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
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
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
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