It's my blog and I'll cry if I want too

I cried at work today. Great big fat tears that rolled down my neck and into the creases of my too-small bra. I haven't cried in weeks, and I was having an otherwise easy deadline day. So what happened?

Yeah yeah, hormones schmormones.

What happened was this: My coworker mentioned a number of kids she knew with hyphenated last names. Smith-Murphy. Green-McDonald. For example. Asked what Baby would be.

Aha! Man and I have talked about this. I tease him about giving Baby my last name only. He clams up and grunts and doesn't say no, but doesn't exactly say okay either. I am teasing, because it is his kid as much as it is mine, and there's no singular argument for giving the child my last name (even if it is infinitely more cute than his last name. Just sayin'...). So I figured we'd hyphenate. I believe having family unity is important, if only for when travelling through customs. And seeing as I don't use his last name (we're not married), hyphenated is the way to go. If we were married, I'd go hyphenated (I really do love my last name, and it truly is much cuter than his) but the kid would have Man's last name. That way we'd all have one name in common and customs/air travel would be that much easier. Without a marriage certificate, it's Baby who is burdened with being the tie that binds. Sorry, kid.

And this is what set off the waterworks. Okay, maybe there's something to this hormone thing after all.

Crazier than I thought

I've got an appointment with a counsellor in two weeks. Two weeks is a very short waiting period for a service that sees wait-times of up to six months. So now I feel guilty for commandeering time and energy and appointment slots away from people who might actually be crazy, and who need the counselling more than I.

After all, having a baby is nothing out of the ordinary.

I wonder if I sounded especially desperate on Monday? It also turned out that the social worker I met and I share an uncle - I would hate to think that this distant family connection got me in the door. Afterall, I know there are people worse off than I am. People without homes; people without friends; people who can't even afford to buy frozen turkey dinners on Christmas Day.

Outdoor decorations in the capital city

 On Monday, a colleague told this story: It was Christmas Day, about 20 years ago. Her own children were 8, 10 and 11 years old. They didn't have any batteries in the house to run some of the Christmas toys, so she and her husband ran out to the nearby gas station to pick some up. Inside, there was another couple with a toddler. They were picking up two Swanson turkey dinners, presumably to share among them. And my colleague remembers thinking, 'There but for the grace of God go I.'

I'm trying to see the bright side, but that image has stayed with me all week. At least the child had two adults in her life; at least they could afford the meals; at least, what? at least they were together on Christmas Day?

I can count on one hand the number of times I've been to church. I prefer to put my faith in trees and stars and the great outdoors, but Christmas, to me, is still a time to spend with family. To have 18 people squashed around the table, elbows in the neighbour's gravy and noses in their business. It's loud and hectic and there are inevitable insults, but I've been so, so lucky not to know a Christmas Day without friends or family.

An outdoor Boxing Day adventure. Hot chocolate and dark cake, as they should be. 
(I remember when that coat still fit)