Was that YOU?

My Beloved and I went to the Canadian National Exhibition on Wednesday evening. If you're unfamiliar with it, it's a fair. A big, big, big fair right in the heart of Toronto. Carnival rides, midway games, amazing deals on really shitty merchandise, weird exhibits like "The History of the Toilet", people hawking Ginsu knives, unhealthy food on sticks - it's all there, God love it.

While wandering through the midway, I spotted a game booth strung with Rudolph and Abominable Snowman stuffed toys - prizes for the lucky winners able to catch bright orange balls in tiny nets as they drifted over a fast running waterfall. The balls, not the players.

Kind of weird, but whatever. Rudolph was the prize and I neeeeeeeded to win him.

It was all a little confusing, and even now I'm not sure I fully understand the rules (or why we paid one price and both got to play, or how we ended up with a medium size prize when all we caught were balls marked with an "s" for small), but it doesn't matter. I won a Rudolph.

He was a little wet - a casualty of the leaky waterfall, I suppose - and his neck was sewn too tightly on one side giving him a permanently cocked head, but he was mine.

Rudolph is the physical embodiment of my happy place. He and Snoopy never fail to calm my inner beast when it's raging against the cruel world or merciless fate.

And yes, I know full well that this makes me a simpleton, and I don't particularly care. You take your happy place triggers where you can find them. Just because mine are cartoon characters doesn't make them any less valid, as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway, in addition to the ill-sewn neck, my new Rudolph's mouth - an inverted V meant to sit just below his big red nose - was stitched sideways. A sideways stitched V, in case you've never seen one, looks a lot like a smirk.

So there he was, a slightly wet, smirking reindeer with a cocked head and ears flattened back against his head from being squished in a box with 9 billion other Rudolphs.

He is, of course, the Rudolph I would win. Misshapen, weird looking and wet. He looked like he'd just been told something really offensive, or possibly just smelled a very, very bad fart.

Smells a Fart Rudolph. Yup, totally the one I'd win.

Nuthin' much...

...and you?

Sweating with the oldies

Men just don't understand why sometimes it's okay to hate.

With a renewed sense of determination to battle the bulge (for the 4 billionth time in my life) I went for a walk this morning. It's supposed to be sticky hot today with storms in the afternoon, so I thought an early morning jaunt would be prudent.

I choose a pair of knee-length yoga pants and a baseball style top I haven't worn in a few years that's easily two sizes too big now. Which sounds good and all, but I myself am still way more than too sizes too big. And bigger than I was just a few months ago when I gave up on Weight Watchers and began the summer of comfort food. And inactivity.

But I digress...

I covered my bedhead with one of my Beloved's Baseball hats, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out.

I should comment on the hat. I have a giant head. Sometimes My Beloved jokes that I could capture my own moon. He's sooooooo funny like that.

Hats rarely fit me. Baseball hats are the worst. They perch awkwardly on my head unless I squeeze them down into place. This leaves me lightheaded. And, worse than that, it's totally obvious that I've squeezed my humongous melon inside with absolutely no room to spare. Flapping ears, and all that.

Today I didn't care. My new haircut made the hat look slightly less ridiculous on me and, if the Superman comics are to be believed, the glasses completely disguised me.

I confidently strode down to the pond near our house, feeling empowered and motivated. There's a path around the pond that's about a half a kilometer in length, and I figured that early in the morning I'd likely have it all to myself.

I decided to do three laps before heading home.

Almost halfway through my last lap I spotted her. A runner. She burst onto the track across the pond in a little racing bra and short shorts.

I had wanted the solitude, but was admittedly a little grateful to see another person on the track. There are some isolated bits that make me a little nervous. There's a lot of paranoia in my gigantic head.

I continued to walk, undaunted by the runner.

Until she passed me.

She looked different close up. Better. Tiny. Perfect.

She was roughly the size of my left leg and every inch of her was evenly tanned (I could tell because there was just so very much skin to see). The word "FLIRT" was printed across her firm, peach-shaped butt and her long, silky ponytail swished with every step she took.

The "phhhst phhst phhhst phhst" of those steps was in stark contrast to the lumbering "thwunk thwunk thwunk thwunk" of my own (which, until she passed, had been music to my ears).

I took stock of the figure I cut plodding along the track. Too big shirt. Ruthlessly unforgiving yoga pants. Giant head mashed into a baseball cap. Tomato red face dripping with sweat. Hair frizzed up and poking out from under the cap like a 1970s baseball player.

And yeah, I hated her a bit.

I realize this is unfair. It would make much more sense to hate myself instead (although there's certainly some of that at play here. Clearly), but I chose to loathe her instead. Her and her flirty butt and itty bitty little waist flitting around the track like a wispy, perfect little butterfly.

My Beloved laughed when I told him my sweaty tale of woe, and asked why I would think to hate the perfect little jogger.

Men.

And now for something completely different...

A little change of pace, if you will.

I just found out today that old friend's husband composed an entry for CBC's new Hockey Night in Canada anthem search, and I honestly think it's fabulous. Really, it kind of gave me chills.

And I swear it's not just because he's married to my friend. Nor am I touting its brilliance because she paid me to post this endorsement. In fact, I'm not even sure she knows this blog exists.

Anyway, the contest. It's a voting thing. You register, choose the song you like and vote for it.

So, you know, if you're so inclined, have a listen to Tim Foley's entry (oh look, there it is now!!).

And maybe vote for him here . You know, if you feel like it 'n stuff.

The end.

It shouldn't be THIS hard to get a decent haircut...

You know what happens when you don't get your hair cut for 5 months? Your salon closes up shop. And no one tells you.

For the love of crap.

I spent two years trying to find a salon I liked - one where I wasn't asked a billion questions by a prying stylist, who would then forget my story and make me tell it all over again the next time I was in. I tried three different salons and at least as many stylists before finding a place and a stylist I felt comfortable with.

Yeah, she was a bit of a wing nut, my stylist, but she was nice. We only had to have the Thomas/infertility conversation once, she did a good job with my hair, and if I got her talking about herself (particularly her husband's ex) I could sit back and barely have to say a word.

She was so good, in fact, my last cut lasted five months.

But she's gone.

For the love of crap.

The prospect of finding a new salon (even though they're a dime a dozen around these parts for some reason) and breaking in a new stylist (having the "soooooo, do you have any kids? chat for the umpteenth time) just left me cold. Been there, done that. Four times.

My solution? I'm going back to the salon from whence I came. My old stylist, pre-marriage. More than a half hour away in my old neighbourhood, but worth the effort. Well worth not having to decide if I'm going to be the dead baby mama or the thirty-something woman with, curiously, no children.

Rosa already knows my story because my sister still goes to her. Granted I haven't seen her since my wedding day so it's possible there may be a deer-in-headlights waiting for me when I walk into the salon, but at least she already knows.

For once I don't have to explain.

Prayers. And, of course, guilt.

My Dad has a solid 24 years of experience with heart disease. Prior to 1984 he was merely being treated for elevated cholesterol. When he had a heart attack in February of that year, things got much more serious.

In 1998, a year before I met My Beloved, my Dad went into cardiac arrest while I was on the phone with my Mom discussing car insurance. A month later he came home from the hospital with an implanted defibrillator.

And I've walked on eggshells around him ever since. That's a whole post unto itself, my inability to enjoy the time I have with him because of the ever-present fear that it'll be the last time I ever see him.

A whole series of posts, that topic could fill, as a matter of fact.

But this post is about something else.

Yesterday when I dropped off some yarn I'd ordered online for my Mom, my Dad came bouncing through the kitchen with the announcement that his heart had reverted back to normal sinus rhythm.

The cardiac arrest happened because it was abnormal - had been for a year. The defibrillator wasn't a cure for his irregular rhythm, merely a protection against another serious case of arrhythmia and, or course, cardiac arrest. Except for a brief period of about 6 months sometime during the middle of my pregnancy with Thomas, my Dad's heart has been beating abnormally for more than 10 years.

So, for the first time since late 2004, his heart is beating perfectly normally. He climbed the stairs without gasping for breath. He sounded wonderful. Gleeful.

I stood there, my mouth gaping, and asked how, HOW this could have magically happened. How, after so long, had his heart just decided to correct itself and beat properly?

There is no answer. It just happens. It likely won't last, but the reprieve is a huge blessing because it spares his heart the additional wear and tear of an irregular rhythm.

We sat down in the living room, and again I asked, mostly rhetorically, "HOW?"

With the innocence of a child, he said, "I don't know. But of course I pray a lot", and looked at me earnestly as if to say, "So clearly that's why. God has made it so."

And I wanted to cry. Because it's such wonderful news. Because his happiness and relief were palpable. Because it'll lengthen his life. Because he believes in miracles. Because he believes that if you pray hard enough and long enough God will answer those prayers.

And because I don't know if I do, even when someone's beautiful heart is miraculously fixed with no other logical explanation other than, "it happens".

The road less traveled

Does everyone need permission to feel the way they feel, or is it just me?

That familiar, slightly dull, knicker-binding sense of doom and gloom was bugging me last week. I couldn't shake it. It sat on my shoulders with its hands over my mouth trying to smother me for days.

I couldn't for the life of me figure out where it came from and how it snuck up on me so quickly and quietly.

On Friday, Therapist Lady pointed out that there is anxiety in reaching decisions. Silly me. All this time I thought indecision was my issue. But apparently I have the ability to stay freaked out even when decisions are actually made.

FANtastic.

She said that our decision not to have the surgery, even though it's still classified as a tentative one, means that we have decided to move in another direction. Which isn't a bad thing, but when you're not sure what that direction is - or what lies along the road you'll eventually end up choosing - it can be anxiety producing.

And I can attest to that.

The interesting thing is that as soon as she made this proclamation, the doom and gloom started to lift. Being given permission to feel anxious made a huge chunk of the anxiety simply vanish.

Because it's okay to feel unsure. It's okay to feel scared. It's okay to be confused. It's okay to need to think about the possibility that it's time to start mourning the loss of future biological children who may never come. Who will probably never come.

It looks like a lot of work ahead. Good God. When I see it laid out before me in print, it looks like a fucking shit-load of work.

But I'll get there. Eventually. With constant reminders that it really is okay to be overwhelmed by a life I never in a million years expected would be mine.

Shadow Mother

I always aim for the 9:00am Mass (shhh - don't tell God that it's partly to get it over with. I'm pretty certain he doesn't think that's a particularly good reason to choose a Mass time). But I don't necessarily always make it up and out that early on a Sunday morning, particularly if I've fallen asleep on the couch watching an old movie the night before.

As a result I'm a bit of a wanderer, and so I see "regulars" from all three Sunday Masses, depending upon which one I manage to make it to.

This past Sunday I saw a women who, last time I saw her, was pregnant. Yesterday she had a baby carrier in her hands. Her third little girl was nestled in the carrier.

The odd thing is that my first thought was, "Oh - oh, so the baby came home". Or something along those lines.

My FIRST reaction. Good God.

My second was to marvel at how fast time flies when you're spinning away on your little hamster wheel going absolutely nowhere. But with great determination and fortitude. Blah ha.

As I was marveling at the speed with which time seems to be passing, I noticed another family that I used to see regularly when I was pregnant with Thomas. I sat in the same section they did back then - a section I hardly ever go to now. It's where people with children tend to congregate. There's something about the space that seems to lend itself to carriers and strollers and toddlers. But not to me, now.

Anyway, this family have two girls and a boy. Their last child, a girl, was born around the same time as Thomas. Maybe a little after. I can't remember anymore.

When I saw them yesterday, I was stunned. I don't see them very often, but I know I've seen them during the past three years. I'm sure of it. But there they were - not the same family at all. The oldest is now a proper young lady, the toddler is a great big boy and the baby? A real little girl.

This beautiful family, sprouting up before my eyes. And mine hasn't changed a bit. Not one single bit, at least not that anyone looking at me would ever know.

It was odd, the feeling I had seeing that family; like time has forgotten me. Forgotten both My Beloved and me.

It's a strange, strange thing to be surrounded by friends and family - and strangers - with growing children. It's painful in some ways, of course, but it's also oddly frightening. Like I want to run along beside them screaming, "Don't forget me!" or juggle pythons and broken glass so they'll notice me.

I'm ashamed to admit that sometimes now I forget that I was a mother. That I am a mother.

I never forget my children. Ever. But I have trouble remembering that I'm a mother. I see them with their growing families and baby carriers and big round tummies.

And that's just not who I am.

I'm a shadow.

Questionable viewing habits

Watching the last (and goriest) half of War of the Worlds the evening after you had a vividly violent dream about being a WWI soldier makes total sense, right?

Can someone pass me a night light? And check for zombies, aliens and the enemy under my bed? Please?

*whimper*

Eeew.

It's interesting what you can find in the produce department. Today it was a nose-picking yahoo in a Leaf jersey on a cell phone. He was wandering around like he owned the place, digging for gold with both his thumb and index finger.

I heard him before I saw him, and as I turned towards the noise, I happened to lock eyes with him while he was knuckle deep in a nasal hole.

Gross. So very, very gross. All I could think was that he was going to wander about willy nilly, touching fruit and vegetables with his snotty little fingers.

He stopped his tunneling when he saw that he had an audience and with the bravado that only this kind of jackass can muster, he wiped his hand all over the Maple Leafs and strutted about like a peacock, telling whoever he was talking to about "the fucking hottest chick" he'd ever seen.

It was almost worse than the nose picking.

I plan my route at the grocery store. Fruit and veg, meat then bread. Sometimes bread then meat, depending on the flow of traffic. This guy, so enchanted with himself and the memory of the fucking hot chick, wove in and out of the entire area like a silverback gorilla with ADHD.

And, somehow, despite my methodical route-taking and his random strutting, it appeared as though I was trailing him. Everywhere I went, there he was.

The horror.

The very last thing I wanted was for him to think that any part of me was even remotely enchanted with any part of him.

If they ever wanted to make a remake of Saturday Night Fever with a main character who wore hockey jerseys and picked his nose in public, this guy would be a shoe-in for the lead.

The last thing I heard him say as he wandered by the meat counter grabbing packages of chicken and beef, was that he was heading to the gym.

Poor gym. But lucky, lucky grocery store.

Sometimes people, just by being, annoy the crap out of me.

Harrumph.

It was groovy

Are...are those AGE spots on my hands???

The gray hair wasn't enough of a giveaway, I suppose.

____

Yesterday I spent a few hours in the neglected back garden and got a sunburn on my back.

Despite the age spot issue (and the annoying kink in my lower back), today I feel like I'm 7. Back in the day I'd run around all summer in my bathing suit at the cottage and go back to school looking like a gingerbread cookie. Minus the icing.

It was the 70s. No such thing as sunblock. I got burned, then tanned deeply and spent the rest of the summer with a golden hue that people these days would pay good money for at a tanning salon.

I miss the 70s. Not because of the carefree tans, but because of the carefree ME. It would be years before my Dad would have his first heart attack and grind my childhood to a screceching halt. It would be decades before I would start losing babies.

It was golden.

______

Friday night we went to the neighbours' for beer and snacks. I had a lot of both and stumbled my way home giggling with my similarly soused spouse.

But apparently a good beer buzz (the best I've had since long before Thomas was born) isn't what it used to be. Or perhaps I'm not.

My Beloved fell asleep instantly. While I lay in bed curled up beside him, my mind drifted quickly and unexpectedly to Thomas and I found myself quietly whispering endless apologies to My Beloved while he slept.

I really thought I'd moved past that raw, bleeding guilt. I swear did.

But beer, it seems, brings it out in me.

Good to know.

_____

See? SEE why I miss the 70s?

MOVE

I've kept myself very busy today. I'm not sure why, exactly, but for some reason I can't stop moving.

Sorting, cleaning, organizing, painting. Move. Move. Move. Every time I stop I see something else that needs to be done, and before I'm even aware that I've started, I'm halfway through that task too.

I have no specific reason for this flurry of activity - I'm not aware that I'm running from anything or worried about anything beyond the regular anxieties that crowd my brain these days - but just the same, I can't stop.

I've had weird stress dreams the last few nights too. The kind where you can't find your locker and when you do you can't remember the combination, but it doesn't really matter anyway because you have no idea what classes you're in or what books you need for the classes you can't remember. And then you miss your bus.

That kind.

So I'm lost at school at night, and busy creating order during the day.

I think what's most frustrating is that the more I clean, sort, organize and paint, the more I see that there is to clean, sort, organize and paint.

Maybe that's why I keep moving. There's just so much to do I can't stop.

Delightful.

I so need a cookie.

When things are bad and getting worse...

...keep a cookie in your purse.

Honey Oatmeal Cookies
(low-ish fat!)

1/4 stick margarine or butter, softened
1/2 cup packed brown sugar
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 cup honey
2 large egg whites
2 cups oats
1 cup flour
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/4 tsp salt

Preheat oven to 350.

In a large bowl, beat margarine, brown sugar and white sugar until well blended. It will have the consistency of wet sand. Add honey and egg white and beat until well blended and smooth.

In a medium bowl, combine oats, flour, baking soda and salt. Add to the honey mixture along with any additions (such as dried fruit, nuts or chocolate chips) and stir by hand just until combined.

Drop large spoonfuls of dough 2" apart on a cookie sheet that has been sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake for 12 - 14 minutes, until golden around the edges but still soft in the middle. Transfer to wire rack and cool.

Makes 2 dozen.


Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm an emotional eater. Whatever. Sometimes you just need a cookie. And, even more than that, you need to not feel guilty about it while you're eating it.

So go on then, have a cookie.

In fact, let's just turn this into a meme, shall we? If you're reading this and you're so inclined, go back to your own blog and post one of your favourite cookie recipes there. Let's spread the love (and, just for tonight, ignore the spread of our asses).

Annnnnd go!

P.S. Make sure to come back and leave me a comment so I can follow you back to your cookies, okay? This is a CRITICAL step. I have a big purse. And a million crises. I need all the help I can get...

Making good use of it

Today I spent several hours in a small bathroom singing to cats. Okay, part of the time I was on the phone, and sometimes I was just reading aloud from the adoption literature I'd brought along with me to pass the time, but still - I am the official cat whisperer.

And this is how I know I love my sibling. She moved, and I was the cat wrangler for her two spastic and fantastically unsociable felines.

The thing is, I was able to soothe them. Enough that one crept out from under the bathroom vanity to use the litterbox in the shower (delightful - nothing like close quarters cat stank), and the other repeatedly emerged from the murky depths to slink over and head butt my leg in an attempt to garner pets and affection.

And it made me feel good in that, "look what I can do with my unused mothering instincts", kind way. When I can use them - even if it happens to be on two frightened little cats - it makes me feel incredible. And really, finally useful. Like THAT is what I'm here for.

Not to sit on bathroom floors singing to cats, specifically, but to soothe and comfort and nurture and love. Something. Someone.

It was a strangely good day.

Despite the stink of litter.

Wonder of wonders

A good day.

My blood pressure was normal. The doctor was kind. I left happy.

I visited the cemetery on a whim (without feeling that I was dragging the weight of a million tons sorrow behind me), and actually had a very peaceful, sweet visit with my boy.

My lovely sibling gave me a present she's had wrapped up for three years and four months. It was for Thomas - a basket full of beautiful gifts she was going to bring to the hospital when he was born. She's moving (and purging) and was planning to donate it, but asked if I wanted it - or at least wanted to see it - before it departed the premises. I ended up bringing it all home with me. For what, I don't exactly know, but I needed it. It somehow made me hopeful, and when you find hope you hang onto it with all your might. Even if it comes in a little wicker basket.

I had an egg salad sandwich for dinner. On the couch. In front of the TV.

The laundry is done. Mostly.

It's Friday.

My Beloved is finally home after a horrible, long, busy week of late nights and ridiculous stress. He's all mine for two straight days. And we will have fun if he can stay awake.

I have flank steak for the BBQ. Or hot dogs if we're not feeling fancy. Cozy summer weekend food.

We made a decision. No surgery. At least for now. My Beloved suggested we just stop the torment and choose what we were both leaning towards anyway. His plan, and I love it, is to reassess how we're feeling about it in a couple of months - see if it's still sitting okay in our head and hearts. I am 38 and have a million strikes against me, but we needn't allow time to bully us. And today, I feel some peace.

A good day all 'round.

What would YOU do?

I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know.

I just don't know.

Memories

Except for the fact that he wasn't there when we needed him to be because he was in surgery delivering someone else's child, I don't remember very much about the OB who delivered Thomas.

He wasn't around all that much. I think he came in just once before the decision to move to a C-section was made after 19 hours of labor and three hours of OB-less pushing.

But I do remember the brief visit he paid to us in my hospital room the day Thomas died.

It was evening, and dim in my room. He hovered near the door, reluctant to move further in, and he leaned almost casually against the wall.

He had the unfortunate nervous habit of punctuating everything he said with a smile. And now, as I look back, it's horrifying to think that he should have stood there grinning just hours after my child died while telling me that "next time" they'd do a C-section at 37 weeks and all would be fine.

Next time. Fine. Sure.

In my haze of shock and grief I found this comforting. I grabbed his words and held them tightly to me. Next time. Good, we'll just sweep this present catastrophe away and look to next time when everything will work out just perfectly.

I suppose it's what he had to do to sweep away whatever feelings of culpability he may have had. Promise the stricken parents that you've figured out a foolproof way for this not to happen again. There. Done. Ahhhhh, much better.

It was the last time we saw him. I was there for a full 6 days, and he came in just once. His ridiculous grinning and blathering was finally interrupted by the coroner and he bid a hasty and grateful retreat.

Funny what comes back to you for no good reason.

I wonder if he ever thinks of us. I wonder if he remembers us at all. I often imagine people leaving me to run gratefully home to their own lives, and if anyone had cause and opportunity to do just that, it was certainly him.

20 more reasons to be happy...

1. The cat managed to contain her vomit to the mat in the bathroom instead of choosing the hardwood floors or a carpet that can't be picked up and thrown into the washing machine.

2. It was just a dream. I don't actually have to use an open toilet situated in the middle of an occupied boardroom.

3. As long as I use the right product and don't move my head around too much during the process, my hair looks passably fine when it's air dried.

4. The fact that my hair takes hours to completely air dry must mean that I have a lot of it and will likely never go bald.

5. The CNE has a "Food Products" day. I smell free samples.

6. 2 for 1 roasting chickens. Technically this was something that made me happy yesterday when I went out to score my free chicken, but it counts since I'm still basking in the afterglow of an excellent deal today.

7. All of a sudden there are four huge lemon cucumbers in our garden. After weeks of fussing and worrying, there they are.

8. No one can tell you're procrastinating when you freelance from home. Unless they read your blog.

9. We don't have a pool and can't take a vacation this summer, so I don't need to subject myself to the horror of purchasing a new bathing suit.

10. I've only had to drag the sprinkler out twice this summer. Mother Nature has seen fit to provide all the rest of my lawn watering needs.

11. I have mint chocolate chip ice cream in the freezer.

12. I'm tall enough to reach the freezer.

13. I ate two raspberries straight off our tiny raspberry bush and they were as good as I remembered from my childhood days of picking wild raspberries at the cottage.

14. I did not have to share my raspberries with worms or insects of any kind. At least not that I noticed.

15. My therapist said she will help me manage my anxiety if I decide to have the exploratory surgery my OB recommended last week.

16. My therapist said there is peace in deciding to stop. There is peace in making a decision, period.

17. The hospital where Thomas was born and died responded favourably to my offer to help them add a prayer shawl element to their infant loss bereavement program.

18. I know people who I can ask for help before meeting with the hospital since I have no clue how to set up a prayer shawl program.

19. I'm not afraid to act when inspiration hits, even when I'm mostly clueless about what I've been inspired to do.

20. The fact that I still somehow manage to get inspired every now and then means that life hasn't completely beaten me down.

Capturing a Short Life

From the Facebook group...

Capturing A Short Life is a beautifully photographed documentary film, that combines verité and interview footage with still photography, to detail the stories of four families who are dealing, in an immediate sense, with the loss of a newborn baby.

In a sensitive, intimate manner, this film explores the emotional, medical and ethical choices that parents are often faced with when they are told that their baby is incompatible with life.

Although this subject matter is impossibly sad, the lives and relationships that evolve, even in this context, are not.

This is not a film about death, it is, rather, a story about how critical it is to remember and celebrate the lives of these beautiful babies who are only with us for a moment, and how impossible it is to forget them.


The documentary is being screened at the Rhode Island International Film Festival on Wednesday August 6th at 5:00pm at the Columbus Theatre Arts Centre.

I imagine that the majority of people who will go to see this film will be people whose lives have been touched by this kind of loss, but it's still so great to see the "uncomfortable" subject of infant loss being taken out of the deep, dark shadows and explored openly and honestly.

If there's one thing I'd like to see in my lifetime, it's pregnancy and infant loss not being treated like an icky little secret that no one wants to acknowledge. It's too hard for grieving parents to carry the entire burden of remembrance.

Because it's easier

Sometimes it's just easier to sit and look at a flower than it is to try and figure out what to do next.

So, in the absence of logic and direction and clarity, I humbly say "uncle".

Tonight I'm just going to sit and look at a flower.