I want to post about what a wonderful birthday I had. I want to post about the familiar blue box containing sparkly earrings that Lawyer Guy withdrew from a secret drawer that morning (after swearing up and down that the party was my present). I want to post about the shopping trip with my sister to NoLIta that led to me purchasing my birthday party outfit. I want to post about the fabulous dinner LG and I had at Locanda Verde and the wonderful calls and texts and e-mails I received all day from friends and family around the country.
I don't want to post about the sinking feeling that has been slowly setting in over the past few days, the end-of-the-2ww feeling, the heavy, dull, listless feeling of yet another failed cycle.
I don't want to post about the phone calls I've been guiltily dodging from Recently Trying Friend, whose decision to celebrate her birthday "low key" last month alone with her husband and whose sudden desire to meet up for drinks (after...hmm...let's see...four months of silence) are like some Banksy guerilla art installation all over that freaking wall: PREGNANT LADY HERE. I don't want to post about how even the thought of another pregnant friend in my life--another pregnant former bridesmaid, another shower to paste on a fake fucking smile for, another sequence of interminably similar questions to ask (Did you pick a name? What's your nursery set? Are you learning the sex? When are you due? What stroller are you registering for?)--sets my heart racing and palms sweating and stomach roiling and tears streaming and NO, I CAN'T DO THIS AGAIN! NOT NOW! NOT YET!
I don't want to post about Mother's Day. I don't want to post about trying again. I don't want to post about nieces and obsessed grandmothers with one-track conversational minds and soon-t0-be mamas parading their stretch-jersey swaddled bellies all over town in celebration of Spring and their own delightful fecundity.
I want to post that I'm pregnant. But I can't.
So I'm posting this: I'm taking a break. And contrary to the wisdom of busy bodies everywhere, it's not some nifty new fertility treatment I'm trying out. I'm tapped out. I'm drained. I'm gutted, spitted, and fried.
So enjoy your little nap, Pissy the CBEFM. Return to your drawer, my good friend Tempy. Maybe I'll call you back up to the big leagues next month, and maybe you'll be playing for the minors all summer long.
For the near future, it's just me, Lawyer Guy, and whatever sperm-meets-egg magic the good Lord sees fit to provide.
And you, of course. I can't leave all of you. After all this time, I've gotten used to having a crowd in the bedroom.
Reinvention of a blog
6 months ago