Monday, July 19, 2010

late period blues


My period was a few days late. I don’t know if it’s A’s pregnancy hormones rampaging through the house and my bloodstream, but it must be. You could set a bloody clock to my regularity. The only times I’ve been off schedule before were on months when I was trying myself. A cruel joke from the universe, or the mischievous sprite Murphy whose law is well known? Probably just stress. Imagine thinking you’re pregnant even though super fancy early detector kits say otherwise, and then being late!! Yes, perhaps I had been pregnant and it was too faint to detect and it just wasn’t viable and so on. I doubt it. And now that I am definitely not pregnant (baring acts of God/dess), it just means I am as cranky and moody and hungry and hormonal, if not more, than my pregnant gal, and for so many more days than most cycles as the layers of hormones build up momentum. I wept for no apparent reason Sunday. At the time it seemed to be sparked by how much sun I had gotten picking berries (sun phobia plus redhead equals really fun neurotic behaviour, ask A). 

Plus there is the art course I am doing on rediscovering that pre-pubescent girl in me (the photo above is one I took for the class; info about the class can be found on the sublime site). Our last assignment was to look at photos of ourselves going through the “vortex” of early adolescence, and I looked so sad and tight and empty. I sat apart from others. I came through those years eventually and later pictures show me radiant, arms entangled with good friends. But the 12-14 range is when I got my period, and first started really thinking about fertility and my capacity to procreate eventually. It’s when I started my lifelong pastime of making baby name lists (seriously). Looking at me then was a heart breaking exercise. I wish I could reach out to that girl through time and tell her, well, I don’t know what. Hug her perhaps, love her more. Love others more. Relax and send warmth to my midsection, the bodily area of so many traumas for my mother and her mother. I guess my big cry Sunday was for that lonely girl, dreaming of that someday life filled with the mind-boggling mix of love and fear that is parenting. Maybe my instincts knew then what a hard road I would travel to get there.

E

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