One thing that continues to be irritating is the feeling of getting left behind. I don’t mean in a Raptured sense, although I concede it does feel a bit like standing open-mouthed on the ground watching the chosen ones floating off like party balloons into the sky. You’re left wondering why you didn’t get picked.
I’m, uh, talking about having babies here, because that’s probably not clear.
I took Vera to a garden supply store the other week to get cactus soil and had two experiences there which effectively hammered in the getting-left-behind nail, for me. The first was running into a heavily pregnant woman near the outdoor planters who said to me about the place, “It’s like a playground for toddlers, huh?” before nodding knowingly towards her own toddler playing near a small mountain of landscaping pebbles. The second was a store employee who asked me Vera’s age as a launching pad to her own story about her grandson, who had just turned 15 months. “Of course, my daughter-in-law’s about ready to have the second one in July,” she said. I made polite noises of surprise and she explained, “Well, you know, they’re in their mid-30s now and getting too old. They just didn’t want to wait any longer.”
Herrrrrrk.
Turns out the garden store has pregnant people but it also has dirt movers and toddlers LOVE dirt movers!
DID U KNOW, garden store employee? I am in my mid-30s and feeling too old. I am feeling too resentful because I was supposed to be pregnant right now, but I’m not. I am feeling like I waited too long in life to do this kind of thing, this baby thing, and now I’m getting left behind.
This is not true, but it’s where my head is at right now. Remember that movie with the kid who saw dead people? I see pregnant people. Everywhere. And frankly it’s unfair of me to assume that every pregnant woman I see is A) happy to be so and B) never struggled a minute to get there, but that’s where my brain goes. They are further down the path than I am, and I find this incredibly enviable.
They’re further down the path and they’re younger and they have good hair and they’re smug in the knowledge that they’re going to be done before me. I have no idea how they know my internal timeline but they do, and they’re all hellbent on trying to beat it. There’s nothing quite as ruthless as a pregnant person!
Oh sorry, did I say I see pregnant people? My bad. What I’m really seeing are my own insecurities.
We moved here when we were 32 and it was a year of Trying Things. I’ve never been a big beer fan but I tried some; I’ve never really worn shorts but I wore some; I’ve never bought or remodeled a house but I did just that. It was an expansive year, and it was fun. That year I did dumb stuff and I did hard stuff but there was always this underlying layer of possibility. Like maybe something good was just around the corner, just out of sight.
The year after that, the year leading up to having Vera… that was hard. And it didn’t get easier after she came, either. This stretch of time has felt like a narrowing. Like with every step forward I took, the fewer options I had.
Then I had a miscarriage, and it felt like hitting the literal, metaphorical dead end. Where do you go from here?
I’m left with question marks. No, interrobangs.
This year I’m turning 36 and while objectively that isn’t old, I’m feeling the crunch. Funny how I took so long to get here and now I’m in a rush to have it done!
Now that I know for sure I want to go for a second kid, the undoneness of it all is just hanging over my head like a grand piano dangling by a rope over a cartoon character. I would be 16 weeks, this week, if I hadn’t miscarried. I would be that much further down the path. I can’t stop thinking about all that lost time.
So while it’s wholly irrational, I’m mad that others are further down the path than I am. I’m scared of getting older while standing still. And I’m ready to tackle the next pregnant woman who crosses my path!
Wow, the layers of self-awareness just continue to unfold here, much like the Bloomin’ Onion appetizer you ordered down at Outback Steakhouse and immediately regretted, but nevertheless couldn’t stop dipping in the little ramekin of coagulating Thousand Island dressing and shoveling right into your mouth!
Okay, that was weird.
This has been Therapy Blogging with Lyn, thanks for your time.
