Lena is almost three months old. Sylvia is three and a half. I'm turning 34 next month. And this is my last blog entry.
It makes me sadder than I expected to stop recording our lives here. As a freelance writer--a hack, really--I had a straightforward, professional attitude towards it at first. "Easy," I thought. Well, it turns out that it's not so easy. Not so easy in the best sort of way. I've discovered that for all of my gabbing and my therapeutic realizations, I often don't know how I really feel about things. There's nothing like writing it down for public consumption to force that sort of self-awareness. And the writing part isn't as easy as I thought it would be, either. I often winced on Monday mornings, thinking about awkward sentences that were "live," overstretched metaphors that were now beyond taking back.
But the biggest discovery I made in writing this blog has been the stubbornness of my medieval superstitions: that by talking about my good fortune, deep down I fear that I'm inviting disaster. It has remained much, much easier for me to complain or worry over something in this forum than it has been to revel in my joy. As a culture or perhaps as a species, we don't seem equipped to express happiness, satisfaction. Like the Eskimos with all of their words for snow, we're fluent in the language of fret, sorrow, and frustration. Is it because happiness is a relatively recent human concept, so it seems too fragile to put on display? It's something I'm paying attention to, in my life and in my writing. Happiness happens.
I recently tried to haggle with my insurance company over my having to pay for the two non-stress tests I had in the last couple weeks of pregnancy--they said the tests were "outside of routine prenatal care," and I argued otherwise. (I lost. But not because I'm not right.) When I told Aron about it, I was holding Lena. "That was you we were listening to," I said, and it sort of surprised me. I mean, dur. But I tell you, that this kid I now know is the same one that wouldn't show her face on the ultrasound, the same one who stuck to the same basic position for three months, the same one who hung out in utero for two extra weeks... it's both obvious and magical to me. I've been writing about her all along without knowing it.
Now that FitPregnancy has to move on to another writer, one who's, you know... pregnant, I'm not sure if I'll continue writing online. The contract ends, the writing ends? I'm just not sure. A year ago, I would've said, "Move along, Emily, Expecting--you have other fish to fry." But now I'm stuck wondering: Is there a fish bigger than this?
Thank you so much, all of you who have read along with me this year. Knowing I had company made my pregnancy funny and interesting when it might have seemed grim, and forced me to find meaning when I otherwise would've let it slide by unnoticed. And to all of you who are pregnant: Good luck and Godspeed. You're about to join the most fascinating club I know.