Worry

With my twenties blog, I used to write cryptic subject lines.  Now they are terribly literal.

Tired of shoot 'em up movies, I placed in the Netfli.x queue the first two seasons of Sex and the City.  I didn't plan to have my husband take an interest but he's been in the living room for every episode so far.  We're on Season 1, Disc 2.  He gets his gin and tonic and pays close attention.  Last night's episode, the Baby Shower was about former party girl Lainey's baby shower in Connecticut.  Samantha's answer to that party was to throw a "I'm Not Having a Baby" shower with extra vodka all round.  I thought that might be a good idea for us, but then I realized it wouldn't work unless I was single, and of course, living in Manhattan.  Without that, that kind of party is downright tacky.  One can dream.

Last night before bed, I was seized with worry.  That's my faithless brain taking over.  What if, after the tests are through, they find something terrible, that can't be repaired?  Do the ultrasound techs know what they're doing?  How unfair would it be to find something that's causing my infertility that's a result of something I did and none of my doctors caught it?  I really don't want to go through these procedures and surgeries.

And like little kid, I get into this, "this is NOT fair" mindset.  I know it's a sign of grace and maturity to not get bogged down in the fairness issue but that's the place I go sometimes.  For me, I get caught up in this fantasy that I've always been fine.  I've always been healthy.  There's never been anything wrong with me.  Perhaps this is a stubborn, self-protection mechanism to make me feel better about myself and not be affected deeply by adversity.  Who cares?  It's a stupid way to think.

My first boyfriend was writing a movie script and bought Anne Lam.ott's book "B.ird by B.ird" to get some writing ideas.  I didn't read the book but managed to get through the back cover.

Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write.  It was due the next day.  We were out at our family cabin in Salinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead.  Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brother's shoulder, and said, "Bird by bird, buddy.  Just take it bird by bird."