Or, to be even more vague,
"How is a raven like a writing desk?"
I couldn't sleep last night and though up an awesome blog post about how it feels to carry a baby that is half stranger. But of course, I can't remember much of it this morning, except that I had compared it to a paper cut. So bear with me.
When we first got our azoo diagnosis, and we realized that children that were biologically "ours" were out of the question, I felt like I'd been shot. I felt like I was going to bleed to death from the pain of it. Of course, that pain has dulled. Had it not, I'm not sure I would be a functioning human being.
It still hurts though. But it feels more like a paper cut than a bullet hole. How?
Think about a paper cut. A deep one. Sure, it hurts like the dickens, and you're irritated that you just got a paper cut, because really, how useless is that? But the pain fades until you go and use antibacterial stuff or get dish soap in it. Then it stings just as much as it did when you got it.
This DS thing is kind of like that.
Actually, it's a lot like that. It hurt to begin with, that this baby didn't ever have the chance to inherit my husband's gorgeous blue eyes or is perpetual energy or his ability to have a conversation with a tree stump.
Most of the time, I don't think about that. Most of the time, I think about our daughter, and how loved she already is, and how awesome it'll be when she gets here.
But then, something will happen to bring the sting back. Like a complete stranger commenting on how curly her hair is sure to be when they see Jeff and I together. Or conversations about other babies and which parent they look like the most, and knowing that while these conversations will surely happen about Cate, Jeff, and I, they will be skewed. I assume these things will always sting, like a never-ending, never-healing paper cut.
And really, how useless is that?