Hey Kid -
Sorry it's been a while. I've been having serious thoughts about what to do with this little heartbreak repository, and I think it's got to go. No offense.
The truth of the matter is that I can't build on this. I can't turn this into a happy place later because it started at such a terrible place. I can't let you eventual life be overshadowed with an inauspicious beginning like this one. The miscarriage, the loss of O, the emotional fallout of the last 7 months, these are the facts of my life right now, but they aren't the *truth* of my life.
I'm working on it every day, kiddo. I have mostly good days now. Mostly. But I can't be chained to the past anymore. I have to let it go and move forward. I think about the lives I lost every day, and I probably always will. I can't imagine ever forgetting either of these two events, espcially since they are so closely linked. But I'll tell you something your Gammy said. "If you knew how it was going to end, would you do it differently? Would you not take in the stray kitten? If you are going to love and be loved, you have to be open to heartbreak. It's part of the bargain."
I'll probably print these pages out and keep them somewhere. More for the memories and dreams of O than for the reminder of how bleak a time it was. I hope to meet you on day, Kid. Until then, I'm starting fresh.
Love,
-Mama
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Shame.
Dear Baby,
I drove to the library today to pick up my reserved copy of Alicia Silverstone's new book, The Kind Diet. I used it to prop up a bag of salt and vinegar chips that I ate on the drive home. Yeah. It's like that.
Love,
-Mama
I drove to the library today to pick up my reserved copy of Alicia Silverstone's new book, The Kind Diet. I used it to prop up a bag of salt and vinegar chips that I ate on the drive home. Yeah. It's like that.
Love,
-Mama
Friday, June 4, 2010
It doesn't have to be a nightmare to suck.
Dear Baby,
I had another dream about O. Well, it was tangentially about him. I dreamt that the other kitties, K in particular, asked me where he was. She asked me (in English - that, however, was not strange to me in dreamland) why he hadn't come home yet.
I couldn't even type that sentence without crying.
I miss him so much, kid. I want to paint the inside of the house, but I can't even think about painting the living room - the one room in the house that desperately needs it - because I can't bear the thought of painting over the scratches he left on the walls climbing up on the window sill. (He was a lazy jumper.)
When he died, we had him cremated and we have his ashes in a little box with his name on it. At the time, I couldn't stand thinking that when we left this house we'd be leaving him behind. I wanted to bury him at our forever home, not at our starter home. We're leaving this place in the foreseeable future and I couldn't leave him behind. He was so important to us, kid, and I couldn't leave him behind.
But now I have a little box of ashes and his collar and that's all that's left of him. And I wonder if leaving him at the vet to be cremated that day was the right thing to do. I feel like we left him alone and now I have this little box staring at me and I don't know what to do with it. I figured I'd bury it when we got to our forever home, but now I wonder if burying him here wouldn't have been easier. In the sense that I could have said goodbye instead of wondering if all those horrible stories about mix-ups and swindles at cremation places are true. Now I know exactly where I would have buried him in our yard, and I would have planted a tree over him. But I still wouldn't have wanted to leave him behind when we left. I dunno, kid. It's feeling a little like "damned if you do, damned if you don't" right now.
I asked your Dad if he ever dreams about O. He didn't think so, but he never remembers his dreams anyway. I think we need a new category for dreams. We have dreams and nightmares, and nightmares are pretty well defined. But what about the dreams that are so heart achingly sad that you don't want to wake up from them and when you do you just cry all day? Nightbreaks? So-horrifically-sad-I'm-in-physical-pain? For-the-love-of-god-why-can't-I-forget-my-dreams-like-every-other-normal-person? Let me know if you have any ideas.
In the mean time, I'm trying the "stay up super late until I'm so exhausted I can't think straight" method for avoiding bad dreams. I can't muster up the energy for positive thoughts before bed, so that's gonna have to be my go-to for a while.
Love you, kid.
-Mama
I had another dream about O. Well, it was tangentially about him. I dreamt that the other kitties, K in particular, asked me where he was. She asked me (in English - that, however, was not strange to me in dreamland) why he hadn't come home yet.
I couldn't even type that sentence without crying.
I miss him so much, kid. I want to paint the inside of the house, but I can't even think about painting the living room - the one room in the house that desperately needs it - because I can't bear the thought of painting over the scratches he left on the walls climbing up on the window sill. (He was a lazy jumper.)
When he died, we had him cremated and we have his ashes in a little box with his name on it. At the time, I couldn't stand thinking that when we left this house we'd be leaving him behind. I wanted to bury him at our forever home, not at our starter home. We're leaving this place in the foreseeable future and I couldn't leave him behind. He was so important to us, kid, and I couldn't leave him behind.
But now I have a little box of ashes and his collar and that's all that's left of him. And I wonder if leaving him at the vet to be cremated that day was the right thing to do. I feel like we left him alone and now I have this little box staring at me and I don't know what to do with it. I figured I'd bury it when we got to our forever home, but now I wonder if burying him here wouldn't have been easier. In the sense that I could have said goodbye instead of wondering if all those horrible stories about mix-ups and swindles at cremation places are true. Now I know exactly where I would have buried him in our yard, and I would have planted a tree over him. But I still wouldn't have wanted to leave him behind when we left. I dunno, kid. It's feeling a little like "damned if you do, damned if you don't" right now.
I asked your Dad if he ever dreams about O. He didn't think so, but he never remembers his dreams anyway. I think we need a new category for dreams. We have dreams and nightmares, and nightmares are pretty well defined. But what about the dreams that are so heart achingly sad that you don't want to wake up from them and when you do you just cry all day? Nightbreaks? So-horrifically-sad-I'm-in-physical-pain? For-the-love-of-god-why-can't-I-forget-my-dreams-like-every-other-normal-person? Let me know if you have any ideas.
In the mean time, I'm trying the "stay up super late until I'm so exhausted I can't think straight" method for avoiding bad dreams. I can't muster up the energy for positive thoughts before bed, so that's gonna have to be my go-to for a while.
Love you, kid.
-Mama
A statute of limitations on whining.
Dear Baby,
I don't know if I have what it takes to be a blogger. I know. You're amazed to hear this given the 59 page long posts, but hear me out. I really enjoy reading blogs. Cooking blogs, parenting blogs, random blogs. It's a bit voyeuristic, but it's also inspiring. But these people talk about their lives and activities in a way that I find difficult to do myself. I could tell everyone what I think about the industrial food complex, or the cherry blossom trees in bloom, or what I had for breakfast, but I find myself wondering, who gives a fuck?
This is an abrupt departure for me, kid. Your Gammy will tell you one day. I used to want to be the center of attention. I wanted everyone to know what I ate for breakfast, and I thought they would not only desire this information, but might not survive the day without it. I look back at that girl and wonder if she was fun or just a narcissistic asshole. I hope it was at least a combo, though I suspect it was the latter. It seems, Baby, that somewhere along the path in my journey to adulthood, I became intensely private. Shy. A little paranoid even. Slightly agoraphobic and fearful of strangers. Is a bad (really bad) relationship to blame? Possibly. Probably. But at the end of the day, is it a bad thing that I am more private now? That I don't readily discuss the intimate details of my life any more? I don't think so.
The other issue is that I wanted to start this blog as a happy place. A place where I could tell my unborn child about the wonders that await. But instead it's become a repository for all of my sadness. I can't let go of the sadness, but I am getting a bit tired of my own whining. And I can't imagine anyone else wanting to listen to it. I mean, this isn't who I thought I'd be when I grew up. I didn't ever consider that I would be ordinary. That I would love my husband, hate my job, have a miscarriage and spend the next 6 months (and counting) trying to climb out of an emotional black hole. And let me be the first to tell you kid, no one ever writes their love story the way mine has gone.
"Fall in love, get married, spend a year trying to get pregnant. Have a miscarriage. Cry a lot. Obsess about having a miscarriage every month thereafter. Start talking about fertility tests and basal body temperatures and peak fertility days. Dread taking fertility meds. Wonder if you really are willing to do anything to get pregnant or if you are willing to accept that maybe this is Darwin's way of telling you that you are not the fittest."
Doesn't make for a great story, does it?
I have a few friends who are my age and married and childless. I want to ask them why. Is it their choice? Are they planning for kids? Have they gone through this heartbreak and given up rather than gone down the rabbit hole of injecting hormones into their stomachs every day? I want to ask these questions, but I don't want to answer them. So I don't ask. I have superficial conversations about yarn and farmer's markets and trips to Europe and I don't let any intimate details out. Maybe that's part of the reason I'm struggling. I won't let anyone get close.
I think I'm worried that no one wants to get close. I told a group of girlfriends about O and burst immediately into tears and I think it scared them. Not because they thought it was weird that I was crying for my cat - luckily, I found a group of women who cherish their pets as family, like we do. I think it scared them because people fear sadness. They fear that heartbreak and bad luck and sadness is contagious. If you get too close to someone who is having a tough time, either you'll get sucked into their drama spiral or you will start to have bad luck yourself. I want to assure them that I am not catching, but I don't think I can at this point.
When I was younger, I believed, deep in my soul, that I was fun and witty. That everyone wanted to be my friend and that I had something interesting to say to the world. As I've gotten older, I've started to realize that maybe none of these things are true. I'm lucky in a lot of ways, kid, don't get me wrong. I'm just not what I intended to be.
Love you.
-Mama
I don't know if I have what it takes to be a blogger. I know. You're amazed to hear this given the 59 page long posts, but hear me out. I really enjoy reading blogs. Cooking blogs, parenting blogs, random blogs. It's a bit voyeuristic, but it's also inspiring. But these people talk about their lives and activities in a way that I find difficult to do myself. I could tell everyone what I think about the industrial food complex, or the cherry blossom trees in bloom, or what I had for breakfast, but I find myself wondering, who gives a fuck?
This is an abrupt departure for me, kid. Your Gammy will tell you one day. I used to want to be the center of attention. I wanted everyone to know what I ate for breakfast, and I thought they would not only desire this information, but might not survive the day without it. I look back at that girl and wonder if she was fun or just a narcissistic asshole. I hope it was at least a combo, though I suspect it was the latter. It seems, Baby, that somewhere along the path in my journey to adulthood, I became intensely private. Shy. A little paranoid even. Slightly agoraphobic and fearful of strangers. Is a bad (really bad) relationship to blame? Possibly. Probably. But at the end of the day, is it a bad thing that I am more private now? That I don't readily discuss the intimate details of my life any more? I don't think so.
The other issue is that I wanted to start this blog as a happy place. A place where I could tell my unborn child about the wonders that await. But instead it's become a repository for all of my sadness. I can't let go of the sadness, but I am getting a bit tired of my own whining. And I can't imagine anyone else wanting to listen to it. I mean, this isn't who I thought I'd be when I grew up. I didn't ever consider that I would be ordinary. That I would love my husband, hate my job, have a miscarriage and spend the next 6 months (and counting) trying to climb out of an emotional black hole. And let me be the first to tell you kid, no one ever writes their love story the way mine has gone.
"Fall in love, get married, spend a year trying to get pregnant. Have a miscarriage. Cry a lot. Obsess about having a miscarriage every month thereafter. Start talking about fertility tests and basal body temperatures and peak fertility days. Dread taking fertility meds. Wonder if you really are willing to do anything to get pregnant or if you are willing to accept that maybe this is Darwin's way of telling you that you are not the fittest."
Doesn't make for a great story, does it?
I have a few friends who are my age and married and childless. I want to ask them why. Is it their choice? Are they planning for kids? Have they gone through this heartbreak and given up rather than gone down the rabbit hole of injecting hormones into their stomachs every day? I want to ask these questions, but I don't want to answer them. So I don't ask. I have superficial conversations about yarn and farmer's markets and trips to Europe and I don't let any intimate details out. Maybe that's part of the reason I'm struggling. I won't let anyone get close.
I think I'm worried that no one wants to get close. I told a group of girlfriends about O and burst immediately into tears and I think it scared them. Not because they thought it was weird that I was crying for my cat - luckily, I found a group of women who cherish their pets as family, like we do. I think it scared them because people fear sadness. They fear that heartbreak and bad luck and sadness is contagious. If you get too close to someone who is having a tough time, either you'll get sucked into their drama spiral or you will start to have bad luck yourself. I want to assure them that I am not catching, but I don't think I can at this point.
When I was younger, I believed, deep in my soul, that I was fun and witty. That everyone wanted to be my friend and that I had something interesting to say to the world. As I've gotten older, I've started to realize that maybe none of these things are true. I'm lucky in a lot of ways, kid, don't get me wrong. I'm just not what I intended to be.
Love you.
-Mama
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Ups and downs. But more ups now.
Dear Baby,
I told your Dad a few days ago that I didn't know if I was going to make it. I didn't mean it in the ominous music kind of way, but in the "I can't be a functioning human being" kind of way. I've been working really hard to hold it together lately, especially for him. I've been dumping a lot on your Dad, kiddo, and it's not fair. He's made it really easy to do so, and I forget that he's going through all of the things I'm going through. Granted, he doesn't have the added complications of the physical occurrences, and there is an argument to be made that the miscarriage didn't affect him in the same way, but there's still been sadness in the household in general. The bottom line is that your Dad deserves to have me fully present and emotionally available. He deserves a happier marriage than we are having right now. Well, I shouldn't say it that way. I should say he deserves a happier household than we have right now. Our marriage is the only thing getting me through this.
I'm starting actually be friends with a group of women, and I've discovered that I really missed having women friends. There's a big difference between acquaintances and friends, and I didn't realize there was a void until they stepped in to fill it. I'm finding that one of the keys to my recovery is being accountable. It's so easy to get complacent about accountability with your Dad because he sees how hard it's been for me and gives me a pass. But he shouldn't. And having friends helped me to see that. The down side is that I don't want to be accountable. To anyone. I want to sit on the couch and watch movies and cry. I recognize that this is not healthy. I'm okay with it.
Well, not really.
The thing is, I have good days. A lot of them. Sometimes a bunch in a row even. But it's what I imagine drugs must be like, because the lows afterward are that much more unbearable. Because they catch me off guard. I had a solid two week run of keepin' it together and bein' productive. So this week when I came to the end of that run, I was all the more devastated for it. I think I'm starting to see my way out though and it's such a relief. I figured that I was spiralling down in to a pretty serious depression, but I also figured that I'd snap out of it at some point. Six months later, there's no snapping. So I guess I should be grateful that I'm having good days at all. Maybe instead of snapping, I'm climbing. Mt. Everest. Without oxygen tanks. In a bathing suit. In the winter. Uphill, both ways.
I'm also getting to the point where I want to do something when I'm sad. This is a good sign, kid. For a long stretch of time, I didn't want to do anything, and I was sad all the time. Now I'm sad most of the time, but instead of wallowing, a few days ago I discovered that I actually wanted to do something. Like clean - really deep, scrubbing with bleach kind of cleaning - or go for a run. (Okay, maybe a brisk walk. Your Mom is way out of shape, kid.)
I'm feeling hopeful, kiddo. Which is good because next month I have to go talk to the doctor about why I can't get pregnant, or why I can't stay pregnant, rather. Maybe she'll also tell me how to stop thinking I've had another miscarriage every time I get my period. I need to store some of that hopeful feeling up. I'm going to need it...
I love you.
-Mama
I told your Dad a few days ago that I didn't know if I was going to make it. I didn't mean it in the ominous music kind of way, but in the "I can't be a functioning human being" kind of way. I've been working really hard to hold it together lately, especially for him. I've been dumping a lot on your Dad, kiddo, and it's not fair. He's made it really easy to do so, and I forget that he's going through all of the things I'm going through. Granted, he doesn't have the added complications of the physical occurrences, and there is an argument to be made that the miscarriage didn't affect him in the same way, but there's still been sadness in the household in general. The bottom line is that your Dad deserves to have me fully present and emotionally available. He deserves a happier marriage than we are having right now. Well, I shouldn't say it that way. I should say he deserves a happier household than we have right now. Our marriage is the only thing getting me through this.
I'm starting actually be friends with a group of women, and I've discovered that I really missed having women friends. There's a big difference between acquaintances and friends, and I didn't realize there was a void until they stepped in to fill it. I'm finding that one of the keys to my recovery is being accountable. It's so easy to get complacent about accountability with your Dad because he sees how hard it's been for me and gives me a pass. But he shouldn't. And having friends helped me to see that. The down side is that I don't want to be accountable. To anyone. I want to sit on the couch and watch movies and cry. I recognize that this is not healthy. I'm okay with it.
Well, not really.
The thing is, I have good days. A lot of them. Sometimes a bunch in a row even. But it's what I imagine drugs must be like, because the lows afterward are that much more unbearable. Because they catch me off guard. I had a solid two week run of keepin' it together and bein' productive. So this week when I came to the end of that run, I was all the more devastated for it. I think I'm starting to see my way out though and it's such a relief. I figured that I was spiralling down in to a pretty serious depression, but I also figured that I'd snap out of it at some point. Six months later, there's no snapping. So I guess I should be grateful that I'm having good days at all. Maybe instead of snapping, I'm climbing. Mt. Everest. Without oxygen tanks. In a bathing suit. In the winter. Uphill, both ways.
I'm also getting to the point where I want to do something when I'm sad. This is a good sign, kid. For a long stretch of time, I didn't want to do anything, and I was sad all the time. Now I'm sad most of the time, but instead of wallowing, a few days ago I discovered that I actually wanted to do something. Like clean - really deep, scrubbing with bleach kind of cleaning - or go for a run. (Okay, maybe a brisk walk. Your Mom is way out of shape, kid.)
I'm feeling hopeful, kiddo. Which is good because next month I have to go talk to the doctor about why I can't get pregnant, or why I can't stay pregnant, rather. Maybe she'll also tell me how to stop thinking I've had another miscarriage every time I get my period. I need to store some of that hopeful feeling up. I'm going to need it...
I love you.
-Mama
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
A dream about a kitty.
Dear Baby,
Last night, I dreamed about O. It was a really vivid dream, and I was so profoundly sad when I woke up. The thing is, in my dream, I knew I was dreaming. I have never in my life had a dream where I knew I was dreaming. (Well, none that I can remember anyway.)
In my dream, I was so heartbroken and missing O so badly, and he came to visit. And I knew I was dreaming his visit, but it was kind of like he came to my dream because that was the only place we could interact together. In my dream, he came to see me because he knew how badly I needed him at that moment and he wanted me to know that he was okay and I was okay and that he was still around in some way.
I petted him and smelled his fur and rested my head on his belly and held him, and he purred and cuddled with me. It was so realistic, kid, that when I woke up I was even more sad. I woke up crying and haven't really been able to stop all day.
Here's the thing, though. When O was alive, he was a funny cat. He was so sweet and loved to sit in your lap, but he was also moody and prone to attacking you if he didn't get his way. We sometimes jokingly called him our mean kitty. If you put your face in his belly, you ran the risk of him latching on to your head with his claws. In my dream, I knew that he wouldn't try to claw me or nip at me or anything. I knew that I could totally invade his space without repercussions because he knew I needed to so badly and he was willing to let me.
It's so hard to explain something as abstract as a dream to someone else. I'm trying to convey the heartbreak and the beauty of that dream and failing so miserably. Instead, I'm making it seem like O was not a nice cat. Believe me, kid, he was. He was such a sweet cat, and I miss him so, so very much.
Last night I got to see his pretty fur again and feel how soft he was under my fingers, and smell his slightly dusty, warm scent, and feel the weight of him in my lap. And in my dream I knew that he was visiting me because I am having such a hard time in the real world, and he knew I needed something. Some comfort or some way to say goodbye, maybe? Or maybe he was just letting me know that he wasn't really gone, so I didn't need to feel so desolate about not having him around any more.
The weirdest part about this is that I don't believe in it. I don't believe in an afterlife or a god or any of that. I do believe that there is a great cycle to life, that energy and matter are two halves of a single whole. And I guess I feel like when someone dies their energy returns to the whole. But I feel it in a more concrete way than in a flighty, tarot-cards kind of way. I just mean that I think when you die, your body decays and the elements that made you go into worms or bugs or plants which in turn grow and then die. And in a larger sense, all of the elements in our bodies were made in stars billions of years ago, and billions of years from now all of the elements in our bodies will be recycled back in to the universe for some other purpose.
I guess my entire spiritual philosophy boils down to a great cosmic upcycle.
So really, I'm dreaming about O because my brain created some kind of comforting scenario for me in my subconscious because my waking mind is in such turmoil. Which makes the whole thing even more sad. Because I can't even suspend disbelief long enough to imagine that O really was visiting me.
Your grandfather-to-be (I'm thinking we're gonna go with Grambo for him...) begged me not to have O neutered when he was a kitten. O had such beautiful fur and your Grambo thought we should let him father a litter of kittens. I didn't listen for several reasons. First, there are way too many homeless kittens out there. Second, where were we going to find a female cat to mother the kittens? Third, what on earth were we going to do with an extra cat (that would have made seven total if we found O a mate) and a litter of kittens? I would never have been able to part with them. But now that he's gone, I find myself wishing that we had some small part of him left on this earth to love, like a kitten with his DNA. The only thing we have now are memories. He was one of a kind, kid, and it seems such a poor way to pay homage.
It seems pretty clear that I am slipping further and further into a fairly serious depression, and I have no idea how to pull out of it. I could go talk to someone about it, but I really don't want to. I keep thinking that I can wait it out, that grief takes time, but then I get impatient. How long is it supposed to take? Shouldn't I be feeling better at this point??
There are some bright spots, lest you think my entire life is falling apart. Well, it is, actually, but there are still some points of light. Your Dad is a big one. The other kitties are, too. They seem to know I'm struggling and have been going out of their way to comfort me. As I was sobbing earlier today, Z jumped into my lap and purred and pushed her face into my hand for pets. And head-butted my chin. Just to let me know she loved me. E curls up next to my stomach almost every night - something she never did before. D has been meowing a lot. It doesn't sound like much, but she never meows so when she does it's like a special occasion. Plus, her meows are adorable and always bring a smile to my face. K has been cuddling up on my feet every night, and climbing in to my lap if I sit still long enough on the couch. And T has been bringing me his toy mouse every day as I sit at my computer doing work. Letting me know he's thinking about making me happy. By killing a crocheted mouse... What can I say? He's a kitty.
I love you, kiddo.
Mama
Last night, I dreamed about O. It was a really vivid dream, and I was so profoundly sad when I woke up. The thing is, in my dream, I knew I was dreaming. I have never in my life had a dream where I knew I was dreaming. (Well, none that I can remember anyway.)
In my dream, I was so heartbroken and missing O so badly, and he came to visit. And I knew I was dreaming his visit, but it was kind of like he came to my dream because that was the only place we could interact together. In my dream, he came to see me because he knew how badly I needed him at that moment and he wanted me to know that he was okay and I was okay and that he was still around in some way.
I petted him and smelled his fur and rested my head on his belly and held him, and he purred and cuddled with me. It was so realistic, kid, that when I woke up I was even more sad. I woke up crying and haven't really been able to stop all day.
Here's the thing, though. When O was alive, he was a funny cat. He was so sweet and loved to sit in your lap, but he was also moody and prone to attacking you if he didn't get his way. We sometimes jokingly called him our mean kitty. If you put your face in his belly, you ran the risk of him latching on to your head with his claws. In my dream, I knew that he wouldn't try to claw me or nip at me or anything. I knew that I could totally invade his space without repercussions because he knew I needed to so badly and he was willing to let me.
It's so hard to explain something as abstract as a dream to someone else. I'm trying to convey the heartbreak and the beauty of that dream and failing so miserably. Instead, I'm making it seem like O was not a nice cat. Believe me, kid, he was. He was such a sweet cat, and I miss him so, so very much.
Last night I got to see his pretty fur again and feel how soft he was under my fingers, and smell his slightly dusty, warm scent, and feel the weight of him in my lap. And in my dream I knew that he was visiting me because I am having such a hard time in the real world, and he knew I needed something. Some comfort or some way to say goodbye, maybe? Or maybe he was just letting me know that he wasn't really gone, so I didn't need to feel so desolate about not having him around any more.
The weirdest part about this is that I don't believe in it. I don't believe in an afterlife or a god or any of that. I do believe that there is a great cycle to life, that energy and matter are two halves of a single whole. And I guess I feel like when someone dies their energy returns to the whole. But I feel it in a more concrete way than in a flighty, tarot-cards kind of way. I just mean that I think when you die, your body decays and the elements that made you go into worms or bugs or plants which in turn grow and then die. And in a larger sense, all of the elements in our bodies were made in stars billions of years ago, and billions of years from now all of the elements in our bodies will be recycled back in to the universe for some other purpose.
I guess my entire spiritual philosophy boils down to a great cosmic upcycle.
So really, I'm dreaming about O because my brain created some kind of comforting scenario for me in my subconscious because my waking mind is in such turmoil. Which makes the whole thing even more sad. Because I can't even suspend disbelief long enough to imagine that O really was visiting me.
Your grandfather-to-be (I'm thinking we're gonna go with Grambo for him...) begged me not to have O neutered when he was a kitten. O had such beautiful fur and your Grambo thought we should let him father a litter of kittens. I didn't listen for several reasons. First, there are way too many homeless kittens out there. Second, where were we going to find a female cat to mother the kittens? Third, what on earth were we going to do with an extra cat (that would have made seven total if we found O a mate) and a litter of kittens? I would never have been able to part with them. But now that he's gone, I find myself wishing that we had some small part of him left on this earth to love, like a kitten with his DNA. The only thing we have now are memories. He was one of a kind, kid, and it seems such a poor way to pay homage.
It seems pretty clear that I am slipping further and further into a fairly serious depression, and I have no idea how to pull out of it. I could go talk to someone about it, but I really don't want to. I keep thinking that I can wait it out, that grief takes time, but then I get impatient. How long is it supposed to take? Shouldn't I be feeling better at this point??
There are some bright spots, lest you think my entire life is falling apart. Well, it is, actually, but there are still some points of light. Your Dad is a big one. The other kitties are, too. They seem to know I'm struggling and have been going out of their way to comfort me. As I was sobbing earlier today, Z jumped into my lap and purred and pushed her face into my hand for pets. And head-butted my chin. Just to let me know she loved me. E curls up next to my stomach almost every night - something she never did before. D has been meowing a lot. It doesn't sound like much, but she never meows so when she does it's like a special occasion. Plus, her meows are adorable and always bring a smile to my face. K has been cuddling up on my feet every night, and climbing in to my lap if I sit still long enough on the couch. And T has been bringing me his toy mouse every day as I sit at my computer doing work. Letting me know he's thinking about making me happy. By killing a crocheted mouse... What can I say? He's a kitty.
I love you, kiddo.
Mama
Monday, May 3, 2010
Struggling. Still.
Dear Baby,
An old friend sent me a text message today with three little words. "Are you pregnant???" She said she just had "a feeling" like something was going on. What could I say? "Thanks for asking! I totally was, but had a miscarriage, then thought I might be again, but got my period, but my period is so bad I'm worried I might be having another miscarriage."
Not exactly a text messaging kind of conversation.
Instead, I fell back on the old standby. Lying. In this case, though, I'm willing to give myself a pass on the dishonesty. Normally I'm not a fan, but I think this qualifies as an instance when a person is entitled to lie with a clean conscience. I'm the one who has to live with the heartbreak, so I get to decide who gets to know about it and how best to heal from it.
I really thought I was digging myself out of the hole, kid, but it turns out I'm not. Apparently, you can't dig up. That one little question sent me in to an afternoon of crying. Not that it takes much to reduce me to tears, but there you have it. I really thought I was making some headway; that I had hit the bottom of the sorrow and was climbing out.
Turns out, not so much. And now? Now I don't even know where the bottom is. I'm starting to think I really need to talk about this with someone, but I just. Don't. Want. To. I'm obsessing about it but I'm so tired of talking about it. It's a weird dichotomy, I know.
I think the main reason I haven't wanted to talk about it is because I don't want to deal with the follow-up. I don't want anyone wondering, or worse, asking, how the whole baby-making thing is coming along. I don't want anyone to feel like it's okay to ask me questions about it. And I feel like discussing this experience out loud with someone would be giving permission, either implicit or explicit, to dig deeper into my reproductive plans, hopes, expectations, experiences.
I'm just not interested in discussing it. And since unburdening myself on someone would be entirely selfish if I laid ground rules that they weren't even allowed to think about it afterward, let alone discuss it further, I guess I'm just gonna have to go this one alone. Well, "alone" in the sense that it's just me and your Dad. Though, frankly, I'm a bit worried about that. He's been responsible for carrying the majority of the burden that is my emotional grenade. It seems unfair to make him shoulder it alone.
Sometimes I get a little mad at him about it, but I think... No, I know. I know it's just my grief. He has done nothing wrong, but I wonder why he isn't having a hard time with this. Or maybe I'm so wrapped up in my own misery that I don't see his? Maybe there is only room for one person to fall apart at a time, so he's holding it together because I so clearly can't? Or maybe he just has a cognitive separation from it that I can't possibly attain? It wasn't his body, after all. He had no physical attachment, and it was gone before he knew it existed in the first place.
I dunno, kid. I'm looking for a way out. One of our kitties is curled up in a box that is about three sizes too small for her and another is dreaming with her eyes open. It made me smile, so I guess I'll start there.
Love you.
Mama
An old friend sent me a text message today with three little words. "Are you pregnant???" She said she just had "a feeling" like something was going on. What could I say? "Thanks for asking! I totally was, but had a miscarriage, then thought I might be again, but got my period, but my period is so bad I'm worried I might be having another miscarriage."
Not exactly a text messaging kind of conversation.
Instead, I fell back on the old standby. Lying. In this case, though, I'm willing to give myself a pass on the dishonesty. Normally I'm not a fan, but I think this qualifies as an instance when a person is entitled to lie with a clean conscience. I'm the one who has to live with the heartbreak, so I get to decide who gets to know about it and how best to heal from it.
I really thought I was digging myself out of the hole, kid, but it turns out I'm not. Apparently, you can't dig up. That one little question sent me in to an afternoon of crying. Not that it takes much to reduce me to tears, but there you have it. I really thought I was making some headway; that I had hit the bottom of the sorrow and was climbing out.
Turns out, not so much. And now? Now I don't even know where the bottom is. I'm starting to think I really need to talk about this with someone, but I just. Don't. Want. To. I'm obsessing about it but I'm so tired of talking about it. It's a weird dichotomy, I know.
I think the main reason I haven't wanted to talk about it is because I don't want to deal with the follow-up. I don't want anyone wondering, or worse, asking, how the whole baby-making thing is coming along. I don't want anyone to feel like it's okay to ask me questions about it. And I feel like discussing this experience out loud with someone would be giving permission, either implicit or explicit, to dig deeper into my reproductive plans, hopes, expectations, experiences.
I'm just not interested in discussing it. And since unburdening myself on someone would be entirely selfish if I laid ground rules that they weren't even allowed to think about it afterward, let alone discuss it further, I guess I'm just gonna have to go this one alone. Well, "alone" in the sense that it's just me and your Dad. Though, frankly, I'm a bit worried about that. He's been responsible for carrying the majority of the burden that is my emotional grenade. It seems unfair to make him shoulder it alone.
Sometimes I get a little mad at him about it, but I think... No, I know. I know it's just my grief. He has done nothing wrong, but I wonder why he isn't having a hard time with this. Or maybe I'm so wrapped up in my own misery that I don't see his? Maybe there is only room for one person to fall apart at a time, so he's holding it together because I so clearly can't? Or maybe he just has a cognitive separation from it that I can't possibly attain? It wasn't his body, after all. He had no physical attachment, and it was gone before he knew it existed in the first place.
I dunno, kid. I'm looking for a way out. One of our kitties is curled up in a box that is about three sizes too small for her and another is dreaming with her eyes open. It made me smile, so I guess I'll start there.
Love you.
Mama
Is 2010 over yet?
Dear Baby,
Not pregnant.
And our car window got smashed yesterday. GPS stolen. If anyone needs me, I'll be in bed until 2011.
Love you.
Mama
Not pregnant.
And our car window got smashed yesterday. GPS stolen. If anyone needs me, I'll be in bed until 2011.
Love you.
Mama
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Alicia Silverstone should call me.
Dear Baby,
I try really hard to not be one of "those" people. I don't obsess about celebrities. I lived in LA for a few years, so I have an unfortunate abit of reading celeb news and gossip, but I never had posters up in my room or followed one particular celeb or anything like that. But honestly, it's a shame that Alicia Silverstone and I will never meet. Because I think we would be really good friends.
She and I (apparently, if you believe interviews you read in magazines...) share a lot of common interests. We are both vegan, we both adopt shelter pets, we both want the world to be a kinder, gentler place, and now, aparently, we both feel we are destined for motherhood. She seems like she's enough like me that we'd have a solid friendship base, but different enough (wealthy, beautiful and famous, for starters!) to be interesting to each other. Either that or we'd be so alike that we'd drive each other nuts. I'm betting on the BFF theory, though.
Listen, Alicia (can I call you that?): we should exchange favorite vegan recipes - I have a kick-ass chili one, for example - and talk about how to be vegan and posh at the same time and how to cloth diaper our babies. You can teach me how to lose weight being vegan, something you did naturally, I gather, while I am struggling with the poundage, and I'll teach you how to knit/crochet/quilt/pick your craft. (Plus, I feel like you are the type of friend who would make getting together for yoga fun instead of something I'd be looking for an excuse to get out of...) If you don't already know how. We can cook our way through Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World and Vegan Cookies Invade Your Cookie Jar. I've got all the ingredients, you bring the champagne.
Okay, enough of the Alicia Silverstone love-fest. I guess I just need some solid female friends, kiddo. Ones that live near me and who have similar life goals. There are a few girls who I feel like I am on the verge of friendship with, but it never got past the awkward stage. Maybe it's because I've been having such a tough time lately. I suppose you can't expect to meet friends if you aren't going to be a good friend yourself.
Picking up the pieces, baby. Pickin' 'em up. It takes longer than I thought, though.
Love you, kid.
Mama
I try really hard to not be one of "those" people. I don't obsess about celebrities. I lived in LA for a few years, so I have an unfortunate abit of reading celeb news and gossip, but I never had posters up in my room or followed one particular celeb or anything like that. But honestly, it's a shame that Alicia Silverstone and I will never meet. Because I think we would be really good friends.
She and I (apparently, if you believe interviews you read in magazines...) share a lot of common interests. We are both vegan, we both adopt shelter pets, we both want the world to be a kinder, gentler place, and now, aparently, we both feel we are destined for motherhood. She seems like she's enough like me that we'd have a solid friendship base, but different enough (wealthy, beautiful and famous, for starters!) to be interesting to each other. Either that or we'd be so alike that we'd drive each other nuts. I'm betting on the BFF theory, though.
Listen, Alicia (can I call you that?): we should exchange favorite vegan recipes - I have a kick-ass chili one, for example - and talk about how to be vegan and posh at the same time and how to cloth diaper our babies. You can teach me how to lose weight being vegan, something you did naturally, I gather, while I am struggling with the poundage, and I'll teach you how to knit/crochet/quilt/pick your craft. (Plus, I feel like you are the type of friend who would make getting together for yoga fun instead of something I'd be looking for an excuse to get out of...) If you don't already know how. We can cook our way through Vegan Cupcakes Take Over the World and Vegan Cookies Invade Your Cookie Jar. I've got all the ingredients, you bring the champagne.
Okay, enough of the Alicia Silverstone love-fest. I guess I just need some solid female friends, kiddo. Ones that live near me and who have similar life goals. There are a few girls who I feel like I am on the verge of friendship with, but it never got past the awkward stage. Maybe it's because I've been having such a tough time lately. I suppose you can't expect to meet friends if you aren't going to be a good friend yourself.
Picking up the pieces, baby. Pickin' 'em up. It takes longer than I thought, though.
Love you, kid.
Mama
Monday, April 26, 2010
This was not on the to-do list.
Dear Baby,
Since your Dad and I are planning for your arrival well in advance, we are using our double income to fix up the house. For example, the upstairs (main) bathroom desperately needed remodeling, so a few months ago we hired a contractor and set to work. Now, over two months later, it's almost done. I'll spare you the ugly details as to why a 5x7 bathroom would take more than two months to remodel. Let's just say that in no universe should it ever take that long for a space that small. We did learn two very valuable lessons though. 1) Never let your contractor talk you into starting a job before you are ready, and 2) have all of your materials on hand before you start. Moving on...
Our next task is to repaint the inside of the house and rearrange the furniture. It just needs a little sprucing up now that the bathroom looks so awesome. We also planned to replace the pillars holding up the roof of our front porch because, really, those things could collapse any day now. They are little ticking time-bombs.
We have a lot on our plates already, no? So imagine our frustration when our basement flooded this past weekend. It was right after we had finished our first shower ever in the new bathroom too, so we freaked out that our bathroom was somehow broken. Long story short, we think there are tree roots growing in to our sewer line. I know, fun, right? The plumber is coming today to snake the drain, but if that doesn't work, the next fix is to dig up the front yard and physically repair the line. ::sigh::
Your Gammy has lived in a construction zone for five years, kid, and I have no idea how she does it. We've had minor construction going on for two months and with all the other things I have planned, it will likely be another two or three of drop cloths and clutter before we're done. Here's a tidbit you'll learn about me later on: I am a borderline neat freak. I hate clutter and mess and dirty stuff. I can live with clutter longer than I can live with filth (like dirty dishes), but it's still a fairly short time period. I may go nuts before it's all over.
Your Dad suggested we should be going crazy doing all the "young couple in the city" stuff we can before you come along, but all this work is going to put a serious crimp in the party budget, kid.
Sorry for such a boring letter today, Baby. I'm just tired of rehashing how tired and sad I am all the time. This is me trying to be normal. Normal Mom is less interesting, but ultimately more stable. I think you'll appreciate it later in life.
Love you forever, kid.
Mama
Since your Dad and I are planning for your arrival well in advance, we are using our double income to fix up the house. For example, the upstairs (main) bathroom desperately needed remodeling, so a few months ago we hired a contractor and set to work. Now, over two months later, it's almost done. I'll spare you the ugly details as to why a 5x7 bathroom would take more than two months to remodel. Let's just say that in no universe should it ever take that long for a space that small. We did learn two very valuable lessons though. 1) Never let your contractor talk you into starting a job before you are ready, and 2) have all of your materials on hand before you start. Moving on...
Our next task is to repaint the inside of the house and rearrange the furniture. It just needs a little sprucing up now that the bathroom looks so awesome. We also planned to replace the pillars holding up the roof of our front porch because, really, those things could collapse any day now. They are little ticking time-bombs.
We have a lot on our plates already, no? So imagine our frustration when our basement flooded this past weekend. It was right after we had finished our first shower ever in the new bathroom too, so we freaked out that our bathroom was somehow broken. Long story short, we think there are tree roots growing in to our sewer line. I know, fun, right? The plumber is coming today to snake the drain, but if that doesn't work, the next fix is to dig up the front yard and physically repair the line. ::sigh::
Your Gammy has lived in a construction zone for five years, kid, and I have no idea how she does it. We've had minor construction going on for two months and with all the other things I have planned, it will likely be another two or three of drop cloths and clutter before we're done. Here's a tidbit you'll learn about me later on: I am a borderline neat freak. I hate clutter and mess and dirty stuff. I can live with clutter longer than I can live with filth (like dirty dishes), but it's still a fairly short time period. I may go nuts before it's all over.
Your Dad suggested we should be going crazy doing all the "young couple in the city" stuff we can before you come along, but all this work is going to put a serious crimp in the party budget, kid.
Sorry for such a boring letter today, Baby. I'm just tired of rehashing how tired and sad I am all the time. This is me trying to be normal. Normal Mom is less interesting, but ultimately more stable. I think you'll appreciate it later in life.
Love you forever, kid.
Mama
Friday, April 23, 2010
Suspicious.
Dear Baby -
I'm not quite sure how I feel about this whole blogging gig. Your Dad and I are fairly private people, so I've gone pretty far out of my way to make this blog anonymous. There are several reasons for this, with the most obvious being that no one knows about my miscarriage and I didn't think a blog was the best way to announce it. In fact, I'm not sure that I'll ever tell the majority of our family and friends. At least not for a long time. I'll probably tell your future-Gammy (still trying out grandmother names - I like this one quite a bit, but I suppose it's ultimately up to Gammy), and maybe one or two of your aunts, but I doubt it will be a family-wide announcement kind of thing. But back to privacy.
There was a guy in the town where I went to college who had a song up on the Internet that was titled with my whole name. I was really uncomfortable with that and lobbied pretty hard to have him take it down. It took a fairly long string of emails and finally some scary lawyer-speak before he complied, but it was just really creepy to me to have a song out there with my full name by some guy I didn't know in a town I use to live in. Especially considering that as far as Google and I can tell, I'm the only person on Earth with that name. Creepy.
There are a lot of people who write blogs and give out full names, cities and all sorts of additional personal information, including photos. I respect the people that do that, but it just seems too... exposed, to me. So I've opted for the other extreme of anonymity. It might be because I spent way too long in an abusive relationship and still occasionally have nightmares about him tracking me down. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. If I ever write a book, I guess anonymity will be out the window, but for now, we'll just be nameless and faceless.
The other thing about writing this anonymously is that it is incredibly liberating. There's something just, well, cathartic about putting all my crazy down on (electronic) paper and letting the world see it. I'm pretty sure my experiences aren't unique, but as we become (as a society) increasingly disconnected from one another, it's comforting to put all my thoughts and fears out there. I don't know if anyone has or will ever read any of this, but knowing it's out there for posterity is somehow freeing.
It also gives me a record to look back on later. So if I say something prophetic, I can go back and confirm that I actually wrote it out loud first. Let me give you two examples. The first is a shoulda-woulda-coulda-but-didn't example:
A few months ago, your future Unca B and I were talking about the NFL draft. (Your Dad doesn't care for sports all that much, but lemme tell ya, kid. Your Unca B and I are going to do our damnedest to turn you into a football fan. College, though. Not pro.) One of our favorite players was involved in a bit of a controversy surrounding whether or not he would be drafted and where in the draft he would be taken. Your Unca B and I both agreed that we would love for him to go to Minnesota. You see, our favorite player was (is) Tim Tebow, and since his favorite running back target in college, Percy Harvin, was already at Minnesota, and Minnesota was going to need a quarterback soon (because they currently have Brett "Imma retire any day now for real" Favre), we felt like Minnesota would be a perfect, perfect fit for ol' Timmy. No one in the sportswriting community even discussed this as a possibility until a few weeks ago. As the draft neared, suddenly everyone was saying what we had been saying for months! And I thought, "Shman! I should have written an op-ed piece for a magazine or newspaper or something! Now everyone else is saying what I already said!" It frustrating to watch other people capitalize on your idea, kid. Ultimately, it's not that big of a deal to me in this particular instance because 1) I am not a professional writer, nor do I have the enormous amount of research and knowledge invested into the sports field that they do, and 2) Tebow went to the Denver Broncos last night as the 25th overall pick in the first round. Yes, Baby, I totally agree. It's completely mystifying why Denver would want to be three deep in quarterbacks since they already have two pretty good ones on the team. So now, for the record, I'm writing down my prediction. Denver picked up Tebow earlier in the draft than he technically should have gone because they struck a deal with another team (... saaaay, Minnesota?) to trade him later since he would have been drafted by someone else before said team could have a crack at him. Maybe it's crazy, but that's my prediction and I'm writing it down.
I've digressed pretty far at this point, but I'm coming to prediction number two directly.
Example two relates (possibly) to you. Possibly. The thing is, for a few days now, I've been feeling off. Really, really tired. Sore nipples. Super painful sore, in fact, if you (don't) want to know the ugly details. Sorry for the TMI, kid, but these are all very early pregnancy signs according to doctors, mayoclinic.com and every woman who has ever been pregnant. So I am (not so) secretly hoping that I'm pregnant again. The only problem is that it's extremely early. Extremely. And all of the websites that discuss early pregnancy symptoms are a more than a little vague on the timeline for these symptoms. The closest I could come to a timeline talked about implantation bleeding anywhere from 3-6 days after fertilization to 10-14 days after fertilization. Mayo Clinic said 10-14 days, so I'm inclined to go with that estimate. It's quite possible, and maybe even probable, that I'm being a hypochondriac about the whole thing. That I want to be pregnant so badly that I'm manifesting symptoms for a non-existent condition. The only small bit of consolation evidence I have is that the last time I felt this way, I turned out to be pregnant. I'm trying to focus on that bit, rather than how that whole experience turned out in the end... Time will tell, kiddo, but I wanted to record it here just in case. That way, I'll know what to look out for next time.
All I can say is here's hopin', kid. We'd really love to meet you.
I love you forever.
Mama
I'm not quite sure how I feel about this whole blogging gig. Your Dad and I are fairly private people, so I've gone pretty far out of my way to make this blog anonymous. There are several reasons for this, with the most obvious being that no one knows about my miscarriage and I didn't think a blog was the best way to announce it. In fact, I'm not sure that I'll ever tell the majority of our family and friends. At least not for a long time. I'll probably tell your future-Gammy (still trying out grandmother names - I like this one quite a bit, but I suppose it's ultimately up to Gammy), and maybe one or two of your aunts, but I doubt it will be a family-wide announcement kind of thing. But back to privacy.
There was a guy in the town where I went to college who had a song up on the Internet that was titled with my whole name. I was really uncomfortable with that and lobbied pretty hard to have him take it down. It took a fairly long string of emails and finally some scary lawyer-speak before he complied, but it was just really creepy to me to have a song out there with my full name by some guy I didn't know in a town I use to live in. Especially considering that as far as Google and I can tell, I'm the only person on Earth with that name. Creepy.
There are a lot of people who write blogs and give out full names, cities and all sorts of additional personal information, including photos. I respect the people that do that, but it just seems too... exposed, to me. So I've opted for the other extreme of anonymity. It might be because I spent way too long in an abusive relationship and still occasionally have nightmares about him tracking me down. Or maybe I'm just paranoid. If I ever write a book, I guess anonymity will be out the window, but for now, we'll just be nameless and faceless.
The other thing about writing this anonymously is that it is incredibly liberating. There's something just, well, cathartic about putting all my crazy down on (electronic) paper and letting the world see it. I'm pretty sure my experiences aren't unique, but as we become (as a society) increasingly disconnected from one another, it's comforting to put all my thoughts and fears out there. I don't know if anyone has or will ever read any of this, but knowing it's out there for posterity is somehow freeing.
It also gives me a record to look back on later. So if I say something prophetic, I can go back and confirm that I actually wrote it out loud first. Let me give you two examples. The first is a shoulda-woulda-coulda-but-didn't example:
A few months ago, your future Unca B and I were talking about the NFL draft. (Your Dad doesn't care for sports all that much, but lemme tell ya, kid. Your Unca B and I are going to do our damnedest to turn you into a football fan. College, though. Not pro.) One of our favorite players was involved in a bit of a controversy surrounding whether or not he would be drafted and where in the draft he would be taken. Your Unca B and I both agreed that we would love for him to go to Minnesota. You see, our favorite player was (is) Tim Tebow, and since his favorite running back target in college, Percy Harvin, was already at Minnesota, and Minnesota was going to need a quarterback soon (because they currently have Brett "Imma retire any day now for real" Favre), we felt like Minnesota would be a perfect, perfect fit for ol' Timmy. No one in the sportswriting community even discussed this as a possibility until a few weeks ago. As the draft neared, suddenly everyone was saying what we had been saying for months! And I thought, "Shman! I should have written an op-ed piece for a magazine or newspaper or something! Now everyone else is saying what I already said!" It frustrating to watch other people capitalize on your idea, kid. Ultimately, it's not that big of a deal to me in this particular instance because 1) I am not a professional writer, nor do I have the enormous amount of research and knowledge invested into the sports field that they do, and 2) Tebow went to the Denver Broncos last night as the 25th overall pick in the first round. Yes, Baby, I totally agree. It's completely mystifying why Denver would want to be three deep in quarterbacks since they already have two pretty good ones on the team. So now, for the record, I'm writing down my prediction. Denver picked up Tebow earlier in the draft than he technically should have gone because they struck a deal with another team (... saaaay, Minnesota?) to trade him later since he would have been drafted by someone else before said team could have a crack at him. Maybe it's crazy, but that's my prediction and I'm writing it down.
I've digressed pretty far at this point, but I'm coming to prediction number two directly.
Example two relates (possibly) to you. Possibly. The thing is, for a few days now, I've been feeling off. Really, really tired. Sore nipples. Super painful sore, in fact, if you (don't) want to know the ugly details. Sorry for the TMI, kid, but these are all very early pregnancy signs according to doctors, mayoclinic.com and every woman who has ever been pregnant. So I am (not so) secretly hoping that I'm pregnant again. The only problem is that it's extremely early. Extremely. And all of the websites that discuss early pregnancy symptoms are a more than a little vague on the timeline for these symptoms. The closest I could come to a timeline talked about implantation bleeding anywhere from 3-6 days after fertilization to 10-14 days after fertilization. Mayo Clinic said 10-14 days, so I'm inclined to go with that estimate. It's quite possible, and maybe even probable, that I'm being a hypochondriac about the whole thing. That I want to be pregnant so badly that I'm manifesting symptoms for a non-existent condition. The only small bit of consolation evidence I have is that the last time I felt this way, I turned out to be pregnant. I'm trying to focus on that bit, rather than how that whole experience turned out in the end... Time will tell, kiddo, but I wanted to record it here just in case. That way, I'll know what to look out for next time.
All I can say is here's hopin', kid. We'd really love to meet you.
I love you forever.
Mama
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Like I said, I'm not that original.
Dear Baby,
I admit it. I'm a bit baby-crazy right now. It's a little bit like being 12 or 13 years old and being boy-crazy. A fun time for all of us to look forward to, whether you are on the giving or receiving end of that particular phenomenon. Really, though, since your Dad and I decided we were ready (or, rather, "ready") to embark on this next phase of our lives, I've been researching all kinds of baby-related things. Your Dad does not know this. It would probably scare him. Every once in a while I let it slip that I've been reading fertility and conception articles, or will share a particularly funny post from a baby blog, but mostly I've kept the crazy in. Mostly. Know this, though: I take a folic acid supplement every single night before bed and your Dad never keeps his laptop on his lap any more. 'Nuff said.
I have all sorts of plans for you. Many of them come from this website, fittingly also titled Dear Baby. This woman makes me laugh, kid, and she has great taste. I aspire to have this kind of taste, but I fall short of the mark. Many women have a "look", or a particular style. I am one of the unfortunate few who has nothing of the sort. And all of the things I love, sadly, don't seem to come in my size. Or I'm not looking in the right place.
I've also fallen in love with chalkboard paint. I'm planning to try some out in the house soon, but fear not, it will likely make an appearance in your room one day. And this carpet from Anthropolgie. I. Love. It. But it raises some ethical questions for me about being a vegan mom. Because it's wool.
I mean, strictly speaking, shepherds don't kill their flocks for wool - it just doesn't make sound financial sense - but animal treatment is just as important, if not more so, than whether the animal lives or dies. It's a question I've also pondered given my growing interest in cloth diapering and the abundance of wool as the preferred fabric for soakers (diaper covers). There are plenty of times when I've thought that I should use wool because it's a great material, but ultimately, my desire for something is less important than the impact it has on the source animal or the environment at large. I have bought wool yarn from a sheep rescue farm. But I know for a fact that those sheep are pampered and not bred for lambs or anything like that. How do I source a wool rug or wool soakers like that? I'm starting to think this whole living-by-your-conscience thing is going to be a tough gig, especially when you throw parenting into the mix. I certainly hope you appreciate this later in life.
Your Dad and I watched "No Impact Man" last night and while some of it seemed pretty contrived and the main guy seemed, at least in the context of his goals and career versus his family and his wife's goals, to be kind of a prick, he said something which really resonated with me. I'm paraphrasing, but he essentially said that we, as a species, are becoming more and more disconnected from one another. And as a result, there is no sense of "community" any more. Since there is no sense of community, we feel that we are not responsible to anyone else but ourselves, and this is a huge mistake. So, while your Dad and I still tend to be a social island, we are trying to maintain responsibility to our fellow man. It's really tough, kid, because I. Love. That. Rug.
I love you forever,
Mama
I admit it. I'm a bit baby-crazy right now. It's a little bit like being 12 or 13 years old and being boy-crazy. A fun time for all of us to look forward to, whether you are on the giving or receiving end of that particular phenomenon. Really, though, since your Dad and I decided we were ready (or, rather, "ready") to embark on this next phase of our lives, I've been researching all kinds of baby-related things. Your Dad does not know this. It would probably scare him. Every once in a while I let it slip that I've been reading fertility and conception articles, or will share a particularly funny post from a baby blog, but mostly I've kept the crazy in. Mostly. Know this, though: I take a folic acid supplement every single night before bed and your Dad never keeps his laptop on his lap any more. 'Nuff said.
I have all sorts of plans for you. Many of them come from this website, fittingly also titled Dear Baby. This woman makes me laugh, kid, and she has great taste. I aspire to have this kind of taste, but I fall short of the mark. Many women have a "look", or a particular style. I am one of the unfortunate few who has nothing of the sort. And all of the things I love, sadly, don't seem to come in my size. Or I'm not looking in the right place.
I've also fallen in love with chalkboard paint. I'm planning to try some out in the house soon, but fear not, it will likely make an appearance in your room one day. And this carpet from Anthropolgie. I. Love. It. But it raises some ethical questions for me about being a vegan mom. Because it's wool.
I mean, strictly speaking, shepherds don't kill their flocks for wool - it just doesn't make sound financial sense - but animal treatment is just as important, if not more so, than whether the animal lives or dies. It's a question I've also pondered given my growing interest in cloth diapering and the abundance of wool as the preferred fabric for soakers (diaper covers). There are plenty of times when I've thought that I should use wool because it's a great material, but ultimately, my desire for something is less important than the impact it has on the source animal or the environment at large. I have bought wool yarn from a sheep rescue farm. But I know for a fact that those sheep are pampered and not bred for lambs or anything like that. How do I source a wool rug or wool soakers like that? I'm starting to think this whole living-by-your-conscience thing is going to be a tough gig, especially when you throw parenting into the mix. I certainly hope you appreciate this later in life.
Your Dad and I watched "No Impact Man" last night and while some of it seemed pretty contrived and the main guy seemed, at least in the context of his goals and career versus his family and his wife's goals, to be kind of a prick, he said something which really resonated with me. I'm paraphrasing, but he essentially said that we, as a species, are becoming more and more disconnected from one another. And as a result, there is no sense of "community" any more. Since there is no sense of community, we feel that we are not responsible to anyone else but ourselves, and this is a huge mistake. So, while your Dad and I still tend to be a social island, we are trying to maintain responsibility to our fellow man. It's really tough, kid, because I. Love. That. Rug.
I love you forever,
Mama
Monday, April 19, 2010
To do.
Dear Baby -
Things I'd like to do before you make your appearance:
Get at least one more tattoo.
Lose some weight. Or look great in my clothes. Whichever. I'm not picky.
Drink some great wine.
Spend as much solo time with your Dad as possible.
Paint the inside of the house.
Redecorate.
Travel. On the agenda: Scotland, Ireland and Japan. Not necessarily in that order.
Find a place for a forever home. (Don't get me wrong, we enjoy living here, but it just isn't "home" in that "forever" sense.)
Sleep.
I'm at a unique point in life, kid. You haven't arrived yet, either in- or out-utero, so I feel like I should be doing all the "double income, no kids" things I can. Kind of like eating all my dinner before I start on dessert. That sounds weird, but to me that kind of sums it up. I am really enjoying dinner - I mean, this is, hands down, the most awesome meal. Ever. But I know there is an even better dessert waiting in the wings. I don't think I'll ever be full, kid, but I am so ready for dessert.
I love you forever,
Mama
Things I'd like to do before you make your appearance:
Get at least one more tattoo.
Lose some weight. Or look great in my clothes. Whichever. I'm not picky.
Drink some great wine.
Spend as much solo time with your Dad as possible.
Paint the inside of the house.
Redecorate.
Travel. On the agenda: Scotland, Ireland and Japan. Not necessarily in that order.
Find a place for a forever home. (Don't get me wrong, we enjoy living here, but it just isn't "home" in that "forever" sense.)
Sleep.
I'm at a unique point in life, kid. You haven't arrived yet, either in- or out-utero, so I feel like I should be doing all the "double income, no kids" things I can. Kind of like eating all my dinner before I start on dessert. That sounds weird, but to me that kind of sums it up. I am really enjoying dinner - I mean, this is, hands down, the most awesome meal. Ever. But I know there is an even better dessert waiting in the wings. I don't think I'll ever be full, kid, but I am so ready for dessert.
I love you forever,
Mama
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
A million little pieces.
Dear Baby,
What I find most irritating about having a miscarriage is that it's not one big heartbreak and you move on. Instead, lucky me and anyone else who has ever had one, it's a million small, separate heartbreaks that show up every day. I have no idea if they show up for the rest of your life, or if there is some kind of expiration date, which is another heartbreak in and of itself. Will I ever be over this? Survey says? Probably not.
For example: I got pregnant the day before O died. Literally. And when he left us, I remember thinking, "Oh god, I hope he didn't leave because he thought he had to make room for a new life." I'm serious, kid, this is the crazy shit that goes through your head when faced with tragedy. I distinctly remember having that thought. And then, when I started to hope/suspect that I was pregnant, I felt guilty for having that thought. And a just a little bit silly, too. I also remember thinking that if I was pregnant, at least we could salvage something great out of something terrible.
And I told your Dad that we could now use O's name on a baby. I think I even said it that way: "Well, now we can use that name if we have a son." It sounds horrific to my ears to hear it that way, but I have to tell you, this was on the drive home from the vet who couldn't revive him, so there was a not-inconsiderable amount of insane grief at that point. I love O's name, but it seemed ridiculous to have both a cat and a human named the same name in a single house. Especially when one of them got into trouble. And O was always in some kind of trouble. It was one of his more endearing qualities.
We'll likely still give you O's name in some fashion, even if you are a girl. If you are embarrassed about it, you don't have to tell anyone we had a cat named the same before you were born. But as your future-mother, I feel it is my parental duty to tell you: never be ashamed of love. We loved O and we love you and giving you his name is the highest compliment we can pay you both.
Another thing about heartbreak is it catches you unawares. Like while shopping in a kids boutique with your future-cousins and seeing racks full of onesies. I had to make a hasty exit to a different part of the store so no one would wonder why I was suddenly holding back tears (unsuccessfully). Or when your future-gramma (I'm trying out different grandmother names, bear with me) came to visit in March. It occurred to me that that would have been the end of the first trimester and I could have told her all about you.
That tinkling, shattered-glass sound? It's the pieces of my heart littering my chest cavity.
My doctor told me I did nothing wrong. That there was no way to prevent it or stop it. I was peripherally aware of this, Baby, but I didn't realize until I became a member of the club: 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. You don't realize how heartbreaking that statistic is until you are part of it. Your Dad tells me that I shouldn't feel responsible since it's such a common occurence. I'm here to tell you, being a part of the statistic does not make it easier to live with.
I do feel responsible. Like my body mutinied on me. Should I have skipped that glass of wine? I fell in the snow during a huge snowstorm; did that cause it? I'm overweight, not in great shape and over 30. It must be my fault in some way. Did my overwhelming grief over O make my body a hostile environment? Is that even possible? I know for a fact, having witnessed it first-hand, that my entire life seemed like a hostile environment at that point, so it seems reasonable to me that everything was poisoned as a result. It still feels that way, in fact. I struggle every. single. day. with trying to be positive, and focus on happy things just in case that was the deciding factor in keeping or losing a pregnancy.
I realize that this is unproductive, Baby. It's just all I have right now.
I love you forever.
Mama
What I find most irritating about having a miscarriage is that it's not one big heartbreak and you move on. Instead, lucky me and anyone else who has ever had one, it's a million small, separate heartbreaks that show up every day. I have no idea if they show up for the rest of your life, or if there is some kind of expiration date, which is another heartbreak in and of itself. Will I ever be over this? Survey says? Probably not.
For example: I got pregnant the day before O died. Literally. And when he left us, I remember thinking, "Oh god, I hope he didn't leave because he thought he had to make room for a new life." I'm serious, kid, this is the crazy shit that goes through your head when faced with tragedy. I distinctly remember having that thought. And then, when I started to hope/suspect that I was pregnant, I felt guilty for having that thought. And a just a little bit silly, too. I also remember thinking that if I was pregnant, at least we could salvage something great out of something terrible.
And I told your Dad that we could now use O's name on a baby. I think I even said it that way: "Well, now we can use that name if we have a son." It sounds horrific to my ears to hear it that way, but I have to tell you, this was on the drive home from the vet who couldn't revive him, so there was a not-inconsiderable amount of insane grief at that point. I love O's name, but it seemed ridiculous to have both a cat and a human named the same name in a single house. Especially when one of them got into trouble. And O was always in some kind of trouble. It was one of his more endearing qualities.
We'll likely still give you O's name in some fashion, even if you are a girl. If you are embarrassed about it, you don't have to tell anyone we had a cat named the same before you were born. But as your future-mother, I feel it is my parental duty to tell you: never be ashamed of love. We loved O and we love you and giving you his name is the highest compliment we can pay you both.
Another thing about heartbreak is it catches you unawares. Like while shopping in a kids boutique with your future-cousins and seeing racks full of onesies. I had to make a hasty exit to a different part of the store so no one would wonder why I was suddenly holding back tears (unsuccessfully). Or when your future-gramma (I'm trying out different grandmother names, bear with me) came to visit in March. It occurred to me that that would have been the end of the first trimester and I could have told her all about you.
That tinkling, shattered-glass sound? It's the pieces of my heart littering my chest cavity.
My doctor told me I did nothing wrong. That there was no way to prevent it or stop it. I was peripherally aware of this, Baby, but I didn't realize until I became a member of the club: 25% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. You don't realize how heartbreaking that statistic is until you are part of it. Your Dad tells me that I shouldn't feel responsible since it's such a common occurence. I'm here to tell you, being a part of the statistic does not make it easier to live with.
I do feel responsible. Like my body mutinied on me. Should I have skipped that glass of wine? I fell in the snow during a huge snowstorm; did that cause it? I'm overweight, not in great shape and over 30. It must be my fault in some way. Did my overwhelming grief over O make my body a hostile environment? Is that even possible? I know for a fact, having witnessed it first-hand, that my entire life seemed like a hostile environment at that point, so it seems reasonable to me that everything was poisoned as a result. It still feels that way, in fact. I struggle every. single. day. with trying to be positive, and focus on happy things just in case that was the deciding factor in keeping or losing a pregnancy.
I realize that this is unproductive, Baby. It's just all I have right now.
I love you forever.
Mama
Monday, April 12, 2010
Important dates.
Dear Baby,
I know it's mid-April and I'm complaining about the start of 2010, but bear with me. It's been a tough couple of months, kid.
Our beloved O died on January 1. Your Dad and I couldn't bring ourselves to eat dinner that night, let alone the traditional black eyed peas and collards we usually eat for luck and prosperity in the new year. January 1 will forever be a day of grief for me, rather than the birth of a new year with new possibilities. That would have been bad enough to be going along with, but it got worse.
Remember I told you O gave us a gift that didn't seem like a gift? He actually gave us many, many gifts - like patience and laughter - but the one I am referring to specifically is this: O taught us that control is an illusion. I know. It's a terrible gift. And you can't return it, no matter how many receipts you have. I have spent my whole life as a control freak. You'll find this out when we meet, I promise. I don't go into water I can't see through. I don't drink excessively, I never did drugs. Never, ever. I hate driving, but being a passenger is just as bad because I can't operate the pedals. There are myriad ways in which my controlling nature manifests itself, and in one small breath of time, O shattered the illusion that I actually had control over anything in my life. It was a humbling lesson. I hope to retain some of it by the time you come along.
Here's why the lesson was a gift. On March 2, I found out I was pregnant. It was also the day I found out I had been having a miscarriage for the past month. I appreciate that you stopped by to say hello, kid, but it made your departure that much more painful. And it wasn't a quick goodbye, either. I was only pregnant for a month, but it took almost three more to miscarry. I don't even have words for how awful it is. "Awful" seems so small in comparison with the enormity of the feeling. I'm left grieving for a life I didn't know and never will. I don't even know how to deal with this, to be honest. How do I classify this hurt? Do I think of you as a unique individual or as a visitor that will come again at some point? I don't have any kind of spiritual framework, so the "visitor" hypothesis is a bit of a stretch for me. (Well, that's not exactly true. I have a spiritual framework, so I can fit "visitor" into it - which is how I've been coping in the mean time, by the way - but I don't have a god to blame this on or to ask for help or to imagine that this is all part of "His" plan. Now I understand better why people do have that framework, though.) Did I lose a child? Not exactly, but kinda. Is it okay for me to have this much trouble functioning when it was "only" a one month pregnancy? I tend to think so, but admittedly, my judgement on the matter is clouded.
Here's the truth, Baby. I cry almost every single day. Crying jags aren't as fun as advertised, trust me. I vacillate between periods of frenetic activity, so I can't think about anything, and periods of complete non-functioning. Sleeping absurd amounts, staring blankly at my computer when I'm supposed to be working, more crying jags. (Writing a blog...) You get the picture. My house is a mess and I hate it. It reflects my life and my soul at the moment, which makes me hate it even more.
I haven't really told anyone about the whole ordeal, including your grandmother, which is maybe part of the problem. This is very odd, because as you will later learn, I talk to your grandmother all the time. I don't know, kid. I just couldn't say the words to her. I couldn't hear the sympathy and pity in her voice. I didn't want to be defined by what has been a traumatic and terrible time in my life, and I didn't want you, by extension, to be defined by it as well. Your Dad knows (obviously), my doctor knows (again, obviously), and, weirdly, my karate instructor knows. I had to tell him before I started in case there was any danger posed for future conception. I told him last week and burst into tears when I did it.
Another tidbit about your mother: I cry. A lot. I cry in every situation - it's my go-to emotional reaction to everything: anger, happiness, sadness, frustration. And it pisses me off. I get upset abut something, start crying, get pissed and frustrated and cry harder. It's ridiculous for a grown woman to cry all the damn time! It's also extremely embarrassing to cry in front of strangers or people you don't know well, particularly men, and particularly when you are going to have to later call them "Sensei" and run around yelling and kicking like a fool. (Another tidbit: I am extremely uncoordinated. I hope that gene skips you, but based on family history, it ain't lookin' so good, kid.)
On December 31, I was full of hope for how great 2010 was going to be, and now, mid-April, I'm left feeling as though some kind of emotional grenade has exploded in my life, and I have no idea how to go about cleaning up the torn flesh and shrapnel. I worry that I am being too crazy and pushing your Dad away. I don't think I am, but not because I am not being crazy (I am. Being crazy.), but because your father is a singularly wonderful and patient human being. He doesn't always know the right thing to say - life is not a romantic comedy where the male lead always knows exactly what to do to make the uplifting score kick in - but he is literally emotional granite. A complete and solid foundation. I'm more like emotional limestone, but I digress.
I don't know how to fix any of this other than to live through it, but that is the crappiest way to fix anything, ever. You'll have to try it someday, and you'll believe me then. Everything eventually gets fixed, or fixes itself, but whole process is long and drawn out and painful. Like making yourself a huge duct tape band aid and then picking it off one ripped-out-hair at a time. Will getting pregnant again fix it? Will it help at all? Will I be so ecstatic that you are finally en route that I will forget to be sad at the end of September, when you would have originally been due? We could have shared birthdays, you know. After I turned 28 I learned to loathe the passing years and viewed birthdays as a horror to avoid. Miscarrying a baby that would have been born around my birthday doesn't seem like it will help that feeling... Just sayin'.
All of the important dates of 2010 have been horrific, Baby. There's no hope for January 1, unless by some miracle you happen to be born on that day some time in the future, but even then it will be bittersweet at best. March 2 is tainted too. My birthday... Well, that has been tainted for a good five years now anyway, but this year has done it no favors in terms of chances-for-returning-to-grace-at-some-point.
I'm trying to take some positive steps to insure I'm in a better place by the time you actually arrive, but they are baby steps at best. A karate class (more exercise, more energy, maybe dropping a few pounds so I won't feel like a terrible human being when I put them back on while pregnant with you), a garden, more time with friends, more time with your Dad, more time with our kitties... I have to admit, even with all these positive steps, sometimes it feels like a trip to the "Talkin' Doctor" wouldn't be amiss. I'm resisting that for the moment, though. Another thing you'll learn about your mother down the road: I hate asking for help. Not my best quality, but I'm working on it.
I miss you. Hope you come back soon. Love you forever.
Mama
I know it's mid-April and I'm complaining about the start of 2010, but bear with me. It's been a tough couple of months, kid.
Our beloved O died on January 1. Your Dad and I couldn't bring ourselves to eat dinner that night, let alone the traditional black eyed peas and collards we usually eat for luck and prosperity in the new year. January 1 will forever be a day of grief for me, rather than the birth of a new year with new possibilities. That would have been bad enough to be going along with, but it got worse.
Remember I told you O gave us a gift that didn't seem like a gift? He actually gave us many, many gifts - like patience and laughter - but the one I am referring to specifically is this: O taught us that control is an illusion. I know. It's a terrible gift. And you can't return it, no matter how many receipts you have. I have spent my whole life as a control freak. You'll find this out when we meet, I promise. I don't go into water I can't see through. I don't drink excessively, I never did drugs. Never, ever. I hate driving, but being a passenger is just as bad because I can't operate the pedals. There are myriad ways in which my controlling nature manifests itself, and in one small breath of time, O shattered the illusion that I actually had control over anything in my life. It was a humbling lesson. I hope to retain some of it by the time you come along.
Here's why the lesson was a gift. On March 2, I found out I was pregnant. It was also the day I found out I had been having a miscarriage for the past month. I appreciate that you stopped by to say hello, kid, but it made your departure that much more painful. And it wasn't a quick goodbye, either. I was only pregnant for a month, but it took almost three more to miscarry. I don't even have words for how awful it is. "Awful" seems so small in comparison with the enormity of the feeling. I'm left grieving for a life I didn't know and never will. I don't even know how to deal with this, to be honest. How do I classify this hurt? Do I think of you as a unique individual or as a visitor that will come again at some point? I don't have any kind of spiritual framework, so the "visitor" hypothesis is a bit of a stretch for me. (Well, that's not exactly true. I have a spiritual framework, so I can fit "visitor" into it - which is how I've been coping in the mean time, by the way - but I don't have a god to blame this on or to ask for help or to imagine that this is all part of "His" plan. Now I understand better why people do have that framework, though.) Did I lose a child? Not exactly, but kinda. Is it okay for me to have this much trouble functioning when it was "only" a one month pregnancy? I tend to think so, but admittedly, my judgement on the matter is clouded.
Here's the truth, Baby. I cry almost every single day. Crying jags aren't as fun as advertised, trust me. I vacillate between periods of frenetic activity, so I can't think about anything, and periods of complete non-functioning. Sleeping absurd amounts, staring blankly at my computer when I'm supposed to be working, more crying jags. (Writing a blog...) You get the picture. My house is a mess and I hate it. It reflects my life and my soul at the moment, which makes me hate it even more.
I haven't really told anyone about the whole ordeal, including your grandmother, which is maybe part of the problem. This is very odd, because as you will later learn, I talk to your grandmother all the time. I don't know, kid. I just couldn't say the words to her. I couldn't hear the sympathy and pity in her voice. I didn't want to be defined by what has been a traumatic and terrible time in my life, and I didn't want you, by extension, to be defined by it as well. Your Dad knows (obviously), my doctor knows (again, obviously), and, weirdly, my karate instructor knows. I had to tell him before I started in case there was any danger posed for future conception. I told him last week and burst into tears when I did it.
Another tidbit about your mother: I cry. A lot. I cry in every situation - it's my go-to emotional reaction to everything: anger, happiness, sadness, frustration. And it pisses me off. I get upset abut something, start crying, get pissed and frustrated and cry harder. It's ridiculous for a grown woman to cry all the damn time! It's also extremely embarrassing to cry in front of strangers or people you don't know well, particularly men, and particularly when you are going to have to later call them "Sensei" and run around yelling and kicking like a fool. (Another tidbit: I am extremely uncoordinated. I hope that gene skips you, but based on family history, it ain't lookin' so good, kid.)
On December 31, I was full of hope for how great 2010 was going to be, and now, mid-April, I'm left feeling as though some kind of emotional grenade has exploded in my life, and I have no idea how to go about cleaning up the torn flesh and shrapnel. I worry that I am being too crazy and pushing your Dad away. I don't think I am, but not because I am not being crazy (I am. Being crazy.), but because your father is a singularly wonderful and patient human being. He doesn't always know the right thing to say - life is not a romantic comedy where the male lead always knows exactly what to do to make the uplifting score kick in - but he is literally emotional granite. A complete and solid foundation. I'm more like emotional limestone, but I digress.
I don't know how to fix any of this other than to live through it, but that is the crappiest way to fix anything, ever. You'll have to try it someday, and you'll believe me then. Everything eventually gets fixed, or fixes itself, but whole process is long and drawn out and painful. Like making yourself a huge duct tape band aid and then picking it off one ripped-out-hair at a time. Will getting pregnant again fix it? Will it help at all? Will I be so ecstatic that you are finally en route that I will forget to be sad at the end of September, when you would have originally been due? We could have shared birthdays, you know. After I turned 28 I learned to loathe the passing years and viewed birthdays as a horror to avoid. Miscarrying a baby that would have been born around my birthday doesn't seem like it will help that feeling... Just sayin'.
All of the important dates of 2010 have been horrific, Baby. There's no hope for January 1, unless by some miracle you happen to be born on that day some time in the future, but even then it will be bittersweet at best. March 2 is tainted too. My birthday... Well, that has been tainted for a good five years now anyway, but this year has done it no favors in terms of chances-for-returning-to-grace-at-some-point.
I'm trying to take some positive steps to insure I'm in a better place by the time you actually arrive, but they are baby steps at best. A karate class (more exercise, more energy, maybe dropping a few pounds so I won't feel like a terrible human being when I put them back on while pregnant with you), a garden, more time with friends, more time with your Dad, more time with our kitties... I have to admit, even with all these positive steps, sometimes it feels like a trip to the "Talkin' Doctor" wouldn't be amiss. I'm resisting that for the moment, though. Another thing you'll learn about your mother down the road: I hate asking for help. Not my best quality, but I'm working on it.
I miss you. Hope you come back soon. Love you forever.
Mama
Monday, April 5, 2010
N.B.
Dear Baby,
I know, I just wrote like 10 minutes ago, but I'd like to share...
I searched Google for my letters to you, and got to page 20 before I gave up. Seriously, kid, your Mama is apparently not that original. Shame.
Second, I think I'm canceling the Internet if you ever grace us with your presence. Because there is some seriously twisted crap out there.
Just. Don't. Ask.
Love you, Kid.
Mama
I know, I just wrote like 10 minutes ago, but I'd like to share...
I searched Google for my letters to you, and got to page 20 before I gave up. Seriously, kid, your Mama is apparently not that original. Shame.
Second, I think I'm canceling the Internet if you ever grace us with your presence. Because there is some seriously twisted crap out there.
Just. Don't. Ask.
Love you, Kid.
Mama
The weight-wait struggle.
Dear Baby,
I have a confession to make. I am overweight. There was a time when I would have said, "No one would look at me and think I was fat." This is simply not true any more, nor has it been for a while. I am now the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and I don't even have you to use as an excuse! It's shameful.
Though I don't know which is more shameful - the fact that I am overweight or that I would seriously consider using you as an excuse for being so.
Now that I've admitted it (the first step to solving the problem!), what do I do about it? Here's the part that pisses me off about the whole thing: I've made several lifestyle changes in the recent past that I foolishly thought would shed these pounds without much intervention by me. Well, aside from the initial lifestyle change, that is. Your Dad and I became vegan 2 years ago. Do you have any idea how much crap you cut out of your diet when you go vegan?! A lot. A lot. You'll find out in a few years around Halloween time. Sorry about that one in advance, kid.
So we went vegan. Know what happened? Not one damn thing. Your Dad lost some weight, to be sure, but seeing as how he was already trim and gorgeous, I hardly think that counts except in the "life is spectacularly unfair sometimes" department. I lost not one single pound. Not one! I could provide all sorts of reasons and rationales for this phenomenon - we don't control portion sizes, I don't exercise regularly... Or, um, at all. But the simple fact is that I cut out frigging cheese and still, nothin'! Cheese I tell you!
Next, I went off birth control in anticipation of having you. Again, bupkis. (Did I spell that right?) Apparently, the whole "you gain weight from retaining water when on birth control" thing is kind of a myth. Which makes me really mad! I've been blaming that extra 10 lbs on birth control for years now and it turns out to be a lie?! It makes me want to scream.
So, here's my dilemma. My doctor says I'm healthy and that my weight isn't an issue (for now) in getting pregnant. Which basically means, "yeah you're kinda tubby, but you aren't morbidly obese. Yet." She says it's safe to go ahead, but that I'd have to be careful about how much weight I gain while I'm pregnant with you. If my curent size is any indication, I'd say this is going to be an issue... But we'll jump off that bridge when we get to it. So, here I am, entering bathing suit season ::shudder::, trying to get pregnant, and really tired of being fat. So do I try to lose some weight, or just focus on staying healthy?
And yes, those two are mutually exclusive. Yes they are! ::fingers in ears:: I can't hear you!
I suppose I could just try to increase the amount of exercise I get and go from there. The good news is it's not hard to increase from zero. The bad news is that means I'll have to get off my butt. Wish me luck, Baby. I'm gonna need it.
I love you forever,
Mama
I have a confession to make. I am overweight. There was a time when I would have said, "No one would look at me and think I was fat." This is simply not true any more, nor has it been for a while. I am now the heaviest I have ever been in my life, and I don't even have you to use as an excuse! It's shameful.
Though I don't know which is more shameful - the fact that I am overweight or that I would seriously consider using you as an excuse for being so.
Now that I've admitted it (the first step to solving the problem!), what do I do about it? Here's the part that pisses me off about the whole thing: I've made several lifestyle changes in the recent past that I foolishly thought would shed these pounds without much intervention by me. Well, aside from the initial lifestyle change, that is. Your Dad and I became vegan 2 years ago. Do you have any idea how much crap you cut out of your diet when you go vegan?! A lot. A lot. You'll find out in a few years around Halloween time. Sorry about that one in advance, kid.
So we went vegan. Know what happened? Not one damn thing. Your Dad lost some weight, to be sure, but seeing as how he was already trim and gorgeous, I hardly think that counts except in the "life is spectacularly unfair sometimes" department. I lost not one single pound. Not one! I could provide all sorts of reasons and rationales for this phenomenon - we don't control portion sizes, I don't exercise regularly... Or, um, at all. But the simple fact is that I cut out frigging cheese and still, nothin'! Cheese I tell you!
Next, I went off birth control in anticipation of having you. Again, bupkis. (Did I spell that right?) Apparently, the whole "you gain weight from retaining water when on birth control" thing is kind of a myth. Which makes me really mad! I've been blaming that extra 10 lbs on birth control for years now and it turns out to be a lie?! It makes me want to scream.
So, here's my dilemma. My doctor says I'm healthy and that my weight isn't an issue (for now) in getting pregnant. Which basically means, "yeah you're kinda tubby, but you aren't morbidly obese. Yet." She says it's safe to go ahead, but that I'd have to be careful about how much weight I gain while I'm pregnant with you. If my curent size is any indication, I'd say this is going to be an issue... But we'll jump off that bridge when we get to it. So, here I am, entering bathing suit season ::shudder::, trying to get pregnant, and really tired of being fat. So do I try to lose some weight, or just focus on staying healthy?
And yes, those two are mutually exclusive. Yes they are! ::fingers in ears:: I can't hear you!
I suppose I could just try to increase the amount of exercise I get and go from there. The good news is it's not hard to increase from zero. The bad news is that means I'll have to get off my butt. Wish me luck, Baby. I'm gonna need it.
I love you forever,
Mama
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Like a time machine, but in a bad way.
Dear Baby,
I like to think I know a lot about how babies are made, how they are born, what happens to a woman's body as she is pregnant and gives birth. Your grandparents have a great many friends, and a few of them are midwives. As such, I happened to get an early education in the business of birthing babies. Let me tell you now, kid, it ain't for the faint of heart. All sorts of things go on that you never wanted to know about, but once you know, you can't un-know. If you don't belive me, I have one word for you: episiotomy. 'Nuff said.
I have a secret, though. Something none of them ever told me. Something not even my own doctor told me! Ready?
When you (and by "you", I mean me) stop taking birth control pills, something strange happens. Not just the "normal" strange - the mood swings, the irregular periods, the detritous of clearing the regular influx of hormones out of your blood stream... Some thing happens to your skin. When you stop taking birth control pills, your skin - especially the skin on your face - reverts to it's teenage state. This might sound, at first blush, like a good thing. Sadly, it is not. You don't revert to taught, firm, glowing skin. Oh no. You revert to acne. Yep. Acne. And lemme tell ya, kid, it ain't pretty. Plus, it's a bit awkward to be suddenly breaking out again at 33 years old. And as your grandmother once said, "getting pimples and wrinkles at the same time is just. Not. Fair." Never were truer words spoken.
I've been off birth control since June, waiting patiently for you. While we wait, I'd like to tell you a story about a kitty. A kitty named O. Before your Dad and I got married, your Dad had a roommate. This roommate decided he wanted a breakfast sandwich from Hardee's one morning and when he got to the drive-thru to order, discovered a kitten. (I won't even get into how a scruffy, hungry kitten could survive on his own for 3 months if he thought hiding in a drive-thru was a good idea...) He brought this kitten to school with him, and I fell in love. Now, at the time, I already had four cats I had adopted in college (before I met your Dad), and another kitten had wandered into my yard a year earlier. If you count on your fingers, you'll see that makes five cats in the house. I loved this new kitten, but I didn't know if I would be able to keep him. Your Dad and I discussed it at great length. Long story short, we kept him. We named him O and he was the biggest personality in the smallest package. Pretty soon his package matched his personality, though. We nicknamed him "Chumba Cat" and loved every extra pound.
O and the rest of the gang moved with us, twice. For almost four years he provided us all with laughter and love. We had our moments of frustration with him, to be sure. He was the spoiled baby of the family, after all, but he was always forgiven for his transgressions within seconds of transgressing. He was a kind of brown/gray tabby, with black stripes on his legs, and a black stripe down his back. He had a white belly.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you all of this.
The thing is, you'll never meet our sweet O. He slipped away from us very suddenly on New Year's Day. He was running around playing one minute, then he laid down and and was gone the next. No pain, no suffering, no horrible accident. He had a genetic heart defect as it turns out. Something that almost never shows symptoms and something we couldn't have fixed. His heart had a limited number of beats and he used them all up. We all miss him terribly. It's been almost four months now and I still cry about it all the time. I'm sure you'll hear stories about him later in life. He was a very special member of our family, and we loved him like crazy. Still do, in fact.
The main reason for this long story is that it, obliquely, relates to you, Baby. We gave O the very best life a kitty could have. We know he was happy and we know how happy he made us in return. But O gave us another gift, as it turns out, though it still doesn't feel like much of one. But that story will have to wait for another time...
I love you forever,
Mama
I like to think I know a lot about how babies are made, how they are born, what happens to a woman's body as she is pregnant and gives birth. Your grandparents have a great many friends, and a few of them are midwives. As such, I happened to get an early education in the business of birthing babies. Let me tell you now, kid, it ain't for the faint of heart. All sorts of things go on that you never wanted to know about, but once you know, you can't un-know. If you don't belive me, I have one word for you: episiotomy. 'Nuff said.
I have a secret, though. Something none of them ever told me. Something not even my own doctor told me! Ready?
When you (and by "you", I mean me) stop taking birth control pills, something strange happens. Not just the "normal" strange - the mood swings, the irregular periods, the detritous of clearing the regular influx of hormones out of your blood stream... Some thing happens to your skin. When you stop taking birth control pills, your skin - especially the skin on your face - reverts to it's teenage state. This might sound, at first blush, like a good thing. Sadly, it is not. You don't revert to taught, firm, glowing skin. Oh no. You revert to acne. Yep. Acne. And lemme tell ya, kid, it ain't pretty. Plus, it's a bit awkward to be suddenly breaking out again at 33 years old. And as your grandmother once said, "getting pimples and wrinkles at the same time is just. Not. Fair." Never were truer words spoken.
I've been off birth control since June, waiting patiently for you. While we wait, I'd like to tell you a story about a kitty. A kitty named O. Before your Dad and I got married, your Dad had a roommate. This roommate decided he wanted a breakfast sandwich from Hardee's one morning and when he got to the drive-thru to order, discovered a kitten. (I won't even get into how a scruffy, hungry kitten could survive on his own for 3 months if he thought hiding in a drive-thru was a good idea...) He brought this kitten to school with him, and I fell in love. Now, at the time, I already had four cats I had adopted in college (before I met your Dad), and another kitten had wandered into my yard a year earlier. If you count on your fingers, you'll see that makes five cats in the house. I loved this new kitten, but I didn't know if I would be able to keep him. Your Dad and I discussed it at great length. Long story short, we kept him. We named him O and he was the biggest personality in the smallest package. Pretty soon his package matched his personality, though. We nicknamed him "Chumba Cat" and loved every extra pound.
O and the rest of the gang moved with us, twice. For almost four years he provided us all with laughter and love. We had our moments of frustration with him, to be sure. He was the spoiled baby of the family, after all, but he was always forgiven for his transgressions within seconds of transgressing. He was a kind of brown/gray tabby, with black stripes on his legs, and a black stripe down his back. He had a white belly.
You may be wondering why I'm telling you all of this.
The thing is, you'll never meet our sweet O. He slipped away from us very suddenly on New Year's Day. He was running around playing one minute, then he laid down and and was gone the next. No pain, no suffering, no horrible accident. He had a genetic heart defect as it turns out. Something that almost never shows symptoms and something we couldn't have fixed. His heart had a limited number of beats and he used them all up. We all miss him terribly. It's been almost four months now and I still cry about it all the time. I'm sure you'll hear stories about him later in life. He was a very special member of our family, and we loved him like crazy. Still do, in fact.
The main reason for this long story is that it, obliquely, relates to you, Baby. We gave O the very best life a kitty could have. We know he was happy and we know how happy he made us in return. But O gave us another gift, as it turns out, though it still doesn't feel like much of one. But that story will have to wait for another time...
I love you forever,
Mama
Thursday, April 1, 2010
It begins.
Dear Baby,
You know how most women will tell you that they had their dream wedding planned out by age 8? Not me. What I had planned out was you. I knew that it was my goal, my destiny, to be a mother. I had a fully formed plan of action and child rearing in place by high school. Not that I planned to get pregnant in high school, mind you. I may have been precocious, but I was not reckless. (We'll save that teachable moment for later in your life.) I had decided that it would be best to be a young mother, but one with a stable home environment (a.k.a. a stable life partner/husband/fiance/etc.) and a stable income. My parents (your grandparents-to-be) were very young and very poor when I was born, and though I remember mostly love and fun and games from those years, I also remember putting things back at the grocery store and worrying about whether the power would be on when we got home. It shaped me into the person I am today, and I wouldn't trade those experiences, but as I got older I realized how stressful and difficult it must have been for my parents, so I vowed to change that in my own parenting future.
When I was about 19, a doctor - I might even venture to say an irresponsible doctor - told me that I probably wouldn't be able to have children later so I should probably get it done by my early twenties. Say, 22 or so. Who says that to a young woman?! A single young woman, I might add. I was angry. I was shocked and devastated, but I decided I wasn't going to let him derail my plans. He couldn't see the future and I wasn't going to allow his misguided good intentions (let's assume they were good) lead me into something I wasn't ready for. I am the master of my own destiny, dammit. So I waited.
And waited.
And waited. Through bad relationships and multiple cross country moves and college and bad part-time jobs. (Let me tell you now, waitressing is not a fun long-term career plan.) Then in grad school, I met your father-to-be. I couldn't believe my luck! You're going to meet him one day, so you will know how amazing he is, but I just want to tell you now, for the record, your Dad is once-in-a-lifetime. He is kind and smart and strong and patient and all around a perfect balance for me. I know he is going to be such a great dad and I really can't wait for you to meet him.
So, we got married. And now here we are: married for two and a half years and embarking on the parenthood journey together. Here's the thing, though... I've had this planned for so long, but starting the trip at 33 was never part of the plan. So, I have to tell you, I'm terrified. I like having free time and disposable income. I like having a quiet house. I love the cats that your Dad and I have rescued over the years like they are my children. I like that there is nothing in my house or my life the is redolent of inane children's shows or music. A lot.
Well, I guess that isn't entirely true. I should probably own up to my kickin' Disney movie collection...
But even though I'm scared that I waited too long, that I got too old and that I can't have you at all, we're going for it. We'll deal with the consequences as they come, I guess. All I know for sure is that I can't wait to meet you. I've dreamed about you my whole life and I hope that my dream is about to come true.
I suppose I should start looking for Dora the Explorer on Youtube... ::sigh::
I love you forever,
Mama
You know how most women will tell you that they had their dream wedding planned out by age 8? Not me. What I had planned out was you. I knew that it was my goal, my destiny, to be a mother. I had a fully formed plan of action and child rearing in place by high school. Not that I planned to get pregnant in high school, mind you. I may have been precocious, but I was not reckless. (We'll save that teachable moment for later in your life.) I had decided that it would be best to be a young mother, but one with a stable home environment (a.k.a. a stable life partner/husband/fiance/etc.) and a stable income. My parents (your grandparents-to-be) were very young and very poor when I was born, and though I remember mostly love and fun and games from those years, I also remember putting things back at the grocery store and worrying about whether the power would be on when we got home. It shaped me into the person I am today, and I wouldn't trade those experiences, but as I got older I realized how stressful and difficult it must have been for my parents, so I vowed to change that in my own parenting future.
When I was about 19, a doctor - I might even venture to say an irresponsible doctor - told me that I probably wouldn't be able to have children later so I should probably get it done by my early twenties. Say, 22 or so. Who says that to a young woman?! A single young woman, I might add. I was angry. I was shocked and devastated, but I decided I wasn't going to let him derail my plans. He couldn't see the future and I wasn't going to allow his misguided good intentions (let's assume they were good) lead me into something I wasn't ready for. I am the master of my own destiny, dammit. So I waited.
And waited.
And waited. Through bad relationships and multiple cross country moves and college and bad part-time jobs. (Let me tell you now, waitressing is not a fun long-term career plan.) Then in grad school, I met your father-to-be. I couldn't believe my luck! You're going to meet him one day, so you will know how amazing he is, but I just want to tell you now, for the record, your Dad is once-in-a-lifetime. He is kind and smart and strong and patient and all around a perfect balance for me. I know he is going to be such a great dad and I really can't wait for you to meet him.
So, we got married. And now here we are: married for two and a half years and embarking on the parenthood journey together. Here's the thing, though... I've had this planned for so long, but starting the trip at 33 was never part of the plan. So, I have to tell you, I'm terrified. I like having free time and disposable income. I like having a quiet house. I love the cats that your Dad and I have rescued over the years like they are my children. I like that there is nothing in my house or my life the is redolent of inane children's shows or music. A lot.
Well, I guess that isn't entirely true. I should probably own up to my kickin' Disney movie collection...
But even though I'm scared that I waited too long, that I got too old and that I can't have you at all, we're going for it. We'll deal with the consequences as they come, I guess. All I know for sure is that I can't wait to meet you. I've dreamed about you my whole life and I hope that my dream is about to come true.
I suppose I should start looking for Dora the Explorer on Youtube... ::sigh::
I love you forever,
Mama
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