I want to let you in on a little secret. Well, it might not be a secret. Maybe some of you know this secret or have guessed it. But sometimes I feel guilty when I am told that I am being very "strong" or "brave" while we wait and get passed on by potential first moms, one after another.
I'm not. I hate it. It is really hard to cope some days, especially when there is an email #2 from Liz that arrives halfway through a workday and I still have four or five hours of work to go before I can go home and fall to pieces.
I just don't usually blog about it.
See, I'm writing a story here. Like all good stories this one has a lot of truth to it. It is chock full of truth. But, like all good stories, there is just enough fiction to keep the protagonist(s) of the tale bearable, interesting, and sympathetic to the readers. Since I am the protagonist, I like to write myself as just a little better than real-life-me actually is. A little braver, a little stronger, a little more okay with the way things are going. I don't lie, absolutely not. I just edit. I leave out a dark mood here, add in a little ray of hope there. I allow real-life-me to just rest and put on the perspective of the novelist/historian/writer. How do you want this day to be remembered? Blogger-me asks real-me. Together we look at everything, and keep the good stuff. It's a neat trick.
I'm thinking of my readership. I know most of you out there would tolerate a little more darkness from me. No offense, but you're not the readers I'm worried about. There are two people who will read this blog someday whose sympathy and respect are of paramount importance to me. You can guess who one of them is - my darling as-yet hypothetical little one, of course. Because littles grow into bigs, or so I'm told, and rumor has it the internet lasts forever. I want that future heart-of-my-heart to read this and know how much I longed to know him or her. But not so much how much ice cream I ate, or how hard it was to get out of bed the day after someone else's first-mom didn't pick me.
But perhaps my most important reader is me. Future-me, of course, who will come back and read this sometimes late at night, maybe while rocking a baby. Or maybe she will will be too tired and will forget about the archives and then one day after her little one has gone off to a first day at school or a long day at grandma's house she'll click through to the old adoption blog. Maybe it'll happen when she's waiting, again, for baby #2.
Regardless, I want her story to be a good one, so most days I leave the bad stuff out.
It's there though. In the gritty every day now I'm not so brave, and I'm really not so strong.
Its amazing how quickly the ugly stuff evaporates, though, if I don't bother to write it down.