Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
That's What She Said
You can also find Monica's writing here:
Search The Girl Who
« Blueberry Bielanko | Main | Coming Off The Drug »
Thursday
May222008

I Just Don't Think I Could Take That Kind Of Rejection

Serge and I got into a fight last night. I'd like to say disagreement, but girl, pleeeze. It was a fight. About... drum roll please... M-O-N-E-Y. It shouldn't have been a big deal. We're doing well, both working full-time. Just trying to pay off our respective student loan debts etc. Anyway, I've discovered my usual approach to communicating with Serge after the fight is to curse under my breath, muttering obsceneties like Yosemite Sam. Frick-a-fracker think you can tell me fricker-ricker- fucker I'll just do my OWN thing I don't need you, you so-an-so.

It doesn't quite work like that when you know you're having the man's child. That this man's child is forming in your body RIGHT NOW and the heart could start beating at any moment this week. Side note: I wonder what I'll be doing when that little butterfly wing flap of a heart starts ticking. I mean, conception is conception but a heartbeat is pretty solid evidence of existence. I am obsessed with clicking through these pages, taking in the week by week accounting of my little sesame seed. It's a complete mind fuck to start at week one and click to week forty. Intense. And don't get me started on the 3D ultrasounds. They simultaneously terrify and intrigue me.

However I am still mad at Serge. He tried to gloss over it all today by texting me funny anecdotes, you know, just proving what an all-around swell fellow he is. But I wasn't having it. I am determined to be mad, dammit!

I have this overwhelming urge to gather everything in our basement, including all of my old clothes and shoes and just slam a yard sale together and get rid of it. Ironically, I've been saving lots of my clothes from junior high and high school just in case I had a child who'd love to pilfer through a giant box of old stuff and make fun of what Mom used to wear. Man, how I'd love to have been able to mock my Mom for her righteous orange jumpsuits, ridiculously over-sized bell bottoms and such. But she threw it all away. I'm just sick of owning stuff. You know (cue new age music here) I want to be free of a bunch of old stuff weighing me down and cluttering the basement. And we're acquiring new stuff all the time, so I don't need all that old stuff. C'mon, what's a girl going to do with a bunch of platform shoes and hideous outfits from Express and The Gap (omigod that outfit is THE cutest!) I'm sorry, I don't say Gap. It's always been and always will be The Gap.

Something about having a yard sale freaks me out though. Like, I just have to sit in my yard and be judged by all who drive and stop by. I'll see people drive by to check out my wares and some won't judge my sale worthy to even stop. Rejected by chainsmoking strangers with teased bangs blasting Kenny Chesney in their '87 Chrysler LeBaron who don't deem my junk worthy of a stop. Harsh. In my delicate condition I just don't think I could take that kind of rejection.