"What in the Frank and his penguin minions?" you might think. And I understand, I do (though not about Frank and his penguins. Why not giraffes? Or hyenas? No one ever thinks about the hyenas).
But see. There's support and then there's support.
As much as I love comments from people telling me their babies were born far too early and were nonetheless completely alright, the hugs (preferably virtual), the happy 'my sister-in-law who has Down too just graduated from high-school,' or the double-edged 'congratulations on your pregnancy, are you having heartburn yet?' (and I do love those, remember that!), I just cannot handle the 'I imagine you're going through a really tough time mentally and physically and we really hope everything goes okay anyway.'
Can you decipher the difference? Because I for sure as golfing hyenas (Go hyenas! The underrepresented canine/feline or something of the sort [I will not get sidetracked Googling hyenas. Not again]) can. And I'm so tired of support.
Completely and utterly DONE with it.
I am not having a hard time with the diagnosis of Down syndrome. Really, I'm not.
I am excited to meet my daughter, and hold her, and raise her, and love her. I am delirious with joy that I am expecting a child, our child. I am oddly comfortable with my pregnant waddle. I feel pure, unadulterated love every time this tiny being inside me uses my bladder as a punching bag (even when I had a bladder infection). I watch with joy the places where my belly skin was stitched to my abdomen in two surgeries suddenly pop out and sort of smooth out (although not really. It's a regular battlefield, I tell you) because that means she's growing and getting stronger. Every time I come up to a full week without the placenta completely conking out on us, I practically cry of joy (and they're not those big, reserved-for-people-who-will-not-let-me-board-my-flight tears either). I look forward to shooting (That's how they exit, correct?) something pinkish and screaming out of my vagina (or to enjoying the high whilst a doctor fishes that pinkish something out of my belly through yet another opening in my abdomen, should the birth come down to a c-section) more than I've ever looked forward to a cup of coffee, or sex for that matter (cups and cups of it, in fact. Yes, sex.).
I am happy.
I want to hear and read CONGRATULATIONS in big, disgustingly baby-pink letters, not 'I can't even imagine what you must be going through, hang in there!'
Just because you think you couldn't handle something, don't assume I feel the same.
I am superwoman, after all. Well, no. Just happy.
Am I required to note the pregnancy weeks in that preggo-code I see all over the place? I don't feel like doing that, so we'll just say this was taken the same day I banged my toe on the futon base, broke it and howled for a good five minutes. Roughly half an hour later, to be more exact-ish.