Last weekend, I attended one of those “party planning” parties- you know the ones where you’re able to shop from home, and trial their wares.

A feature of many of these types of businesses is that if bookings are made by guests, there are all sorts of sweet bonuses.

Me,being me, decided I’d have a party. The woman consulted her diary, and was adamant that I have my party on August 11.

August 10 marks 6 years to the day since I lost Lily, and had my first miscarriage.

While the last few years have been remarkably easier on me, in the lead up to, on and after her day, I cannot predcit how I will travel emotionally.

This woman could tell I was not.wanting.this.date.at. all. But given the fact it is her job to achieve sales and party bookings, she backed me into a corner for it.

I really hate pushy people. I really really do. I am also really irritated at myself for caving and not saying “That’s the day after the anniversary of my daughter’s death, fuckstick, I don’t want this date, ok!?”

Could have, should have, didn’t.

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