This 'n that. Photo essay style.

See? I've been doing stuff - honest! I just haven't been talking about it much.

I'm sure I'll find my voice again. I'm just mulling and musing.

I'm good at mulling. Some may call it over-thinking, dwelling or obsessing. But I prefer to call it by less distasteful, more benign names.

Even if they're secretly all one in the same.

P.S. Thanks to My Beloved for the most excellent photographic stylings.

This, that and the other

THIS

Because I am vain, please look at this. Please?

I'm very proud.

And, yeah, vain.

THAT

My right inner ear has been twitching for daaaaaays. I'm slowly going mad. MAD, I tell you!! Twitch. Twitch.

I think I might be jaw-clenching at night, so I'm wondering if the two are related.

Riveting bit of information, I know.

It's been a slow news week.

THE OTHER

I didn't mean to offend anyone with my last post, by the way. I absolutely know that those kinds of offhanded remarks aren't said to hurt me. I know they're simply meant as jokes and, sometimes, as tension cutters. And I know that parents have been offering to give away their children in jest for as long as humans have been breeding.

I totally know that.

I'm just sayin' that it's not always all that funny to me. That's all.

But then again, the world isn't here to amuse me. I know that too. Seriously, I really do, despite evidence to the contrary...

This 'n that

I feel badly that I rarely respond to comments. I read them all (it's very exciting to know I'm not just talking to myself), and I'm so touched by each and every word you so kindly choose to send my way. Truly, I am. They make me laugh, cry and everything in between, those words do.

But I always forget that you can't see that, what with you not having spy cameras and recording devices planted inside my house.

So thank you, so much, for the support, advice, smiles, commiseration, sympathy, compliments, hugs and kind words.

You rock. In the very best ways possible.
__________________

The other evening I was outside shoveling snow - a task that I normally loathe - and I found myself enjoying it.

The cold has finally gotten to me. I've lost my mind.

___________________

This morning I started thinking that maybe I'd like to get a kitten instead of a puppy. A kitten would be much easier to work into our little family dynamic. Easier on Lucy and easier on us (never having owned dogs before).

I just wish the Norfolk Terriers weren't so cute, and that I hadn't already started envisioning nightly walks and furry dog kisses...

___________________

On Tuesday I started a Facebook Group in an effort to promote good deed doing on Thomas' birthday, and I was floored to see that as of this morning, there were 190 members.

It has spiraled out from just people I know, to friends of friends of friends.

It's even gone overseas to Scotland, Spain and India.

And every time I think about it - about all the extra little kindnesses that will be done in Thomas' memory on his birthday all over the world - I smile.

I'm so proud. So unbelievably proud.

____________________

This morning I read about a craft co-op in Toronto - a space where locals drop in to, well, craft. The co-op rents out sewing machines, space and tools, and people come in to make handmade treasures and commune with other like-minded artisans. They sell fabric too, but mostly it's a space to create.

I drooled. Enviously.

I'm a lone crafter out here in the suburbs. I crochet on the couch, sometimes with Lucy and Sandy nearby, but usually by myself, because I don't know anyone in my real life who shares my passion for hooks and yarn.

The thought of a cozy, creative, community space right here in my neighbourhood where other knitheads and hookers might congregate is so appealing.

I wonder...
____________________

Sometimes I let myself think about what my life would be like if Thomas was still in it. I mean in the tangible, earthly sense.

With the passage of nearly four years, it's becoming harder and harder to imagine it. I had a sense of what the baby years might have been like. The house was littered with babyness and its accompanying paraphernalia prior to his birth - I could see that life. I know what it would have looked like, if not actually felt like.

But now? There's nothing about the house to suggest an almost four-year old could have lived here.

It's lost to me, that life.

The sadness that fact generates is no longer quite as desperate and agonizing as it used to be when I'd let myself wonder about my once-upon-a-time world. Now it's just sort of wistful. I sometimes even smile when I try to imagine a four-year old Thomas bounding up the stairs.

Maybe it's easier because there is no visible evidence to suggest a four-year old should be here.

Or maybe it's just that time has worn the jagged edges of my sorrow down so that it's smoother and easier to hold now.

I don't know.

The house is still too quiet. But I'm used to it. It's amazing what you can survive, isn't it? It's amazing what you can come to accept as normal.


I miss him.
______________________

And finally,

To the person who wanted a monkey (like the one I posted the other day, who now lives on My Beloved's desk at work), I do manage to sell the odd bit of crochet work every now and then (which helps me to justify the time I spend doing it...mostly). And here's where you can find it ----> Plumpkin Heads

This 'n that

Remember those ridiculous fingerless gloves that were popular in the 80s? The hand part of the glove was in tact but the fingers only came up to about your first knuckle. Remember those? Remember how useless they were for keeping your fingertips warm - the part of your hand that usually gets the coldest; The part they are known to amputate if your frostbite is severe enough?

Remember those gloves?

Why are they back?

___________________________

Despite eating a ridiculous amount of chocolate and very little vegetable matter over the last several weeks, I seem to be losing weight. Not huge amounts, mind you, but a half a pound here and there (which Weight Watchers is very happy about).

So either I'm dying or I've discovered a whole new way to diet.

I'll keep you posted.

___________________________

The Duggar family had another baby. That's 18, if you're counting.

And I'd prefer not to.

___________________________

My eyes flew open a little before 4:00am this morning, and haven't shut since.

My therapist gave me a foolproof way to lull myself back to sleep for occasions just such as these (and it has proven 100% effective in the past), but this morning I couldn't be bothered.

Seriously, how lazy do you have to be to find yourself unwilling to work at going back to sleep?

You'd think, being that lazy, that I'd be all over her method. But I just. couldn't. be. bothered.

And now I'm stupid tired.

____________________________

Speaking of Therapist Lady, after a full year of talking, I recently discovered that I'm no closer to resolving my guilt issues.

I feel better about everything, in general, but that specifically? The poor woman hasn't even made a dent.

The other day after My Beloved and I had a very minor argument about something small, I found myself alone and sobbing my heart out.

He had said, "Don't you know that you can love someone and still be angry with them?"

My response was, "Of course I do". Of course. But then my mind drifted to the dark side and I thought, "But how can he love me when I am responsible for Thomas' death? I blame myself - how is it that he doesn't? And what's going to happen when he finally realizes that he DOES?"

And on, and on, and on.

Luckily he was at work and I was here. No one needs to witness that kind of unattractive neediness first-hand.

But yeah, Therapist Lady and I need to work on this.

A lot.

__________________________

I think the grieving and infertile, in all our varied forms, need to work on cutting ourselves some slack over the next few days.

Because maybe it won't quite feel like Christmas. Maybe it won't be happy. Maybe we'll be angry. Maybe we'll be quieter than we used to be. Maybe we'll cry. Maybe we'll need reassurance. Maybe we'll need to be alone. Maybe we'll hurt more than we have in a long time.

And maybe we won't.

But people, if we do, it's okay.

Okay?

Okay.

________________________

One of the odd side effects of grief is that I now look forward to January. I used to see it as a bleak, cold, empty month. But now I see it as a time when the nothingness spreads out in front of me like an exciting blank canvas. No expectations, no commitments, no additional responsibilities. Just time and endless, beautiful space.

I can breathe in January. I inhale and exhale without thought; without trying to remember how.

I'm looking forward to jumping back on the Weight Watcher's bandwagon (all the chocolate, cheese and cookies should be gone by then) and starting in on a regular exercise routine (although the specific details of said routine are TBD).

As much as I do enjoy Christmas, the fact remains that I still have work at it. I spend a lot of time taking care of my mind during the holidays, sometimes at the expense of my chocolate and Bailey's laden body.

And so the easiness of the January emptiness is endlessly comforting. And very, very healthy.

Is it just me...?

Or is Brad Pitt...



...starting to look an awful lot like Burl Ives?

This 'n that

I eat stuff off the floor. MY floor, I mean. Okay, and maybe my Mom's floor. And other floors belonging to people whose homes and feet look especially clean.

I'm a firm believer in the 5 second rule, particularly where chocolate is involved. Or candy. Or anything sweet, really.

So I was kind of gob-smacked to discover that my 8-year old niece is not a follower of said edict. She fumbled a fresh-out-of-the-oven cookie while she was at our place on the weekend, and, giggling at her clumsiness, threw it out.

THREW. IT. OUT.

I'm not exactly sure what I'm more bothered by here - the loss of a perfectly good cookie, or the fact that apparently small children have better food-related hygiene than I do.

I mean, it's not like I keep a fork in my pocket in case I see something interesting laying in a discarded heap on the sidewalk or anything. But a cookie meeting tile for less than a fraction of a second? Come on - that's totally good to go!

Right?

Right?

Uh...right?
___________________________

The other night I had a dream that I had a baby. One of those I've-woken-up-and-it-was-so-vivid-it-must-be-real dreams.

Soul crushing.

But the problem is, in addition to the cloud of sorrow it cast over me, it's made me start second guessing the decision I made about not having "just one more surgery".

Because what if...?

Fuck.

______________________________

I often wonder if, once the baby-making days are long gone, all this will still consume me the way it does now. The what ifs. The regrets.

Thomas.

What will it be like, as a mother in mourning 20 years from now when all hope truly is lost and my lady bits have ceased to function at all? How will I feel then?

I think about Thomas so much. Not all the time, but still, so very, very much.

I suppose parents of living children think about their little ones as much as I think about Thomas. Probably a lot more.

Tonight I'll take comfort in that, given that it makes me feel less like a lunatic for regularly finding myself caught in trances filled with images of my boy.

I miss him. So much it feels like it could eat me alive.

__________________________

A friend posted this on her blog on October 15th.

I need to pass it along...

Don't Tell Me...

Don't tell me that you understand, don't tell me that you know,
Don't tell me that I will survive, how I will surely grow.
Don't tell me this is just a test, that I am truly blessed,
That I am chosen for this task, apart from all the rest.
Don't come at me with answers that can only come from me,
Don't tell me how my grief will pass, that I will soon be free.
Don't stand in pious judgment of the bonds I must untie,
Don't tell me how to suffer, don't tell me how to cry.
My life is filled with selfishness, my pain is all I see,
But I need you, I need your love, unconditionally.
Accept me in my ups and downs, I need someone to share,
Just hold my hand and let me cry, and say,
"My friend, I really do care."

Author Unknown

Beautifully said. So beautifully said.

Tuesday in my head

I gleefully added our phone number to Canada's brand-spanking-new "DO NOT CALL" registry this morning.

And then immediately set to work editing a telemarketing script a client sent me.

Because, it seems, I am a conscienceless whore.

_________________________________________

I Kissed a Girl has now replaced Jeremiah was a Bullfrog on my mind's inner play list.

Over and over and over it cycles through my brain. I kissed a girl and I liked iiiiiit!

What's worse is that I don't know most of the words (something about cherry Chapstick - or maybe it's cherry cola), but I sing it loud and proud just the same.

It seems like a perfectly reasonable anthem for a 38-year old married woman who lives in the suburbs and makes turkey chili while she edits telemarketing scripts.

_________________________________________

This is the first telemarketing script I've ever edited, by the way. I swear.

Please don't send hate mail...

_________________________________________

I bumped into a girl I knew in high school the other day coming out of the post office. I haven't seen her in probably more than 22 years.

We fell into an easy conversation almost immediately, and when I commented on her gorgeous four-month old baby she said softly, "It took us five years to get her."

I understood the love and pride in her eyes as she gazed at the evidence of her hard fought victory.

And I was happy.

Later I caused those eyes to fill with tears when I told her my own battle story, but she was kind and understanding. And not afraid.

Not afraid.

When we parted she said she was going to say a special prayer for me, and while I'm still hesitant to believe that prayers of this nature do anything at all, it gave me a lot of comfort.

Part of me almost believed her prayer might be answered.

___________________________________________

We had a painter in last week to do our living/dining room. It has a vaulted ceiling and we figured it was best to leave that job to a professional, what with my fear of heights and My Beloved's fear of painting.

He wasn't in the house 15 minutes when I caught myself singing "In the Ghetto" up here in the office while doing some invoices.

Clearly I'm alone entirely too much. And have a lot of issues with that stupid inner play list...

__________________________________________

I have already answered two telemarketing calls since I started writing this blog.

Divine retribution, I suppose.

_________________________________________

My Dad's colonoscopy has still yet to be scheduled. My parents seem to be taking comfort in this - as though the delay means that they should somehow be less worried.

Me? I just worry that the delay is going to cost us in the end, and that the reason for the holdup is that they just don't hustle a 78-year old cardiac patient into a costly test procedure when someone younger and healthier might benefit from having it sooner. I think he just keeps getting bumped in favour of people they think deserve it more. From a this-is-an-old-guy-who's-living-on-borrow-time-anyway standpoint, I mean.

But the good news is that he has gone through the first three treatments for his macular degeneration and the doctor who gave him the first of three needles in his affected eye (eeew) said he's hopeful that they'll be able to reverse some of the damage.

No guarantees, of course, but hope is always welcome. Sometimes somewhat warily, but welcome just the same.

_______________________________________

My toothless feline has pretty much fully recovered from the trauma of her recent dental work. She is as delightfully insane as always and is currently curled up on the pajamas I neglected to hang up this morning after I took them off.

Nothin' like kitty love. And furry jammies.

_______________________________________

My Beloved is finally able to take some time off. After more than 9 straight months during which he's had just one day off (not counting weekends - although he's worked through a lot of those too, including almost every single long weekend of the summer) he's got a week off starting Friday!

I'm giddy.

We have no concrete plans, but sometimes a planless week off ends up being the very best kind of vacation.

I predict lots of lazy mornings, drives to see the changing leaves, day trips and just general guiltless slothfulness.

Ahhhhh.

This 'n that. Mostly food.

I made really yummy raspberry bran muffins after dinner tonight. I started Weight Watchers (again) today, and bran muffins seemed like a healthy alternative to the chocolate orgy I've been unashamedly engaged in for the better part of the last month.

I ate two. With margarine. But since they're 100% chocolate-free, I think I'm golden.

_______________________________________________

I'm hungry.

_______________________________________________

As much as I want to lose more weight (read: re-lose what I lost and gained back), I think a lot of my desire to jump back on the the Weight Watchers bandwagon hinges on my need for control.

When I first started seeing some success on WW back in '06, I was as thrilled by my need for smaller pants as I was of my ability to control the body that had failed me and Thomas so horrendously.

I still want smaller pants. But yeah, I think this is still as much about control as anything else.

I don't really care, it's just interesting to note.

________________________________________________

I forgot how all consuming food and weight loss and hunger is during the first week of Weight Watchers.

You might want to skip the next week of posts. I'm just saying.

________________________________________________

I had lunch with an elementary school friend I hadn't seen in 23 years last week. We found each other via Facebook (good GOD I love that thing) and after several Scrabulous games and messages back and forth we decided to host our own two-person reunion.

I know I shouldn't, but it's so very hard not to judge people by the way they react to Thomas - his life and death. His story.

We all know someone who has disappointed us - who has retreated in fear, never to be seen again. We all know people who prefer not to talk about it for reasons we just have to hope have more to do with them wanting to protect us than themselves. We all know people who just can't handle it.

Sadly, we just do.

But Stacy wasn't one of those people. She cried great big tears all over the table, oblivious to everyone else in the restaurant, after gently asking me to tell his story. She cried like it happened to her. She told me that she wished we'd gotten back in touch a long time ago so that she'd have been able to be there for me when he died.

She did everything right. Somehow she just knew how.

Amazing.
________________________________________________

We didn't win the $36 million dollar 6/49 jackpot tonight.

I guess I'll continue to make my own muffins in the future. No Alice for me.

________________________________________________

Really, I'm huuuuungry.

Musings

I've started carrying a chocolate bar in my purse. Just in case. I'm not entirely sure what sudden roadside emergency I can solve with a chocolate bar, but it just seems important to have one with me.

__________________________

I decided to start seeing a therapist. Four years of trying, failing, loss and infertility have, I have had to admit, finally taken their toll on what's left of my mind. I'm fine - I'm not a knife wielding psycho or anything and I'd prefer you not tiptoe around me as though I am - I just decided I need someone outside my sad little world to listen to me with fresh ears and a heart I can't wound.

I didn't realize how nice it could be to talk to someone who is completely emotionally detached - completely outside my circle. She didn't lose anything when Thomas died. I can't make her sad. I can't slow her healing process. I don't have to reassure her at my own expense.

Nice. So nice. Who knew?

_________________________

I have tiny little zits all over the end of my nose. Someone needs to tell the gods that I'm not 16. Either that or tell them to return my 16-year old body to me along with the zits. Not that it was necessarily all that fabulous, my 16-year old body, but at least everything was firm and in the right place. Plus there wasn't any scar tissue inside it, no one had yet died in it, and nothing on it hurt by the end of the day.

God, I had no idea just how good I had it.

_________________________

Britney Spears' 16-year old sister is pregnant.

Don't even get me started.

_________________________

I'm bound and determined not to go to any more stores, grocery or otherwise, until after Christmas. The holidays bring out the inner maniac in people and I find myself decidedly not filled with the spirit of Jesus when I have to deal with them.

You know, because I'm so perfect and all.

_________________________

I should, by all rights, be nearly 7 months pregnant with twins right now.

Ain't that a fucking kick in the head.

_________________________

I'm going to make my therapist a very rich woman.

Monday Musings

The other night, while adjusting myself mid sleep, I plopped my face down into a puddle of drool. And I don't know if it was mine or the cat's. So I folded that part of the pillow under, gave her a scratch and went back to sleep. Somewhere in my addled brain I'm sure I thought, "EWWW!", but the need for sleep was greater than my need for a clean pillow case. And reasonable hygiene standards.

Sometimes I think we're a little too close, the cat and I.
______________________

I can't deal with people getting old. Specifically, I can't deal with my parents getting old. The mental and physical decline that's happening right before my eyes to the two people I've always known as the strongest people alive is weighting heavily on my mind these days.

And my mind just doesn't have enough space for it.

Seriously, I just need five minutes. Can everything just stop spinning for FIVE minutes????
______________________

Once I had to crazy glue myself into a skirt. The zipper broke in the middle of the day. Irreparably so. I truly had no choice - a quick assessment of the situation in the bathroom revealed that it wasn't a quick safety pin fix. And, of course, I was going to the Cirque Du Soleil that night - a work function.

Lithe, lean acrobats performed fantastical body-bending feats. While I sat there glued into my skirt.
______________________

I made some additions to my links. It's something I put off for ages - until blogs and other sites I want to add here become so numerous (stored in a messy bookmark folder) that I start feeling panicky.

Anyway, they're added and I feel calm again.

Well, about this anyway.
______________________

Shouldn't "numerous" be spelled "numberous"? I totally think so.
______________________

The other day somebody commented on how wonderful it is that I can feel happiness for others. She said she still has trouble - can't let it go and often avoids situations where she knows she'll be confronted by people who have what she cannot.

You know what? I can't let it go either. I am happy for those whose dreams have come true. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm sad for me. For My Beloved. For my parents still waiting to cradle a living grandchild. For my sister still waiting to spoil a living niece or nephew. For my in-laws who want to erase the sorrow in their son's heart. For my friends who just want my dream to finally come true.

No amount of happiness for someone else will ever erase my sadness. It's always there. Always.

In short, I ain't no saint.
_______________________

I've been baking up a storm lately in preparation for company on Saturday. Seriously. If you'd walked into my kitchen at any point during the last three days it would have looked like a sugar, flour and butter hurricane had blown through the room leaving crumbs, batter and 49,000 dirty dishes in its wake.

It was peanut butter chocolate chip cookies this evening, and I was happily working away when that familiar uselessness washed over me.

My Mom made these particular cookies all the time when I was little. The smell of them baking, all peanut buttery and delicious, made me feel cozy - brought back so many sweet memories of childhood and of her.

But there's no child here. No one to absorb the sounds of baking clatter, the scents of freshly baked cookies, the warmth of a winter kitchen.

I'm not making memories for anyone except me. I'm just a woman alone in a kitchen.

Que sera, sera? Geez, someone needs to smack that Doris Day.
_______________________

Oh well. At least I have cookies.

Musings

We caught a little bit of the Santa Claus parade while we were in Montreal. We didn't stay for the whole thing because it was very cold out. And we were hungry. And we're pussies, evidently. But we watched a bit of it and enjoyed soaking up the Christmas atmosphere.

It's funny just how barren you can feel when the crowd you're in has a median age of four. And you're easily outnumbered by them 5 to 1.

We eventually gave up the excellent curb-side spot we'd secured to a family with a toddler in a stroller and another one very obviously on the way.

And I felt somehow small and ashamed by my childlessness.

______________________________________

Four days in a hotel is the precise amount of time it takes for you to become completely used to someone else making your bed, cleaning your bathroom, vacuuming your floors and making every single meal for you.

Coming home to a house with no staff sucks ass.

______________________________________


I'm procrastinating at the moment. My plan is to take Thomas' Christmas wreaths to the cemetery today, and it always requires a little mental preparation before I make the trip.

Fortunately it's a lovely, sunny day.

But, well, my boy is still dead.

______________________________________

I got a hair cut yesterday afternoon.

My stylist is a bit of a wing nut, but I forgive her because she has been kind and tactful enough not to ask me any prying questions about children or my uterus since she heard the whole story during my inaugural visit. I love her for this.

I did catch her taking what she believed was a furtive glance at my tummy, but I can overlook this indiscretion. I should have told her that any bump she may have seen was just one too many croissants.

Lord, those Montreal croissants are good...

Anyway, I love my stylist and the cut is excellent, but I don't for the life of me know why she insists on blowing my hair dry into a ridiculous bouffant.

I know now to make my appointments late in the day when the only place I need to go afterwards is home.

______________________________________

I shouldn't have mentioned croissants. My tummy heard me.

______________________________________

I think they should start building space shuttles out of whatever my purse is made from. I bought this thing at least four years ago (as a reward for making through a particularly annoying Monday at work) and with the exception of some very minor wear (that's virtually invisible unless you're inspecting it closely) it looks brand new.

I don't know how this can possibly be since I use it year round, but I'm increasingly curious to see exactly how long it's going to last. At this rate it's conceivable that it might outlast ME.

The best thing? It was dirt cheap - something like $35, as I recall.

But it's cute. I swear it is. Shut up, it is.

_______________________________________

I'm out of material. It's time to head off to the cemetery.

This is NOT the life I ordered. Why does it feel like the longevity of cheap purses is the only thing I can rely on?

Well that and, thank God, My Beloved.

Musings

Last year around this time I was able to soothe away the rising infertility-induced panic by repeatedly telling myself that by this Christmas I would either be pregnant or we'd be well on our way to adopting a child.

What a silly, stupid girl I was.

_________________________________

I've been awakened on and off during the last few nights by a sneezing cat and a snoring husband. Fall allergies are making them both very noisy in the night.

They're lucky they're so cute.

_________________________________

Yesterday I bought a personalized memorial Christmas wreath for Thomas to go on his grave. It really bothers me that when snow covers his marker no one knows he's there. This will remedy that little problem.

I told My Beloved it made me happy because there's nothing else I can do for him at Christmas but buy stuff like this.

"Well maybe if you took him more places..." was his reply.

The morbid jokes never get old. We're sick bastards, the two of us.

_________________________________

The other day My Beloved and I spent two hours wandering up and down the main street of our town window shopping. It was the perfect way to spend a sunny, Fall afternoon.

It would have been even more perfect if we hadn't kept alternately passing and trailing a pregnant woman and her husband. The last straw was when she came out of the chocolate shop and stuffed her face full of it as I passed by.

Come on, not chocolate AND a baby!!

Harrumph.

_________________________________

I'm not bitter. I'm just drawn that way.

_________________________________

On Sunday I wrote down the names of my angels and my grandparents in the Book of Remembrance after Mass, as I do on the first Sunday in November every year.

I don't think people who haven't had losses like this realize how gratifyingly soul soothing it is to have the opportunity to say "I had children and these are their names."

They lived. That's all I want people to know. They lived.

__________________________________

The Lotto 6/49 jackpot is 35 million tomorrow.

Wouldn't that be a humdinger? I know money can't buy happiness, but it would still be very nice not to have a mortgage. I think the universe owes us that at least.

__________________________________

We're going away for a few days in a few weeks and I'm terrified that something is going to happen to my sneezing, sleep-disrupting cat.

We certainly don't think of her as a surrogate child, but we're both very attached to the hairy little beast just the same.

I'm sure she'll be just fine - we have a plan in place for feeding and watering and attention-getting - but I worry just the same. I think I'll spend the rest of my life fixated on some sort of irrational worry.

It's what I do.
__________________________________

I have no upper body strength. It's a fact.

When I told someone recently that My Beloved says I have "decorative arms" she awwwwed and isn't-he-sweeted like crazy. That is, until I clarified that it isn't that he thinks my arms are pretty, it's that he thinks they're functionally useless.

Oh how we laughed, me and my decorative arms.
__________________________________

I'm addicted to 90210 reruns.

Why is it that getting lost in the 80s and early 90s is so soothing?

If it wasn't for pornaments and 90210...

All over the place

I've been thinking a lot about the twins today, as though I suddenly just remembered them.

Grief is weird. For some odd reason they finally seem like real little people to me, and they've been gone for more than two months.
_____________________

Last night I lay in bed with my hands on my tummy. I can't believe how many little people have been in there. How many babies have slipped in and out so quickly and quietly. And, in most cases, dramatically.

There's nothing quite as jarring as the doughy emptiness of a tummy after a miscarriage or three.
_____________________

I got a new pair of glasses that I think are very cool and that I think look very cool on me. But to be honest, I'm also secretly a little worried that I look like Mrs. Beesley in them.

Please tell me I'm wrong about the latter...


_____________________

I have an adorable picture of my friend's baby boy wearing one of Thomas' outfits, but I keep forgetting to ask her if I can post it here.

I hope she says yes. Poke. Poke. Poke.
_____________________

Still no word from the OB on my blood tests. I'm calling on Monday if I don't hear anything by the end of the week. I've been very patient, but I neeeeeeed to know.

Someone asked - they're looking for clotting disorders.

A clotting disorder will go nicely with my deformed uterus, I think. It's what all the best dressed infertiles are wearing this season.
_____________________

The other day on my way a meeting I was passing Toys 'R Us when a parade of employees marched directly in front of my path wielding all the big, key nursery necessities for a customer leading the pack. I slowed down to let the crib pass and shot an eye roll heaven-ward.

He thinks he's sooooooo funny.
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Last night I dreamed that Scary Spice and I were running through rivers of mud trying to catch up with my Dad, who I thought might have found my missing purse.

I don't have any idea what this means.

But just in case there's any truth in the dream and you happen to be in a similar situation, don't EVER accidentally fling mud in Scary Spice's hair. She really hates that.
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We lost the Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness magnet somewhere in the depths of the car wash last night.

The car feels completely naked now. I didn't realize how much I needed the magnet until it blew off in the multi-coloured streams of soap and disappeared.

I'm. So. Needy.

I have ordered a new magnet and will try to ignore the nakedness for the time being.
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Grief. Scary Spice. Car magnets.

I'm spent.

I have a lot to say for someone who feels THIS grumpy

It's just PMS, but it feels so much like Clomid it's scaring me. Why am I so hormonal two months post-miscarriage and D&C? Freaky. And annoying. I have too much to do this week to be THIS hormonal. And no, there's not a chance in hell that I'm pregnant. This is just PMS at it's ugliest.

Lucky me.
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A very dear friend heard her baby's heartbeat for the very first time today. After suffering devastating losses followed by two years of soul-crushing infertility, she is nearly 8 weeks pregnant. At long last, pregnant. And everything is a-okay.

When I heard the good news I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding in and thanked God for giving them what he chose not to give to us this summer.

And then I worried that the bitterness in the end of my prayer would cancel out the genuine gratitude of the first part.

And then I worried that if I blogged about it people would misunderstand and not realize that the bitterness is directed at God, not at my dear friends.

And then I decided that I needed to throw caution to the wind, stop apologizing and explaining and just write.
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The results of my blood tests should be back sometime this week.

I've mostly put them out of my mind, save for having a vague idea about when I should be hearing from my OB, and I realize the reason for this is that I'm scared shitless about what the tests will reveal.

It's possible I'll find out that I'm more to blame for Thomas' death than I realized. And I'm not entirely sure what I'll do with that information.

But I know there will need to be wine.
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My big sister is turning 40 this week.

She really, REALLY needs to stop getting older because she's dragging me with her and I'm not impressed by this at ALL.

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Yesterday on our way to my Mom & Dad's for dinner we drove up alongside a couple out for a late afternoon walk. As we approached them it dawned on me that they were alone - they didn't have the requisite stroller, wagon or baby sling that 99% of people wandering our streets seem to have. They were even dog-less.

And it was immensely comforting. We aren't the only ones, I thought.

I turned to look at them as we drove past, and caught sight of her bulging tummy.

And harrumphed for the rest of the ride.
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I went out with my neighbour and my Goddaughter this afternoon. Warehouse shopping is good for the soul - and even better for PMS.

And so is having a giggling one-year-old run over to you with her arms in the air, in the hopes that you'll pick her up.

Should this opportunity ever present itself to you, do as the child wants. There is nothing like a tiny little girl looking at you with big wide eyes and shooting a great gap-toothed grin your way. Nothing.
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The other day it dawned on me that I feel tired all the time. I mean run-over-by-a-cement-truck-bone-achingly tired. And I'm fine. I'm not sick and when I'm not having nightmares I sleep very well. I eat healthy, well-balanced meals (most of the time) and I take my vitamins.

I've come to the conclusion that this is the fatigue of the bereaved. I drag a trunk full of additional baggage with me wherever I go. It's bound to wear a girl out.

What I wouldn't do for that once-upon-a-time sense of physical well-being I had before my body showed its true, murderous colours
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During the last few days people have found this blog by doing searches for the following:

Love snoring
Too many highlights in my hair
Kellogs Roller Coaster
Mall Santa Claus

To these poor, unsuspecting victims I extend my most sincere apologies.

More musings

Does it say something about a person who makes it all the way to 37 before realizing that the "K" in Special K cereal stands for Kellogs?
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I flipped through a couple of books on Infertility at Chapters the other day. One had all kinds of advice on things like dealing with uncomfortable social situations, making informed decisions about treatments, and when to let it all go and move on, etc. I perused a few passages that pertained to things that have been rumbling around in my head then shoved it back on the shelf. Like I was mad at it.

Because that makes sense.
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It can be hard to resist the lure of the "I have it way worse than you" game, particularly on those days when you feel especially low and woebegone.

I sometimes play it in my head, but it has recently occurred to me that I'm not exactly sure how you win. Am I winning if I believe I do have it worse than someone else, or am I winning if I determine I'm better off? Is a lose-lose game one I should even be playing in the first place?

Yeah, really, no one should play this game. Ever.
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My cat's leg is clicking. I don't know why. She doesn't seem to notice it so I'm not going to point it out.
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Three years ago I was pregnant. I didn't know it yet, but I was about two days pregnant with my beautiful boy. It was the start of our 38 weeks together. The start of his very tiny life.

How can so much have happened in three years? How is it possible that he came and went without a single sound except one little gasp?

Three years. Good God.
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My neighbours are away at a cottage this week. Because everything everyone else does always sounds so good to me, I want to be away at a cottage too.

Only clearly I'm not.

Sigh.
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Is it possible to have too much yarn? Is it somewhat insane to buy yarn on sale when you have no plans at all for it? Is this an addiction? Should I be worried?

It's just that it's so pretty...
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Two weeks ago My Beloved and I went to a Hallmark warehouse sale. We spent a total of $6.20 (including tax) on items that would have cost us $1285.98 (including tax) if we'd purchased them in-store at regular retail prices.

We saved $1279.78.

I'm still riding that bargain high.

Oh, and if you need any gift bags, let me know.
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If you tailgate - if you ride so far up my ass that I can see the colour of your eyes - I'm going to slow down and drive right on the speed limit.

Just so you know.
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There's a mandatory watering ban being enforced in our town because we've had so little rain over the last month and a half.

I understand the need to conserve, but the thought of my beautiful lawns drying up to match the brown of the rest of the neighbourhood is making me a little crazy. Plants and grass are the only things I can nurture and help grow right now and not being able to take care of them the way I want to is torture.

RAIN, DAMMIT!!!
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Lucy is happily scratching her claws on the carpet at the top of the stairs. With gusto.

I don't think the clicking leg is an issue at all.

Crisis averted.

Little of this, little of that

We watch old 80s sitcoms. They soothe us. Lately we can't get enough of The Facts of Life, even though it's a shockingly bad program (a fact I somehow failed to notice when I watched it the first time around 20+ years ago).

So anyway, the other day I noticed that my current hairstyle very closely resembles Natalie's 1987 hair style.

1987.

This is not good, is it?
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I recently read this little gem in a piece of Harry Rosen Father's Day ad copy:

"Becoming a father is easy enough, but being one can be rough."

Oh really? Becoming a father is easy, is it? Says who? Seriously, Harry, says WHO????

As for being rough, well yes. I think My Beloved would agree that fatherhood, thus far, has not been what he expected it to be. But I'm also pretty sure he'd give his left arm to do it a second time.

So shut up Harry Rosen. No one likes you.

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I've now forgotten to bring the coupon I snagged for a free bag of Lucy's favourite cat kibble to the store with me twice.

Clearly I'm not sunny enough yet.

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I want to be pregnant again so badly.

There. Just in case God wasn't paying attention the first 9 billion times I've said this.

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My New Dawn climbing rose bush is just starting to bloom for the very first time. I have been training it along the fence and trellises I bought for it, and gently pulling stray branches back onto our side of the fence.

The first blooms about to pop are running along the top of the trellis, too far above the fence for me to reach, and tipping into the yard behind us.

They have two boys. The first is 6 months older than Thomas would have been, the second is 6 months younger. They are pregnant with their third child, due in October. Exactly when she wanted to have it, just like the other two.

Two boys, a baby on the way and my first, beautiful roses too.

How nice for them.

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I took a Windex shower this morning.

Yeah, so don't buy the Windex outdoor window cleaning thingy. It's a bottle that you attach to your hose to spray clean your exterior windows.

I sprayed me clean instead.

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I wonder if Harry Rosen and Windex can sue me for ragging on them?

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My father has diabetes. My father-in-law was just diagnosed too.

I love these men. I hate when bad things happen to good people that I love.

This needs to stop.

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I'm not in a bad mood. I have no idea why I sound like I am.

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My hands and arms are getting really tanned from being out in the garden and mowing the lawn. The rest of me is white as a ghost. I'm not trying to tan, but I kind of wish if I was going to end up with one, it would be an even, all over tan.

My hands look like they belong to someone else when they're resting on my bare legs or stomach.

It's creepy.
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I need to post some garden pictures. Just because I have some.

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Has pregnancy changed anyone else's hair?

Natalie's is so sleek and shiny and flowing. Just like mine used to be.

Sigh.

Musings

Blown-out-of-proportion stress reactions to day surgery can be pacified by chocolate in all its forms. But once the surgery is over and a flicker of hope replaces the nearly two years of doubt, there's all that well-padded chocolate ass to deal with. And chocolate thighs and chocolate tummy...
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Don't try to give a car away. Don't say goodbye to it in a school parking lot with misty eyes and a lump in your throat. It will end up back in your garage by 10:00pm that evening. It will. Honest to God, it will.

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Everyone gets pregnant over the winter (when you can't see bumps under coats and sweaters) and then they emerge all round and glowy in the spring. Some warning would be nice. I don't think that's too much to ask of perfect strangers.

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If you intend to move a birdhouse away from a garden because the last family that lived there dive-bombed you while you weeded, you should do it in the fall. Don't wait until a new family (sparrows, this time) have taken up residence in April.

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Watching a documentary about four morbidly obese people (the bed-ridden, close to death kind of morbid obesity, I mean) will make the 6 pounds you've gained from eating all the pre and post-surgery chocolate and treats seem much, much, MUCH more horrendous than it probably is. Right? 6 pounds isn't all that bad, right? RIGHT????

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Rabbits only look stupid.

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Getting lost while you're out for a drive on a pretty, sunny day in April can be fun - but it all depends on the kind of lost. When you start seeing things you've seen three times before and you can't for the life of you figure out how to disengage yourself from the horrendous loop you're making over and over and over again, being lost ceases to be fun.

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Surprise chocolate cake is the best.

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Even after all this time, the enormity of losing Thomas will still crash down on me like a wall of bricks if I let my guard down and almost forget for a moment or two.

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When a woman at the grocery store hands you a five dollar bill and asks if you've got change for a grocery cart, she really just wants a free quarter.

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Even if you don't think you want to, babies can always make you smile.

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So far 37 feels the same as 36. Maybe I should have saved all the cake for when I start noticing the difference.

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I never saw any of this coming. The loss and grief of these past four years has been hurtling its way towards me since the moment I took my own first breath - and I never saw it coming.

Thank God for small mercies.