Sometimes I tell myself everything is okay even though the tears tell me otherwise.
Sometimes I succumb to the envy I feel when I happen upon others who live the life I wish I had. Sometimes I wallow, wallow, wallow and then feel foolish, foolish, foolish for not feeling grateful and joyful for all the good that I do have and sometimes I say fuck it and give in to that wide wallow and throw myself a pity party, balloons and all.
Back when I was a tiny growing thing nestled in my own private womb, my family went through an awful experience (that still carries a ripple effect) that left the doctors sincerely thinking my mother might miscarry the wee that was me. They professionally prescribed her a miracle drug (or so they thought) to keep me safely tucked inside. What they did not encounter and what was only discovered months after I was born was that miracle drug was really a dangerous dose of synthetic estrogen that gifted all of us "miracle" babies with all sorts of ilk. The kicker being infertility. A good many of us DES children managed to live average cancer-free lives with kiddos upon kiddos while others, like me, became text book cases. Even my old nurse-practitioner couldn't believe how text-book I was. She was ecstatic to see it all live and in person. Go me.
Along with the infertility, I spent my twenties getting cancer screenings and paps every other month. I hit menopause at the ripe old age of 38 and now I get to look forward to new cancer screenings.
I should have a sash or tiara or something.
I also hate to admit this but I almost wish I got pregnant when I was in my twenties, bad relationships be damned. And I hate, hate, hate that I get so darned jealous of the people who have unplanned pregnancies that turn into happy babies. I want to stamp and stomp and wail "It's not fair" but I don't, at least not out loud. Instead I purge my feelings into another blog, a very whiny and sad and angry blog and hope for the day, the minute, the hour where I don't feel like crying or that my self worth is zero because I do not and will not have children. I know that isn't true but it feels true to me. I feel like I lack something profound that will give me common ground with other adults that could be friends. But who wants to be friends with us childless a-go-gos? I snark but I feel it is true and that we are frequently misunderstood. I think parents assume that childless people do not want to be friends with child-full people and though having kids is not a requirement in the friends department, the mister and I seem to never fit in. We're not out-on-the-towners or bar goers. We don't watch the hip shows or listen to the now music. We dress down, not up, we live slow and make our own mostly off-key music. I worry that when we are old, we will truly be alone. Who will take care of us when we can no longer take care of each other?
I'm sure you're thinking I'm some sort of drama queen and believe me, I think I could agree with you. Thank goodness I bottle it up for the most part but it seeps out and pops out and explodes as if you dumped mentos down my throat whenever I read of another happy blogger expecting baby number two or three or four and I see their published lives, their owned homes and thin vintage cloaked couple-ness in their magazine worthy living room cooking up garden fresh goodness, crafting up viral prettiness as feathery, feathery chickens dance around in the background. I wonder, do they all really have such magical lives? Lives where 9-5 jobs are nowhere to be seen, where their blogs generate their mortgage payments, where bodies are so healthy there are no worries about hospital bills. Can it really be that magical? I sit on our battered and borrowed sofa in our overpriced rental with the mis-matched white paint speckling the walls and the boxes of craft crap tilting this way and that and wonder if it would be okay if I splurged and bought the organic eggs instead. And then I think it's probably better that I can't have kids, that I would suck at the mom thing anyway that there is no way we could do it, could afford it when we can barely find our happy medium as it is. And I wallow and wonder who I am...who am I?
And my heart hurts, it aches so and I wanna smack the crap out the adults I see yelling at their children for being children. I want to flee and run away and unplug myself from everything. I want to be different, someone else, someone worthy, someone likeable, someone who is settled and happy with who they are and what they have and I think this life of mine is wasted on the me that is me and just as I reach the highest heights of my heartache and sadness I spy something, it could be anything really, that makes me catch my breath. It could be the pink of the sun set or a lizard sunning itself on our porch. It could be the rolling hills that surround this new home of ours, the opening notes of a favorite song or a picture book that makes me laugh. Whatever it is, it pulls me down and stills my sadness, tucking it into bed underneath the faintest faded quilt of goodwill where it slumbers as ling as it can so that I find myself in my moment. A good moment, a moment filled with sweetness and song, with a whistling mister beside me on a battered and borrowed sofa that is piled sky high with quilts and happy colors. A moment filled with rainy day wanders and family filled Mondays. A moment that helps me realize that the magic is with us as well. It's just a little less showy.