Over the last several days, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time with my curser blinking helplessly in Google’s search field and my mind in the same condition. I can’t think of the right search term. I’ve tried them all. Nothing is giving me the information I seek. Mostly because I know better than to directly ask Google the question I really want answered: When, exactly, will I go into labor?
I’m not miserable. I promise.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been getting an increasing number of the same type of comment/question, to the point that it’s now happening on a daily basis: “Are you absolutely miserable?”
“I bet you want that kid out of there!”
“Are you hanging in there?”
Guys. I’m fine. Yes, I’m 38 weeks pregnant. I’m carrying significant evidence of that fact around with me between my hips and my ribcage. But I don’t know how to credibly explain to anyone that other than the fact that cartwheels aren’t on my agenda, I feel remarkably normal.
This is why we tell stories.
I don’t know about you, but I woke up with an emotional hangover yesterday morning. If you can relate, you were probably also following The Firecracker Foundation‘s #WhyItold online storytelling event on Monday (or you were doing something else emotionally overwhelming. I don’t know your life). Throughout the day, Madam Firecracker herself, Tashmica Torok, led sexual assault […]
Natalie Burg 