Thanksgiving

It's Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving. Your Father and I are hosting this year. I've been feeling a bit ill the past few days, so I took a test. It was negative. I didn't tell your Father. I'm sure he saw the test in the bathroom trash. I didn't try to hide it, I just chose not to tell him. He didn't say anything to me about it.

I haven't felt the pang in my heart for a while, but this morning I felt it. I wanted to cry immediately, but as I'm at work, that wouldn't be wise.

It's as if my body is saying Fuck you, you don't deserve to be happy. You don't deserve what any irresponsible sixteen-year-old on MTV can have.

I was reading a blog today by this mother in NYC. She has two beautiful boys, and a life that you see portrayed on those NYC shows about buying real estate, or shopping at Bergdorf's.

I wish I could see your little toes, and kiss your cheeks, and breathe in your baby smell. I wish we could surprise everyone at Thanksgiving by announcing you're on the way.

We heard last weekend that your cousin and your aunt are pregnant. I felt myself start to spiral, but instead, I pushed your Father away and made him spiral. It's been a trying few months. I've not been the best wife.

Little One, we are desperate for you.

This is my favorite time of year and it's getting harder and harder to get in the spirit. I can fake it pretty well, but that gets old.