stop pushing me.

remember what i said awhile back about mudita? about not being a callow, vindictive snark embittered by the poison of schadenfreude? that i wouldn’t bristle with childish “why can’t that be me?” whinging the next time some talentless, hard-living celebridee twit popped out a perfectly healthy baby in the glare of every grocery store aisle in North America? that i wouldn’t allow myself to wonder why i can’t get dealt fame, fortune, or a plain old healthy pregnancy? that i’d take the high road, be a better person, release good karma and fluffy bunnies into the world out my bum, and all that?

i did my best, world. i tried hard. even after the miscarriage, i kept trucking, kept my head up, kept trying to be decent.

even in the midst of all the Britney Spears new baby rumours, i went blithely along, gritting my teeth shouting “lalala i can’t hear you!” inside my head very loudly. this was the best i could summon for Ms. Trainwreck, whom i’ve despised ever since that “I’m not a Girl, Not yet a Woman” tripe descended upon all that was holy and tasteful and remotely empowered about womanhood.  my contempt – at first merely artistic – became heightened and more personal when i exited the maternity ward with my dead firstborn right around the time Brit announced her documented-Starbucks-by-every-freaking-Starbucks first pregnancy.

i’ve bitten my tongue on all the snide remarks that’ve tried to escape my head.  i won’t try to explain what it’s like to be literally bombarded with images of the uber-klassy Brit visibly procreating like a gerbil (and parenting like one, for that matter) when you yourself are awash in the shock and grief of losing a child.  or two.  or not being able to have one in the first place.  if you get it, well…you get it.  if you don’t, just thank your lucky stars and, um, go carolling or something.

but now all bets are off.

Britney Spears may or may not be pregnant again…only her stylist knows for sure, apparently. or her manager.  or whoever it is that’s this week’s Flavour of the Month.  and i’ve managed not to care, not to feel persecuted by the fact that she can apparently have perfectly healthy pregnancies while i can’t.  i’m winning that battle with myself.  but her sixteen year old sister, the one with the, ahem, Nickelodeon show? yep. up ye olde spout.

with, apparently, the due date i would’ve had.

universe, that’s just cold.

such a magical time of year, this.   perhaps i could send the Spears family a little holiday card?  reading “dear Spears sisters.  fuck mudita.  please stop procreating?”

fa la la la la, blah blah blah blah.