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[1].
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.
