Week Six Musings

I have so many things on the brain lately, it’s ridiculous.

I don’t know if it has anything to do with the whole DOMA situation or Toronto Pride, but I’ve been thinking a lot lately that about the different types of families…and ways people go about expanding their families. Whether by choice, or just by what ends up being required.

I’m not sure why, but recently I’m more likely to enjoy pregnancy blogs of lesbians than I am to enjoy the pregnancy blogs of straight women. As a straight woman, you’d think that I’d find more in common with others of my same orientation, but maybe that’s the whole point about equality. You don’t have to be the same race or religion or gender as someone else to just…get it, man. Or maybe it just takes a certain sense of humor to basically have to use IVF and donor sperm that is missing from couples who end up being dragged to that point in heartache and tears. I’m really not sure…

Also, before I forget, lemme just go ahead and explain the “catched” thing before I go any further and forget. (More on forgetting after.)

I grew up riding horses. I literally have over 20 years in the saddle. Words that have no context outside of the wild world of riding, creep into my daily life. It garners me some odd looks at times. So, what does this have to do with “catched?”
When a mating didn’t take, I always heard it referred to as the mare not catching. (Or “She didn’t catch.”) And, like all vague baseball references involving sex, I found it HILARIOUS. So I made a big deal about a mare that did turn out pregnant by saying that she “catched.”

There we go, that’s all explained.

Can I now talk about the brain lapse/fatigue?

This has been stemmed a bit by going to bed by no later than 9:30 every night, but wow. I was washing my hands in the bathroom, when I got a notice that James Gandolfini died. It occurred to me that MFH would probably want to know/be saddened by that. I walked out of the bathroom, closed the approximately two yards to the couch, and sat down. Totally forgot what I wanted to tell him. But, annoyingly, did not forget that I wanted to tell him something. It wasn’t until he came to bed and whispered that same news to me, that I remembered.

Lame.

Anywhoddle, something else that’s really odd about being recently confirmed preggo?

The little nugging…guilt? Fear? Unworthiness? Whatever you want to call it, I have this teeny tiny ball of emotion tucked up under my left shoulder blade that pokes me every once in awhile and reminds me to be thankful. Thankful to be tired. To feel overwhelmingly lucky to have a bit of memory lapse here and there. To turn and acknowledge all of the really lovely, brave women whose lives I’ve been privileged to be apart of through their words. To thank them for getting me here, and to apologize, just a little bit, that I am moving on before them.

Of course, I read many blogs where the writer in question is far ahead of me, or even on multiple rounds of being ahead of me. But my little ball under my left shoulder isn’t for them. I get to play and learn from them. To the others, I can only wish and hope that they get everything they dream of. Empathy can only go so far. (And maybe if I keep telling myself that, my little ball will dissolve away as well.)

But, I don’t want to give the impression that I am in any way sorry. I’m thrilled to be pregnant. I’ve given up a lot to get here. Everything from personal hangups to social drinking. I would take nothing back. And as much as I might wish I had magic fertility powers I could pass on to others, I have to be realistic enough to be happy that I had enough magic fertility for myself.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
(We’ll see how it goes.)

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