I have a confession...
I know I have been a terrible blogger.
Practically every post I've made since July has been the weekly pregnancy update.
Or me waxing poetic about the joys of green dip.
I feel guilty for this. One, because I know how much I hated reading only pregnancy-related posts when I wasn't pregnant, and two, because to everyone but me and probably my mom, those posts are pointless.
I mean, do you really care how many stretch marks I have? I thought not.
I seem to have come down with a horrible case of postiphobia. ( I actually did not make that word up. I just googled it to see if it was a real phobia before I made a fool of myself, and it turns out other people use the word too.)
I am afraid of writing what I truly want to write.
"Why?" you may ask.
Because I don't want to seem ungrateful.
I'm afraid to write about my back aching, my stomach stretching, my lack of quality sleep.
I'm afraid to write about my complete, total, and utter lack of a s.e.x. drive. ( I feel like finding a hooker for my husband might be justified...)
I'm afraid to write about the fears that constantly plague me about having a child that is genetically half-stranger. (What if she looks absolutely nothing like me? What if she has straight hair?)
I'm afraid to write the fears that come with having a husband who did not father our baby. (What if he really can't connect to her? What if he gives up trying?)
I'm afraid to write anything that will make me seem ungrateful. Because I'm not. I thank God every time her kicks wake me up when I'm dozing off, every time I don't sleep through the night, every time I run out of breath walking down the hall to the bathroom.
I am grateful. But I am also afraid.