Of course I'm happy about our new baby. No shit.
But to say that the happiness isn't constantly interrupted by thoughts of gloom and doom isn't so far off either. Every day I'm grateful and every single minute I'm cautiously optimistic.
It's a horrible feeling to sit through your pregnancy and wonder if you're baby is going to die again. It's a form of suffering that is almost unbearable, until you feel a tiny poke from that miracle growing inside of you. It's a constant emotional battle with myself.
It's been eight months since I last held Sawyer in my arms. Eight months since I had to hand off my only son to a total stranger carrying a little black coffin.
Eight months. But that's not anything. It's a blip in the timeline of my grief.
And guess what?
I'm bitter. I'm pissed off.
You would be too if you were completely screwed out of a lifetime of kisses, midnight feedings or the sweet smell of a newborn's head. And then I see everyone bitching constantly about the woes of parenthood, their jobs and life in general. I literally can't stand it anymore.
So in my bitterness I've sort of resorted to this smart-ass mentality. And that's how I'm dealing with things - I make no apologies for it.
If that's a problem for you - you have some choices.
You can ignore me, bear with me, try to understand or leave me alone.
This isn't easy for me. And I am trying so hard to just try.