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Happy Birthday Shmersonette!

25 Sep

Hemmo everyone!

It’s Shmerson again. Yeah, I know – long time no see. So, it’s Mo’s birthday! At least here it is. The rest of you will have to wait a few hours, but who cares? Right now, Mo’s drunk for the first time in 6 months, and I’m just happy, or drunk-by-proxy (designated driver thankyouverymuch) and we’re waiting for our favorite show to finish downloading, and I’m writing my Shmersonette a birthday post!

September was always a beginning of a new year for us. Because of Rosh-Hashana (the beginning of a new year according to the Jewish calendar) which is usually in September, the beginning of school year when we were younger, and also because its the month with both mine and Shmersonette’s birthdays.

But I feel like we already started our new year, on May 27th. Without ever deciding that’s how it should be, I think of our anniversary as our new birthday, our new Rosh Hashana.

Let me explain: our first pregnancy started right after our wedding, yada yada yada (it’s a happy post and you know the story), and our last miscarriage was a little before our first anniversay. But ever since then:  We had a very happy anniversary, I finally picked my major, and Mo made some career choices (still working on that), we bought a new and wonderful apartment  (BTW- we signed the contract exactly a month after our anniversary). We sold our old apartment (BTW- guess when the buyer saw the apartment for the first time- exactly two months after our anniversary). Shmersonette had that surgery, which is also a good thing. We ran some tests and they all look very good. Things are looking great. It feels as if really all of the crappy things decided to happen during our first year as a married couple, and ever since the beginning of our second year we’ve had nothing but good luck and achievements.

So we’re in the middle of the Shmersons-year, and I just wish it continues to  go as it’s been going. We’re going to move to a wonderful new apartment. I’m going to find a new job and so is Shmersonette. And sometime during the current Shmersons-year we’re going to have a BFP. This time it will be followed by seeing a heartbeat, feeling a kick. This time it’s going to end with a healthy baby. Not all of this will happen before May 27th, but some of it will, I truly believe it.

There’s something I wanted to tell you, Shmersonette. You say sometimes that you’re angry with your body for everything that has happened. I don’t think you should be.

What we’re trying to do here is unbelievable. It’s such a special thing to do that the Flying Spaghetti Monster, in its wisdom, decided that only women can do it. And only for about a third of their expected lifespan. Also, you can try starting it only during a few days each month. That’s how special it is.

And your body didn’t betray you. It was very very loyal to you. It told you things before the doctors knew. Three times it noticed that something was wrong, and three times it did what it had to do. I don’t want to think where we would be if your body wasn’t smart enough to notice something was wrong.  That doesn’t make what happened less sad for us, but it’s good to know that we can count on your body’s loyalty and the wisdom of the FSM.

I admire your body, and I’m sorry I can’t take some of your pain. I could never do for you  what you will eventually do for me. Isn’t this fact about your body amazing enough?

A few weeks ago, after a conversation similar to this post, I sent Shmersonette the lyrics to a song I like. It was written by Israeli singer-songwriter Noam Rotem for his wife who had cancer (she’s okay now). I give you that song, badly translated by me:

To the End of the Day

I want to get to the end of the day
Clouds in the sky meet in orange
There’s no need for a messiah or a rapture
Here’s what is promised when you’re with me

I see the flower and the human body
Stalactites of salt in caves by the sea
The way that snowflakes, like a magnificent puzzle
Are gathering piece by piece on the mountaintop

The way the grass shines when we make love
Every breath you take is like a musical note

I love every scar on that white body
As you bathe they shine in their beauty
Not letting me forget the creator’s wisdom
He heals and wounds, patches and breaks

As a star explodes and lights up the night
And all of it’s fireworks are freezing in the air
In letters of fire it writes the song for you in the sky
Because at the end of the day
Even it falls at your feet

How I Met Your MO There

25 May

So today I’ll give you my view of what Shmersonette described in the previous 5 posts. But a little about me first.

I’ve always believed in honesty. It’s not always a good thing. In some relationships, I scared the girl away because I was too honest. See, another thing was that I would fall in love really fast. And because I was honest, I would say it. I didn’t like playing games, teasing, playing hard to get. I couldn’t play it cool around a girl I was in love with.

9 months before I met Shmersonette, I went to South America for six months. It was a trip to see the world, but as always it was also to change myself. I did a lot of thinking and gained self-confidence. I can really say that had we met without me going there, it wouldn’t have worked between us.

So I decided to be less honest. Wait with my feelings. play games. I also had doubts about love. I thought maybe I was expecting too much. I wondered – am I like a person who never had ice cream, and when they describe ice cream to him as “heavenly, orgasmic” he takes it too literally and is later disappointed? Maybe all those poets and novelists who wrote about love were exaggerating. Maybe love is just friends having sex. Maybe if I stopped expecting so much I wouldn’t be disappointed and hurt anymore.

Of course, none of it is true. Writing those things now makes me sad for myself  back then. But at the time, I thought I was growing up.

I also thought I should change in other ways. I never had sex outside of a serious relationship with strong emotions. I started to think maybe I should loosen up, and have meaningless sex. I decided to date girls just for that and ‘for the sport of it’.

Still, I learned some things. For example, I noticed how we prefer the thing we know, even if it was bad for us in the past. I always knew what I wanted in a girl. She had to be intelligent, with a sense of humour and independent. But usually I found myself in a relationship with someone not-so-smart, not-so-funny and dependant. ( I like to put it in PowerPuff Girls terms: I always wanted Blossom with just a little bit Buttercup, and found myself with Bubbles). So I realised it was a cycle; you go there because you know it, and you prefer it over the unknown. And every time you go there you just make it more likely that next time you choose, you’ll choose the known over the unknown. Until the point when it’s not even a choice anymore. And I realised that the first step to get out of it was to acknowledge it.

I didn’t like Bubbles-girls because they tended to look up to me, and I don’t like that. I also didn’t like looking up to girls. I believed in equality, I believed both people in a relationship should feel just as lucky to have each other. I think that on How I Met Your Mother they said that every relationship has the person who settled for less and the person who got more than deserved. I don’t think it’s healthy in the long-term.

A short while before I met Shmersonette I dated a girl for a short period of time. I tried implementing my new ideas, expecting less, playing it cool, etc. and they collided with my other new idea – she was totally a Bubbles-girl. I ended it. We didn’t have meaningless sex, and I’m happy for that.

Two weeks later, it was my zero date with Shmersonette. As she already told you, it was very special. As I was driving home after I dropped her at her place, I thought “what if she didn’t enjoy this as much as I did? What if she tells me it was nice but it’s not going anywhere?” and I thought that if that happens, I’ll probably know how that Bubbles-girl feels about me right now.

I used to have this dream: I meet a girl and we’re together. We barely need to speak. There is no suitor and “suitee”. We just like each other very much, and are happy. People around us think we’re strange, or that we’re going too fast. We don’t care. I used to hate waking up from that dream.

By the end of our Zero-Date I knew I finally found her. I was perfectly honest, and so was she. We didn’t play games. After our third date, I was walking back to my car, very happy. I thought of how perfect it all is, and then I thought this is much like that dream. Then I got to my car and saw a parking ticket, and smiled. This would never happen in a dream.

On our real first date, she said: “There is something you need to know about me. I’m a little messed up”. I told her it’s okay, great even. I like messed up. I’m a little messed up myself. (She didn’t believe me back then).

She was right- she IS messed up. And today, she knows I am too. And every now and then, during hard times, she says something like: “Is it okay that I’m so messed up?” and I always remind her of that conversation.

On one of our first nights together, we were talking. Then I thought of something stupid. See, I have a weird sense of humor not everyone gets. And I knew that if I said what I thought out loud she won’t get the joke and would think I was weird. This voice in my head was like “don’t say it you’ll ruin everything” but I said it anyway. And she cracked up laughing. And yes, that’s the origin of our private sense of humor and our private language.

The first time I told her I loved her was also very strange. I blurted it out less than a week after our Zero-date. And for a second I thought “There you go again, you’re too honest, too quick, you just scared her away like you always do”. Then I thought “well, screw that” because I knew I meant it. And I knew that all that crap about playing games, not being honest and so forth was BS.

I’m so happy it happened that way. I think the strongest thing about us is that we’re perfectly honest with each other. We can’t go to sleep after a fight without making up. We can’t keep a secret for more than a minute. It’s great.

During our first week together, I met up with my brother and sister. I told them about her. I told them that when I’m driving with her in the mountainous  roads of
Haifa, and every time the road goes down I go “wheeeee!” and then she replies “must. kill. moe.” they both said: you should hold on to her and never let go.

Between our Zero date and Valentine’s day, we saw each other almost daily. Met each other’s friends. When I had to stay at my place and study, she showed up with pizza. Some other night I woke up to watch a lunar eclipse. She came with me. After Valentine’s day, I practically moved in. My roommates started calling me “Garry the imaginary” behind my back, because I was never at my apartment.

About the period of time when Shmersonette was waiting for me to propose. (About 6 months from when the subject was brought up to when I proposed): I have only this to say: I always knew we would get married. There is a difference between knowing you’ll get married and being ready for it.

I’m proud to say I chose the wedding ring myself. A week before I proposed, we went to Paris. I decided not to propose in Paris. I wanted it to be were we live. I wanted to be able to take the kids there. I felt like when you propose you should be close to home, in a place that means something to you. And I told her it would not happen in Paris, and why. See, at the time she already knew I was going to propose. And during the time in Paris she found out it was going to happen in less than a week. See? We can’t keep secrets.

Mo’s note. I thought it was probably going to happen, but I’m a hopeless pessimist. Or at least I used to be. Now? Who knows.

About a month before I proposed Shmersonette said that if she wanted to propose (She didn’t really, and I didn’t want it that way either), she would buy tickets to our favorite singer  – Shalom Hanoch’s concert in Ceasaria, and pull some strings so that she gets on  stage and proposes to me in the middle of the show. I know. Totally not us (and totally Mr and Mrs No balls). Then I thought of doing the same thing – only without the rock concert. So I took her to that stage (it’s a 1500 year old Roman stadium) and proposed there.

It has been a strange year. I think you, as readers of this blog, are mostly aware of the bad things. But a lot of good things happened also. In a way, I’m glad we had to go through all of that this year, it was a test for our relationship and guess what? we passed. “A plus plus” passed.

Envy, Atheism and Neil Gaiman

12 May

Hi Everyone. It’s Shmerson again.

So I’ve been feeling like shit for the last week or so. Yesterday Shmersonette told me I should write a post about it. I replied that a post about it will be the shortest post ever: I FEEL LIKE SHIT. Then I had the last 24 hours to think about it.

I feel like crying all the time. I try to distract myself and it works: when I’m not at the University, or at work – I watch something stupid on my phone or computer. Or do some chore or other. When Shmersonette’s around I feel better. But when I have none of those things, it’s horrible. I’m not even talking about “when I’m alone with my thoughts” because it has nothing to do with thoughts. I don’t think about something and then get that bad feeling. I just look away from my phone and through the window of the bus and get that feeling – the thoughts only come later.

I think subconsciously I was waiting for Shmersonette to calm down a little so that I may freak out. I also think I am now feeling all 3 miscarriages at once, because when the first two were happening, I focused on Shmersonette, and relatively I didn’t feel anything close to what I feel now.

I see a pregnant woman on the street and I want to punch her in the face. Not really, but I’m pissed. And I’m not a violent person at all. I just think that she’s a stupid bitch who does not now how lucky she is. Also, these last few days I saw some pregnant ladies and they were all skinny – seriously, no pregnant butt, no pregnant thighs, not even pregnant boobs. And they were all just doing their job, or riding the bus, as if there isn’t a miracle happening in their body.

Of course, I’m just being mean. Some of them might have gone through IF or MC. Still, when I see one, I just decide that they don’t appreciate what they have, and we should be the ones having that baby. Now I’m reminded that an old friend once told me she had to take hormones for some reason, and the doctor told her that a side effect is thinking about sex a lot. “how much exactly is a lot?” she asked, to which the doctor replied “as much as a man does”. And she did. “Is this really how your minds work?” she asked me. So now I ask you ladies: Is THIS how YOUR minds work? Thinking about babies all the time?

I’ve been thinking about Neil Gaiman today. He’s one of my idols. For those of you who’ve never heard of him, he’s a writer. He’s written comic books, short stories, novels and scripts. By the way, the next Doctor Who episode? He wrote that too. He really knows his way with myths and legends, and because of him I’m currently doing a minor in Mythology.

Neil Gaiman in a TARDIS

So I was reminded of a short story he wrote. It is called “The Wedding Gift” or something like that. The story is hidden inside a prologue he wrote for a collection of short stories called “Smoke and mirrors” (Take that, people who don’t read prologues! How cool is that?). It goes something like this: A couple gets married. When they open their presents, they find a paper with a single sentence: “Will and Kate got married on a lovely sunday afternoon.” (Okay I don’t remember the characters names, and Gaiman IS british). They don’t throw it away. A few months later they look at it again, and see that there’s another sentence in it, describing what happened since the wedding.

Some time later, the sentences in the magical paper start to say mean things. Like one of them cheated on the other, or the other got sick. Those things were not true. They keep looking at the Paper every now and then. At a certain point in the story, one of them understands that it is a gift. Whoever gave it to them wanted to make sure that the bad things will happen to Will and Kate in the story, so they don’t happen to the real Will and Kate.

Don’t get me wrong, in a lot of ways we’re the real, happy Will and Kate. Our relationship is getting stronger each day, and it was strong and honest to begin with. We’re on the right track in many ways. When we hear about another couple having a fight over some stupid, trivial thing we thank the Flying Spaghetti Monster we never do that. But in other ways, I feel like we’re the couple stuck in that story within story, the ones who go through the bad things.

It’s so easy being a believer. I used to be religious, and at the age of 15 I became an atheist. About a minute later, that was my first atheist conclusion: It’s easier and healthier to believe; in belief there’s order, fairness, a plan, a fate. You believe that there’s something writing your story. My next atheist conclusion was that I want to be a believer again. My third – that I can’t. Partly because I know how comforting and easy it is. But I wish there was some god (no capital g for you, you’re a noun now!) that I could blame. Now I feel we’re stuck in the story with bad things, only nobody is writing it.

When we were in the hospital, 3 weeks ago, before the results, we were trying to pretend it’s okay. We calculated the dates and decided that if Shmersonette ovulated like 7 days after her period, and got a BFP 7 days later (both unlikely, I know) then everything is okay. Then I said – if this is true we’re going home, looking for a charity fund we both like, and giving it 500 Shekels (150 Dollars more or less). That was a religious thing to do – I was making sort of a deal with god, or the universe, or whatever – but I don’t believe it works like that. It’s not that I want there to be a god. I just want to believe, even if there isn’t.

Neil Gaiman started as comic writer. His most famous series is “Sandman”, in which he took all religions and mythologies and blended them into one story, adding his own mythology: The endless; seven siblings, more powerful than gods, each of them responsible for a function that even gods comply to: Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium.

Most of the siblings act in accordance with their purpose. Except Dream, AKA Sandman, on which the series focuses – he’s grumpy and official. And Death is really cheerful and fun, you’ll love her. (Yes, Death is a she). So besides those two – destruction left his role, his domain and his siblings. Delirium used to be called Delight, but something went wrong with that. Now she’s a delirious manic-depressive little girl . Desire is a beautiful, charming man-woman, and so on.

But the point I was getting to is this: Desire and Despair are twins. Desire is kind of a bitch/douche, always plotting. Despair helps her/him, not because she’s evil – she’s just passive. So usually, Desire makes the first move towards someone – sooner or later he will belong to Despair’s domain. So that’s how I feel right now – a healthy pregnancy was our desire for a year now, and every time Shmersonette went through a miscarriage we wanted it more. but now, for now, I’m in Despair.

And maybe the answer is not to let Desire trick us like that. Sure, we will do the tests and then keep on TTC. I’m not sure how to phrase this without saying “just relax and don’t think about it and it will come” because that’s not what I mean. It’s more like we should not desire it, just do it. Stop TTC and continue to make love. stop doing things for the baby, but do the same things because we need to do them anyway – for ourselves.

Okay. This is really long. I’m done now. Thank you for reading.

Shmerson’s Post 2: Revenge of the Something

23 Apr

Mo’s Note: Hi all. I’m doing Ok, I guess. Still recovering. Shmerson is taking over blogging duties today. Hope you enjoy. My husband rocks, by the way. Just in case you didn’t notice. For everyone here from ICLW – well, this wasn’t what this month was suppose to look like. Read back a few posts and you’ll understand. And now, without further ado, my husband, fondly known as Shmerson:

I’ve been planning this post for several weeks now, and now it’s more relevant than ever. I was planning to start with an apology, since Shmersonette’s posts were becoming more and more optimistic, and this post was going to be a bit on the heavy side. Now I don’t need to apologize.

I want to start with telling you a little about my reserve duty. If you’re in the reserve, it’s from age 22 to 45, and your rank has nothing to do with how old you are. For example, I’m a lieutenant, so by the age of 23 I was giving orders to men in their late 30’s.

Those men in their late 30’s- I’m not smarter, more experienced, or more motivated than them. They’ve been doing this for years. Some of them have a second or third degrees. Some of them are very important to the company they work for. Yet, when they’re in the reserve, they are pinheads. I have to tell them what to do, motivate them, make sure we’re on schedule etc. And sometimes, I’m not motivated myself, or I don’t know what to do next- but I pretend and improvise. Why? Because I have to. Because that’s expected of me. Because that’s my ROLE. And they transform from multitasking geniuses to lazy pinheads because that’s their role.

Now let me tell you a bit about me and Shmersonette’s relationship. I’m more optimistic, rational and level-headed, and sometimes I become too hesitant because of this. She’s more impulsive, determined and sometimes anxious and irrational. We complete each other. I’m not sure how it’s been translated, but in the Hebrew Bible, God says before creating Eve that she “would help Adam by being against him” (my bad translation). That’s us. We balance each other.

But I wanted to write about roles. What I wrote earlier, about me being optimistic and rational, that is me, in general. The problem begins when I look at those characteristics as if they’re my role.

During the first pregnancy, when Shmersonette started bleeding, I calmed her down. She was jumping to conclusions. I told her not to google it, and that we’ll go to the clinic tomorrow and probably find out everything was okay. I googled it and found some results that showed that it happens in some pregnancies, and it’s not necessarily a miscarriage.

I truly believed all of this, but I also took on my role. If she’s anxious, I shall be calm. If she’s pessimistic I shall be optimistic. If she cries, I will not. Because, I thought, if she sees me cry now, or be anxious or anything, she will be more anxious. And I can’t let that happen. I have to “help her by being against her”. She looks to me and expects me to be her rock. At our wedding, in her vows, she said that whatever happens, she knows I’ll be there to catch her, and that’s what I try to do.

That may sound cute and all, but it has some disadvantages, which I will get to in a minute. Going back to our first MC, the next day it all exploded in my face. She was right (as usual, I guess). And I felt like crap. I think I already wrote about how men treat MC differently. My thoughts were not with the baby we lost. My thoughts were about how Shmersonette is in danger. And the fact that she’s in danger because of me (I know, it’s irrational, just as her blaming herself is. We always look for ways to blame ourselves. We’re Jewish).

And also, I felt guilty because I was wrong. It’s as if I had lied to her knowingly. I told her it was going to be okay. It’s not that I thought she’d be mad at me for calming her down, but I did feel like she would never trust me again when I try to calm her down.

When we found out about our second MC, I didn’t know what to do. I think I tried to calm her down and be optimistic, but this time I didn’t believe it myself. The thing I remember most is us waiting at the clinic. Shmersonette was stressed and I could feel it. I was probably just as stressed and I didn’t want her to feel it. So I did a terrible thing. I took a stupid magazine and started turning the pages. I say “turning the pages” because I didn’t read. I was too nervous. In some twisted way I thought it’s good- I’m pretending I’m not anxious, and that would make her less anxious. Of course this is total BS.

It hurt her. She felt as if I wasn’t there with her. I really wasn’t. I wanted to be. I was supposed to be. What I felt was very similar to what she felt, but I hid it. In a way, I hid it from myself, too. I tried so hard to “help her by being against her” I forgot sometimes I should be just like her- just as vulnerable, just as anxious. God is wrong sometimes (have I mentioned I’m a heathen too?).

Someone once told me about the difference between men and women. It’s a sexist generalization, but screw that. It goes something like this: men tell each other about their problems in order to get advice or a solution. That’s why men tell, and that’s how they listen and respond. Women share problems to get sympathy and understanding, and that’s how they listen too.

So I was stuck in this world where I just acted according to my supposed role, I pretended I was a rock but I gave no sympathy- when it was most needed. And now I want to say in front of the whole internets: I am so, so sorry, shmersonette.

I’ve been thinking about it ever since, and I’ve been writing this post in my head for a while. Four days ago I got the chance to see if I actually learned something, and I think I did. We went straight to the clinic, no arguing. I was optimistic at some points, but I didn’t pretend. I cried when I felt like it, and I did it in front of her. I told her how I felt. I think I learned my lesson.

I think I managed to be there with her, and still be her rock- not as solid, but more real and close. I still have a problem crying next to her, especially when she’s crying. And it’s not as if she’s never seen me cry. But I’m working on it. Some of the feelings have only hit me now –  72 hours too late. But this time, I was still focusing on being rational and effective, but I didn’t pretend. I was there. And thank spaghetti monster, I didn’t read a magazine.

The stuffed animal I gave Shmersonette at the hospital. That's me in the background - not reading a magazine. I was texting people to update them. I swear!

And the Winner Is…..!

25 Mar

Actually – yesterday’s poll was too close to call between Squish and Me0Me. How fun is it to have a tie between my girl BFF and my boy BFF?!? So guess what? You get both of them! Starting with my boy BFF! Me0Me – take it away!


A clarification first: Mo and I have always signed our emails to each other ‘me’, and ‘me’ was unfortunately either too short or taken in wordpress when I came aboard the odyssey, so I stuck a 0 and added another me. Hence the weird nick.

Mo’s note: he jumped on board the comments before I could give him an appropriate fake name. Bad me!

Mo and I have known each other for 16 years now. We met as we were both in our slutty phases, as well as putting the best of our energies into The Rocky Horror Picture Show and into making friendships that would last a lifetime (more than you would believe). It’s safe to say that in some ways we know each other better than anyone else.

I’ve been on a self discovery journey of my own in the past few months, something that started around the time this blog went up, oddly – or predictably, seeing how Mo and I seem to share life transitions – enough, and the other night I saw a meeting of our roads in my head.

I was coming home on the subway, talking to a guy who’s singing with me in an opera, and he was really nice. This was after a rehearsal for “Carmen” during which another guy singer was also really nice to me. Now, this all probably seems very normal, but I don’t really have guy friends. In fact, other than one gay friend that I used to be involved with before we (actually!) became really good friends, I really don’t have relationships with men other than the one I’m married to (love you Bubi!). So after nice subway guy switches trains and I stay on I start pondering why this is and I realize – I’m a competitive S.O.B. I know this. I rarely show it to the people around me, but inside my head, either I’m the best at what I’m doing at any given moment, or I’m kind of a loser and I should really stop what I’m doing.

Being gay, I automatically have a handicap, if you will, on masculinity. I’m not culturally supposed to be as much of a man as a straight guy. Taking into account the vast chauvinistic roots in our culture that I believe are only slightly less rooted than the homophobic ones (remind me again, why is it that when a man is called/labeled anything feminine it’s funny/demeaning yet when a woman is called/labeled anything masculine it’s cool/elevating?) I will always be, on some cultural level, less than the straight man I’m interacting with.

And then I thought of Mo’s jealousy post, and suddenly it dawned on me. My masculine “handicap” is not unlike the feminine “handicap” that a woman dealing with IF/MC is dealing with internally. How can it not be difficult to face someone who is, because of simple existential facts, “better” than you for reasons you can’t control?

I had never directly confronted feelings of jealousy toward heterosexual men, but there it was, an inferiority complex just looking me in the face!

The good thing about all this is that it was hitting me because of the nice things that were happening that I wasn’t used to – in fact, that Monday evening’s rehearsal and subway ride serve as a kind of havaya metakenet for me. Seeing that I can talk to another guy without having to deal with sexuality, with singers’ competitiveness, with cultural inferiority. As one human being to another. Because we do each have our own journey.

We all go through and make our special life story. There are times at which it’s tough to disconnect ourselves, our selves, from the annoying, chauvinistic, judging lens on our inner all-seeing all-judging eye. But maybe, if we remember (and the big spaghetti monster in the sky knows that’s a whole journey by itself) that the cultural biases we’ve been raised with our only that – cultural biases, things we don’t wholly approve of – we have a better chance of enjoying the journey.

Shmerson Making His Debut Blog Post

27 Feb

Inspired by Cookie’s blog, and considering that I’m slammed with work, I asked Shmerson if he would take over blogging duties for me tonight. So without further ado, here is my dear hubby:

Hi everyone!

Good News: Mo is currently working on watching all of the movies that are nominated for the Oscars AND writing another synopsis AND planning the Oscar night food. Bad News: instead of a post by her you’re getting a post by me- Shmerson.

Actually, calling my wife “Mo” is weird for me, so I’ll just call her Shmerson. If it confuses you, there is a simple way of telling who Shmerson is: If Shmerson is writing a post, then Shmerson means me, Shmerson. And if I, AKA Shmerson, am writing a post, then Shmerson means Shmerson. See how simple it is?

What I want to write about is the male point of view, at least mine. After the first MC, I noticed that my first concern was Shmerson. Don’t get me wrong, I was very sad that we weren’t going to have a baby when we thought. But somehow I was worried about Shmerson’s health, mentally and physically, more than  being sad about the thing itself- losing a baby.

I think it’s because there are aspects of pregnancy (and therefore aspects of MC) that I will never understand in the same way as Shmerson understands them, or as women in general understand them. I can say things like “we are pregnant” as much as I want, but that is not true. Shmerson knew she was pregnant several hours after conception, I didn’t (I thought that was new age BS). Shmerson’s body and mind were reacting to the pregnancy. As for me, only my mind was reacting to it, indirectly, and in a different way; something like “I need to take care of my pregnant wife for the next 9 months, and then be a good dad”, which is different than Shmerson’s “I have a little Mini-Shmerson growing inside of me”.

I’m going to say something weird, so here goes: Freud thought some women are envious of men for their penises. I think he was an effed-up pervert in many, many ways, but here’s my take on the subject. When it comes to pregnancies, I think it’s the other way around. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not going to have a sex change operation anytime soon, and there will NOT be any jokes about wanting to have my own boobs to play with in my spare time (Oops, too late). What I mean is all of us, both male and female, were embryos once. Being pregnant and having a baby makes it a full circle. Women get to experience once again the symbiosis between mother and child, only now as the mother. That is beautiful beyond words.

And I can’t be a part of that in the same sense. I could talk to the baby, put my hand on Shmerson’s belly to feel it kick, but that is not even close. I will be the baby’s parent, of course, but so will Shmerson. And, of course, I will have a part in the making of our baby, but can you really compare carrying a baby for nine months with just having an orgasm? I can do that with both hands handcuffed to the bed.

And just as I can’t really understand pregnancy and feel it in the same way Shmerson does, I can’t really understand MC in the same way that she does. To me, it changed from “I need to take care of my pregnant wife for the next 9 months, and then be a good dad” to “I need to take care of my heart-broken wife, and it turns out I’m not going to be a dad anytime soon”.

For several months I was so into taking care of her, helping her with her grief, I forgot that I have my own grief (-you didn’t “forget”, you supressed. -shut up, Sigmund, you sick bastard). I thought I had to be there for her, be strong for her, and leave my grief aside for now, because hers was so much stronger. This is, of course, a very bad attitude. Luckily, I have an amazing wife who noticed what I was doing, even through everything that she was going through, and called my bluff. That is, perhaps, a subject for another post (which will come soon, I’m enjoying this more than I expected).

I used to be very sad about the whole thing, but Shmerson’s progress, along with this blog, have helped me see the silver lining. Now, I believe everything will be great. I also kinda believe everything that happened was for the best. I can’t really explain why, but I know I’ll be a better dad for everything that happened. (When I understand what I mean by that, I will write another guest-post, promise).

That’s all for tonight, but before we leave- a word from our sponsors:

“Not expecting much from James Franco and Anne Hathaway’s hosting of the Oscars? Only on Mo’s blog we will bring you the funniest sarcastic remarks on red carpet dresses, cynical commentary about annoying starlets, more booing of those worthy of booing, and some home-made Mexican Food*! Join us tomorrow night for the Oscar live blog- hosted by Mommyodyssey! With special guest- Squish! And, me –  Shmerson! Tomorrow! Oscars! Mo! Mexican food! Squish! Shmerson! Join!”

* Blog does not include Mexican food.

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