Recently, my body has ramped up its little reminders that my baby making days are approaching their end. Ever since my IUD was removed, I have been a hormonal mess. I feel an insatiable urge to make a baby. I’m smart enough to know that this is not something I actually want. I love our way of life, and a baby would change everything, which is not something I want to happen. That knowledge doesn’t change the fact, however, that my treacherous body has me pining for a baby and has even made me a little sad that I don’t have one.
I sometimes wish I could go back in time to meet D when I was younger, marry him, and have his babies. We could have a son and daughter of our very own. I would love to know what our kids would be like. Who would they look like? Would they be really smart? I’m never going to get to know, and I guess the point of this post is simply that I’m mourning that fact right now.
It feels silly and shameful to even write this out because things are so good, our kids are awesome, and another baby just doesn’t fit with our life plan. I am just hoping that writing it down will help me process it and move on. Getting my new IUD will help too. Come on April 14th!
D’s parents have finally admitted that they refuse to meet me. Not because they hate me or anything, but because they simply cannot accept our “situation.”
Our situation…you know that situation where we are in a long term, loving relationship, and are happier together than either of us have ever been otherwise. Yeah, that situation.
Our happiness is something they cannot condone because it resulted from infidelity and divorce, and they, being fine and upstanding Christian people, could not possibly forgive such actions. (I’m paraphrasing here, as they don’t actually have the balls to put it so bluntly. Though they’ve so eloquently referred to me as the “floozy” for years, for what that’s worth.)
I wish I could tell them the full truth about the supposed infidelity. I bet their heads would fucking explode.
They can manipulate and emotionally abuse their children (and grandchildren) and be judgmental, racist, classist, homophobic douche-bags. They can forgive their other son for making a fucking sex tape with some skank and being stupid enough to leave it for his wife to find. They can forgive their son-in-law for being investigated for rape. But they simply have to put their foot down here. Because divorce is wrong.
These are the same people who believe the world is only 6000 years old, so I don’t really know why I’m surprised. I’m sure Jesus is super proud.
Honestly, making the decision to not meet me is probably very smart because I would fucking own them. Unlike every other woman in their twisted little family, I would go straight for the fucking balls, and I’d never look back.
The little ghetto girl that will always live inside my heart cannot believe how lovely life has become. I remember living in the broken down house in the “bad” part of Ferguson. The house with the bullet holes. The house with the abusive, alcoholic, drug addicted father. The house of pain and sadness. The very atmosphere was oppressive. I used to daydream of how life could maybe be someday if I just tried hard enough. I could go to college and law school. I could fall in love. Have a family. Build a beautiful life. I felt like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders, and so many obstacles in my way. But I never ever gave up. And here I am now, looking back on a childhood that feels so very far away now. The pain, the suffering, and the struggle were so worth it. I feel so very fortunate.
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife
And you may ask yourself
Well…How did I get here?
I posted a pic of myself wearing a skimpy bikini on social media yesterday, which is something that’s somewhat out of character for me. I don’t typically want to draw attention to myself; especially sexual attention. But it felt important to own how hard it was for me to even be wearing it in the first place.
I have some significant body image issues. When I look at myself, I don’t usually see a thin, attractive, middle aged woman. I see loose skin, cellulite, stretch marks, and fifteen pounds of fat that needs to go. I often avoid looking at myself in mirrors because I dislike what I see. So when I find the courage to expose myself to the world in all my imperfections, it feels like something to be celebrated.
Our society places too much emphasis on perfection. There is an expectation that even at almost 37 years old, after breast cancer and a baby, I should look like a Victoria’s Secret model. When I look at myself and see how far I am from that ideal, it’s extremely discouraging. But why? This body grew and birthed a healthy 8 1/2 pound baby. It survived cancer. It’s strong and beautiful and I should own that.
I’m not saying I’ll feel like this every day or that I’m going to stop working towards my goal of getting fitter, but I am going to make a much bigger effort to love myself just as I am right now. Because I’m beautiful and good; inside and out.
This was one of the more difficult lists I’ve completed so far, but it was also the most rewarding. I like that the “take action” note advises to keep adding to the list throughout the year as a way to realize the unique things that make me who I am. (Have I mentioned I adore this journal? Because I really, really love it. You can buy it here.)
My list (so far):
- good listener
- hard working
Last week’s list, which I didn’t post, was List The Ways You Can Rejuvenate Your Space. Next week’s list is: List The Things That Always Cheer You Up. I’m looking forward to that one. I’m going to use it as a self-care master list.
I have found a few more “self-discovery” type journals I plan on buying soon.