that discovers her personality; the moody teenager finding ways to express himself. I want my husband to take the child we created to the beach with him surfing, not just the one he created with another woman. I want him to love our family with our child in it, like he loves our family without it. I see a new mother and father with their freshly born baby, and that’s what I want the most. People say, “Oh you just wait! Wait until you don’t get a complete hour of sleep for more than a month!” I would give anything to lose sleep over my baby. The baby I kept safe inside me for 9 months and gave birth to like millions of woman before me have done. Once the chance that that’s possible gets taken away from you, you start to realize what it was you really wanted. I guess you could say I was forced to grow up this year and that the pregnancy craving grew into a mothering craving.
Even though I’ve been gone, things haven’t changed much around here, huh? The physical tears may be fewer, but they’re still there. I’m still in my head too much. I’m feeling guilt for not being there for my friends while they go through something amazing, something life-changing. But I was supposed to be doing it with them, and now I’m not. And I can’t stop thinking that. Because of how much I love them, I’m trying to stop thinking that. I’m trying. Because I love them more than they know. Their presence in my life is something I couldn’t be more thankful for. I just want to say how utterly, completely, with-every-bone-in-my-body happy I am for them. But I’m not there yet. And that feels like one of the worst feelings in the world for someone who loves her friends as much as I do.
So, as my friend so eloquently said to me in a birthday card — “F* 30.” And I couldn’t agree more. (Thanks, S. You rock.)