For My Beloved Mills....

Darling Mills,
This is just as much a letter to you as it is to me.
I know we both appreciate the beautiful & theraputic nature of the written word. With a written word the heart can always speak without stumbling over a tear, without fighting a strangled, tight throat. Letters can be erased if they come out too harsh, or too fickle, or too untrue. Especially when your emotions bear down and take control. With a written word you can be strong and venture into area's where you may otherwise have feared or loathed to tread. A written word is powerful and honest. It is a tool we both like to wield.
Sometimes my sadness robs me of my voice. It's unfamiliar territory because I know I can always tell my loved ones what is on my mind, but at times even I cannot find the really Mony buried under all the pain.
You have always been there for me. Since childhood. Always there, in my life & I in yours. I am blessed to have such a worthy, gorgeous woman in my corner. Especially in adulthood, you have been such an inspiration, so clever, quirky and brilliant. You are dripping with kindness but will not tolerate fools. You are down to earth but unconventional. No-one ignores conforming quite like you!
During my battle with infertility, you have been right by my side. You have cared, hugged, listened, fought, queried, prayed (even though you're a dirty heathan) you have called from o/s, you have sms'ed from interstate, you have followed appointments, operations, tests and disapointments with genuine concern. And you have followed my blog....the only person in my life (besides Peter) I ever told about "Mrs Negative". I don't know why I chose to tell you & only you. I guess it was because I knew you would never judge my material, you would never blab or scold or bitch or tell me to shut up. I guess I also needed to take a friend on this Blog journey too, just to hold my hand......maybe I wanted your approval, you being such a lovely writer yourself. Whatever the reason, I have never regretted telling you about this.

I got your Christmas card on Wednesday. I got 12 in the post that day! I felt popular and loved. I was full of festive spirit. Why did I open yours last? Was I preparing myself for something? I still don't know. I loved the photo you enclosed, me and my spunky husband dancing at your May wedding. And then I read your words, they all blurred before my eyes...."Xmas joy.....junior....conceived in Jordan....due July....." I should have squealed. I should have clapped and whooped and danced. I should have called you right away, I wanted to. I should have been the friend you deserved. Instead, you know what I did? I looked to my husband and whispered "Mills is pregnant". Then I did what I have done so many, many times over the last 4 years. I opened my box of tricks, the one where I store all my brave faces. I have needed lots of brave faces since we began trying to fall pregnant. But you'll never believe what happened next. The box of tricks was empty. Completely bare. I had used all my brave face quota. I couldn't hide behind a smile, even though I desperately wanted to. So, I did what I absolutely did not want to do. I went silent until my husband asked "Are you alright?" and I nodded my head in a feeble attempt to control my emotions . I surrendered quickly, without a fight. My throat went tight, my pulse went haywire, the tears began building & welling & blinding until they finally came streaming wildly down my cheeks.
You see, one of the most despicable aspects of infertility is being robbed of feeling anything but pain and isolation when a new pregnancy is announced. It does not matter if that newly pregnant woman is your sister, your best friend, your neighbour or Gwen Stefani. All you know for sure, is that the mother-to-be isn't you... Even though you wish with all of your heart and soul that it was. News of a pregnancy always, always crushes you. It's such a shameful feeling. You cry because of someone else's happiness. The most frightening and lonely thing for an infertile woman is accepting these tears. Dealing with the hurt. Learning that it's OK to cry. It doesn't mean you're not happy, excited or delighted for the pregnant woman, usually you are extremely thrilled. But at the same time you are heartbreakingly, agonisingly UNHAPPY for yourself. And the words you want to say, like "Wow!" and "Congratulations!" and "That's amazing" and "I'm soooo happy for you" are in your heart but just unable to come out of your mouth, at least for a few days.
So, there I was, with an empty box of tricks, sans "Happy Face" and a whole lot of self pity and misery completely overwhelming me. This year I have watched many pregnancies develop, heck, every year I watch from the sidelines...and I wait.....and I wait.....and I wait for my turn. Never, ever, ever is it my turn. Our turn. Poor Peter, he is on this path too. Watching helpless as I cry & sob & gasp & dab my eyes with countless soggy tissues. He rubs my back, he cuddles me, he hurts with me, for me. He hates to see me so sad. Luckily my mega breakdowns only come once in a blue moon. Your news darling Mills, your wonderful, blessed, fabulous news was just the unluckly announcement that pushed me over the edge. It sent me spinning and tumbling into a black, bleak, miserable hole. I cried for hours. Making myself sick & sending me to sleep even though it was daylight. I slept & dreamt & awoke in the morning with a heavier heart than ever. The tears came before I could even rouse my sleepy senses. I just gave in and let myself have a complete flip out. I'm glad I did. I knew it would do me good. It did. I am OK. I am standing again. I don't need a fake happy face out of my empty box of tricks, because I feel my own, real smile sneaking in. I am not ready to speak with you yet, I don't want to cry so soon, or make you cry for that matter. But for certain, I do want to tell you that I love you, I love your handsome husband, I love your devoted parents and most of all, I will love that precious, miracle child you are carrying with all of my heart. I cannot wait to hold him/her, just as you have held me so many times. Congratulations sweetheart, you will be an incredible mother. (Not as in a mother-fucker)

But I do hope you get hideously fat, have enormous flabby boobs, water retention & your kid is a redhead.

And of course, I hope that our own joyous news is not far behind yours.
Love from Mony

I'm a Truck Driver!

Yesterday I spent the day with my nephews. We visited Santa's Kingdom! It's a huge indoor wonderland complete with Snow-Slide, Elves, Santa's workshop, Ice Skating Rink, fake snow falling & everything Christmas.
It was hectic, hot, loud....and a joy! It was interesting to be amongst all those harried parents. I blended right in and was easily mistaken for just another Mum. Severals time I exchanged the secret nod-smile-eye roll that parents use to communicate an understanding. You know, when your toddler bellows, cries, demands or wants more. I was part of the gang.
Even though my nephews were, A-hem....very well behaved.
It was funny watching the kids riding on a spinning carasel, they were perched in tiny trucks, fire engines, dune buggies & motorbikes. My 3 year old nephew was furiously steering his jeep, so busy! Just precious! A girl behind him roared "I'm a Truck Driver! I'm a Truck Driver!" And in the minivan, a little redhead was inconsolable...he'd wanted the motorbike so badly but was beaten to it by a girl. He cried the whole time. Wailed & wailed! With each passing lap his Mum urged him to pull himself together. He did not.

As we were leaving I stopped to collect our compulsary Santa photo which was taken earlier. The elf in charge showed me our picture and double checked "Are these your kids?"
"Ah yes" I confirmed "That's the little mongrels"
And the Boy-Dressed-As-An-Elf gave a knowing wink to The-Aunty-Dressed-As-A-Mum and whispered "Not little mongrels, little Angels..."
Imposters, both of us. And wildly happy to be!