I was supposed to share my exciting news with work in general. And tomorrow I was supposed to make the cutest cake to surprise my advisees with the fact that they'd be pseudo-aunts in a few months. And I should have been looking forward to an ultrasound where we'd get to see more. And I should have been well on my way to making my amazing Jeff an incredible dad.
But, somehow, I failed. I came up short. And today, more than any other day in the last week, it just really hurts. I miss our little Blueberry, and I'd like nothing more than to curl up in bed and cry for several hours straight (though that's not an option with evening plans already made). It seems like forever until we can try again, and trying again means I have to start trusting so much--trusting my body to ovulate and my heart to heal and my mind to be less anxious.
Some days I'm so angry because, had we not been surprised on December 15, this would have been off my mind until May. And now I live with it on my mind, and it runs my days, and it makes me a less focused teacher and a more difficult wife and a tearier friend.
I supposed there's no real point to this post. It's just a yucky day--the yuckiest one in a while--and I wish it would end.
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