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a passionate repentance

My best friend is pregnant. She's forty one, diabetic, manic…

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may God stand
My best friend is pregnant. She's forty one, diabetic, manic depressive, and overweight. Does this kid have a chance, or is he so handicapped he can't even make it out of the gate.
Of course, I'm not jealous. No. Well, not in the sense that I immediately want to go out and get pregnant too. I don't know any kids I like that well. I don't get around too well as it is with the CP, and I could stand to lose a hell of a lot of weight myself. No, I'd just as soon not procreate, thank you.

But what is it, about being pregnant? It's like these women enter a mystical state, a higher plane of existance. All my thoughts are colored from being on the outside. I'm married to a man with an inheritable genetic trait that can cause retardation in children, and definitely *does* create a serious hormonal imbalance. No, definitely no kids. And yet..

And yet. There's something about it, that makes me feel..I don't know, restless. Like I've missed something vital, something that I can't go back and undo, or redo, or take a remedial course in. I can look toward the future, but I can't guide anyone else there. It's almost as if I've lost my chance in the big Lotto, to actually *have* a future. Or as if I'm never going to reach this place in myself where I can mother myself, because I can, and I have to mother someone else.

I don't mean adoption. I'm not talking about raising a kid. If I wanted it desperately enough I could adopt. Or try to. It's not easy. It's a lot easier to take a boxcutter on board a plane, and hit the Pentagon than it is to adopt a child. And that says something, doesn't it? I mean the act of bearing, growing a baby inside me, bringing it out into the light. Making stories just has no comparison.

It's very early in the morning. For me, anyway, I've been up since five-thirty. I don't *do* this early morning shite, but I couldn't sleep. Up every two hours to pee anyway, so what was the point of sleeping, I ask you? Got up, washed, got dressed..and then realized that if I wanted a chance to do this, I was going to have to do it now. Not a bad thing, really..just early mornings make me scattered. They feel surreal.

I thought that maybe the title ..you know.."Two Wheeled Gimp Of Justice" would someone offend people. Maybe it does. Fuck it. It's a nickname from someone at Ticketmaster. It's remembering that you have to laugh and make bad jokes sometimes, to keep from screaming at people. It's the first nickname I've ever gotten at work. Well, repeatable one, anyway.

I don't know what Alison's going to do. What she'll do if the baby has a birth defect, or if the kid has some kind of emotional disorder. She isn't exactly the rock of Gibralter, emotionally herself. Now, I love her like a sister, but I've learned that it's better, it's easier and more sane if you don't depend on her. If she happens to come through, that's a good thing. If she doesn't..well..chalk it up to fate and keep going. Otherwise she makes you crazy.

Anyway. It's early, and my thoughts are skimming around like so many gnats over a pond. There's nothing constructive for me to do here, but yack, and frankly I figure a journal deserves better. It deserves some kind of focus. I deserve focus. But that's another story, and one that would take too long for me to write, right now.
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