After church today, we stopped by someone's house to pick up a maternity dress I'd bought on a yard sale site. As I got out of the car, I stumbled in my boots and pitched forward. I don't know where I start and stop these days, so keeping my balance is a challenge. Righting myself, I continued to the door and grabbed the dress, leaving the money under the mat. But by then, tears had sprung up in my eyes.
I'm not sure why I was crying. I know it was scary to think a fall could have hurt the baby, but I didn't even fall. And I know that I don't have a good relationship with driveways since I blew out my shoulder on ours 2 years ago.
But to start crying?
I haven't cried ONCE over the fact that I'm 46, pregnant, and scared, and that starting over feels like both a blessing and a burden.
I haven't cried for Jack in a while-- not on Christmas when I bought a present for him to "give" Margaret, or when I patted his empty stocking, as if somehow wanting him here enough could make it so. Not even at New Year's, which conjures a host of unwelcome feelings, particularly about leaving him further in the past.
I haven't cried over lack of sleep, which sometimes amounts to just a few hours a night because of sore shoulders and a tiny bladder, although I know that sleep deprivation is taking its toll, and I worry it could set me up for the unfamiliar territory of postpartum depression.
Heck, I haven't even cried over the indignity of varicosities so elephantine they make standing and walking difficult, intimacy impossible, and, well, just bum me out on a daily basis.
As we pulled out of the driveway, Tim reached over to touch my hand. "You ok?" I nodded, but kept crying softly. Margaret was quiet in the back seat.
I guess sometimes we cry over nothing, like stumbling in a driveway. And sometimes nothing feels like a little bit of everything.