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
Saturday, May 29, 2010
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
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