My freewheeling negativity, my sarcasm, my dark humor. My flippant remarks about live blogging my miscarriage and learning to say “repeat pregnancy loss.” My deep-seated belief that nothing will work, that my lining is too thin, that my uterus is misshapen, that my numbers are too high/low/backwards/purple/Thursday. It’s all gotten to be a little much – for C.
The other night, when C mentioned something sweet he hoped to do with our future baby, I reflexively pushed back – no, stop, don’t say that, we’re not at the point where it’s safe to even acknowledge I have a uterus.
Enough. He had had quite enough of my antics. He, for one, was ready to be optimistic, hopeful, even giddy with excitement (his words). His reasoning – which seems eminently, well, reasonable – is that whether or not he’s excited now, he will inevitably be devastated should things go wrong. So why not relish in the excitement? Why not openly debate the best middle name, the merits of the hyphenated last name, the color of the nursery and the animal themed changing table pad? SERIOUSLY SARAH. WHY THE F NOT.
He was frustrated; he felt stifled and perhaps resentful that I got to control the terms on which we do or do not celebrate this – any of this – including when, how and how much. He recognizes how much
I, we, have gone through and the pain of our very early loss is not
forgotten. But he is also in full on dad mode
and wanting to embrace it, with all that it entails.
And me? Well. Since the second beta, my anxiety level – after briefly receding for approximately six hours – has gone off the deep end. Every time I sneeze, I swear I’ve miscarried and the minute-by-minute absence or presence of barely discernible “symptoms” creates a roller coaster of ever changing emotions. My boobs continue to be sore, but probably, mostly, because I beat on them several times a day. You know. To make-sure-they-are-still-sore. I’m suddenly peeing 2-3 times during the night but I’m not certain whether that’s baby, anxiety, or the ever present, baby-anxiety. And it’s fair to say that my general demeanor has been
So today, I’m trying not to be a total ever-loving-brat and to be grateful, for crying out loud. I’m consciously making an effort to curb my negativity, to resist the easy, self-deprecating, the-future-is-a-desolate-hell-scape! remarks, to let C talk about the toys he wants to buy our future spawn, whether we’ll raise it vegetarian and how we’ll dress it like a baby chicken on Halloween. I’m trying to acknowledge that I may be
completely, irretrievably destroyed
disappointed if something goes wrong, but that it’s also okay to be happy.
(Oh dear. The self-indulgent navel gazing will dissipate over time – I swear).
 Except of course to dozens of strangers on the interwebs. Because I am
a giant hypocrite internally logical and
consistent in my neuroses.
 Truth: I swoon over Will Arnett.
 Is that nausea? Wait, no, but is that nausea? Wait, what about now?
 NSFW! Totally kidding. This is G rated. Intrigued now?
 It’s either that or robot baby. Or a way-too-cutsie name that C has taken to using. I'll spare you.
 All pressing concerns. Also, I just realized this zinger – what does it mean to dress a vegetarian baby as a chicken? That is so meta.
 My goodness these posts are getting bleak. And schmaltzy. Sheesh.