Henry would have been a work-week old today (that’s five days if you’re unemployed like me).
I still very much want a baby – one that lives. And I’m to-the-universe-and-back frustrated that I don’t have Henry to hold in my arms. If I sit and think about it too long, I may just start scratching the walls.
And, to be indiscreet, we’re not ‘as lucky’ as we were the first time. We’ve even gone for fertility tests. And I’m trying not to panic. It feels like parenting my own live child is a far-fetched fantasy that is painstakingly easy for others to achieve.
And I’d like to whine and complain for a few seconds about my misfortune in job-hunting. It seems that for the first time in my life, the well is dry. I’ve never had this much difficulty finding work.
Maybe there’s a gnome following my applications and story pitches through the interwebs, whispering in prospective employer’s ears about my shortcomings, eclipsing my virtues and sending me to the poorhouse, or just flat out telling them not to open my email because I smell like cat farts and wet my pants every day at 2:15, scaring off other employees. Or the gnome is telling prospective editors and publishers that I write like an elementary school child, and don’t know how to use proper punctuation or compose a decent nut-graf (one of the first sentences that tells you “oh, that’s what this article is about!”).
It’s not rock-bottom – it’s the asteroid belt. I’m swirling around and around and I’ve lost sight of my home planet. It’s enough to make me feel like giving up. The grass on your side of the fence is much greener than mine, you see. Mostly because mine is buried under three feet of ice and snow. Literally and symbolically.
Woe is me. I’m chugging along miserably on my one-lady pity train – the Bellybutton Express. I know there’s stops coming up where I can get off , stretch my legs, and prance far away from the noise of the pity party. There is a light at the end of this farcical tunnel. I just wish I could get there faster.
So that one day…