Greetings, KuKd/TTC'ers Tribespeople and Inquisitive Guests!
Sometimes on this blog, I find myself tripping over words, wondering if certain feelings are okay to talk about. Like the great big pink box with the word "YAY!" on my last post. It was how I felt: yay. Holy yay, batman. But was it cool to be so yay-ish and all in public? Was it obnoxious of me? There was a point in writing that post when I sort of paused and looked out the window at Seattle's slate-gray sky, and thought: I'm tired of this post already. So I did myself a favor, at the very least, and kept it short. Ish.
A couple of weeks ago, some friends and I were sitting around the dining room table. One guy started to tell about some event coming up next week, stopped after the third word, and said: "Never mind. I'm already tired of my own story."
There are several things that make me feel that exact way whenever I talk about them in mixed company, and numero uno is my knocked-up-ness. Just plain tired my own story, like my lips are moving but really I'm thinking about bacon-wrapped bacon. Which is why I can't bring myself to say much about it here (pregnancy, not bacon), unless something really noteworthy is going on, like last week's first big heart test.
Oh, of course there are a very few key people I can vomit out words to about it for hours on end. I'm talking people like parents, husband, and two or three best-est of best-est friends who deliberately ask and want to know about the current condition of my uterus. And prego-buddies and their accompanying sperm-producers, who want to talk shop about names-n-stuff. To them, I can gladly give a shameless earful. But pregnancy? Here on this blog? With 99% of people in my life?
Here's my current theory as to why that's the case.
This past weekend I caught up on some much-neglected blog-o-reading. And let me tell you, not that you don't know this already: there is a lot of sad, painful stuff going on out there among this great big group of KuKd/TTC blog-o-peeps. Perfectly decent, wonderful, goregous, goodhearted and intelligent women miscarrying - people who want nothing more than the one thing that so many others produce so easily: a biological child. People's IVF treatments failing. People realizing that they might not ever get this thing they want. People grappling with huge issues that force them to really take stock of their lives, make hard decisions, and come to terms with loss in their own way.
Now, I simply can't read about...say...Shaz's or Parenthood for Me's stories, feel intensely sad about that - which I do - and then plop down on the sofa with a big smile on my face and crank out some story about: "WOO-HOO BABY! LOOK AT ME AND MY PREGNANT SELF! GOD, MY BOOBS ARE JUST ACHING AND ENGORGED WITH PRE-MILKY PLEASURE! MY VAGINA IS RIPE AND ACHING TO BE STRETCHED TO DIAMETER OF A SOCCER BALL!"
Totally oustide my comfort zone. The words don't come to me. Instead, what comes to me are things like: is it okay for me to feel this one thing? And write about it here? Or will I be throwing myself irrevocably off that tightrope-walk that us KuKd-prego-gals have to walk, that we all are faced with when our cervical mucus vaccums up sperm unexpectedly and suddenly - KABOOM - we have that "it" that others don't have, but want? How in the name of hellfucked hell does one pay homage to their own excitements and other people's non-excitements at the same time? And can I do it here?
Not that my comfort zone is the right zone or the wrong zone (more likely wrong, which I usually am). And not that I don't enjoy reading about others' pregnancy ups-n-downs and pregnancy ticker-like updates, living vicariously through them even.
It's just that for me, personally, to post on and on about my knocked-uppage would give me this icky, yucky feeling of having forgotten my roots, forgotten about the core group of people who read this blog regularly, who have supported me since day one and beyond even through their own continued ups and downs. It would be as though I've left my impoverished hometown and won the lottery, only to return in a brand new Escalade with all my fance schmancy jewelry and gadgets. That's how it would feel.
So I remain humble as I feel, keeping my feet planted in the firm, damp, root-filled earth:
rooted alongside the KuKd Tribe I had so much trouble finding in "real life," and - was lucky enough to discover here.
(By the way, just to hammer in this point again: please don't take that as this preachy-ass "would all you happy pregnant people stop talking about it, please?" sort of message. Dude, I'm the last person to give out messages about anything in particular. It's just like, this is my comfort zone. That's it. Just like eating bacon: in my comfort zone. Tofu-loaf: not.)
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For the record, even if I WERE to post something prego-related, it would be something really superficial that nobody in their right mind wants to hear about, like how Kevin recently accused my pregnancy pillow (see image below) of being a cock-blocker.
A cock blocker!
Look, I really don't see how a gigantic Great-Wall-of-China-sized pillow, firmly enclosing my multiple-layers-of-flannel-clothing-over-Texas-sized-Hanes-bloomers-underwear body, preventing me and Kevin from coming within 15 inches of one another before, during, and after bedtime, would be considered a cock-blocker!
Seems a bit of an extreme accusation to make.