You a Sex and the City fan? I was. I always wanted to be a Carrie, but was instead a Charlotte, with a sprinkle of Miranda to cut the sweetness. Being a Charlotte is a little bit like height — it just is and you can’t really change it. I could dress like Samantha, but it wouldn’t make me any more bold. It would just make me look silly.
Back to Charlotte.
Truth be told, I loved Charlotte. She was hilarious. Charming, prudish, but with more than a hint of naughty, a proper girl who didn’t judge and always hoped for the best. Do you remember when she miscarried? She was newly pregnant, miscarried pretty quickly, and then sank into days and days of bad television. Faced with the first birthday party of Miranda’s son, she couldn’t go. It was too hard. She couldn’t face celebrating the birthday of a baby when she mourned her own.
I get it.
I am struggling right now, for a lot of reasons, but adoption is one of them. Adoption is hard. Many things in life are hard, I know, but this is one of my challenges right now. We are waiting to adopt. And there isn’t a damn thing to do about it, but wait and hope. So wait and hope we do. But it’s hard. Facebook makes it harder.
Today I logged on to find that two acquaintances just learned they are pregnant. With twins! Scrolling further down, I see a friend’s enormously pregnant belly with a pint of ice cream resting on top. Yum! And, oh yes, the ultrasound photos. There are lots of those. Did I ever mention that three of my four miscarriages were detected in ultrasounds?
So pardon me, please, if I wallow for a bit as I have done today. I do NOT want to be that woman — you know the one cause you all have one in your life — the woman you are afraid to share your good news and fortune with because you know she wants nothing more than the same good news and fortune and it just ain’t happening for her. Ugh. I am now, officially, at least today, THAT WOMAN.
I hate being that woman. I do.
I want to share in your joy, I want to applaud all the new life and growing families and hope and love that these new babies will bring. I do. I really do. And most every day I can. Today, I am struggling. I hate to admit that, but it’s true.
Facebook, such a staple in my life, is not always good for me. Sometimes, it makes my life harder. Completely unintentionally, but still harder. My friends and family should post their joys on their feeds, just as I post mine. And their joys should not lead to my sorrow. But sometimes they do.
I am not proud of that. And I wish I could change it, but in all honesty, I probably can’t, at least not today. My best bet, for now, is to step away for awhile. Build up my reserves, replenish my strength, lick my wounds, pick up a book and put down my keyboard. Stop obsessing about surprise pregnancies and babies and growing families and waiting, waiting, waiting.
Damn you, Facebook. So much of you I love, but parts of you I hate. You bring out both the best and worst in me. I can be witty and inspired and impassioned on Facebook, but you can also make me feel small, petty, and isolated. It’s hard to lick your wounds when every time you open your lap top you’re faced with news that for a million different reasons you will view from your own personal lens, even when it has not a fig to do with you. Not a fig. Which, strangely, is the size of the eleven week old fetuses my friends keep posting photos of on Facebook.
Not so confidential note to friends: You know I love you. Forgive me my transgressions. I still want that shower invitation.
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