http://www.blogoversary.com – that explains it! 2 years – wow, it’s been a ride and a half. I think I had a nervous breakdown in there somewhere.
2 years ago I went away on a little holiday for one – with my laptop by my side. I told the lady at the B&B that I was a writer to satisfy her curiosity. And maybe to get a bigger breakfast, I don’t know. You never know, I could have been a reviewer of B&B’s on the Sunshine Coast. And I wrote and wrote and wrote – I didn’t even leave enough time finish my big ole bottle of shiraz. I felt like I had let out my secret side, my wall of pain came flowing out of me. I felt blissfully satisfied.
Now on the road to adoption, close friends ask me if I’m excited. In truth, I am not. Relieved is a little closer to the truth. But then again, I don’t get excited about taking trips either until I am actually there. I run around and make sure I have everything I need, I pack and repack. I put in clothes and then delete clothes. I take my little pouch of poo pills, can’t stop pooing pills, antihistamines, Advil, bandaids, tea tree oil, waxing strips and wardrobe tape. Cause you never know. I get Google driving directions and research restaurants and check out Travelocity. On the plane, I read and chant and watch movies and drink too much. I sniff the air in the hotel room and check out how many amenities are in the bathroom and open up all the drawers. I remember when we visited Maui and when I was in the convertible and breathing in the earthy scent of the land, I finally felt excited. I could finally relax.
At critical moments in my life, I have been bitterly disappointed, either in myself or others, so I guess I’ve built up a wall against being overly excited until I have prize in hand. I’ve waited for THE ring over too many Christmases, been cut from school programs even though I had good grades, went dateless for my grade 12 prom (but not gr. 13 thank you very much), had acne for 20 years, been totally clueless about guys and apparently let down my race by not getting a master’s degree. Oh, yeah, and I’m infertile. Or am I just perimenopausal now? Whatever.
I’ve searched my whole life for signposts on how to live this life well. I wanted to be a better person and have fun at the same time. Life ceased to be fun at one point and throughout this journey to motherhood, I have lost faith in a number of things. And regained it in a number of ways. I still stand and I’ve found a lot to be grateful for. Pharmaceuticals and booze come to mind. I’ve been called a daughter, a wife, a bitch, a bodhisattva, cute, beautiful, extremely talented, princess AND lazy (though I believe uninspired it more accurate). Not necessarily in that order. There are countless times when I could have done better but I didn’t cause I was just too damn insecure to try. Of course, in the area of attempting motherhood, no one can EVER say I didn’t really try.
No one has called me mum, except for DH when he’s feeling smothered or my dogs (though I never actually heard them). The possibility of being called “mum” – that’s a little exciting. Okay, I admit it. And the icing on the cake is all of you – my bloggy pals who have stood by me, counselled me, calmed me down, fired me up, let me know that I wasn’t crazy. Or alone. You let me in the dreaded club and didn’t even forget me when you got sprung. Thanks for that. I am eternally grateful for your friendship and your kind words. You have sustained me in the darkest hours and reminded me of how strong I really was when I forgot. YOU reminded me of the little pleasures in life, like the ones with fur who chew up your socks…. and carpet… and whatever else she can get her teeth on. I met a couple of you – and my heart grew because of it. Like the Grinch. You just listened/read my shit and never charged me a dime.
Nam myo ho renge kyo, blessings to you all.