the art of relaxation (and french cooking)

 
I spent this morning with a good friend of mine, good food, yarn, and who else but Julie and Julia.
It was so relaxing, though she probably can't say the same, since she did have to drive here. We made some yummy buttermilk waffles, washed it down with cold milk (I know,  I know, the little perks of pregnancy during lent) and welcomed in the afternoon by getting cozy on the couch, just us, a lot of pillows, the remote to the dvd player-for those inevitable pee breaks, baby yarn and our collective needles and hooks. It was bliss and soooo relaxing.


And the movie...was pretty awesome too. Kind of inspiring. So I celebrated after she left with a microwaved burrito, pan fried to perfection. With butter. Julia would be so proud.
I found the movie to be quite enjoyable, and really, really cute.

BUT, there always seems to be that pithy little scene, the one that hits you like a ton of bricks, the one you know half the population missed, not out of stupidity or anything like that, just out of unfamiliarity....I felt for Julia and it reminded me of, well me, and I immediately thought of all the people I had hurt and abandoned with similar tears. Though I can't say I'd react the same as before, there is still this overwhelming part of me that still hurts. Hurts from my experience and from reflecting on my disposition, and from knowing that there are still so many women struggling with the emotions of infertility, struggling to live daily life like a normal person, with what it does to their relationships, and to their faith. I feel for them and they are always in my prayers, and I understand because I've been there. As I sat and watched the movie, with my low-key breakfast buddy, I got a little sad. Not because I can't cook as well as I'd like, though almost, but because I was reminded that for a good 5 months I missed out on this....