I read somewhere that artists are prone to being over-sensitive and depressed. ::shrug:: I don’t know… I guess it’s just one of those days. I’m apprehensive about everything that motherhood entails. I’m making mountains out of molehills. Tom asked me today, “what’s wrong?” And I said something about a college fund.
I just can’t seem to get my head on straight.
I feel bad for letting people down, for not being giddy all the time. I was already a worrier, already anxious. Now there’s all this extra hormonal stuff going on… I feel out of it. I feel like a disappointment. I feel like everyone’s stoked about the fact that there’s going to be a baby in the family, but they’re also kind of bummed because it’s mine. (Someone very hateful actually told me once, years ago, that she feels sorry for my future off-spring because they’ll have me for a mom… I try not to think about it, and to consider the source, but it’s still pretty painful all these years later.)
So, then… do I say something? Do I talk about my feelings? Because my feelings are wrong. Most people, I don’t know, they just don’t understand what I could possibly be complaining about. How can I possibly be sad now?!
I don’t know. I just am. I don’t even feel completely comfortable writing this because I’m afraid of the fallout. I should just write about my awesome visit with Dr. Wolanski on Friday and happy things that people actually want to read about. Sunshine. Lollipops. Glitter. Rainbows. Why am I so weird? Why is all the happiness tempered with this overwhelming anxiety? I don’t know what I want. I just want to be honest and say I don’t feel good. This is my blog, dammit, and I’m going to tell you the truth about my feelings.
I want to be like Lindsay and Trudy. Outgoing, life of the party, happy, hilarious… FUN TO BE AROUND. Why am I stuck being me?! It suuuuucks. Cynical. Sarcastic. Downright mean sometimes. I think I’m being funny and people are like, “what the h*ll is the matter with you?” I’m not trying to be mean! I was telling Dad and Haley at dinner at Outback the other night that I wanted a birthday re-do and was going to tell the waitress that my birthday was a bad night and they were like, “you don’t have to be a jerk about it.” And I said, “I’m not!” But they were both like, “actually… you are.”
I’m not calling you out, Haley (or Dad, although he has probably never read any of these entries). It was unanimous around the table that I was harsh. I had no idea.
I mean, I’m starting to think that I have no redeeming qualities except a functioning reproductive system. But I can’t make people like me.
I’m not outgoing and fun to be around, I guess… I’m just not, but I’ve got other stuff going for me. I’m smart. Ask me anything about Disney – I can tell you anything you want to know. I can paint. I am crafty. I can organize the sh*t out of an art closet. I don’t do much of anything unless my whole heart is in it. I’m thoughtful and compassionate… and despite how Dad, Haley and Tom felt about my little monologue at Outback, I’m very sweet. I was nice to the waitress, and for me there was no discernible difference between the way I said it to them and the way I said it to her.
While we’re on the subject of who I am and what I stand for, I’m sincere… not judgmental. I’d like to think if I’m telling you something, something important, if I’m going out on that limb coming into your life trying to rebuke and admonish or even just connect, that you’d understand how much I care about you and that I thought we had that kind of deep relationship. I thought I could come to you with anything and everything. You think it’s easy to waltz right up to someone and say, “you’re doing it wrong?” No way man… that takes a lot of freakin’ guts! God’s put some stuff on my heart, things that cause me worry and anxiety, things that I want to share with you and you think I’m just being critical – just looking down my nose and judging you.
Nothing happened! I mean… I’m not talking about a recent event – so cool your jets – I’m just saying people look at me and think I’m judging them. I get that a lot. I’m not over here in silence staring you up and down criticizing your life choices. I don’t talk because I’m shy. Bottom line. I’m wishing I could be more like you, over there having fun and doing your thing. I’m shy and I hate it.
If it’s important, like Richard Sherman is just standing by himself on the deck of the Disney Wonder, or Jim Korkis (great guy!) is sitting alone right in front of me in the Walt Disney Theater, or I run into Virginia Davis in a hallway, then I am going to make a move. If it’s important, like I’m worried about you, or I feel like we are growing apart, then that’s a move I have to make as well. Not easy.
I woke up early today and didn’t have breakfast even though I know I need to check my blood sugar. Sometimes I sleep in and miss breakfast… but today I was up early and everything and STILL skipped it.
It still hasn’t set in that there is a person inside me. I know he’s there, he’s moving. If he’s born today, he’ll be full-term and he will live. It’s important for me to say that to myself. He is alive. He will live. Even now, I find myself saying to myself, “well, barring any unforeseen circumstance,” but, I mean, I’ve got to stop that. It’s a habit that I got into as we dealt with infertility. Cautious optimism. I want to be happy, but I can’t get too happy, because there’s always the chance I will find myself on the floor in the fetal position begging God for answers. Again.
I guess if you care about me and are reading this, it’s important that you see that. You know? The weak moment. Maybe it’ll help you understand the weirdness, and why I am not just straight-up happy. He kicks me all day, but you’re much more likely to believe he’s really there than I am. Part of me can’t understand that we made a baby and won’t trust it until the thing is in my arms.
In my arms.
Really… he will live. He’ll eat. He’ll sleep. He’ll poop. He’ll cry. And he’ll start kindergarten, and he’ll do wushu with his dad, and we’ll ride Winnie the Pooh and Dumbo at Disney World, and he’ll wear hats and sunglasses, and he’ll throw a baseball through a window then lie about it, and he’ll place in the science fair, and he’ll spend summers working in the restaurant and learning Chinese, and his grandparents will take him to visit distant cousins, and his grandparents will take him on Disney Cruises, and we’ll give him charging privileges on his Key to the World card and he’ll buy way too much, and he’ll keep an eye on his little sister and fight with her and say, “that’s not fair,” and he’ll go to band camp, and he’ll graduate high school, and he’ll go to college, and he’ll meet a girl, and I’ll wonder who the h*ll she thinks she is…
But he will live. He will.
From way back: “Impression: Single living intrauterine pregnancy. No complications noted.”
You know what really makes me mad… I can’t find my ankle bones. My feet are that swollen.
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I wish I had a picture with Jim Korkis. I have pictures OF him. We met at the Disney Institute when I was 15, then became Pen Pals after I saw him on the Disney Cruise in 2003. He even took Courtney and I around Epcot one day. Really awesome, awesome guy.
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- I look like I could swallow Virginia Davis.
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- Amazing, amazing talent and wonderfully genuine guy.
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- Dave Smith, minding his own business until I accosted him.
That La Kid 
I love you.