Let’s start over.
Last week was one of those weeks in which lots of little things happen, and yet it feels like nothing is happening at all. Every time I sat down to write an entry about finishing a paper or deciding on some tiny wedding detail or the barrage of “one small step for man” moments in which I chose a piece of fruit over a cookie, well, my eyelids would droop and my head would nod, and the next thing I knew my face was pressed into the keyboard as I snored gave a delicate snuffle and dreamed my girlish dreams.
Truthfully, I don’t have much of anything to post about now, but I feel I must write something before my inertia becomes insurmountable and Flotsam disappears into the digital ether.
Before I was promoted out of my old team into my new position, I had a particularly irksome coworker. Now that we no longer work together I feel almost warmly towards her, but there were many days back then when I would have snapped her neck for 25 cents and a handful of Chiclets. She got married just before I joined her team, and last year she and her husband started trying for a baby. I think you all know where this is going.
She got pregnant on the second month, and told the team at seven weeks, once it was “safe.” Did I mention that she is 46? As in four fewer than fifty? As in some people—usually the wrong ones—have all the luck?
Anyway, she delivered at the end of January, and last Tuesday she brought her baby into work for a visit. Of course I went to see her, masochist that I am, and of course the baby was perfect and tiny. This last surprised and enchanted me. As it happens, I haven’t spent much time around babies, and while I know they are rumored to be quite diminutive in their early months, I hadn’t seen it for myself. I stood making small talk and staring at the pink, sleeping creature as it undulated its wee, spiky fingers and made grunting noises. I felt melancholy, but I hid it rather well.
And then the woman on my left, a very young attorney who just started trying to have a baby herself, announced that she is pregnant. Nine weeks. And my smile became a little wider and more fixed. I was now the only woman among those clustered in my former coworker’s cubicle without either children or a pregnancy.
A woman who was on maternity leave when I joined the company two years ago walked in and stood on the other side of me. She is pregnant with her second now, which is funny, because when I started two years ago I was worried that I would get pregnant before I had been at this job long enough to qualify for their generous maternity leave.
Ok, so it’s not that funny.
“When are you due?” someone asked.
“Thursday,” she smiled, rubbing her belly.
“I guess I’d better get back to work!” I said brightly.
When I returned to my desk my friend, who is fifteen weeks pregnant herself, asked where I had been. I started to tell her, and then, to my absolute horror, realized I was going to cry. I gave a watery smile and shrug, and ducked back behind my office wall, pretending to stare at my monitor while I blinked rapidly, in an unsuccessful attempt to stave off actual tears.
It was that kind of week. Full of small things that bother you more than they should, unavoidable setbacks that are more discouraging than they need be, and modest victories that fail to cheer you. Surely this week will be better.
14 Comments
Argh….those weeks are the worst. I too have been *dieting* and I think it makes me more weepy. Sorry you had to endure the pregnant posse - those situations are the absolute worst. I always find myself waiting for someone to ask me if I am going to have children so I can unleash all my feelings onto them rather then have them turn to tears later in the day. No matter how hard you try to supress the cry, it ALWAYS comes on.
I hope everything else is going well.
sounds awful.
I’ve never worked anywhere with that many pregnant women!!! I hope this week is going to be better for you!
Let’s hope there is something in the water around there and you catch it too!
Those pregnant people at work will get you, every, every time, won’t they? I think they have a secret infertile-homing device, designed to trap you in a corner and make you cry.
But your wedding will be much more wonderful than theirs.
It will be a better week (and please quit calling me Shirley).
I think you are doing quite a nice job keeping it together in the face of an inordinate amount of stress. I probably would not have been able to keep it to just a teary moment. I salute that modest victory!
Ugh. Just a big ugh. I feel ill in my stomach for you. You exactly describe feeling how I sensed a co-worker of mine felt when I found myself accidentally pregnant with my first (and only) child at 41 (that’s a whole other story now, isn’t it?).
She so wanted to be and was trying to be pregnant for well over a year by that time, and I stumbled into it. I could see the glass smile on her face whenever she saw me.
I felt very sensitive towards her and the whole situation, and tried to avoid even having her see me. I really did. I’m glad I did after reading how all that happy baby stuff can leave such a welt.
And for your pleasure? The happy ending? Yes, she has a 4 month old now, and is beaming and happy as can be.
That sucks so much. I hate that. I am thinking of joining a company with only men to avoid the possibility of that happening to me anymore.
Gah, I HATE when that happens.
They all pop up at once in an office, don’t they? It’s like they send out secret memos to each other, “Psst! Let’s get pregnant…annnnnd GO!” Then there’s inevitably the conversation where they all turn and go, “You’re next! HAHAHAH!!!” and I turn purple and say, “Um, probably not.”
i’m so sorry you had a really bad week…
I have a co-worker who bothers me, and when I am particularly irritated with her, I like to say that I am about ready to have a “Patrick Swayze” moment. You know? Like in Roadhouse when he rips that guy’s throat out? Not that I would ever actually do that, of course. Ahem.
Hope your week gets better. Sending happy vibes your way. :)
Frick on a stick, Bloglines didn’t tell me you posted. Fuckers.
I was fortunate to work in a small, not very child-friendly office. Nonetheless, one co-worker always came armed with amazing tales of feats of fertility which depressed me to no end. You know the sort…pregnant and single at 45, expecting child number 5 despite an earlier tubal litigation, knocked up without having a womb, vagina, or head…the usual.
just tell the pregnant women how good vodka tastes. they’ll puke, and you can cry, and all will be well. I wish I had a funny joke to tell you, you need something to make you laugh hysterically. I find that it’s absurdly easy to do when things are just sad. sending love….
oh, and nicole, don’t do that. even women that don’t really understand pregancy-miscarriage-related issues are better than men who have negative-number amounts of empathy. trust me.