Bubble

This week, I should be giving birth for the first time.

I should be excited and terrified and worried and bursting with anticipation.

I should be organizing last minute details and preparing the nursery and trying not to freak out about if my Dad will make it in time.

I should be practicing my breathing and enjoying stories about other people’s deliveries and remembering to add an extra charger to the Go Bag.

I should be laughing about the worst name suggestions and setting up Zoom visits with my family and deciding what music I want to keep me distracted.

I should have the stroller assembled and the crib set up and be checking the car seat installation one more time.

I should be deciding which diapers to try first and be making sure everything is washed and ready and that Charlie Brown is taken care of.

I should be getting my camera ready to take a million pictures of my Mom holding her grandchild and my Dad looking so proud .

I should be getting a lesson on how to give the tiniest most perfect person their first bath.

I should be trying to remember the words of the songs Grandma sang with me.

But.

I’m trying to keep my hands busy so I don’t throw things.

I’m trying to take on everything else so there’s no room in my head to think about it.

I’m trying to laugh as loud as I can so that I don’t scream – because I’d never stop.

I’m trying to make plans so I don’t notice the time passing.

I’m trying to accept that some people just don’t understand and it’s not that they don’t care.

I’m wishing on every goddamned star and trying not to wonder what I did that was so wrong to deserve this as my forever.

I’m trying to stay hopeful because the idea of never is unbearable.

I’m having so much trouble staying hopeful.

I am heartbroken and angry and resentful and afraid and sad and and and

This week I should be preparing to meet the greatest love of my life.

But. I’m empty.

“Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans” – John Lennon