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
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
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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