Thursday, May 7, 2009


When I can't sleep, I usually try and do something productive. I don't think fiddling with the fonts and templates of my blog qualify as such.

There are usually 4 or 5 nights during the course of the year when I have trouble going to bed. My relationship with sleep is the antithesis of my husband's, who probably gets 7 nights of uninterrupted slumber a year...

I'm currently having my second period after my miscarriage. The first occurred while we were visiting family in Florida. It was incredibly inconvenient of course, as bleeding on other people's sheets inevitably is, but welcomed because I was glad to be back on gynaecological track.

Having it return in a remote location allowed me some emotional distance.

Something I don't have this time around.

The reproductive sweepstakes have been incredibly kind to me. I've taken three pregnancy tests in my life and the positive results were welcomed every time. My first two pregnancies went on entirely too long, but that was my only substantial complaint. I wanted to breastfeed and did so without a hitch. Able to lactate the way I breathe, without a thought, care or complaint.

But I'm furious at my body. My anger coiled like a hydra, in what I now think of as my polluted womb. Enraged at the betrayal, if only I could banish my body the way I do people who disappoint.

The irony is that as an overweight person, pretty much my entire life, I've always been at peace with my physical self. Given the fact that my mother and sister are both slender, I'm even more of an oddity. I'm not without my issues, and am always trying to get more exercise, make better food choices etc. But the kind of loathing that exists between many women and their bodies (both fat and skinny) has never been a part of my psyche.

Until now...

I find myself jealous of my sister in law. A despicable person through and through but even she managed to have a third baby with no problem. My husband is quick to point out that I don't know what pregnancy losses she may have suffered (I don't just think she's awful, I treat her the way I feel about her, so suffice it to say I'm not privy to her obstetric history) and more importantly it's a sick way to look at things. He thinks I'm being overblown, ridiculous. Believes wholeheartedly that I'll have a fourth pregnancy as uneventful as the first 2.

Of course he's right. But while making the same sad, lonely march to the bathroom at 3am it's hard for me to do anything but cry.

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