November 20, 2013
One of the hardest things right now is that just when I think everyone knows what happened, someone doesn’t. And I get that voicemail about how they know I’ve been on maternity leave. Or that email asking whether I had a boy or a girl. And these are people I work with on a regular basis, so I have to answer. Somehow.
Today I emailed back to someone who was excited to ask whether I had a boy or a girl and wanted all the details now that I’m back from leave and a mama. I didn’t answer, not directly. I gave her a link to come here. So I don’t have to keep telling the story over. And over. And over again. And then I cried. I was doing okay up until that point.
And so it goes. I’m doing okay. And then I encounter someone who doesn’t know what happened. Who doesn’t know that instead of being in a bunting in her crib, Sofia is in a box on my dresser. (Wow, that sounds morbid. But you know what I mean. And she is. And I give her a kiss every morning before I leave for work.)
The sadness does pass, but each time this happens, the scab gets picked at. I know that the scab will someday be replaced with a scar. But all of this picking makes it a slow process.
P.S. The self-study binders have been assembled. Looks like I’ll get all of our accreditation materials shipped out this week! Woohoo!
P.P.S. If you think that PS makes this post seem a tad schizophrenic, well, now you know what my days are like!