Small blows

It is not getting easier.

At times I think I'm fine, I'm handling this so well, I am a trooper. I rock. Then new information knocks on my door and punches me in the face.

Sunday my period arrived in full force just before I attended a friend's baby shower. In addition to the in-utero fetuses in attendance, a new mom brought her newborn to the shower. I remember when the mom, the pregnant friend, and I were all knocked up at the same time. We were going to go out for pregnant ladies tea, only I nixed it, wanting to wait to see a good heartbeat. I made it through the shower pretty well, but I look miserable in the photos.

Yesterday it was the news that another co-worker is pregnant. I suspected this woman might want to have another baby, and just yesterday I saw her walk by and thought she looked pregnant, so I'm not entirely surprised. Then today the news that another co-worker's wife is expecting -- more news I anticipated. This is now past the time that I would have shared my news. I would have been part of the pregnant people club. Instead I'm part of the one-person club that has to leave the office to walk around the block and keep myself together after someone whispers to me that his wife is pregnant.

When I was a kid, the street next to ours always had block parties for the Fourth of July. I knew kids on that block but always felt left out, wishing we had parties on our street. Thirty years later I feel the same way. As my co-worker mentioned something about how much your hormones rage during pregnancy, I wanted to say, I know -- I've been there. Of course I haven't been there, really; I've spent about 12 weeks being pregnant in my life, less than a trimester. But when someone tells me their news, I feel this urge to share mine, to be recognized. After reacting probably not as enthusiastically as I should have with co-worker number 2 today, I pondered opening up to him. Instead I'm writing a blog post from my desk, wishing my block would just throw its own party already.