I’m up in the middle of the night, wide awake and writing. Because that’s what I do. I write and write and write. The last time I was up writing this late, I was pregnant. This time, I haven’t the excuse of heartburn. I’m just awake with too many thoughts. I wish I were up with pregnancy heartburn instead of too many thoughts.
Being around babies is still tough, but sometimes I’m OK. I mean, I’d have to be OK sometimes. Babies are EVERYWHERE. Tonight, while I was in line at the grocery store, I was waiting behind a baby girl who had unbreakable eye contact. I surprised myself when I made a goofy face for her. I didn’t know I was doing it until she started laughing. It felt like relief, but it also felt very unnatural to be making faces at someone else’s baby instead of my own. These empty arms are so unnatural.
I do have a hard time hearing parents complain about having to parent. I would set myself on fire to be up at 3 AM for a feeding or change a diaper. Hearing babies cry evokes tears. Seeing mothers get to rock their babies makes me long for Sam. And I cannot resent mothers for loving their children. It’s what I longed to do for Sam. In a way, seeing parents love their children sweetens my sorrow. But hearing complaining brings out this violent sorrow in me, especially when I hear it from parents who know my situation. It’s an insensitivity I can barely forgive.