Trouble in Paradise
I think it’s in everyone’s best interests for people sailing off to Looks Like There’s Really Gonna Be a Baby After Infertility land to occasionally share the less blissful aspects of the experience. So while this is not exactly a complainy post, if you’re feeling particularly discouraged by infertility today you might prefer to just read the first item, and then go eat a cookie or something. Or just go straight to the cookie.
1. I got name book, and have been looking through it. I may have chosen a particularly stupid one, but I also think my training as a linguist makes it extra annoying to read such books. There are the cases where names are listed as being derived from, say, Latin, when they are clearly not. There are the cases where a name will be listed as derived from, say, Russian, but the Russian word means something entirely different than what’s given. But that’s just me being pedantic. Here’s one that illustrates a more serious problem:
Tapas (Indian): thunder.
Ignoring the fact that Indian is not a language, imagine some country couple with few global cuisine options in their little town. They chose this name ’cause it’s just so purrrrty, and fail to understand why the city cousins are constantly mocking their child, pelting him with olives and fried squid. Caveat lector, man. Which is a Swahili phrase meaning joyful lion.
2. Okay, the Trouble. Lately I’ve been subject to hormonal rages. At least, I think that’s what’s going on. Something minor will annoy me, and then I seem to fall into a cascade of increasing anger. Soon I’m fuming and snarling, which makes Mr. Bunny defensive and angry, which makes me angry and hurt, which results in us sullenly watching movies, waves of mutual annoyance emanating from us. Which fills my head with visions of myself in a cheap flowered housedress, frying bologna at the stove, virgina slim dangling from my lip, while a squalling, dirty-diapered infant sits in playpen, ignored by his father, who’s watching football on a big screen TV. Also there’s a dead refrigerator on the porch, and a truck up on blocks in the front yard.
Alarmist visions aside (dude, we don’t even have a porch), I have noticed that I’m starting to interpret everything through a lens of Anxiety About Parenting. If Mr. Bunny doesn’t do the dishes, I become convinced that there won’t be an equitable distribution of labor post Bun Bun, and I’ll be forced to choose between living in filth and running myself ragged trying to keep up. If there’s some task that needs doing and yet I keep not getting to it, I become convinced that my entire world will fall into chaos. The more anxious and distressed I become, the more I think of the correlation between IF and postpartum depression, and the more I envision myself as a shrill, neurotic, divorced parent.
It’s grey and freezing, my house is in disorder because of the renovation, I’m a control freak and don’t have childbirth planning to keep my mind occupied, work is tense, and anxiety about parenting is normal. Some of this is situational, some of it is hormonal, some of it is just part of the experience. But I resent this bullshit. I want to get back to my 24/7 schedule of lovin’ on my fetus.