A statute of limitations on whining.

Dear Baby,

I don't know if I have what it takes to be a blogger. I know. You're amazed to hear this given the 59 page long posts, but hear me out. I really enjoy reading blogs. Cooking blogs, parenting blogs, random blogs. It's a bit voyeuristic, but it's also inspiring. But these people talk about their lives and activities in a way that I find difficult to do myself. I could tell everyone what I think about the industrial food complex, or the cherry blossom trees in bloom, or what I had for breakfast, but I find myself wondering, who gives a fuck?

This is an abrupt departure for me, kid. Your Gammy will tell you one day. I used to want to be the center of attention. I wanted everyone to know what I ate for breakfast, and I thought they would not only desire this information, but might not survive the day without it. I look back at that girl and wonder if she was fun or just a narcissistic asshole. I hope it was at least a combo, though I suspect it was the latter. It seems, Baby, that somewhere along the path in my journey to adulthood, I became intensely private. Shy. A little paranoid even. Slightly agoraphobic and fearful of strangers. Is a bad (really bad) relationship to blame? Possibly. Probably. But at the end of the day, is it a bad thing that I am more private now? That I don't readily discuss the intimate details of my life any more? I don't think so.

The other issue is that I wanted to start this blog as a happy place. A place where I could tell my unborn child about the wonders that await. But instead it's become a repository for all of my sadness. I can't let go of the sadness, but I am getting a bit tired of my own whining. And I can't imagine anyone else wanting to listen to it. I mean, this isn't who I thought I'd be when I grew up. I didn't ever consider that I would be ordinary. That I would love my husband, hate my job, have a miscarriage and spend the next 6 months (and counting) trying to climb out of an emotional black hole. And let me be the first to tell you kid, no one ever writes their love story the way mine has gone.

"Fall in love, get married, spend a year trying to get pregnant. Have a miscarriage. Cry a lot. Obsess about having a miscarriage every month thereafter. Start talking about fertility tests and basal body temperatures and peak fertility days. Dread taking fertility meds. Wonder if you really are willing to do anything to get pregnant or if you are willing to accept that maybe this is Darwin's way of telling you that you are not the fittest."

Doesn't make for a great story, does it?

I have a few friends who are my age and married and childless. I want to ask them why. Is it their choice? Are they planning for kids? Have they gone through this heartbreak and given up rather than gone down the rabbit hole of injecting hormones into their stomachs every day? I want to ask these questions, but I don't want to answer them. So I don't ask. I have superficial conversations about yarn and farmer's markets and trips to Europe and I don't let any intimate details out. Maybe that's part of the reason I'm struggling. I won't let anyone get close.

I think I'm worried that no one wants to get close. I told a group of girlfriends about O and burst immediately into tears and I think it scared them. Not because they thought it was weird that I was crying for my cat - luckily, I found a group of women who cherish their pets as family, like we do. I think it scared them because people fear sadness. They fear that heartbreak and bad luck and sadness is contagious. If you get too close to someone who is having a tough time, either you'll get sucked into their drama spiral or you will start to have bad luck yourself. I want to assure them that I am not catching, but I don't think I can at this point.

When I was younger, I believed, deep in my soul, that I was fun and witty. That everyone wanted to be my friend and that I had something interesting to say to the world. As I've gotten older, I've started to realize that maybe none of these things are true. I'm lucky in a lot of ways, kid, don't get me wrong. I'm just not what I intended to be.

Love you.
-Mama