My Feelings are Ugly, but They're Real...

This has been one of those very hard weeks. Nothing crazy has been happening (thankfully) but the weight of the world has been on my shoulders anyway. And it has made me intensely angry.

Like I hate the world angry.

Like I want the world to suffer angry...

Which is not like me.

There are times when I get into a poor me mode, and I have a hard time shaking it. Now seems to be one of those times. The unfairness of it all just sucks.

This week I had the meeting with the service coordinator from early intervention. Talk of having the boys tested to see if they qualify for continued services was brought up, and I signed the paperwork to get things started. In my head I was screaming and raging about how that was the LAST thing I wanted. On the outside, I kept relatively quiet and signed the damn papers.

That same day, we got a note to take to our insurance company to get Ja.son a walker.

And my heart shattered into a thousand pieces...

I hate this. I hate this. I hate this.

I hate it.

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I need to learn how to stop fighting. I need to learn to accept.

Oh how I am struggling with that.

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I recently joined a preemie board. It took me a while to even post anything there. They all had preemies, but many of them seemed like everything was just so...normal.

We don't fit in there. Maybe I don't fit in there? I am trying to, but....

Maybe I am just too hateful and my feelings are too ugly for me to be a part of groups like that? Because damn if I haven't asked myself why they got to be so lucky.

Why did my boys have to be the ones with lingering issues?

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I saw this on another preemie blog. I've seen this one before on Caryanne's blog also, only hers was about parenting a child with cerebral palsy instead of premature. Both times I cried big, ugly boo hoo tears.

Did you ever wonder how the mothers of premature babies are chosen?


Somehow, I visualize God hovering over Earth, selecting his instruments for propagation with great care and deliberation.

As he observes, he instructs his angels to take notes in a giant ledger.

"Armstrong, Beth, son. Patron Saint, Matthew.
Forrest, Marjorie, daughter. Patron Saint, Celia.
Rutledge, Carrie, twins. Patron Saint...give her Gerard. He's used to profanity. "

Finally, he passes a name to an angel and smiles. "Give her a preemie."

The angel is curious. "Why this one, God? She's so happy."

"Exactly," smiles God. "Could I give a premature baby a mother who knows no laughter? That would be cruel."

"But does she have the patience?" asks the angel.

"I don't want her to have too much patience, or she'll drown in a sea of self-pity and despair. Once the shock and resentment wear off, she'll handle it. I watched her today. She has that sense of self and independence so rare and so necessary in a mother. You see, the child I'm going to give her has a world of its own. She has to make it live in her world, and that's not going to be easy."

"But Lord, I don't think she even believes in you."

God smiles. "No matter, I can fix that. This one is perfect She has just the right amount of selfishness."

The angel gasps, "Selfishness?! Is that a virtue?"

God nods. "If she can't separate herself from the child occasionally, she will never survive. Yes, here is a woman whom I will bless with a child less than perfect. She doesn't know it yet, but she is to be envied. She will never take for granted a spoken word. She will never consider a step ordinary. When her child says momma for the first time, she will be witness to a miracle and know it. I will permit her to see clearly the things I see--ignorance, cruelty, prejudice--and allow her to rise above them. She will never be alone. I will be at her side every minute of every day of her life because she is doing my work as surely as she is here by my side."

"And what about her Patron Saint?" asks the angel, his pen poised in the air.

God smiles. "A mirror will suffice."

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I know these feelings will pass. They always do.

Soon, I'll feel better...stronger.

But not now. For now the sadness is heavy in my heart.