So, when does it become inappropriate to bring up the apocalypse that was the birth of my daughter? I'm asking because I feel like I can't stop bringing it up.
Actually, that's inaccurate. I really don't talk about it all that often, not for lack of interest. It's amazing how freely I could jabber on about a three-month-past catastrophe, the single most life-altering event of my heretofore existence. Nope, I'm cool with that. But I don't, as a rule, bring it up in every conversation.
It would be awkward, and weird, and, well, it's hard to make that segue appropriately. Friend:"Hey, you want a popsicle?" Me:"Sure. Did you know that the last time I had a popsicle I was in active labor waiting to deliver my dead baby?" Friend: "Jesus."
Anyway, as the weather turns warmer here in the frozen north, people are out. People are doing stuff--and this broad brush of "people" includes me. And C. And E. We walk everywhere, we head to the zoo, we spend as much time outside as possible. Errands are becoming less pile-on-every-article-of-clothing-and-jam-toddler-into-carseat, and more bust-out-the-stroller-and-go. Which is wonderful.
But I keep seeing people who may or may not know about, well, you know. People I used to run with, casual acquaintances, fellow moms. Who knows when the last time I've seen all these humans, let alone at what point of gestation I'd been at, if any at all. So it goes something like this:
Me:"Hi! How are you?"
Them:"Good! What's new?"
Me:"Not much, um, what's new with you . . .?"
And then more blahbbity blah until something comes up and I have to be all:
Me: "Uh, well, uh, do you know about what happened to . . . us . . . uh,"
Which leads me to tell these unassuming acquaintances, and then I feel a little indulgent, like I'm begging for sympathy. Which I'm not--truly. Truly. I don't need any more, though I'll take it if someone's offering.
What I feel like is, well, like I'm addressing the elephant in the room--whether that elephant is apparent or not. I don't know. Am I being self-indulgent? Is it past the point where it's appropriate to talk about it in polite company? I don't want to be that girl who's all, "Hey! Remember that one time when we colored our jeans? With markers? In sixth grade?! Remember that time?!" Like it's all I've got.
Because it's not-I got a lot. But when it comes to her, my baby, my girl, it IS all I got.