Blueberry's Folder

Disorganization distresses me. I spend half my day in my classroom realigning my desks; my "to do" list contains items like "make new to do list"; entering the grocery store without a tally of items needed is a horrifying concept. As a result, it should come as no surprise that my gmail inbox is neatly organized by folders with titles ranging from "Family" to "Real Estate" to "Insurance."

When we found out we were pregnant in December, I immediately started a new folder: "Blueberry." Into it went all baby-related items: confirmation emails for various newsletters and stores, correspondence with my doctor's office, information about day care options. Every time I saw the folder title pop up on my screen, I grinned.

And then, on January 11, the contents of the folder shifted. Now, it contained cancellation confirmations for all baby websites, correspondence with the new therapist I found, and information about medical matters related to our miscarriage. I just couldn't bring myself to delete the folder entirely, so it temporarily contained those emails that hurt my heart too much to see in my actual inbox. I wondered what the next few weeks or months might bring and how my perception of our loss might change...

And then, one day in March, I got my answer. My Blueberry folder is full again, but this time with the gifts my little one left here on earth for me; it's full of emails from the women I never would have known without being forced into some of the most difficult months of my life. These amazing, strong ladies who have also persevered through pain, who have encouraged and supported me, who are role models and friends, these are the ladies who I met through the gift of my tiny Blueberry.

Thank you, little one, for still taking care of your momma.

Today.

Today is a good day. Yesterday wasn't, but today is. Jeff and I took a lovely stroll to the Farmers' Market, we stopped for brunch and a drink outside, and then Jeff took this picture. And I love it. It captures my joy at having a Saturday outside with my husband, my anticipation of seeing my mom and dad this evening, my excitement about upcoming spring weekends with our friends.

So what has changed between last night and this afternoon? Last night, an incredible friend wrote an amazingly uplifting comment on my post. This morning, my sister-in-law sent me such an encouraging email, reminding me of how fortunate I am to have a phenomenal husband who loves me. Today, I finally figured out how to blow dry my new sideswept bangs correctly. :-) All small things, all adding up to joy now.

These rollercoaster moments are not new to me, but this weekend has inspired me to learn more about what defines body image in different cultures, about how young girls learn to view themselves, about how Jeff and I will, one day, raise a child to see him/herself as beautiful, no matter what.

Today I am not healed, but today is better than yesterday. And that's a start.

A World without Mirrors or Photos

This week, I was suddenly struck by how much I hate looking at my own reflection. I catch a glimpse of myself in the bathroom on the way to the shower and duck my head down; I try not to glance up even while brushing my teeth. When I step in front of the mirror in the morning to check my clothing for "teacher-appropriateness," my eyes immediately dart to the parts of my body I hate--my mooshy midsection or perceived double chin or lack of prominent collarbones. I put my arms straight down by my sides to hide my hips and wonder what it would look like if I had the slim waist of a J. Crew model. Many times, I wonder if I try to make myself look worse, if I pudge out my stomach or pull my chin into my neck just to see the horror that everyone else must see.

Just last week, a colleague snapped a photo of Jeff and me at a party. When I left the house, I'd felt confident in my swingy blue dress and cork-soled espadrilles. As I sipped wine and chatted with friends, I was relaxed and at ease. But when Monday morning came and my well-meaning friend emailed me the photos she'd taken, I nearly cried at my desk. Gone was the girl I'd felt like; she'd been replaced by an ogre with jiggly arms, chipmunk cheeks, a massive forehead, and ridiculous hair. The second photo was no better; this one showcased a double chin and tiny eyes pushed nearly shut by great blobs of cheeks and lower eyelids. I immediately shut the photos, not even bothering to forward them to Jeff. What broke my heart more than anything, though, was that I suddenly knew what everyone else saw that night. They didn't see the cute, fashionable, pretty woman I'd thought I was; that was just a cruel joke. They all saw the fatty in the photos, the one who no one would ever call a looker. Though I'm not surprised they didn't laugh--after all, they are my friends, I'm saddened to know what they have to look at in the office every day.

The scale has gone up by 10 pounds since the day we got married. The mirror makes me see the ugliness every morning. The photos are tangible evidence of what I have become; even the good ones are just tricks of lighting or age or angle. Those are the facts. And while I do wish I could live in a world without mirrors or photos, would it really make a difference? Because I've already seen the truth, and there's no going back.