Wednesday, April 23, 2008

Why I love my sister

I made a huge mistake today. Lately I've been feeling great. Babies and pregnant ladies don't seem to phase me anymore. I can actually look at them without wanting to choke them. So, I took my son to get his pictures taken. Shoot me now. I didn't think about all the babies running around the photo studio. I didn't think about all the pictures of cute, fat babies hanging on the walls. I didn't think about that place making me insane.

At first these was a little girl there, and I didn't think much of it. She was just turning one and in for her one year photos. She was cute enough. Then she started crying. And the lady holding her (who wasn't her mother) started saying, "Your baby is gross. Your baby is____" (Fill in the blank.) She kept on crying and I started thinking, why does this dirty lady with the dirty hair get to have that baby, and I can't have mine? Then I started to feel jealous. I couldn't take my eyes off that baby girl, and I felt sorry for her and mad at her at the same time. Sorry because she had that lady as a mother, but mad at her just for being alive. Why was this baby alive and my baby isn't? I ask myself that 100 times a day. It just seems so unfair to me. Don't get me wrong, everybaby is a blessing, and I would never in a million years wish anything bad to happen to any baby. It just makes me so mad I can't have my baby, and I probably will never have another. I had to force myself to think of something else so that I didn't start crying in the photo studio.


The thing I find the most interesting about this whole experience is how people react when they see me. Some people avoid me. Others say Hi and act like nothing happened, ignoring the topic all together. Only one person has actually walked up to me in the store and told me they are sorry to hear of my loss. One. My friends are getting sick of me talking about the baby, and so I don't talk to them much anymore.

My family talks about the baby all the time. But the person who I appreciate is my sister. I have always been the kind of person to make a joke of everything, and I'm not easily offended. I love my sister because she knows that. When I was feeling down the other day she started telling me how she got her dog spayed and how it was moping around the house. Then she make the crudest joke ever: "She misses her uterus, you're going to have to counsel her. You know what she's going through!" It was sick and wrong. But it make me laugh. Oddly, I wasn't offended. I was actually GLAD that she didn't tip toe around me. I was glad she was treating me as a normal person. The other day we were talking about loosing weight, and I told her I had lost about 20 pounds since I had the baby. I try to claim all the weight was "baby weight". She called me out on it and said, "I hate to tell ya but Brenna didn't weigh 20 pounds!" Again, not the most sensitive thing to say, but totally what I needed to hear. If it's one thing I hate it's pitty. I can't stand it when people tip toe around me because they feel sorry for me and don't know what to say.

I love my sister because she treats me just like she did before. Her younger sister who she likes to make fun of. And that's exactly how I want to be treated.

2 comments:

Amy said...

Holli,
I am so glad that you have a sister that is kind and treats you "normally!"

Thank you so much for your comment on my blog, I do appreciate that.

I am soooo sorry that you joined the "crap club!" Being in this land does truly bite but there are tons of wonderful women out here in blogland!

I am always here if you need to talk, just email me, it's on my profile. Take good care and I will read the rest of your story later this weekend.

Thinking of you and Brenna. Wishing you peace along this journey.

yummysushipajamas said...

I just stumbled across your blog and wanted to come by, say hello, and invite you to visit mine.

I'd also love for you to come to Project Flutter at:
www.freewebs.com/project-flutter. It's not spam, it's a website I made for people who have lost babies.