Long-distance connection

So I mentioned the other day that I finally emailed my pregnant choir friend.  I also emailed the directors, pretending like I had legitimate reasons for not wanting to do choir this year – and there are legitimate reasons to not have the choir (like that there are only four of us who show up regularly); they’re just not necessarily my reasons.

Anyway, it went like this:

Me: I never congratulated you and I meant to. But I hope you understand that, if I’m a little stand-offish or weird, it’s because pregnancies are sad for me, given my situation. Just know that I still love you, and I promise I will be a lot more normal after your baby is born.

Her: I completely understand. The possibility of losing my baby is my worst fear right now; I can’t even imagine how you must feel. I didn’t tell anyone at choir that I’m pregnant yet. I figured that you knew I was pregnant but I didn’t want to make a big deal about it…

Me: Thank you for understanding. I always worry that I’m going to offend the pregnant women by admitting I’m uncomfortable around pregnant women. I haven’t offended any yet (that I know of), but it still makes me nervous to have to try and explain myself.

Her: I’m not offended at all; I know that it must be hard for you to be around pregnant women. I found out about your miscarriage when you started linking your blog to Facebook. I wanted to say something to you to help ease your pain but I honestly didn’t know what to say. I hope that you don’t quit choir. It’s fun to see you at choir…

And then she referenced an inside joke we had in high school.

Well, fuck.  How did I think this was going to go?  Did I really believe that one of the nicest, most sincere people I know was going to react to me by saying, “Well, it was nice being friends those dozen years, but my baby is the size of a large plum now, so I guess you’d best be fucking off.”

Honestly.  She’s an elementary school teacher.  Of course she was going to be nice.

And the truth is, for all my insecurities about offending pregnant women, they do seem to get me – like me, even.  Every.  Single.  Time.

I must be a strange and inspiring case study for them, especially those who are still in their first trimester, as my choir friend is: I have lived their worst nightmare, and I have lived to tell the tale.

Whenever we learn that another friend or relative is pregnant, I start crying to Doug, bemoaning the fact that “everyone else who gets pregnant stays pregnant” (which is not true, of course, but is something I like to say when I’m feeling sorry for myself).  I remember with regards to one of these girls, Doug actually said, “Yeah, but I hope she stays pregnant.  She’s not as strong as you are, and like, as devastated and depressed as you were?  She’d be ten times worse.”

As much as pregnant women are my kryptonite, I have to admit that I might be kind of good for them. And even though I feel alone most of the time, they feel like they can relate to me, woman-to-woman.  They share their fears and concerns with me because I’ve been there and am there still.  They let me see their crazy, because I consistently showcase mine without abandon.

Biologically speaking, when we’re not busy being catty and jealous and trying to cut each other down, women are supposed to form deep emotional connections with each other.  It’s a trait that was meant to help us keep the tribe together while the men were all out on the hunt.  (It’s also why women like talking about their feelings, and want love expressed through romance, instead of just wanting to solve the problem, shut up, and fuck, like the men do.)  And since basic biology doesn’t know specific psychology, the pregnant women are forming these connections with me.

And I with them, to be fair.  Just, you know, preferably from a distance.

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