Since I was a teenager words not usually thought of as polite have fairly easy crossed my tongue. When I became an adult they declined – because they weren’t appropriate in a classroom or among colleagues, mostly I guess. Plus I moved from a place that often competed for a position as “America’s worst place to live and raise children” to a pristine east coast college. I wanted to play the part. Still at times I lapsed. Never so often as I have this past year, however. Even if I’m not saying it aloud, it’s not a rarity for me to sit silently while my mind shouts phrases like, “F* F* F*!” or “Je*** F***** Ch***!” at no one in particular.
Samuel is doing well. Wonderfully. He’s so huge – probably around or above 13 pounds and 23 inches. I didn’t realize really how much so until we went to a friend’s house last night and saw how tiny her healthy-sized baby looked next to ours. I was a nervous wreck before we left for her house. I knew she’d want to talk babies a lot and I still feel strange doing that. I handled it remarkably well, I think. Didn’t even feel bad once talking about nursing shirts and Samuel’s eating and sleeping habits.
From the outside I look like I’ve joined a new group. No longer just a mother of a dead baby.
Those of us who have recently or will soon reach the year mark might wonder when exactly it will start to get better. The first few months were a living hell. Then I reached this point where life became more bearable. I could show my face in public, even converse. Now with Samuel here, I could even call myself happy. I guess what I’m wanting though, is what Tash described earlier today. The old me. For the sadness to just go away, forever. I’m not stupid enough to think that will ever happen completely. I can’t keep myself from wishing it would though.
Because the sadness sucks so much from my life. It brings old demons back to the surface. It makes old interests dull. I feel like in addition to everything else, I actually need to dedicate time to forcing myself to remember why I used to love certain things.
Josh and I have a plan. He has to finish by April. I need to finish by December. We’re splitting the work day into sections, with him getting the first half and the evening. I get the afternoon.
Hopefully Samuel will cooperate most days and at some point in the spring (I imagine around the time Josh picks up the final bound volume of his dissertation) I’ll stop and look back from a point of a little less sadness and lot more accomplished.
Maybe my mind will quiet down and start working with a less offensive vocabulary as well.