I’m just going to write about it. The plan was to keep it light. favorite lipsticks, new shoes, funny C$ stories... I can’t not be me. I’m a talker, I overshare. Penelope is disabled. There I said it. DISABLED. geez that looks weird. I think that the hardest thing is the guilt. How did this happen? Not enough tummy time, too much attention on C. My body is fucked, I shouldn’t have children. God tried to warn me with the first one, then the spherocytosis, now this. One day she almost crawls; the next day she just sits and cries. Today was a day like that. I want to just cry with her, but I’m a stone. I’ve crawled onto the ceiling and am watching myself sit and stare. Willing myself to embrace her and shudder away the feelings of failure and frustration. I’m not a terrible mother. I know that. The therapist says to avoid overhelping, but she doesn’t have to watch her baby reach for the ever elusive toy and erupt into tears when it just cant be gotten. She doesn’t have to explain to her two year old that “Penelope just isn’t ready to crawl like Simon,” she doesn’t have to be at the other end of the stare that says, “I’ve just given up.” I can’t seem to cope. I fancy myself an optimist. Staying encouraged through the difficulty, maintaining great attitude, being a great wife, mother, and friend. I’m failing at it all. I’m frustrated, sad, and disconnected. I can’t go on like this so I won’t. I’m gonna hand Penelope the toy, hold her when she cries, overhelp, and overshare. So, if you get stuck talking to me and I unload on you, smile politely, place a caring hand on my shoulder and listen.