Robert and I have affectionately coined telling people about our situation “dropping the bomb”.
That is how it felt when the specialist first gave us the
diagnosis. It left us reeling, we went to bed, I puked and I am certain the
aftermath is going to last, well, forever. Not so unlike atomic fallout. We
will spend the rest of our lives recovering from this.
(completely unrelated, but too cute not to share)
You never realize just how many people you know, be it
co-workers, friends, family and casual acquaintances when you have to share such
horrible news. It’s not something we can keep a secret either, because one day
I will not have this huge ole belly and I will not have a snuggly newborn to
show off either.
So when we run into folks who don’t know yet and innocently
inquire about the baby, we just turn to each other, suck in a breath and “drop
the bomb”. It doesn’t feel good, because we know we just pretty much ruined
their day. And no one wants to be the messenger of death. It’s a loose, loose
situation for all parties involved.
I feel like Debbie Downer all the time. I get tired of my own story, the
broken record of having to share it, over and over and over. Some days it’s
easier to hole up in the house, rather than leave and chance having to talk
Then what do you do about all the people you don’t know who
just love to love on a pregnant woman? The little old ladies in the grocery
store, the other mothers in the coffee shop, the checkout gal at the Target. When
you have a giant baby bump everyone wants to talk to you, share in the (what
under normal circumstances would be) excitement and tell you about their own
We call that selective bomb dropping. Sometimes we just
don’t even want to go there. It’s too hard. When asked about the due date or
the sex we just cough up the generic answers, December 26th, pretty
sure it’s a boy, yes we are excited. All the while shaking our head and thinking…if
they only knew.
(It was all his idea and for the record no dogs were harmed in these events)