Naptime Confessional

Two For Real

2012-01-09T20:28:00.000-05:00

Today is her birthday. Somehow this day is easier than yesterday was. Remembering that chilling, eerie feeling of knowing my daughter was dead, but not really knowing for sure, then knowing for sure . . . it was my own little horror film. Delivering Calla, waiting for the labor to be over . . . well, that was really hard. But I had a goal, a focal point, I knew the outcome.

Her delivery, sadly, was not beautiful. It was emotionally and physically the most torturous thing I hope I ever have to live through. I screamed like a mortally wounded animal and wanted with every fiber of my being to die. I have guilt that her birth was so ugly.

So now I feel compelled to give her beautiful things. But what, I am wondering, do you give a dead baby?

Today we went here with the boys, and then when we got home I ran through the cemetery. I thought it was fitting to spend the day with children and dead people. C took the day off from work and we just put our heads down and got through it.

On my run I stopped at Calla's marker and cleared it off. I sat and had a good little cry. It was a beautiful sunny and relatively warm day. I couldn't help remember two years ago, after she died and was born, driving around the cemetery looking for suitable places for her marker. It was so very surreal. And yet, it still is surreal. Visiting my dead daughter's cemetery marker on her second birthday. That sentence has about fourteen things wrong with it.

I debated writing anything on the eff beez today. I don't want people to think I'm trolling for sympathy. But then several friends wished their living children a happy birthday today, and I thought, "what the hell." So I did.

Here we are, marching onward into our third year without our girl.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for your kind words. It means just about everything to me.

Almost Two

2012-01-08T07:43:00.002-05:00

This is the day when every minute has historical significance. When I was making curtains, eating chocolate, getting my haircut. We had takeout tacos for dinner. I was having abdominal muscle spasms which I hoped were baby movements. I freaked right the hell out and went to the hospital.

That sonogram.

Two years ago, today, she was dead. Two years ago, tomorrow, she was born. Two years ago, yesterday, was the last day of my blissfully naive life.

The weather this January, so far, has been freakishly warm. Unsettlingly so. It is giving me that nauseating feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the other eight feet of snow to drop. The weather two years ago, right now, was blisteringly cold. The night we went to hospital, in fact, was the coldest day that month. And still, while waiting to deliver my dead daughter, I was waiting for that other shoe to drop.

Two years. I look back at my life, then, and am amazed by how far we've come. The milestones are too many to list. But we are a different family. I am a different person, almost entirely.

And yet she is still dead. That stays the same no matter how much we grow.

I am still caught winded by pregnancy announcements, by third babies, by little girls with curly hair and blue eyes and who are two. It stings much less now. The sting is not entirely gone.

Her death has not defined who I am, but it is maybe the most real part of me. It is immoveable, unchangeable; it is woven throughout my speech, my thoughts, every action.

It is all I have of my daughter. And I miss her so very much.

Handle With Care

2012-01-05T10:45:00.000-05:00

I wonder, sometimes, why I continue to be surprised by how insensitive people can be. Maybe I should just hide myself away in a cave, far away from anyone else and their opinions.

Often I'm caught off guard by how fragile I still am, and continue to be, even nearly two years away from my baby girl's death and birth. How just a suggestion can shatter me completely.

And then the strange bedfellows I keep really send my head spinning. First the Duggars, and now Rick Santorum? Who AM I?!

So, this morning on msnbc dot com there was an article about the Republican presidential candidate, a list of facts the public might not know about him. And right there, at number four, was the requisite family blurb. Within that bullet point was the fact that his third baby died at 20 weeks gestation. And then he and his wife brought the baby home so their living children could meet him, and cuddle him.

Now, people, please. I'm not going to get political here. However, Mr. Santorum shouldn't, nay, CAN'T count on my vote. But I do empathize with him on this point. The path he travels is quite different from mine, socially-speaking.

But how beautiful for his living children. I wish, now, I'd been able to give E that same gift. He will literally have no memory of his sister, her life, her body, her weight, her black curly hair.

So anyway. This morning I had the pleasure of reading someone's opinion of this particular bullet point, expressing how "creepy" it was of the Santorums to let their living children meet their deceased baby sibling. And immediately I wanted to puke and punch something. (I did neither)

Sigh. Just another example of how people just don't get any of this. Just another way for me to feel like a freak. Just another reminder that we are a motley crew, we mourning parents, and there simply are no boundaries separating any of us. We are all connected through dumb shit luck, forever.

There Are Never Enough Photos, or Why People Need to STFU About the Duggars

2011-12-17T16:20:00.001-05:00

It feels weird to be writing in defense of a family with whom I am so at odds. At first, the Duggars were simply some anomaly to me. My ambivalence about them hardly elicited a raised eyebrow. And then my own baby died, and this enormous, continuously-reproducing family was the symbol of everything the Universe was denying me. I couldn't think about them without ire. How DARE they keep having kids? They seemed to spite me; I took every morning show announcement straight to my heart and, frankly, hated everything they represented.

And this kind of flew in the face of my pro-choice beliefs. If I was truly pro-choice, as I have lived my entire life, then who was I to judge how another woman handles her reproductive life? I had no leg to stand on, no matter how much they irritated me. I was simply feeling they were stealing all the good reproductive mojo and hoarding it for their clan. Also, the name Jim Bob really stuck in my craw.

So when they announced that she was pregnant with her TWENTIETH baby, my heart shrank another few sizes and I sent out the ugliness. I didn't wish them harm or ill will, but I felt once again like they, along with the American media, were throwing their good fortune smack in my face. Also, through my own journey, I've made friend whose babies died earlier than the Duggar's last baby, who was born premature, but miraculously lived. And has health issues now, and likely will for the rest of her life. I was angry for my friends, too.

But then their baby died. And all bets were off. Because, you see, most of you know this, but I have a dead baby too. Instantly my heart went to them, no matter the chasm separating our lives, our beliefs. They do have 19 other children, she was possibly putting her life, her baby's life at risk. But it was her choice, her life--and that baby was so loved and wanted already. It doesn't matter that it was her twentieth baby---would it have been different if it was her first? My heart says no.

I admit to being somewhat ignorant about the entire story--mostly because I've backed down from my irrational anger enough to not really care. Also, popular culture and reality, ahem, "stars" don't take up a whole lot of my brainspace. But having just read that she was in the last week of her second trimester when their daughter Jubilee died, that means she was roughly 24 weeks pregnant, right? That means she had to go through labor. That means she had to deliver her dead baby girl. No one waved a magic wand and POOF! the baby magically appeared, or was simply gone. That kind of warped thinking went through my brain when I learned my baby had died--I had no idea that I'd have to go through all the pains of labor just to say goodbye to my daughter.

And the notion that this family is somehow warped to have taken pictures of their dead baby? Well guess what. I have many, many pictures of my dead baby. Thank. FUCKING. God. Because that, my friends, is ALL I have to remember her beautiful face. And that is all they will have, too. Did people say all those horrible things about me when my baby died? "Oh how GROSS to have pictures?" "Who wants pictures of a DEAD BABY?"

I'll tell you who wants them: NO ONE. What I really wanted was my living child, but all I have is a box full of things that have little connection to her, fading memories and my pictures. And that's all they'll have, too.

So before you judge this family for taking pictures of their dead baby, and sharing them with the people who would have been in this child's life, tell me this: What, exactly, did YOU do when your baby died? Oh wait, you don't HAVE a dead baby?

Lucky. Fucking. You.

**I realize I'm being passive-aggressive by posting this on my babyloss blog, as the majority of you, if not all of you, get it. But maybe someone will share this, or read it and think, "Oh. I get it now."**

Proof

2011-12-16T09:51:00.003-05:00

I remember clearly when I realized I was not even close to being a strong mathematician. ~~I was a strong student~~ School came pretty easily for me for awhile, and I did fairly well on tests. So well, in fact, that I was accepted into our fair city's premier magnet school in fifth grade. I had never gotten below a B, ever, on anything. So when I got to sixth grade and found a big, red C on the top of one of my math papers, I felt that leaden stone in my stomach that I'd come to know intimately throughout the rest of my mathematical career. Math tutors, extra help, studying, homework . . . none of it turned on that lightbulb in that particular part of my brain. I always felt a year or two behind when it came to math. I got to seventh grade math and, whoa man, I took about 89 sick days that year just to avoid protractors and, wait, compasses? Are those even math tools? Bottom line: it wasn't working for me.

Math, in general, is an academic discipline that eludes me. I have a pretty strong grasp on the basics of addition, subtraction, multiplication, division; percentages and fractions and basic algebra are cemented somehow in my brain, though if asked to metacognitively explain a solution, I'd be hard pressed. There are mathematical concepts that seem absolutely ridiculous to me: why the hell are there IMAGINARY numbers? Math, for me, may as well have been Mandarin or Cyrillic: a language that was so outside my understanding, with characters that made zero sense to my brain.

Proving the stereotype once again, folks.

Eventually when I reached high school (and miraculously was still attending my academically outstanding school) I had a math teacher who, with great patience, helped me not only pass his class but get a super high grade on the Regents exam. And I was lucky enough to have this teacher for three straight years. Every September I'd look at my new schedule and see "B. Soffin" next to the math course and do a little skippity-do with glee. I knew it would be a long, challenging year, but I'd pass that exam and not be spending my summer at the local public high school retaking math until I turned 75. Somehow Mr. Soffin had the magic mojo; when I sat for those exams in June I always, miraculously, did really well.

I don't know that I actually learned math, per se, or if I just learned how to take the exam and figure out the answers. We did, for the last month of two of school, use review books and take practice exams exclusively. Whatever. I'm not in high school anymore, am I? And Mr. Soffin helped build my shattered math confidence back up.

What I always really liked in math was something I felt was more appropriate for a philosophy course. I liked it because there were no numbers to confuse. The logic tables, I think they're called, were fascinating.

If A and B, then C.

I find myself using this logic often, even if I can't remember the tables' exact symbols and meanings.

If She had lived, He would not be here.

She is dead, therefore She is not here.

If She is dead, was She ever really alive?

OK, that last one shows my weak understanding of how the logic works.

I stumble on that last one. Since she's dead, and I never knew her, was she ever really here? This time of year I can't help but remember those last weeks with her. We were hurtling head-first towards a brick wall and didn't even know it. And still we never even got to know her. Who do I remember? Who do I miss?

Math brain, dead baby brain. It's all so confusing, still.

Thankful

2011-11-23T09:10:00.001-05:00

My favorite holiday is just one day away. Lovely Thanksgiving, with all its deliciousness and warmth and fun Turkey Trotting to start it off. When I was a working gal, outside the home, of course, I looked forward to this beautiful gift of a three-day-work-week. A bonus Friday off, to boot! A little sorbet of freedom to wash down the richness of the previous day's obligation-filled feast.

I don't, of course, love the nonsensical myth attached to Thanksgiving. Please, like the Pilgrims (pilgrims, thank you) could have afforded buckles, to start things off. Maybe somewhere in the genesis of the relationship between Native People and Europeans back in seventeenth-century/northeast current-day-USA was a benevolent, or even benignly indifferent sense of community. But I doubt Squanto and the Wampanoags really didn't bargain on the next few hundred years of genocide, disease and land snatching.

But I digress.

Our family life, as of late, has taken a sharp right turn and we've been stuck smack dab in the middle of Insanesville for almost three weeks. My whole self has been absolutely consumed with E, and to a lesser extent O, and their emotional and physical well being. Which is not to say I'm some sort of neglectful mother otherwise. But things have gotten INTENSE over here. Double ear infections for both boys, anti-biotics, no sleep, teething, newfound limit pushing, and did I mention no sleep?

I have been trying to surrender, or as C likes to say, let life lead in the dance. It is nearly working. I am walking a fine line between surrendering and feeling steamrolled.

There are certain things I am willing to overlook. Screaming for screaming's sake=mostly fine, as long as no one is napping. Kicking a little brother in the chest=not ever OK. It is difficult to sort these things out and maintain some sense of confidence, that somehow I am not warping these little minds and hearts.

The other afternoon, as I was driving the boys to have their pictures taken, a song came on that just knocked the wind out of me. It took me back to a time almost three years ago now. Then, E was ALMOST sleeping through the night, an older infant. I was starting marathon training in the frosty winter, looking forward to finishing and then trying to get pregnant again. My life, while at the time seemed overwhelming, was so simple and naive and easy. Every time I hear this song I can picture where exactly I was on my long run, slipping through the snowy streets, huffing and puffing and singing under my breath:

And so when, on the Thruway the other day, it came bouncing out of the speakers, I was taken back and I mourned my old self. I mourned my girl who hadn't yet been conceived but was so imagined and wished for. Part of the plan that unravelled before it could even be put into place.

When I was pregnant with Calla I remember wanting to run up until the Turkey Trot, which put me at about seven months pregnant. I smugly ran the 4.97 miles that Thanksgiving morning in 2009, thinking I was well on my way to a healthy delivery in a few months. Then January 2010 came and smacked me in the face, knocked me on my ass and screamed "HOW YOU LIKE ME NOW, BITCH?!"

I need things to settle down here, because the last thing I can think about is my sweet girl. I miss visiting her in my heart, having the luxury of a few minutes of peace to remember her dark curls, her sweet, silent face, her tiny fingers and toes, her perfect mouth.

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving, wherever you are.

Greetings From The Rock Under Which I've Been Living

2011-11-11T08:28:00.001-05:00

***This is a post about my living children. I'm apologizing in advance if this makes you uncomfortable or sad. I totally understand if you bolt right now. xo

Not really under a rock, but my life has been . . . omigod I don't even have the words for how insane things are over here. My big boy has some things going on that I have been wracking my brain trying to figure out. It started, well, I don't know the exact genesis of E's new behavior, but suffice it to say we haven't actually slept in a week. ONE WEEK.

I am not exaggerating. Every time we try to put him to bed for the night or a nap, homeboy SHRIEKS AND WAILS as though we've strapped him to the sun itself. Jumps out of bed. Runs out of his room. This is a child to whom it had never even occurred that he could get out of bed once he was in it. As in, when he was in a toddler bed 10 inches off the floor he wouldn't even reach down to get something that had fallen out. And now this. Even if we get him to sleep, he wakes up in the middle of the night and one of us has to sleep in his bed with him.

Also? I can't leave the room without him freaking out. Nor can he leave the room without being accompanied by me. I just. I don't get it.

After a trip to the doctor on Tuesday we found out he has an ear infection in both ears, something that manifested itself only in his behavior--atrocious--but no fever or obvious pain. So we've been doing anitbiotics and ibuprofen, and lots of relaxing. Except. Now he's over-tired and wild and cranky.

I think, too, there's some separation anxiety going on. Ironically he's totally fine at school, the one place I'd expect separation anxiety to be the worst.

My point? I have absolutely no time to do anything. Which includes responding to so many amazing pieces of writing I have sitting in my reader. Also? NaNoWriMo is a no-go for me, I guess, this year. If you've sent me an email or written something especially beautiful, know that I've read it, but haven't had a hand free to respond. (Well how the hell am I writing this you ask? Autopilot and coffee. No thinking required.)

So um, yeah. Any advice? I'm seriously on the edge here. I am stumped beyond stumped and have pulled out every trick in the book. Everyone tells me this will pass, but I'm dubious.

One Year

2011-11-09T20:04:00.001-05:00

Happy Birthday to our baby boy. 366 days ago I still believed the gaping hole in my heart could never be repaired. Even as I listened to his heartbeat all night, the night before being induced. Even after a good-looking amniocentesis. I still couldn't believe he'd actually get here.

But he did.

One year ago today our youngest baby was born. Our second boy, our third child. My sweet little soul, who loves his mama, who smiles whenever he sees a camera, who dances whenever he hears a tune or a beat. Not technically a miracle baby, he was my miracle. He helped repair a heart that seemed smashed wide open forever--it was a miracle, to me, that I could love someone so fearlessly and wholly again.

I am swamped right now by life. We lived through getting a new roof, are fighting a double ear infection (E), are coming down from Halloween and its spooky accoutrements. We're trying our darndest to get the house is reasonable order before the big birthday party this weekend. Last week was C's 40th bday and all its grand celebrations. E has decided that sleeping, and going to bed, and staying in bed, id for the birds and has taken to shrieking and wailing whenever any of those activities are suggested.

Mama is tired. And VERY behind on the projects I want to tackle, namely NaNoWriMo and watching everyone's video blogs. Le grand sigh.

But I can't NOT share some pics of my beautiful birthday boy. The love of my life. My happy dude.

Bundle Up

2011-10-28T10:09:00.000-04:00

The frost has settled in here. It snuck in overnight, causing a scramble for coats and boots, hats and mittens this morning before school. We worked out the minute intricacies of how each new zipper and fastener works, looking for the secret jimmies and tricks to getting outside quickly. Car seat straps adjusted for extra bulk and seat backs covered for boot kicks.

It is a cold, sunny day in the East. The first thrilling glimpse of winter is here. Today is a day when a hat is not optional, a fleece jacket alone won't cut it. The first step along a long, cold path towards darkness, and heaviness, and snow-covered months. And while the solstice isn't technically until December, winter settles in much earlier than that around here.

Everything seems harder in the winter. More bundling. More time to get places. Less sunlight to cheer us on through the chill. Dirt and wet in every corner, trudged in on heavy boots, muddy paws and dripping mittens. But for now we're just at the beginning. We look at each other and make winter jokes about snow brushes and shovels, try on our coats from last year and search for matching gloves. The frost is novel, and the sunlight glinting on icy leaves is charming. For now.

We have four birthdays to celebrate in our home this winter. C is turning 40 next week, in a few days actually. Then a week later O will be one. One whole year. Then my birthday, in February. Only E was born in the warmth and sunshine of summer.

Of course Calla's birthday is right in the middle of winter. At the beginning of January, when the calendar turns to another new year. Forever I will associate the coldest depths of winter with her death and birth, that freezing night in January when I wanted to burn myself alive.

And so looking to winter, feeling our corner of the Earth turning away from the sunlight, makes my heart a little heavier. My soul is bundling up, fortifying its reserves for the long season ahead. There are some wonderful warm oases sprinkled throughout the upcoming months of our frigid desert winter, and during the dark days I will lumber, head down and hopefully, towards them.

Right now it is sunny and cold, but soon it will be gray and icy, and simply going outside will seem like too much of a bother. Right now the chilis and soups and breads and oven-baked dinners are satisfying. Right now winter seems survivable.

Spoken Word Blog Round Up

2011-10-24T14:08:00.000-04:00

OK, here she is. I am so excited to see everyone else's videos that I can ALMOST get over the seasickness of watching mine. Also, I find it strange that my eyes look brown, when in real life they are blue.

Thank you so much to Angie for putting this together, and once again encouraging me to do something I'd never attempt on my own. Not only attempt, but persevere when my techno-literacy is at an all-time low.

A word of caution: there are a few f-bombs scattered in throughout. Gentle Reader, if you are sensitive, you may want to sit this one out. You won't cry, but you might cringe. Maybe this says something about my personality: I did not choose a beautiful thing, I chose an ugly thing. Ooh, subversive.

In the spirit of backpedaling . . .

2011-10-19T07:20:00.000-04:00

I'm not, really, backpedaling. I've just been thinking about what I wrote yesterday, and I feel like I was being a brat and taking cheap shots.

You know I absolutely adore you babyloss parents, right? You know I think you are amazing and wonderful and have quite literally saved me so many times . . . and I wasn't dissing the actual Remembrance Day, yes? I hope you do. Because I love you and would rather melt my face off than hurt your feelings.

And anyone who might be reading this who isn't a babyloss parent . . . you know I love you also, right? Even if you feel awkward around me or feel like you don't know what to say, or are just reading this to find out if I've imploded yet. Or if you do ask and do care, I carry your thoughts like good luck charms in my pocket.

It all comes back to the damn Eff Beez, doesn't it? The root of all of society's collective ills. Or, my ills I guess. I just miss my girl and sometimes that comes out as grumpiness. Sorry, friends.

Remembering Whether You Like It Or Not

2011-10-18T09:59:00.000-04:00

I am now officially the worst blog poster in all the land. Or, maybe just the laziest. Or something. Time just slips away and there I am at the end of the day, a blog post fully composed in my head and completely trapped, unable to get HERE.

This past weekend was the Remembrance Day; its official title escapes me but you know the day of which I write. We lit our candle. We thought about all the babies so many of us are missing. I posted some words on the Livre du Visage, and well, if just felt a little hollow. My friend Sally wrote about this a bit, and I'd been mulling it over in the meantime, too. I have a lot of friends who are truly excellent babyloss friends. They remember Calla and are not afraid to talk about her, to ask me how I'm doing, to let me know they're thinking of her. That's not to say friends who don't ask or talk about it are NOT excellent--you know what I mean, right?

**OK, clearly my writing skills are diminishing. Twice I've asked you if you know what I mean without actually writing what I mean. Again, worst poster in the land.**

So when I was posting these little snippets, 140 characters or less of babyloss wisdom and wishes, it felt a bit like, oh I don't know, I was RAMMING it down everyone's throat. HEY WORLD! Look at me! I'm STILL SAD! And HERE'S WHY! And by Saturday night when I was lamenting blowing out her little candle . . . it felt like I'd pushed the limit a bit too far.

But hey! Everyone else gets to write about their kids there, why can't I, right?! I mean, just because my only daughter is DEAD doesn't mean she doesn't matter. I have to read about everyone else's kids' soccer games and first words and first days of school; the least I can get (and I do mean the least) is one day to remember that my child was alive once, and mattered and was loved. Is loved. Does matter.

I don't want a stupid candle or balloons or ribbons or anything else but her. My challenge is to not call the candles stupid out loud, to not roll my eyes and feel like I'm being thrown a bone by one lousy day. Because it's a beautiful thing. It's a day for parents like me, us, to make something collectively wonderful out of the collective awfulness. It is, apparently, too much to ask that she could have lived.

If my tone seems a little brutal, it's only because I am so missing that girl these days. You know, the whole stages of grief thing. It's funny, you don't experience those stages in a linear way--it should be called the Mobius strip of grief. Just when you think you might have found a way out, you're right back where you started--angry, sad, confused, or maybe still in denial.

And I'm not just pissed off for myself. Mt pissed-offedness extends to all the babyloss parents who are right here with me. It sucks and isn't fair and I don't give a SHIT that life's not fair, it's still not fair.

The Fork in the Road

2011-09-25T14:43:00.001-04:00

I ran another half marathon yesterday. This one went about a zillion times better than the last one, and I was within seconds of the goal I'd set for myself this summer. It was a long, hot few months of training, waking up ~~before everyone~~ when the boys got up (ie 5:30ish every morning. Yeah.) and heading out the door with friends or all alone. Doing speedwork and long runs. It wasn't my best ever, but it sure wasn't my worst, either. Overall I'd give myself a B.

I'm finally getting back into shape, running times that I haven't seen since before getting pregnant with E four years ago. Go me, right? There are clothes in my closet with tags on them, bought as grief therapy that now fit, or almost do anyway. O is sleeping through the night, E is settling in to preschool.

But um, here's the thing. Even though I've been working my ass off; even though I am sleeping again; even though I'm nearly done nursing; even though life is starting to settle down a little . . .

You know where I'm going with this, right?

I kind of want to have another baby. And the decision has mostly been made for me that it's not going to happen, but that's where I am.

I know, I know. It's nuts; I was a complete basketcase throughout O's gestation; it's unseemly and greedy to want another baby when I've already got two happy, healthy little boys, like tempting fate.

I keep telling myself that every woman feels like this, no matter if you have a 100%, or my 67%, out-of-the-womb survival rate. I mean, it's the primal need to proliferate, right? How do you KNOW when you're done?

So I'm at this fork in the road. One way takes me back to the start again. Back to worry and any one of a million things going wrong, and no sleep and stress and the possible sweetness and chaos that a new baby brings. Let's not even imagine me actually bringing home a live baby girl, shall we?

And the other way, moving forward with life, moving away from newbornland, getting back into shape and working towards new goals and let's not forget having a good night's sleep at some point. Maybe even, for once, sleeping past 7AM. (Or not--but a girl can dream.)

I'm coming to terms with taking the second path. It is bittersweet, often more bitter than sweet. If I stop to think about it too much my stomach twists into a knot and my head threatens to pop right off my body. But I can't go on kidding myself much longer. The kidding has gotten me through lots of baby showers and pregnancy announcements and bitty baby girls being born . . . the kidding myself that if only I wanted it, tried hard enough, that could be mine too.

But.

That's where I am right now.

The Second Day

2011-09-09T09:28:00.000-04:00

My house is so very quiet. The only noises are the occasional clink of the dog's collar tags as he gets more comfortable on the couch and the whooshing wave sounds coming from o's monitor while he naps. And the tickety-tick of my fingers, typing.

He barely looked back today, E. As a matter of fact we walked in and he already knew everything he was supposed to do. Where his outside shoes go, how to put on the inside ones. What his cubby symbol is (the sun) and where to find it. He remembered his teacher's name. He started playing and didn't even care if I was there. When I left he just asked, "why do you have to go home?"

"Because O needs a nap, and you have lots of work to do here. You have lots of playing to do."

"OK. Bye." Back to the trucks he went without barely a glance at me. I made him come back and give me a hug and kiss, but, truth be told, it was more for me.

He is happy. As I sat and watched him play, and interact, and begin to learn the rhythms of the day, I kept thinking that I wanted him to just be happy. And feel safe. And, most importantly, loved. I want others to love him as I do. Til now he's been only with people who love him just because. Because he is ours and he is wonderful and he makes us laugh and sometimes pull at our hair, but mostly because he is him. But every parent feels that, or at least I believe they do. And every parent wants their child to be loved that way by everyone.

He has a place, now, that is apart from me, a separate experience from us, his family. A world that includes him and his friends and teachers and I am not there. That is both unnerving and yet so amazing. His school is everything I want for him--and, quite honestly, if they can get him to eat millet with soy sauce and olive oil, it's worth every penny. When I picked him up on the first day all the children, from his room and the toddler room, were outside with the teachers. Planting pachysandra, harvesting vegetables from the garden, riding tricycles, digging in the sand, rolling tree stumps, playing in the little house. It was a little glimpse of utopia.

E was climbing on a jungley-gym thingy; really a pole with loops sticking out to climb on. He was higher than I let him be when we're on the playground. And he was wearing slippery rain boots. And he was going up and down and up and down, and not holding on quite as tightly as I'd like.

He was having fun and not falling.

He looked over at me and beamed and yelled, "Hi Mom! Look at ME!"

You know this preschool thing is just as much for me as it is for him, right?

********
So as I sit here in my quiet house, I am trying not to freak out over all the minutiae that needs to get done. I mean, it's the workaday regular old minutiae that always threatens to swallow me whole. It will get done. I am trying to just sit and enjoy this silence. Finally get these thoughts out of my head and written here.

Today is O's 10 month birthday. I started thinking about ordering invites for his first birthday party. Well, I at least put it on my to-do list. One whole year, almost--I know, we're not there yet, but Type-A over here needs to make some plans. When I think about how stressed, anxious, and miserable I was during my pregnancy with O, it amazes me to watch this child, who is the happiest, mellowest, chillest dude on the planet.

Today marks 20 months without Calla. Which is edging ever closer to two years. Which puts her that much farther away from me. I've been wondering, lately, just what I'd do with a girl. I mean, I'm hip-deep in boy land over here. O's wearing all E's old clothes these days, which makes me feel like I'm actually MAKING money on all that spending I've done over these three years. But with a girl? I mean, I'm all for gender-neutral clothing, but no way girlfriend wouldn't be rocking at least a little bit of froufy pink, right? Someone along the way would have gifted something princess-y and sparkly, diametrically opposed to our truck-festooned sartorial choices we currently are sporting 24/7.

Sigh. If I stop and think too hard about these past 20 months my brain really starts to feel like it will explode. He is here, she is not. Forever and ever amen. I love my baby boy so much I can hardly stand myself. But I love her too. I still don't get it.

First of the First Days

2011-09-06T20:18:00.001-04:00

Tomorrow is E's first day of preschool. And I, well, I'm mostly okay.

And so it begins, right? I mean, I used to be on the other side of the equation-in my former life as a Kindergarten teacher, I was the one patting the sobbing parents on the hand, shooing the kids into the classroom, telling the teary-eyed moms and dads to JUST LEAVE, and the kids would be just fine and don't worry.

And they all were fine, eventually. But now it's me. I'm sending my big little boy out into the world--albeit twice a week for a few hours to a place filled with other children and adults who care about said little children. He knows our address and my cell phone number and the ABCs and how to count and colors . . .

But it's still the big world, right? School changes kids. We've had a good run, these past three years. Staying home with E, and then grieving at home after Calla, then being home with baby O and big boy E--it's been fun. (OK, the grieving part's not fun. And the immediate aftermath was horrible. But you know what I mean.) September, for a long while, was adios summer and back to routine. Then for three years it was September who? Whatever! And now it's back to business as usual.

And then in a few weeks he's starting dancing school. My mother-in-law has a studio and my sister-in-law will be teaching his class. But STILL. It's something else.

Like I said, I'm mostly okay with all of this. It's time and he's ready and he'll love it. But it's still a little sad to say goodnight to my little boy, only to take my big boy out into the world, his new world, tomorrow.

What a difference three years makes.

And The Beat Goes On . . .

2011-08-30T15:02:00.000-04:00

No no, I'm not composing a suicide note. This scene, though, from Beetlejuice, often bubbles up to my consciousness when I'm thinking about how sad I am. Like, what else can I say? I'm really sad, my daughter is dead, she's never coming back, let me write about it, I'm really sad . . .

You know? I'm like a freaking broken record. That scene up there is ridiculous, as is that whole movie (" . . . having ~~jumped~~ plummeted to my death . . . "). And when I'm looking for news ways to say how sad I am, or how hard living without Calla is, or how someone doesn't get it, I feel like Lydia Deetz writing the perfect ending.

It just sucks sometimes.

Ahem, all the time. The hurt heals over, but it's never all the way gone, and then I start picking and picking and picking at it until it's in full-bore ouch.

Like when I found myself sobbing at a wedding this weekend during the father-daughter dance. Never mind their song was Landslide:

Fortunately I have a short attention span so when I found this cool dyson hand dryer vortex thingy in the bathroom, I was amused enough to regain my composure.

Anyway. The little things, the big things, life . . . everything and anything reminds me of her. Of her missing.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

Home Again

2011-08-24T17:02:00.001-04:00

We just got back from a week-long vacation. Not exactly a stay-cation, as the kids are calling it these days. More like a close-cation. After our trip down to DC in the spring, we realized a long car ride with the boys was, um, not even close to being a vacation. So we spent a week in nearby Ellicottville, NY at a ski resort. It's only about an hour away from our house, and the weather was really mostly good, and there's a ton to do with little kids at the resort and nearby.

Coming home, I always feel a little exhausted. No matter how relaxing the vacation might have been, and no matter how great the house/cat/dogsitters were, there's always cleaning and unpacking and laundry to be done IMMEDIATELY UPON ARRIVAL. I'm not the best at letting stuff sit around. I need to open mail while feeding lunch while planning the laundry while organizing the toys. Yes, this is not really necessary, but it's how I stay sane amid chaos. So right now I'm forcing myself to sit down and sip my Vit.amin Water Ze.ro (seriously, how good is that stuff?!) and recall the fun we had this past week.

There's always this disconcerting feeling . . . wait, we live here? Where again does the peanut butter go? And how exactly does this washing machine work? Did I remember to repack the sippy cup lids, and if so, where do I put them away? It is the exact opposite of the feeling I get just before vacation when I am in a tizzy getting everything into its exact place and making sure everything is packed just so until I can't take it anymore, and start throwing things into any old bag and into the car.

We got home about three hours ago and already the clean clothes are mostly put away, the dirty clothes are in their sorted piles in the basement waiting to be washed, and the boys have trashed the living room with their toys. The toys we brought, however, are neatly put away. The dog's already sick of us again. After a week of eating dinner and most lunches in restaurants, I am more than ready to cook again, but I know by tomorrow night I'll be banging my head against the wall trying to figure out what to make for dinner.

It's funny, being on vacation. There are so many times when I can just let go and relax and forget for just a moment that I am a medusa in mom-colored clothes, carrying around a piece of reality most people never would guess or even want to hear about. It's sad sometimes having fun, making the memories that one little baby will never be a part of.

So anyway. We hiked, we swam, we explored, we ate. It was a great vacation. Here are a few pics, and if you live near me, or even if you don't, this is a cool getaway for summer.

Golf cart. Hells to the yeah.

At the top of a ski slope. That we all hiked straight up.
Only two of us were whining.

Again, hells to the yeah.
Using binocs to check out construction progress on the mountain coaster.

Mountain coasting. Super awesomesauce.

Bortherly . . . love? Rassling? Both?

O with his new favorite delicacy: pretzel rods.

Griffis Sculpture Park. The dopest.

Hell yes I can climb stairs.

Little Rock City.

So, I am not a camper, really. I used to be, but I guess I've gotten spoiled by my sharp knives and nonstick cookware. Bottom line: I didn't cook in our condo at all. Before I go make dinner now, here are the trip highlights:
O sleeping through the night (sort of?) and getting his first tooth (finally!) and learning to crawl up the stairs (zoinks) and discovering the deliciousness (gnawliciousness) that is pretzel rods, taking E hiking up some pretty strenuous trails (yes I wore bronzer and earrings, sue me. I am tired of looking like a complete troll in pictures, so there), riding the new (just finished while we were there) mountain coaster--and it was hella fun. The most amazing cheeseburger I've ever had in my life.

It was a great trip, and I'm glad we're home again. Back at it.

Missing You

2011-08-09T20:29:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I managed to be the stay-at-home mom I always thought I would be. It only took me three plus years, but who's counting? We played, O crawled around like a nut, when he went down for a nap E and I baked bread and did a sticker project together, then we all went to the zoo with friends, we ate lunch, napped, I cleaned most of the house, made dinner, the boys got up, everyone ate dinner without a fuss, baths, bedtime, time with C. I baked cookies. Watched an episode of The Wire, which we just started. No one, not adults, kids, or any combination of the two, raised voices in frustration or even huffed.

Why can't every day be like that? Because for several moments in that day I actually felt like a normal person. Not someone who's inadequate, who's grieving, who's always playing catch-up with life.

I don't know what hit me today, but most of it was pretty good. Until it wasn't. I don't know if it's because I'm exactly 19 months away from the worts day of my life, which was, ironically, the best and only day I got to spend with Calla. I just found myself in the shower tonight sobbing, nearly screaming (except O and E were in bed so I held myself back). Why did she have to die? I just can't understand it, and somehow tonight in the shower it just came to me. She's always going to be dead. Forever. It doesn't seem fair, does it?

In spite of how much I love my boys.
In spite of how much I love my husband.
In spite of how much I love my life.
In spite of my abundance of relative good fortune.

In spite of all of this. I miss and want her so much. Somehow the memory of her birth, so painful, and primal, and awful, bubbled up to the surface of my brain tonight. And I wanted to scream for my little girl. Just like I did in that hospital room 19 months ago.

My little girl.
She's gone.
My little girl.

Change Your Tune

2011-08-01T14:39:00.002-04:00

We went to an amazing concert this weekend. Living in Buffalo we are so very lucky to have quite a few fantastic venues for live music. Not the least of which is where we were Saturday, down at the harbor. Right on Lake Erie. It was a beautiful, warm, clear night; one of our favorite bands from way back in the day, and from Canada, was playing. It was a phenomenal show.

We saw these guys:

I've said before that music is kinda the way I live and breathe. Going to a concert, especially one of my favorite bands, is like being part of something bigger than myself. Everyone there is transfixed by the music, singing along in one voice like a wolfpack baying at the moon.

It's disconcerting to hear a song, suddenly, that brings me back to the immediate aftermath of Calla's death. Music does that to me--maybe I feel some songs too intensely--but certain of them just put me RIGHT. BACK. THERE. Well, I guess right back anywhere, depending on the song (I'm looking at you, "Moondance.").

Anyway. The winter of 2010 was filled with lots of new tunes, and whenever I happen on one it's like I get the wind knocked out of me. So here are a few songs that are carrying me along these days.

Hope you find some new favorites, or an old friend.

Wanderlust and Pixie Dust

2011-07-30T15:11:00.000-04:00

When I see a girl with two full arms of tattoos, I occasionally get a feeling not unlike wanderlust. The pull of being somewhere, something, and someone else.

Often I think about the path my life is on, and how I ended up here. Please don't misunderstand, I really like where I am. Looking back at all the stupid, irresponsible and dangerous things I've done seeking a thrill, it's a small miracle I've ended up in such a stable place.

Last night as I was leaving the grocery store at 9, my glamourous Friday evening coming to a close, the clouds overhead were low and fluffy-puffy swollen. The sky was edging towards darkness, glimmers of pink and orange and blue fading in the west. I nearly stopped as I pushed my loaded cart across the steaming parking lot and asked aloud, "Is this all a dream? Is this really my life?" Always I figured this is where I'd end up, but actually arriving at this point in my life is a bit more surreal than I'd thought it would be.

Lately I've been a bit of a voyeur, clicking through vacation and jet-setting pictures on the FB. I have one friend who seemingly lives a life of leisure, partying and traveling with zero cares. It stuns me every time. Really? And how did this become your life?

Just as much as I look around me and wonder how this is mine. Mother of two beautiful boys and one beautiful dead girl. Me? This is my reality? Grocery shopping on Friday night, playground playdates and zoo trips sprinkled throughout the week, peanut butter and jelly lunches and two-man baths each night. It's mine.

I'll sometimes wish for a little magic, a chance to pop out of my life, briefly. To travel without a thought for who's at home, for dinner at midnight, for tattoos on both arms, for an ashram, for something other than ordinary.

We all know how that math goes, though: if I'd chosen that path so long ago, I wouldn't be here. And I so very much like it here.

For 20 Years From Today

2011-07-18T14:37:00.000-04:00

Dear E,

When you're sitting around with your friends, or your therapist, or whoever, talking about how your mother was some sort of Type-A lunatic who put you in time out for unrolling the toilet paper, I mean hey man it's only toilet paper, please refer to this epistle for the rest of your story.

You did not receive time out for unrolling the toilet paper, per se.

It's not because I especially like toilet paper.
It's not because we can't afford more.
It's not because now I have to go get another roll and put it in the bathroom, another trip up and down the stairs with 20+ pounds of human in tow.
It's not because I don't find it absolutely fucking hilarious finding you sitting on the toilet, surrounded by a mountain of unravelled absorbent paper, while you are fully engrossed in and enjoying the task you've undertaken--because it's a pretty damn funny, and might I add cute, sight to behold.

No, none of these earned you time out, although I don't appreciate wasting things.

It's because when I've already told you 861 times before to NOT unroll the toilet paper, and then you insist on doing it again, I've just about reached my limit.

Love,
Mommy/Mom/Crazy Lady Holding the Acre of Unused Toilet Paper

A Midsummer Afternoon's Post

2011-07-17T14:20:00.000-04:00

Hey.

I know.

Mid-July and not a peep for the month yet, huh? Dude, I've been busy.

You may ask yourself, "How exactly does a stay-at-home-parent REALLY expect me to believe she's totally swamped? She STAYS. AT. HOME."

Exactly. Things just come up all the time and then the dog's paws need wiping and then someone's behind needs wiping and then it's dinnertime and boom, it's bedtime and then I'm too tired to write or it's the no-computer time or something.

So anyway, hello.

Also this: I keep thinking about last summer. When I was newly out from Calla's death and pregnant with O. I couldn't bring myself to do much more than turn on "Yo Gabba Gabba" and sit on the couch while E danced and sang and told me not to bite my friends.

Like I could have mustered enough energy to bite anyone.

I did the bare minimum, parent-wise, last summer. I was sad and uncomfortable and anxious and, pre-airconditioning that we now have, really, really hot. I mean, E was well-fed and clothed and cleaned, had plenty of books and toys and shows and games to keep him happy. And I could entertain him enough, could read the stories and do the voices and cook the dinners. I was, however, a bit of a basketcase behind his back.

So I phoned it in. And all of a sudden this year E had his third birthday and the same summer festivals and parties and concerts are rolling around and I'm all, "Wait. How did I miss this last year?" So I've decided to do as much as I possibly can with the boys, and with C as a family, all day and on the weekends and at nighttime--even if that's just running around the yard or taking a bike ride or whatever. Because I missed so much last year. I was living with my hands covering my eyes and ears, rocking in the corner muttering, "I can't believe she died, oh please let him live," over and over and over.

It pretty much sucked, and I was not the most fun mother on earth.

All this to say, I've been busy. But happy, because I wake up and think to myself, "Homey, I can DO this."

********
We've been taking the boys on bike rides through the cemetery. It's right across the street, pretty much, from our house, and it is beautiful. It's super hilly and quiet and once you're in, you'd never know you're in the middle of the city. We've found some old parts where the stones date back to the mid 1700s. And then there's the deer who we see now and then. He's curious and cute and it's like a real-live game of Where's Waldo?--he blends. Baby O refuses to keep his helmet on in the trailer, so our rides are frequently punctuated with me freaking out and adjusting his helmet, only to have him yank it off four seconds later. It's a process.

We stop at Calla's spot--it's a nice hill where E can run up and down and burn off some energy. There was an open grave nearby once when we went, so of course most of my energy was spent keeping him far from it. I tried explaining why we were there, whose name was on the stone. He was far more interested in the truck that lowers the casket into the earth. So he's not really ready yet.

(I'm making this sound like we were frolicking as a funeral and burial were going on feet from us--don't worry, that wasn't the case. We were alone--except for the truck and its driver.)

********
I think people sometimes confuse my ability to function as a normal person with being, ahem, "all better now." Yes, we have our beautiful baby O, too--clearly another marker of someone who's completely healed, right?

Sigh.

I mean, yes, of course, things are far better than they were eighteen months ago. (But even just writing that, "eighteen months ago," it could be eighteen seconds or eighteen decades ago.) The hole in our lives is not the raw, ragged, gaping maw it once was. But it's still a hole. She's still dead and always will be. Calla's still our daughter, still E and O's sister, who is not with us. And that will always hurt.

But it's strange, being a year and a half out from her birth. I've met new people; they don't know. And I'm mostly OK with that. But there are days when I want to scream, "What about HER?! I have a daughter and she's dead and I'm sad and I MISS HER and you don't even KNOW IT!"

That would make things all about me though, wouldn't it?

********
Every night before I go to sleep I sneak into the boys' rooms and give kisses and whispers and just feel their chests rise and fall. I listen to them breathe and imagine what they're dreaming. Now that E is in a big boy bed I can kneel next to it and, if I'm careful, put my ear against his chest and listen to his heartbeat. For these tiny moments I am ever so grateful.

Last night I gave myself a good cry, long overdue and possibly facilitated by the red wine I had before bed. I have Calla's pink knit cap under my pillow, and it's been there for eighteen months. I try to hold it in my hand all night long, but I keep it between the pillows in case I roll over or lose my grip. And last night it made me sad that all I get for her goodnights is some donated yarn, the only thing I have--not packed away-- that touched her. No kisses, no dreaming, and definitely no heartbeat.

Life may get easier, but living without her never does.

Creativity, Imagination, and Me

2011-06-28T14:45:00.000-04:00

Musicians amaze me. Not pop stars, not those autotune denizens. But real, honest-to-goodness, talented music makers. I believe it was Ad Rock who so wisely rapped, " . . . Only 12 notes that a man can play." We all have the same notes. We have the same constants. Some of us can turn them into such amazing, original, beautiful new things. Some of us plunk out the same old chords.

I am the latter.

In my youth I took piano lessons. My teacher was this hard core, old school pianist who would regularly scold me for my too-long fingernails and biomechanically-impossible turned-out thumbs. "You don't see people walking around with their thumbs turned out!" she would huff. Except mine do. I was a thorn in her side, for sure. She and her husband were concert pianists, their small North Buffalo house filled wall to wall with baby grand pianos. Early on in my lessons--I started later in my youth, say, when I was 10 or so--I was assigned short compositions. I had to write musically-correct melodies and then play them each week at my lessons.

I sucked. Even during the years when I was learning music theory my compositions were pedestrian. Boring. Blah. Unoriginal. I don't think the way creative people think. I'm a rule follower to the core. A musician hears whats missing in the world and then makes it. I don't understand how that works.

I don't know if I've ever had an imagination. Looking back, thinking about being a child, I don't know. My drawings all looked the same. As an adult, trying to paint a picture I have no idea what to put on the paper.

Believe me, I'm not throwing a pity party for myself here. Being a literal thinker has done well for me, mostly. I just wish, sometimes, I had a bit of a creative spark in me. Some way of looking at the world that would help me make something different and new.

My lack of imagination and creativity, though, has not served me well when I think of my little girl. I can't place her in our family, other than what I knew her as. I don't see her as a one and a half year old. I don't know what she'd look like, sound like, smell like. I don't see her in the world around me, I don't know if she sees us.

I just miss her. I just want to be able to conjure her up when I need to. And I can't, and that sucks.

Fathers' Day

2011-06-19T09:00:00.001-04:00

I like Fathers' Day so much more than Mothers' Day. I don't know, maybe it's because there's absolutely no chance I'll ever actually BE a father, and get to watch from the sidelines. The dads deserve their day. I don't buy into the hapless, bumbling dad-stereotype, full of farting and golfing and beer-swilling and how-do-I-change-a-diaper. Not to say those dudes don't exist. But come on.

C is such an awesome dad. He makes up, with E, these elaborate games of construction sites, and forts, and chase, and adventure. Trips to Home Depot are full of wonderment for E, what with the forklifts and tractor trailers and all those damn TOOLS he might find a use for. He gets up with the boys most days of the week, affording me extra sleep or time to run.

I don't know where I'd be in my life without him. I do know my life is exponentially better with him in it. We've travelled, we've dined, we've bought and sold houses, we've had three babies. Through every labor he was at my side, amazed at the goings on, encouraging me when I wanted to give up, or even worse, just die. Quite literally.

This space is where I pour out my heart, not wanting to give too much away from anyone else's point of view. But C has had his sadness, too, and shares so very much in my grief. He planted all the crocus bulbs at Calla's marker last Fall. He missed out on his dad and little girl life, too. He carries his sadness differently, but it is always there.

I am a lucky lady to have him as my husband and as the father of our kids. Right now he's outside getting E's birthday sandbox ready--in the dark. That's just how he rolls.

I love you, sir. xo

(OK, enough with the sap-a-lap-a-ding-dong!)

Three

2011-06-18T20:01:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow, Sunday, Fathers' Day, it's E's third birthday. And yes, time has gone from amble to sprint in that short time. Three years ago right now I was getting ready to go to the hospital, ready to be induced, ready for this gender-unknown baby to be born ALREADY, ten days past his due date. I kissed the dog goodbye, sad that he wouldn't be the baby anymore.

And now. Happy birthday to my first born, my first baby love, my companion through happiness and sorrow, my alarm clock, my truck driver, my bookworm, my human megaphone, my tricyclist extraordinaire.

If I could list everything I love about this boy I would, but there's no space big enough to contain it. My heart is full to bursting every time I look at his sweet face, even when he makes me want to rip out my hair. Oh, three.

Happy birthday, Eliot. We love you oh so very much.

When a Butterfly is Just a Butterfly, and When A Butterfly is Not

2011-06-15T21:20:00.000-04:00

I think of her all the time, you know. She is the undercurrent of my every thought, each in and out breath. She is woven in the fabric of every brainwave, she colors my speech even when I don't speak her name.

But I look for her too. As though I might know her, or recognize her outside of my one day of memory. Could that be her, that lazy, lumbering bumblebee buzzing and bobbing near my face? Or the butterfly, flitting and darting overhead along the way on our walk? Is that her, the deer in the cemetery, watching me as I run down the street? Maybe that's her, the flower that opens at dusk each night.

I know better, though. The bee, the butterfly, the deer and the flower, they are all just what they are. Earlier, the butterfly was a caterpillar wriggling and inching along the ground, and the bee is heavy with pollen from an afternoon of gathering. The deer, he's just a curious, shy creature who's somehow found himself living in the city, albeit in the most peaceful and woods-like spot. That flower's been opening since before I was born. These creatures are simply creatures, not here for any other reason than to be here.

I wish I could believe otherwise.

But then. I think of her constantly. As though my thinking and wondering and wishing could make her be with me, in our family as a girl instead of the memory of a baby. And maybe since the bee, and the butterfly, and the deer and the flower give me pause before realizing they just are what they are, maybe she is there.

Weekend Remembering

2011-06-12T20:54:00.002-04:00

The other morning I was out running with some friends. If you've ever run long distances, you know how important well-fitting clothing and good biomechanics can be. Bodyglide usually works well to remedy the latter for me, but Saturday I made a rookie mistake with the former. Without getting too personal, I had to do a quick deposit of an article of my clothing in a Dumpster mid-run. While my friends were shielding me as I made a quick change, I joked how I was going to get caught, um, with my pants down, and the headline in the newspaper would read: "Mother of two arrested for indecent exposure."

Erm.

Make that, "Mother of three who's a fucking moron."

You know. It just slipped out. Mother of two. Fuck, man. I was with two friends who know my Calla life intimately, and I'm almost positive they knew what I meant. But I felt like a total asshole as the words were leaving my mouth. I could insert a million reasons here, but really, it doesn't matter. I was thinking two and said two.

Forever my vocabulary will be filled with qualifiers, spoken or not. Forever my life is filled with this missing.

On that run we did a loop of the cemetery and visited Calla's marker. It was sprinkled with grass clippings from a recent mow. There are, what appear to be, several young soldiers on her hill, buried there, protecting her. I noticed for the first time another stone, from September of 2010, Quinn Patrick, "Born to Heaven."

Mothering a dead baby is so strange.

********
This weekend was the big dance recital. My mother-in-law has a dance studio and my sister-in-law and she teach most of the classes. Along with the other teachers and helpers they really do an amazing job every year putting on the show. It's fascinating to me, who danced exactly one year in my whole life (as an ADULT! I was IN the RECITAL--another story for another time), to watch this production and realize the hours and sheer talent that goes into its execution.

But it's hard, you know? I find myself choking back tears watching all these beautiful girls and young women twirling and tapping and leaping across the stage. There are a few boys up there, sure, looking cute and dapper. And yes, it's an assumption that our little girl would be enamored with the tutus and tap shoes. But I can imagine, right? And the imagining and the missing together are so very painful.

As I was watching and wondering and crying just a little, I was also holding baby O. And just when I thought I was going to have to leave the auditorium, he put his little head on my shoulder and hugged me.

It's okay.

Going and Going

2011-06-02T21:08:00.000-04:00

This past weekend I ran a half marathon. Not particularly quickly--in fact, it was my slowest ever--and well, I can't pretend like I really trained all too hard for it. But it's over and done with. It was hot and long and, quite frankly, pretty miserable.

I kept running until I couldn't. Which was just past ten miles. I gave myself a good long walk break. Of course this is when that voice inside gives way to, what I so eloquently call, the "I-sucks:"

I'm fat. I'm slow. I'm the slowest runner I know. Everyone is looking at me and laughing. Look at everyone going by, they're wondering why I even bothered trying to do this.

Which ever-so-quickly segues into "I-suck-at-everything":

I am a shitty mother. My poor kids got me in the lottery of life. My husband has to put up with me. It's no wonder my baby died, I am a terrible person. I can't do anything well, everyone is better at everything than I am.

I don't know. I think strange things happen to my brain when I'm underfed and overtired. It's hard to not let the negative thoughts creep in at the edges. The wheels just fall right off my wagon.

I am a new person, though. The old me, the one who never really ever lived through misery, or had to do anything especially challenging that wasn't self-inflicted, probably would have given up. Watched the runners pass me by, felt sorry for myself and pouted. But the old me wasn't out there on that sunny, hot morning. The new me scraped my sorry sack of shit self off the pavement at mile 11 and started running again. And finished. Running. The new me knows a thing or two about keepin' on keepin' on.

C and the boys were there just past mile 11, cheering me on. They were there again just past mile 12, too. Hearing E shouting "go Mommy go!" gave my heart a jolt. I'm still not all that jazzed about my lackluster performance, but I finished what I started. I didn't quit even though it was hard. Go me.

Right Where I Am: One Year, Four Months and 17 Days

2011-05-26T22:47:00.000-04:00

This post is part of an amazing project started by Angie for the babyloss community. Check out her post to see what it's all about, and follow us on the path.

Anyway.

January of 2010 was the beginning of my new life. When we found out Calla had died, I stopped understanding language for a short while; when they told me I'd have to deliver a dead baby, I couldn't make those words work in a sentence together. When C told me it was really real, I knew it was true, because he would never lie to me, but, again, it didn't compute.

After she died I never thought I'd smile, or be happy, or be a whole person ever again. I remember coming home and posting something on FB, only because everyone there knew I was pregnant, and I couldn't bear anyone asking about the baby. I remember crying myself to sleep, crying myself awake in the morning, crying in the shower, the bathroom, the car, while doing laundry . . . I just knew I'd never smile or be happy again. How could I?

I was totally wrecked in so many ways. I'd pushed my dead daughter out of my body--how could I ever forgive my physical self for that? I remember saying some crazy things in the hospital, things about all that work, getting fat, being in pain, for nothing. Looking back I almost feel ashamed. But in those moments, it was my truth. I felt cheated and stung and I didn't know how to process what was happening.

C said it perfectly, that no one should know what it feels like to hold their dead child.

In fact, I don't really remember wanting to be happy at all. I couldn't eat, I could barely sleep, I hated myself, my brain and my body. I drank. A lot. I bought tons of clothes I didn't need and didn't fit into, but those packages arriving every day were a distraction from the knife in my throat. C and I would go out to dinner, and I would squeeze myself into some semblance of a normal outfit. We'd cry. Just look across the table at each other and shake our heads and drop our eyes.

But.

We also had E. Who, at the time, was 18 months old. Which meant I couldn't just stay in bed all day, no matter if I wanted to or not. And while I hesitate to place all my happiness on my child, he truly saved me. I do not say that lightly. He needed me to be his mother, even though I was desperately sad. And so I acted like his mother, showed up, played trucks. Amazingly, just by acting like a normal mother again helped me almost feel like one again, eventually.

So where am I now?

That's a difficult question for me to answer. In so many ways, in a much better place. One day, a few months out from Calla's birth, I laughed. Really, really hard. I don't remember at what, but I instantly felt both guilty and relieved. To be honest, hardcore grieving is exhausting work. Necessary and inevitable work. And that laugh was building up for a long time. After that I laughed a little more, more often, all while still being bone-deep devastated.

Also, I became pregnant with our third child, baby O, just two months after Calla died and was born. And their birthdays are exactly 10 months apart. To the day. Which is . . . an emotional challenge. So 2010 was a year-long adventure in grief, anxiety, disbelief, heartbreak and joy.

Much like the rest of my life is shaping up to be.

Right now, I work on balancing my sadness with the happiness in my life. It feels like I think of Calla nearly every minute of every day. People tell me all the time that baby O looks so much like his older brother. Calla was a dark/curly-haired girl, but I wonder if those dark curls would have given way to shiny blonde hair like E. I wonder what my life would be like with one truck-loving three-year-old and a one-and-a-half-year-old girl who is so into . . . what?

It makes me sad that she's not here with us. It makes me deliriously happy that baby O is here, he made it here safely, he brings so much joy to our lives. It makes me confused, often, that this is my life. It hurts when people refer to O as our "second." It makes my heart feel warm when someone talks about Calla, asks how I'm doing, lets me know I'm not the only person who remembers her.

I remember those early, dark days after Calla's birth with a mix of dread and, well, possibly fondness? Only because I was closer to her, closer to the rawness of her birth then. We are moving forward as a family, and while we all get older and evolve, she'll always be a bitty baby. That's a hard truth for me.

But overall I feel better about LIFE, not better about her death. Her death will always be a terrible part of my history. I will love and miss her forever. But she's a part of our family, in a way I never could have imagined. I can laugh again. I can eat again. I find joy in every day, probably more now than ever before. I am not a perfect parent, despite my best efforts.

Emotionally, I am beginning to heal. And healing does not mean "getting over it" or forgetting her. It just means, to me, that I can look at the butt ruffle on a pink baby swimsuit without hyperventilating. I can look at the older boy/younger girl families and not want to run into traffic. But like I said, I'm still at the beginning. So many everyday-life-type things bring the tears flooding back; somedays a sparkly sneaker is all it takes to send me diving under the covers. And yet, that's okay, too.

So much love to any and all who walk this path, no matter where you may be. Know that I'm holding your hand along the way, and please hold mine back.

Love You Forever

2011-05-24T20:37:00.000-04:00

Tonight I did something I've been putting off for nearly three years: I read E Love You Forever. Now, this has long been a favorite of mine, but an absolute KILLER to read and sing. And then tonight I learned this book was born from Robert Munsch and his wife having two dead babies. Cue the waterworks.

But lately E has been acting very THREE. Whining, yelling, doing things he knows better than to do. And I feel like I'm constantly correcting and redirecting. I thought it was time for this book. I will love him forever, and like him for always. And as long as I'm living, my baby he'll be.

Tonight I am tired from a hard workout, tired from a long day after a long night of little sleep. But this tired is so much better than being tired from crying all night. Even so, I am missing my baby girl. I am loving my little boys.

Ah, this life.

To all my babies, I will love you forever. Wherever you may be, whether I can sneak into your rooms at night and rock you, or sit by your stone and cry. I will love you all forever.

A Minute to Breathe

2011-05-11T21:19:00.000-04:00

Right now I'm nursing a wicked headache that started with blurred, or rather, loss of vision and is finishing with nausea. And also deja vu, as I had this same headache at the end of the day on Mothers' Day. Yay.

I have been really slacking here. I mean, I know that no one's waiting around their Reader for BING! A new naptime confessional post to pop up, but it's that whole continue-what-you-start thing. Baby O is a hugger, he needs to be held, quite a bit. Which is delightful, but not conducive to typing, or, well, cohesive thoughts. C and I have started a strict no-computer-after-kids-go-to-bed policy. And every other free minute I have is devoted to cooking, or cleaning, or running, or boxing, or yoga, or maybe even sleep.

But there's been a bit going on, you know? I've been sharing a lot of grief talk with my therapist, who walks me through. It feels a bit indulgent--HEY! let's talk about me me me!--but necessary. I still can't believe, some days, that this is my life. In the past few weeks I've run into two separate people from my old life. Neither of whom I'd seen since I was pregnant with Calla. And it was . . . okay? With one I didn't get into the story. She said, "Oh, is this the baby?" And I thought to myself, "Well, he's A baby, but not the one you're thinking of!" I let her do the complicated math in her head. If I see her again I'll explain, but it was in a doctor's office and it wasn't the right time.

I saw the other friend in the park. I was packing the giant double stroller into my trunk after running with the boys. Both of them were already in the car, and she spotted me from across the road. "Hey!' she called to me, "what did you end up having?"

Um, my worst nightmare come true? A year from hell? Two babies, one live, one dead?

So I waved her over and told her the story. Her daughter is my age and pregnant with her, well, I'll say second baby, but she's had miscarriages since her first. Oh. This pregnancy thing can be so fraught. Anyway, she was sad for me, but she understood. She told me of her best friend from years ago who had a full term stillbirth, how that friend, earlier in the day at her baby shower was uneasy, who had the operator interrupt her phone call and was hysterically sobbing on the line, calling from the hospital.

You don't get it I guess until, sadly, you do.

I talk with my therapist about all the little things that, to maybe anyone else, would seem stupid, or whiny, or ungrateful. Like how the frilly Easter dresses make my heart leap into my throat. How the tiny dancers in pastel tutus in the dance recital leave me crying in the dark auditorium. How the mother with her boy and girl, older than my children but spaced how E and Calla would have been, takes me out of the present and into my head. How any number of seemingly insignificant, material, impossible things in any day litter this path, sometimes shoving mountain-sized hurdles in my way.

It's all those woulda-shoulda-couldas. The what-ifs, and what-nows. The bullshit no one wants to hear when you have two beautiful, healthy, happy, wonderful, living boys in your arms. You have all this and still you want more?

And sometimes, when I can be brutal with myself--or maybe it's kindness--I do look at my life and wonder why it's not enough. Because, truly it is. My boys are enough. C is enough. I have everything I could ever want.

Except. I want my little girl too. And for that I will never, ever apologize. I don't care if that's selfish. I don't care if it's greedy. It is not ungrateful.

So. I'll end with this thought. Without rehashing, last year sucked. I look at pictures of myself and every one is the face of anxiety. I was a nervous wreck nearly constantly. But you know what? Baby O is as happy as I was anxious. He laughs and smiles at everything--big belly laughs, too. And he thinks E is the best, saving his loudest laughs just for him.

I am so sad, and I am so happy, and I am so devastated, and I am so lucky.

Mothers' Day, Year Three

2011-05-08T13:45:00.000-04:00

This is my third Mothers' Day celebrating as a mother. Well, technically my fourth, as E was born a month after MD three years ago. And looking back on last year's, erm, celebration, this year is far different. Last year on this day, we had snow, and wind, and I ran a 4 mile race that sucked, except running with my best friend and her kiddos in the stroller made it a bit fun. But overall, I freaking hated that day.

Last year on Mothers' Day I wanted to spend the day in bed. I didn't want to go anywhere near it. I felt other, different, alien in a world of happiness when I was so very, deeply sad. It felt like no one could possibly understand why the day might be hard for me. My baby had died but 4 months earlier, to the day, and yet it seemed I was supposed to have gotten over it.

This year, I have a six-month-old-tomorrow little dude celebrating with the almost-three-year-old and me, and C. And I am so very much in love. It is sunny and warm, and maybe, just maybe, we can start to believe spring is on its way to our corner of the Earth at last. I have laughed today at the absurdities of life. I have kissed and hugged my two boys all day. I went on a nice date with C last night and am still feeling warm and fuzzy and loved. Somehow, just 365 days later, I look and can act (mostly) like a normal person.

And yet. This day will always be a reminder (as though I would ever forget) of just how much we have lost, despite our rich life. Part of me will resent this holiday forever, the contrived feeling, the sometimes forcing of smiles and niceness, when all I want to do is cry. How dare I want to scream and wail when I have such wonderful children alive in my arms?

Who knew you could still have mom guilt for a baby you never even got the chance to parent? It occurred to me that I've done so physically little to honor Calla's memory. No fundraising foundation. No letter-writing campaign. No 5k memorial run. All I have is a hole in my heart, some pictures and a beautiful box, an urn of ashes I can't bring myself to scatter. Last year it was all I could do to merely survive, preserve my sanity through my pregnancy with O; anything more seemed impossible.

This is my year. The year for tending her stone in the cemetery, for telling her story to the boys, for living without her while still living.

Mothers' Day, happy or not, easier or anxiety filled--my love to you all, wherever you may be on this path.

Springtime in the Cemetery

2011-04-18T09:22:00.000-04:00

Early spring, the trees are waking as the birds chirp in their branches.

The earth is defrosting. Something beautiful peeks from the ground.

Tiny bursts of purple, yellow and white dot the thawing green hill; here and only here, on her hill.

The labor of last fall has survived the barren winter to surprise and delight us now.

Beautiful flowers for a little girl gone.

*****
One of my favorite memories of being a little girl was reading books about me. Well, not specifically about ME, but those books given as gifts, my name inserted in the action. Back then the font in the book made it look as though someone was meticulously typing the story on a typewriter--and, you know, it's not completely implausible that happened. It was long ago, after all.

For E's dedication my sister-in-law and her family gave him one of these books. His entire name is spelled out with animals filling in the letters. And then for O's dedication they gave another one. But L, my sister-in-law, said it wouldn't be right if all out children didn't have one. So she made one for Calla.

We love it. I would have loved it as a little girl, and I know our little girl would have loved it, too. Now her brothers will listen to her story, fairies and all.

*******
And then there's this box. A dear family friend MADE this box. It holds all of Calla's earthly possessions. They fit perfectly. Isn't this the most gorgeous box you've ever seen? I am still trying to figure out how someone possesses such a talent. Oh, and woodworking/carpentry isn't even this friend's profession. Impressed? I am so very.

Oh yes, and beyond thankful, too. This box is in our dining room at the bottom part of our sideboard. Sounds like a weird place to keep it, but we can see it every day. She's with us during the most important part of our day, sharing meals together.

The Fear

2011-03-31T14:33:00.000-04:00

My new fear obsession is SIDS. I have a mantra that I connect to every time O wakes in the night (which, lately, has been quite often), or even during the day: Awake=Alive. Somehow I've latched onto this fear because, as I've read, there's NOTHING anyone can to to 100% prevent SIDS. Sure, breastfeeding, sleeping on his back, having a fan running in his room, no one smoking in the house, on and on and on. But there's no guarantee. I don't remember being this ~~paranoid~~ vigilant with E, but then again, I hadn't lived through the death of my baby yet.

And all of a sudden it hit me. From the minute I found out I was pregnant with O to this very second, I've been fearing for his death. I've been enjoying the heck out of him, loving him fiercely and with wild abandon. But there's always a little tickle, a nagging fear on the edge of my consciousness. If I'm being honest, it's often at the forefront of my consciousness. So much so that I've woken him accidentally, checking to make sure he's still breathing.

Tell me I need to get a grip. Tell me this is normal stuff, not just post-trauma, hyper-vigilant behavior. Because I'm starting to worry I'm losing my mind.

Dark and Scary

2011-03-25T15:46:00.000-04:00

I did not go running this morning. Not out of laziness, the beckon of warm covers; no aches or pains; no winter weather . . . OK, it was really cold, but that wasn't the reason either. I was afraid of the dark.

Not really the dark, but what could happen to lil ole me out there in the early pre-dawn cold, all by my lonesome. When did I turn into such a wimp!?

Maybe wimp is too strong a word, or maybe it's the wrong word all together. I keep thinking of the potential dangers; the drunk drivers weaving their way home after Buffalo's (previously-loved-by-me-now-loathed-by-me) 4AM closing times (You read that right. 4 in the morning. Oof.); the assailants and rapists lurking behind trees and parked cars; the rats who could run right at my feet out of a garbage can . . . OK, that one actually did happen the other morning. At least I wasn't alone, though.

I have to stay alive these days. I have to be whole and accounted for. It's a strange shift, going from fearless about what could happen to me (NOT ME! NEVER! They'll find out who's hardcore . . . ) to realistic and actually fearful. The things we do for love.

I ran later this morning, in the full cold sunshine.

After I went back to sleep before 6AM (well, I might as well, yes?) I had the most terrible dream. I can't remember how it started, but it ended with Baby O being lost, or possibly kidnapped. I was screaming his name, frantically looking around some apartment I was in. I woke up in a sweat, to the sounds of C getting E and O out of bed. E climbed into bed with me to hide and wake me up. I exhaled.

********
E has been sick this week. A child who has been sick only a handful of times in his short life, who has never thrown up (knock on wood), we spent most of Wednesday parked in his "nest" in front of the television.

O has spent the past week drooling, chewing maniacally on his fist. We're awaiting tooth #1. I'm aware that this child is not yet 5 months old.

These are the small scary things. The small scary things that I welcome in place of the bigger, much more scary things out there.

********
I realize I've been a bit of a blog slacker lately. For those of you who might be interested in reading, I am sorry. But even though it's been quiet around here, I'm not leaving. My words are firmly planted here. In the weeks and months after Calla died, blogs kept me alive. I read the stories, I desperately searched for life "after." I lived vicariously through other mama's subsequent pregnancies, starving for good news and hope. I devoured each morsel of time, how it went, how it goes. I needed to know how to move forward. Heck, I still do.

It always made me a little sad to see blogs close up shop when the new arrivals came home safely. I understand, understood, but I craved the "after." I wanted to know how life would go on, good bad and hideous.

And so here I'm staying, in case someone wants to know how we are going on. Because life does go on, like it or not. My baby's death does not get better, or easier to accept, but it's a part of me, a part of our family's history. We will love and miss her forever.

Laugh or Cry?

2011-03-11T11:24:00.002-05:00

Call me strange, but one of the highlights of my day is when the mail arrives. I don't know why the mail in the box is such a thrill; maybe I'm just easily amused.

As a rabid shopper I get about a zillion catalogues. I am in the process of unsubscribing to many of them. Some are still coming for our house's previous owner. The ones that really chap my ass are those specifically marketed to girls. Why on earth am I getting catalogues full of girl clothes, dolls, pink? Insult to injury that my preferences somehow skew toward female child wares.

Today's mail drop really packed a wallop. Imagine my surprise when I opened a letter telling me my "daughter is eligible to compete in this year's state pageant." Apparently she was referred to the letter writer as someone who may "enjoy modeling, acting, or learning stage techniques that will help empower and enable her to accomplish her future goals."

Really? MY daughter? Lucky us!

If I was feeling really morbid, I'd wonder about this dead-daughter pageant. What future goal might she have? To come back to life?

You've got to be kidding me, right? I mean, rational me knows this is a form letter, and I'm on some demographically incorrect mailing list. But really?

Just yesterday in music class I was having mild daughter envy. Once again the universe is messing with my head.

***On a lighter note, the letter stresses NO MAKEUP for participants age 12 and under (whew) and that she should dress as though going to a job interview. Please think about a little tiny girl going to a job interview for a minute, dressed in a little business suit. I don't know. Maybe I need to get a sense of humor and not want to vomit all over this letter.

Unfollow

2011-03-09T21:43:00.000-05:00

Yet another something from my former life has lost its shiny luster.

After my initial swan dive into my new existence, realizing I'd lost the taste for so many things once delicious, I thought maybe it would end. My likes and dislikes, tolerables and intolerables would sort themselves neatly into boxes. Little did I know there would be a constant shifting, a few pebbles stuck in the corners that, months, years later, would filter out.

I used to be the girl who'd listen to your baby stories, your pregnancy stories, your newborn stories with real interest--not feigned, not patronizing. Tell me about your morning sickness, your aversion to any smell, your need for Wendy's on an hourly basis. I devoured birth stories like chocolate chip cookies.

And then my baby died, and was born. Holy cats, did everything change. Suddenly it was, don't tell me about getting pregnant; do not tell me about how you're feeling or about vomiting or about eating or about fitting into your clothes or about names or birth plans or doulas or epidurals or ANY OF THAT SHIT. I ~~didn't want to~~ couldn't hear it. Unfortunately, I still needed to function as a human and a friend and a family member. And, when Calla died, I was halfway surrounded by pregnant friends.

So I sucked it up and went to baby showers and bought baby gifts and met newborns and smiled and cooed and oohed and aahhed. I did these things because, while I was puking and screaming inside, I still loved these people and their babies. No matter how much I wanted to build a time machine, go back a few months and demand to be induced at 35 weeks even.

And when O was born, I thought maybe I could find my way back to the land of the normal mother. Well, somewhat. Maybe someday I could FOR REAL enjoy hearing about friends' pregnancies, or maybe be elated by a good birth story, or maybe even joke about eating nothing but french fries for nine months.

Nope.

Just a few days ago a blog writer who I have followed and read for a few years dropped some news: she's pregnant. Again. For the third time. After having, tra la la, a healthy boy and then healthy girl. Surprise! How great! OMGEEEEEEE! Can't wait to hear all the--

Unfollow.

I can't. It's hard enough with real life friends. Real life family. Real life babies. No matter the beautiful, breathing, living one in my arms; no matter my wonderful big boy toddler. I can't. All my positive energy, all my smiles, all my choked back tears (yes, still) are saved for my real-life friends, and my new blog mama friends who get me too, who REALLY NEED THE GOOD ENERGY.

I'm not saying, well, I don't know what I'm saying. Everything will, hopefully, be wonderful for my unfollowed blogger. I wish her all the beautiful things in this world. But I can't read nine months of morning sickness and maternity fashion updates in my Reader. It's not my reality anymore. And pretending that's who I am, or could ever be again, hurts too much.

Amnesia and Worse

2011-03-01T20:50:00.000-05:00

I can't remember if I was like this with E. I think maybe I was. It feels so much more immediate and desperate and consuming this time.

I am trying to not fall down the rabbit hole of panic that something is going to happen to baby O. That he won't wake up, that he'll be lost from me. I still feel this desperation about E, when I really stop to think and worry. I try to keep that in check, but it's so very hard.

Sneaking upstairs tonight I started to feel like a real worrywort. But I can't help it. Just lightly resting my hand on O's chest to feel it rising and falling releases the pressure. For now.

Please let him stay.

Cosmically Lonesome

2011-02-23T21:02:00.000-05:00

I read a really sad thing today. I'm sure if you have a friend who owns a little-girly boutique/home business and has a FB page you've seen the link to this blog. A young couple's 4 month old baby girl died. DIED. From what I gathered she just STOPPED BREATHING. This just happened last week, and the grieving mother has been posting about the viewing and funeral. It is absolutely devastating.

I've been scouring the hundreds of comments to find out what happened to her little girl. But, from the sound of it, they have no answers. So, of course I'm on Code Red high alert panic. And of course I'm punched-in-the-gut beyond sad for this poor family.

But here's the thing. From what I've gathered, she and her family and friends are extremely (? very? somewhat?) religious. And while she's devastated, she's able to take some comfort that her baby is with Jesus. And you know what? I'm a little envious of that Faith.

When Calla died, both C and I talked about how it would be comforting to have a strong, or even doubtful, belief in a higher power, a benignly indifferent God who had a plan and a reason. SomeOne who might provide answers, or at least SomeOne to whom we could direct our sorrow, ask for solace, beseech answers.

But we don't. I don't want to get into specifics, because even for me my Faith is confusing. To whom do I direct my pleas for comfort? The cluster of energy we call the Universe? The trees and the wind? The pavement as I run over it?

Logic and reason and just personal preference won't allow me to stick with the religion in which I was raised. I am incredibly lucky to be a member of our Unitarian Universalist church where I'm able to candidly puzzle these things out. But in matters of grief, and loss, and moving forward while remembering, I don't really have anywhere to direct my heart.

Sending out much love to that grieving family who misses their baby girl dearly. That is something I understand.

Let's Get One Thing Clear . . .

2011-02-22T14:51:00.000-05:00

. . . we're done. I MAY have intimated in a previous post that I wanted to be pregnant again. So, actually, no. In romantic notions, maybe. But then there's reality: a new car for 3 carseats; college for 3 children; lack of bedroom space; lack of ENERGY; single riders and being outnumbered. Nope. Oh yeah, and the whole nine-months-of-paralyzing-anxiety-about-pregnancy thing. That nearly killed me once. I've learned my lesson.

I wonder if all mothers feel this way when they realize they're done having babies. That wistful, maybe-one-more-oh-hell-no feeling. I don't know. Is it more acute in the babyloss mamas? Because there were three babies. And now there ARE two. But there's this missing-tooth feeling; something that should be there inexplicably is not. And that someTHING is actually someONE.

I need to have a ready answer for the inevitable, "Think you'll go for a girl?!" question. Because there WAS a girl. She was here. It's not like I'm feeling wishful for some possible girl; I'm feeling sad and lonesome for my once-upon-a-time girl. So maybe all I need to answer is, "no."

I've been listening to The Black Keys lately. This song really resonates with me, for obvious reasons. It's about one of the guy's brother-in-law who died as a child from cancer. I hope one my boys always remember their unknown sister.

Merry UnBirthday

2011-02-09T13:58:00.000-05:00

So, happy birthday to me. Yep, it's today. It is, also, Baby O's 3 month birthday today. Here he is:

Note the gigantor-ness of this dude. He's quite massive. That outfit is supposed to fit up to 6 months. Har. But clearly, he already loves to do the Cabbage Patch.

Anyway. So, how to phrase this . . . last year my birthday was also Calla's due date. Last year I was still in the corner, licking my fresh, oozing wounds. I was still in fresh-grief dazedness. I didn't really think about what moving forward would feel like, because I was so firmly rooted in THEN.

But here we are now. And every year my birthday will be tied to my missing little girl. When I realized that her due date was my birthday, I felt bad. Who wants to share their birthday with their MOM? Boo. But I guess I'm thankful, now. I don't have her physical self. But every year, I get to celebrate her, too. My wounds are beginning to scab over; they get nicked and start to bleed every now and then. Eventually they will be a scar, a reminder of rough times in the past.

February 9th will always be our day, little one.

Time Bandit

2011-02-02T20:48:00.000-05:00

My goodness do I not have any time these days. For anything. It's been over a week since my last real post, and I have had so much swirling around my head. I cannot, however, seem to find any time to sit down and write, what with the mountains of laundry threatening to topple, the dinner that must be made, eaten, cleaned up, the house of hair in which we seem to live. Nevermind being present and loving to C and the boys.

Yes, just a few short months ago I had nothing but time. Time to sit and think and write and worry and obsess and grieve. Oh yes, and to grieve. Lately even my grief has taken a back seat to the very busyness of life. And when I take a minute to process that, I get really sad.

Over a year now. A year since I held my daughter's lifeless body for the first and last times. 2010 felt like a slingshot being pulled back, back, back, building tension, waiting for some kind of release. And then we brought little O into the world, and the slingshot let go. Everything whizzing by us at breakneck speed, me trying to hold on to every single newborn and infant moment. Trying to remember every silly and wonderful 2-and-a-half year old conversation. And then I realize it's not life doing the whizzing, but us.

So yes, it's been over a year. And I miss her no less. Despite having little time to sit and think and remember.

That was misleading. I think about her constantly. She is often the first thought in the morning, and always the last before going to sleep at night. But I find little time to ruminate, to wonder, to properly grieve. She stays the same little self, the same age, the same weight, and we move on and on. Having a new baby erases none of that hurt and sadness. It does, however, bring a new and different joy. But with it comes the shoulda-coulda-wouldas: what would she have looked like, have smelled like, who could she have been, who should I have been as a girl mother?

Little O has a different smell than E had as a baby. He is his own distinct little person. I can sniff him out across the room. He is delicious and wonderful and has his own babyness, different, again, than E had. it is marvelous. Oh how I love that baby, oh.

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about the word "just." As a modifier, not necessarily as an adjective. Like when I'm running or boxing or trying to contort myself into some yoga pose and everything seems too damn hard I go to, "Well, I JUST had a baby." Like I should cut myself some slack. But when does it go from JUST to, well, just? Is 3 months still JUST? I don't know. Is a year out from my beloved little girl dying still JUST? Some days it feels so fresh and raw and oozy, and some days it seems so far away.

Funny, the times when it feels so fresh are when I can actually remember and properly grieve. When life is at its most intense and fast-paced, she seems so very far away from me.

And then I start to wonder: when C and I eventually die (pleaseohpleaseletitbewaywaywaywayfarinthefutureandbeforeEorO), who will remember her? Who will carry her forward? Who will care about the beautiful box, handmade by a dear friend (that's another post, loves) filled with all her earthly possession? Who will understand? Who will carry her forward, moving her box from home to home, ever onward into the future?

Oh gosh, that makes me want to lay my head down and just weep. Because it's no one. Even the boys, they will understand, they will love their sister. But they can't. They weren't there. They didn't hold her and their tears didn't wet her beautiful little face.

This is my forever.

********
Switching gears slightly, I am so annoyed with Toy Story.

When I was pregnant with E, I told anyone who would listen that I didn't care if he was anything else but kind and compassionate. I'd met, by that point, too many rotten little kids to let mine be one of them. Fast forward to age two-and-a-half, when my day of reckoning has arrived.

E is about the most awesome little kid I could have asked for. He's polite, and funny and energetic and, well, he makes me laugh and want to pull my hair out all at once, depending on my frame of mind. What with all this grieving the past year and now this unending winter, we've been watching way more TV than I'd ever thought possible. And E loves his truck dvds, certain children's shows, and, most recently, some of the Pixar movies. A current favorite is Toy Story. Do you know what word comes up over and over in that movie? STUPID. As in "Stupid dog!" and "Did you all take stupid pills this morning?"

Why you gotta do me like that, Pixar? Don't you know my incredibly verbal kid is going to pick that word out like finding the marble under the shell? Don't you know I'm going to have to spend hours teaching him why that word is NOT APPROPRIATE for ANY USE? The amount of time spent on that throwaway little word in a movie is negligible; the amount of time I have to dedicate to keeping it out of our vocabulary is interminable. Gah! You're supposed to be making my life EASIER, movies.

Don't even get me started on my beloved Tomie dePaola throwing a "Shut up!" into one of his stories. Let's just say we'll no longer be choosing Bill and Pete Go Down The Nile from the library.

Not Gone . . .

2011-01-31T14:48:00.000-05:00

. . . just super duper busy, and have my hands full--literally. This baby does not like to be put down. Which is a-ok with me, but leaves me little time to get thoughts out of my head and written here.

I hope you are all surviving this bloody cold winter (or lovely summer, for those of you not in my hemisphere!), and know I'm thinking of you.

I have a lot of things swirling around my brain, and I need to get them out. But I can't do it one-handed. Soon.

Love.

Addict

2011-01-18T21:42:00.000-05:00

Lately I've been having compulsive feelings. This pull is nothing new. My whole life I've dealt with compulsions of varying degrees of destruction.

I'm feeling like I want to be pregnant again.

WHAT.
THE.
FUCK.

I mean, not really. This past time knocked the piss out of me. But I look all around me. So many friends expecting second babies, friends of friends and moms in music class. And I'm envious.

Let me reiterate: I DO NOT WANT TO BE PREGNANT AGAIN. But. There's this nagging little feeling, like a voice saying, "Just do it. Just one more time. One more baby . . ." It's like I'm addicted to being pregnant.

I know where this voice comes from. It comes from the same place it's always come from. The need to have more; more will make it better, more will make things right, and whole, and fun, and, and, and. Just one more won't hurt; just one more will make everything OK. One more sale, one more drink, one more puff, one more date . . . and after all these one mores I'm still right back from where I thought I'd gotten past. Going back for more always gets me where I don't want to be.

The smell of a cigarette almost always makes me gag, but then there's those moments when the smell draws me in, beckons, just one drag, remember that feeling . . . So, too, does the thought of pregnancy make me feel--NO WAY IN HELL but maybe, oh, it was so nice . . .

There's always something more. The success rate of inhabitants of my uterus making it out alive is barely 67%. No matter how many babies I could have it would never get to 100%. But there's the pull . . .

I'm envious, I guess, of that blissfully naive pregnancy. I'm envious of other people's plans going smoothly, babies arriving whole and healthy without a second thought of anything going wrong. I'm envious of people who don't everyone sad; envious of the pregnant woman no one worries every second about.

It's always envy that fuels my compulsions. I have most of them in check. Finding the peace in having enough is always my challenge.

Memorial

2011-01-08T09:06:00.000-05:00

Last year, at the end of February, we had a memorial for Calla. I'm not normally one to write down what I'm saying when I speak to a group; I'm more of a wing-it kind of girl. I didn't think winging it would do anyone any favors that day, though. C and I both spoke, and this is what I said:

I’m not really sure how this goes. The past almost two months have been the hardest, and saddest, of our lives. Since last summer we’d been anticipating this time of year, knowing it would be a challenge; we didn’t count on just WHY it would be so hard.

It’s a strange task, trying to tell all of you about our daughter. How can I describe someone I knew only by feel? Someone I loved, sight unseen, instantly and wildly--someone I had to say goodbye to even before hello. This isn’t how it’s supposed to work. The timeline is all wrong, the events out of order. It’s as though the record I was listening to skipped, the lyrics all jumbled.

But truly, this is about our little girl, Calla Valentina Scott. A daughter, a sister; instantly loved and equally missed. A little girl who was supposed to be here with us, who we could hold and care for and love. Someone who will forever be a mystery to us: would she have been funny? tall? curious? kind?

Every day while I was pregnant with Calla I’d read Eliot stories and sing him songs; in response, Calla would kick and roll and wiggle. I have to believe she was having fun. So, for her, a story:

Once upon a time there was a little girl. A tiny girl; a baby. She lived in a place that was dark and warm. She was rocked back and forth all day. The little girl had a mother and father and a big brother. Everywhere her mother went, the little girl went, too. Her mother took her out for runs, and grocery shopping, on vacation and to concerts. While she lived with them they couldn’t see her, but they loved her all the same.

The little girl grew and grew. Her mother made more room for her as she got bigger and bigger. Sometimes her father would talk to her; sometimes her brother would kiss her. Her mother and father thought about her all the time, and told her big brother about her. The little girl came along when her mother took her brother to music class. She listened to the bedtime stories and danced to the songs. She liked to wake her mother up in the middle of the night, just to let her know she was there. They couldn’t see her yet, but loved her all the same.

Suddenly the little girl was gone. One sad day the little girl died, and the next day she was born. The mother and father cried oceans of tears. They were so sad that their little girl was gone. After many months of waiting they finally got to see their little girl, and she was so beautiful. They gave their little girl the most beautiful name they could imagine. The mother and father held and kissed their little girl as much as they could, and then had to say goodbye.

Some time has passed, and many things have changed. The mother and father still think about their little girl every day. The brother wonders, and makes his mother and father smile. There is someone missing. She will always be missing. But the mother and father and brother will love that little girl for as long as they can imagine, and even longer than that. She is not here with them, and they love her all the same.

There’s a hole in our lives: it’s a little-girl shaped hole that will forever be empty. But our hearts are so full, overflowing with love for our missing little one. We love you Calla, we miss you, always.

Onward Grieving Soldiers

2011-01-07T20:48:00.000-05:00

Tiptoe. Tiptoe. On tiny little tiptoes the day is approaching. Her birthday. The day of her death. One year ago. I think about it defined by the date and the day of the week, and the latter is today. One year ago tonight, this Friday night, right about now, I was in full-blown panic mode. It would be another hour or so before I called my doctor, and another hour or two beyond that when we had the fateful last sonogram.

I want to puke just thinking about it. I want to scream and cry and claw my eyes out all over again.

What difference is it that it was a year ago, not yesterday? What do the past 364 days provide, besides maybe a little perspective? She's still gone. She still is never coming back to me, to us. And I miss her no less, want her no less than I did one year ago. My heart is still shattered beyond complete repair. Despite our new lovely wonderful baby, he is not her, and she is not him. My heart just keeps growing and exploding in so very many ways.

I think back on this year, the hardest and longest of my life. My relationships with just about everyone have changed, mostly for the better. My marriage is growing stronger, and the bond with my entire family has been galvanized, too. The way I parent E, and now O, is much more intense and focused and appreciative and patient.

I am not perfect--you'd think after my second-born being dead, I'd become the most caring and attentive and patient parent out there. Well, at least I thought I would be. Turns out I'm not, despite my best efforts. And I still reflexively reach for the wine when the boys have gone to bed for the night. (Well, when E's in bed and O's down for his first stretch of sleep. Let's not pretend he's sleeping anywhere NEAR through the night yet.)

And still time marches on. The old saying about never standing in the same river twice just about sums up my life. Everything looks the same around me; I am so very different, it seems, every single time I do the same old things. The constant is me, loving my husband, children, friends and family; grieving deeply my daughter who I held for not nearly long enough.

**********
I found myself in a children's boutique today. Out in the suburbs; a rare outing all by my lonesome. C took the day off; he stayed home with the boys while I took a little trip. This was the kind of store that has lots of precious things; I'm not one to dress the boys, so much, in precious clothes. Even my newborn fashion sensibility leans towards the funky and the Star Wars-inclined.

But oh, the little girly things. I think it was the tiny pale pink tankini, printed with sunglasses and complete with butt ruffle, that did me in. I'm a sucker for a butt ruffle. You can take all your flowery headbands and tights and handbags and fill a slow boat with them, but butt ruffles really punch me in the gut.

I always, before Calla, railed against the princess machine. Truth: she could have been a princess astronaut. I would have personally fashioned her tiara and scepter for her spacesuit.

I miss her. I miss what could have been, who she would have been, our life with her. Some might think it's silly to miss someone I never knew. Maybe it is. I'll take silly over devastated any day.

I am not a yogi, and other random realizations.

2011-01-05T20:09:00.000-05:00

I am not a yogi. I realize this every time I go to yoga. And not because I don't try. I really, really do. I get so very distracted.

A typical class goes like this, in my brain:
"OK, I'm here. I got a good spot. Oh no, my spot's getting crowded. No! Focus. Get ready. Huh. Does EVERYONE in this class have lululemon clothes on? When did that happen? Doesn't anyone get their yoga clothes from Marshall's like I do anymore? I mean, c'mon, this is BUFFALO! OK, focus. Breathe. Oh crap, I can't do that pose. I'm so damn fat and stiff. Man, I used to be able to do that. FOCUS!"

And so on.

I am not a yogi, because if I were, I'd be not so judgmental and could focus.

********

So, also this. I encounter people here and there, and am not sure what or how much to share. Let me back up. I used to take yoga quite a bit. As I reflect, I realize this marks my 11 year anniversary with yoga. We've had our ups and downs, but we always end up together, for better or worse. And we used to be so very good together. There were classes where, in downward dog, my heels were ALMOST ON THE FLOOR! And, I could nearly get into lotus. NEARLY. This from a girl born with hip dysplasia, and possessing runner's hamstrings and hip flexors is no mean feat. I'm quite a long way down the road from there, now.

Anyway. I've made quite a few yoga friends along the way. Friends who have seen me in various iterations of physical fitness, pregnant and not. And many of these friends have themselves taken classes through their pregnancies. And, of course, we had many pregnancy chats.

Of course, that was then.

So here I am in the now. And I'm seeing friends I haven't seen in a few years. The inevitable "what's new?" comes out and of course, I whip out pics of Baby O and Big E. But then. Um. Then. I start spilling my guts about Calla and having 2 babies in 2010 and blah blah blah suddenly I'm the crazy lady in the room. But it feels disingenuous to NOT mention it, to leave out my second-born, to not explain the whole story to these women I'd swapped yoga pose modifications with in the past.

I don't know. I don't want to make people feel uncomfortable. But I feel she needs noticing, mentioning. I think back to those early days, weeks, even months after she died. I cringe thinking about the things that were coming out of my mouth. I didn't know how to turn a phrase.

I guess I still kinda don't.

2010: Taking Stock--Now With a Bonus PS!

2010-12-31T13:14:00.001-05:00

Holy cats. The phrase "what a year" does no justice to this abomination. But that's not entirely true, is it? Never black or white--always just gray, gray, gray.

One year ago tonight, C and I spent a quiet night in watching "Up," hanging on the couch; I'm not sure if we actually saw midnight, but Calla was alive and, um, well? in my belly. I can't say with confidence, though, that she was well, because she died not a week later. And thus began the worst year of my life.

And while it did end well, and we ARE on a new path, things were really, really rough throughout the past 12 months. Learning to live without my baby was the worst lesson to learn. My entire life was so completely altered, in every possible way. Finding out I was pregnant just two months after Calla died was thrilling and excruciating, and the next eight months or so were nothing short of psychological warfare. It was a constant struggle to stay focused, positive, hopeful, all while deeply and desperately grieving my daughter.

It wasn't just me, either. I sat helplessly by as so many of my friends and family members struggled with life-altering happenings, too. Two friends hospitalized for mental health, one family member hospitalized with a life-threatening medical emergency, one family member battling a mothereffer of a disease, one friend losing her job, one friend serving a man with a protective order, the death of a father, a breakup, C's mysterious health issues cropping up again and again. I'm sure I'm missing more significant things, but I'm on a bit of grief overload . . . Peel back the onion skin a little further, and there's three more dead babies, a preemie whose life was in the balance for months, . . . and the whole time, I was a basket case.

That's not to say 2010 didn't bring some wonderful things, too. Baby O tops my list, but there was also a family wedding, a family engagement, friends and family members with new babies, friends with new pregnancies, a new adopted daughter, a new job for a friend, a new family puppy (not ours), and hope for the future. (Oh, and toilet training. That one's a mixed bag.)

But by far the most positive thing to come of 2010, besides, of course, Baby O's safe and most welcome arrival, is the realization that I have some wicked awesome friends. This year has brought me a new crop of posse-love, whose friendship I can't imagine my life without. People who have held me up without asking a thing in return; dragged me through this year whether I was able to stand or not. Friends I've made through this here blogosphere, if you will. Complete strangers who tell me things I need to hear to keep going, who listen without judgement and understand. No longer strangers, this world has gotten just the littlest bit smaller, in the very best way. How I wish it didn't take my daughter, and their own children dying for us to be in each others' lives. But here we are. Old friends cropping up when I never thought we'd meet again, coming into my life at the very right time to hold my hand. And of course my closest friends, rallying together to help me find some semblance of the old me. My best friend, holding my hand every single day of this effing year.

So where does that leave us? Like anywhere else. Not totally wonderful, not completely horrible. Just here. I am so very sad, so very happy, so very grateful. Wishing all of you a peaceful and healthy 2011, and maybe, just maybe, a happy New Year.

ETA: Oh jeez. I wanted to write something about how I started this year feeling like Baby New Year, and now feel as old and grizzled as the old year's Old Man is always depicted next to that rosy-cheeked new one. Also, I wanted to include the earthquake in Haiti (which happened just a day or two after Calla died), the oil spill in the Gulf, the tears of hope I shed when the last Chilean miner was aboveground . . . but it came out all wrong. So those things too.

Holidaze

2010-12-28T12:57:00.000-05:00

They've come and gone, the eight million days of Christmas. There's still New Year's Eve to wrap things up, to be certain. We've got good plans this year. It's all so familiar, yet all so surreal.

I keep thinking, "Last year . . ." all while living this year. And this year's holiday season has been a good one. But there's still last year's memories to contend with.

The gifts have been opened, played with, stashed in their new places. Photos taken on our crappy camera--I curse that damn thing every time I try to take a picture. I have approximately one good photo out of 300--but the pictures have been uploaded and ordered anyway. Cookies have been baked, eaten, also cursed for being so delicious and handy. The haze of the days is slowly washing off.

And yet. As one year approaches, I still find it hard to believe. Did that really happen? Do I have a daughter who died? Yes, dear. Yes I do.

We keep going. We laugh. We smile. We show up. We bake cookies. We wrap gifts. And sometimes amidst those happy things we cry. That's what we do. That's how it works.

My brain is still in newborn-cum-holidays fog. I've been composing some brilliant posts during O's middle-of-the-night feedings. Unfortunately by morning, they're lost. But I'm assuming one day I'll be able to string something of consequence together.

Until then, I'm counting down the days to bid 2010 a kick-in-the-ass-out-the-door adieu. This motherfucker was a shit-ass year. Mostly. With lots of good stuff sprinkled around the edges.

Just Say It

2010-12-12T13:00:00.000-05:00

I've been thinking quite a bit lately about how it feels to have the words "my baby is dead" come out of my mouth. I mean, who ever thinks about how to say that?

How on earth can I put into words how it feels when your child, your baby, someone you've spent months loving, growing, caring about, suddenly dies inside your body? And then comes out of your body silently? How can I describe feeling like running into highway traffic would certainly be less painful and less traumatic than waking up every day without your baby? That banging your head against the wall, repeatedly and forcefully, is the only way to silence the roar?

Dramatic. That, up there, is dramatic. But not overly so, as describing the pain, anxiety, trauma, sadness and grief cannot be overstated. Words alone, though, don't do the pain justice. For someone who's--luckily--never experienced such pain can't possibly understand fully (again, luckily) just by reading these words.

So do I say it matter-of-factly? Simply, "My baby is dead. She died inside me, and then she was born." That's a freezing bucket of water in your face, yes? But it still doesn't convey, precisely, how awful and empty it feels.

Or do I stay silent? Let the bags under my eyes, the gray in my hair, the not-quite-a-smile tell the story for me? Ach. I have no idea.

It doesn't get better. At least, almost a year out, it isn't better. It is, however, different. It is just as horrible, lonely, shocking, and sad as it was on that day. It is not all-consuming. I think that's the only difference right now. It's not immediate. But it's still there, just as fierce when it comes to the surface.

There are so many babies missing. No, not missing. Missing implies there's hope they might be found. They're missed, certainly. But they're not coming back. So many families without their babies. This time of year is especially difficult--so many anniversaries, birthdays, holidays within the next few months.

But then again that's not the entire story, because all year long there's the same days. On and on and on.

None of this is easy, or simple. No matter how you say it.

I miss my daughter. That's it, plain and simple.

This Time, No

2010-12-11T15:03:00.000-05:00

So, currently this is my favorite song.

"My head told my heart, 'Let love grow,'
but my heart told my head, 'This time, no.'"

I don't know. Right now I'm saying let love grow, but I SO get "this time, no."

To the Nines

2010-12-06T13:02:00.000-05:00

I have mentioned this before, I know. But it's really starting to sink in now. Calla was born on the 9th of January. O was born on the 9th of November. Of the same year. Making them 10 months apart. Irish twins, if you will.

I knew this going into the induction. Shit, I knew it going into this pregnancy. When I found out I was pregnant with O, I counted ahead to 37 weeks, and made the connection. At that point I just hoped he'd make it, dates be damned.

And then when given the option to be induced early, again I threw all sentiment to the wind and said, "Just get him out alive, as soon as possible, please and thank you."

So here we are, coming up on the 9th again. Sometimes I think of my life in terms of that Gwyneth Paltrow movie "Sliding Doors." Remember it? It's kind of like those old "Choose Your Own Adventure" books, except it shows the characters on two distinctly different paths. Scenarios A and B.

Scenario A: This Christmas, on the 9th, we're celebrating Calla's 11 month birthday. I follow her around as she tries relentlessly to stuff the ornaments into her mouth. And I don't have my sweet little newborn.

Scenario B: This Christmas, on the 9th, we're celebrating O's one month birthday. I am sleep deprived but happy, and dress him in all the tiny "Baby's First Christmas" and reindeer gear. And I sorrowfully remember the beginning of 2010, and miss my little girl terribly.

I know. I will slowly drive myself mad weighing these two scenarios, imagining the what-ifs. "Choose Your Own Edgar Allen Poe Short Story." The truth is neither one is completely happy, nor completely sad. If Choice A, then no Choice B. If Choice B, live forever remembering Choice A. As if either one was a choice, but you know what I mean.

So on and on, moving ahead, the 9th of each month will be a seesaw. Which, I suppose, is a fitting representation of how things really are. Happy and sad together.

But. Still. Really. How?

Gods how I love this new little dude. He is just the sweetest, for reals. Homeboy sleeps in my arms, sleeps on my chest (sleeps in the crib? Eh, we're working on that one.)--and it is so delicious. But oh, the price I've paid to get him here.

He is here. I am lucky. I am in love. I am grateful. But I can still be sad, too--and dammit, I sure as hell am.

Tired

2010-12-02T13:26:00.000-05:00

I am not complaining. But I am really tired.

This kind of tired I can do. I remember waking all night, nursing all night, changing diapers all night. And then doing it all day, too. I remember this, I can do this. In many ways, this kind of tired is so very much easier than the tired I was after Calla died. That tired never quite seems to go away.

I am lucky, though. This little guy sleeps more than I thought he would. Unfortunately I cannot sleep while he does, due to caffeine or a toddler or a racing mind. But I can rest and unplug my brain.

I am not complaining. I will take this tired a million times over the kind of full-on weariness I discovered in January. The exhaustion after losing our little girl is unending, and when I stop to put my brain to it, it threatens to overwhelm me. As it is I feel like I am holding on to everything with the fumblingest of a grasp; the balance we have can slip at any minute.

I am not complaining. My husband will laugh, but I almost relish gross diaper changes, spit-up on my shoulder (who am I kidding--projected spit-up down my neck like sour perfume is more like it), the middle-of-the-night grunting of a boy trying to kick free of his swaddle. I am not irritated, or annoyed, or even wishing for more sleep. It means he's here, and real, and breathing, and mine to keep. I will take this tired. I will cherish this tired.

I do not want to be tired from grief any more, although that's not going anywhere anytime soon. That is a bone-deep tired, adding weight to every step, every heartbeat. That is a tired I am still learning how to do. I don't know that I'll ever get used to it.

It is a tired that doesn't pass; when there's no baby to learn to sleep through the night, there is no reprieve, no waking in the morning thinking, "I can't believe how rested I am!" It is a restlessness, a searching, a puzzle with no answer.

I am still not complaining.

Black Friday

2010-11-29T14:39:00.000-05:00

This year the pseudo, consumerist "holiday" of Black Friday really got to me. It seemed everywhere I turned there were ads, coupons, deals, frenzy surrounding this day of gluttony. So much so that my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving, was a mere speed bump to hurdle just to get to the shopping. Don't get me wrong, I'm a girl who loves both shopping and amazing deals, but standing in line at 3AM to save sixty bucks on a television ain't never going to happen. NEVAH.

Maybe it was the painful irony that people are willing to TRAMPLE EACH OTHER for a great deal for CHRISTMAS, the holiday where we're supposedly selfless and giving and charitable, that really twisted the knife.

Maybe it was the phrase itself, "Black Friday." Lemme tell you about Black Friday. I had my own back in January, and I'm going to co-opt that phrase for my own self.

Maybe it was the parallel. We all have so much, yet there's always something more to want, something just out of our grasp, something we'd trample our best friend's grandmother to get. I am . . . blessed? Part of me absolutely hates that word. But I have an abundance of wonderfulness in my life. And yet. There's that little girl I can't ever have with me, something I want so desperately I'd trample EVERYONE'S grandmother to have back.

I am sitting on the couch, my big boy asleep upstairs, my newborn little guy asleep next to me. Currently, the newbie's down a sock. See? We all need something we don't have.

Beautiful Things

2010-11-25T21:46:00.000-05:00

2010 has been quite a ride. At the beginning of this year, I'd have been hard pressed to find things for which to be grateful. Certainly E and C and all our family, and our friends, and the roof over our heads and food in our bellies, and and and. All the things we remember at Thanksgiving, and always when we take time to be grateful for our lives.

But this year knocked all the charity right out of me. I had to cling tightly to those things, for fear they'd be yanked out from under me, too. And then the darndest things started happening. Through the lens of grief, I started finding all these wonderful new things for which to be grateful. Notes in the mail. New friends. Flowers.

I want to show you three material things I acquired this year that have really helped me through. The first is this beautiful necklace. It was sent to me by old friends from college--girls I'd lost contact with but had reconnected with through that demon FB. (Now, don't judge, but these girls who sent it were in my--dun dun DUUUUN--sorority in college. And our mascot was an angel. I think it's fitting.) I wore it all through O's pregnancy as my talisman, keeping us safe. I love it. It reminds me that there are people out there, in and out of my immediate life, who think good thoughts and direct them our way. It feels really good.

So then there's this worry stone. This summer I went out for a nice evening with one of my good friends. We were celebrating her birthday, and she handed me this stone. It's hers, but she lent it to me to hang onto during O's pregnancy. She wanted for us not just worries to be gone, but joy, too. And I'll tell you, it helped. I brought it with me to my sonograms, and just knowing it was with me helped keep me sane.

And finally this. The day after O was born, my best friend came to visit us in the hospital. She brought a gift for baby O, and and gift for me. This silver bracelet with birthstones for each of my babies . . . I am not sure I can express what it means to me. Because they are all my babies, even she who's not here.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not pulling sunshine out of a shitstorm. I can't find anything good about Calla's death. Not one thing. But what I can do is try to keep appreciating the good things that didn't die when she did. I can pull my had out from under the covers once in awhile and see the world going on, with or without me. And hold my breath and jump back in. These things help keep me going.

Settling In and Settling Down

2010-11-18T14:05:00.001-05:00

Baby O has been home for a week. I still am in disbelief that he's here, to stay. He is, right now, as mellow as a baby can be. Child can SLEEP, I tell you. E was never like that. He was a great baby, but he was always AWAKE. I've heard tell of these mythical, sleeping newborns, but I never thought I'd meet one in real life. Or have one living in my house. I'm waiting for a unicorn to prance through the backyard soon.

I still don't have the energy for a long post, despite the more-than-anticipated amount of rest I've been getting. I think Baby O is sleeping so much because I NEVER let him sleep while he was inside. He's making up for lost naps.

Would saying thank you make me seem like a shit? Because I don't think I could have made it through this year without so much love and support. I feel a little like I'm delivering my Oscar acceptance speech ("I'd like to thank my OBs, the nurses, and the entire receptionist team . . ."). I can't believe the outpouring of shoulders, ears, and arms I received over the past eleven months. Words of encouragement, ensuring I was, indeed, justified in feeling crazy, sad, hopeful, woeful, scared, and excited.

But that's not to say this living, breathing, pooping (POOPING oh my word) infant erases the memory of our dear little baby girl. Despite maybe some people thinking that might be so. It just doesn't work that way.

So a picture or two. Here are a few of my new favorites:

Like my stylish cuff?

E is far more interested in all his new trucks

Our newest pumpkin

First shot of the four of us

The big and the little

This last one is my favorite. We are happy.

I can still, though, see the little-girl-sized hole.

HE'S HERE!!!

2010-11-11T14:08:00.000-05:00

Hi y'all. I left things kind of frantically--sorry. Here's the upshot if you're in a hurry: Oliver Orion Scott is officially here, in our arms, breathing. We are completely gaga and are in transition, of course. Life is headed towards The Valley of Insane, coming out the the Land of Crazy.

I'm still a little bit in shock. I mean, good shock. But shock. What a year. And yep, it was 10 months EXACTLY since Calla died that Oliver was born. To the date.

I feel a little bit like I've gotten as close to newborn-instant-gratification as I could have gotten. In the lotto of life, I traded in my losing ticket and won a second chance jackpot. And right now Grief is holding Joy's hand as we walk together down our particular path. When Baby O finally came out, I cried for about 15 minutes straight as I held him. Joy, grief, happiness, sadness, disbelief and relief.

It was surreal--as soon as we walked onto the L+D wing, the EXACT SAME NURSE who greeted us when we went in for Calla was there, taking care of us. And then the next morning the EXACT SAME NURSE who delivered E was with us for Baby O's birth. That night, after he was born (more on that in a different post), three of the nurses who guided us through Calla's death and birth came in to see us. They were so happy for us, and it was a relief to see them, too. They were THERE. THEY knew it was real, they helped me to bring it into balance.

Because as I was pushing Baby O out, it was a complete difference from my labor with Calla. It was calm--I swear, you could hear a pin drop in that delivery room between contractions. I started to cry because I knew, until he came out, it wasn't for sure.

But then I heard him cry. And it was . . . I have not a word for that feeling. Because before, it was a nightmare. When it was silent AFTER she was born.

I am still in disbelief. Disbelief of this entire year. Two babies, bookending 2010. The yin and the yang and the horrible and the sublime. I have harbored and pushed out two completely different beings, one girl--dead--and one boy--very much alive. Both of whom I love with ferocity.

How is it we were planning on two children for our lives, and now we have had three, and only two are with us, and if the second were here, the third most certainly would not; how is it I want them all, don't have them all, but can still find some happiness? And yet still have such sadness within me, too?

Enough for now. Baby O let me sleep quite a bit in the hospital, but I have to get my life back on track here. The mail's not going to read itself, unfortunately.

Thank you so much for all your kind words and well wishes and good thoughts. Another step in the road, ensuring my life will never be the same. I'll be back soon, got lots more to talk about. And I do promise at least one picture, soon.

XO to you all.

It's GO TIME!

2010-11-08T16:21:00.000-05:00

It's a go. We're going in tonight to get this party started.

Whoa nelly.

Will post updates as I have em--oh. my. god.

!!!!!!

The Word of the Day . . .

2010-11-08T07:31:00.000-05:00

. . . is surfactant. Used in a sentence: "Please oh please, Universe, science, god, goddess, God, biology, Buddha, Cher--let there be enough surfactant in this baby's little lungs to get him out tomorrow."

Going in for the amniocentesis at 8:30. I wish it was this second. I am anxious, nervous, READY. Not to mention my crazy dreams all weekend, ramping up for today. Last night's involved getting the news that it was negative. The giant needle does not scare me--it's the possibility of more waiting, pacing, stressing. I am ready for normal newborn worries; I've had enough of the will-he-come-out-alive worries to last a lifetime.

I know the more Zen side of me, the side that agrees with the therapist, could tap into the "it is what it is" mantra that's been on a continuous loop in my brain for the past 10 months. But right now I'm kinda like, "fuck that shit. Get this kid out, alive, por favor."

Oh, and did I mention today is the 10 month ago day when we learned Calla died?

Will keep you updated throughout the day. Keeping fingers crossed for good news this afternoon; feel free to do the same :) Mille grazie.

Not That I'm Counting . . .

2010-11-02T19:33:00.000-04:00

. . . but we're in one-week mode. That is, assuming this amnio comes back positive. Assuming this little guy makes it that far. I am on the schedule for next Tuesday. I have the amnio on Monday. Let's hang in there til then, shall we? Definitely, if I'm following this marathon metaphor through, at mile 25.

I can barely breathe, barely exhale, barely believe it. Actually, I won't believe it until we get there. But oh my gods.

Thankfully our lives are a complete whirlwind until then. I am in full-on Christmas shopping mode. We are having our ENTIRE HEATING SYSTEM overhauled---the 95-year-old boiler is gone, no hot water for 24 hours starting tomorrow, three more days, we hope, of being exiled from home during the day. I have a fun date scheduled for tomorrow night with some of my girlfriends. A dr appt on Thursday. Library books due. Things to distract me.

Trying to stay positive, to keep the bile down while I sleep, and to not panic. Gotta get more books from the library . . . need some more distractions.

Day 30--A Dream For The Future

2010-10-30T15:56:00.000-04:00

If you're still reading at this point, thanks for coming along for the ride. October sure was eventful, eh? I'm personally still holding my breath, but I feel a little bit better having made it through the weekend--well, the lead-up and beginning of the weekend. I was dreading going past those days, and, in all honesty, they were really hard. I made it through the actual point where Calla died, then the night it would have been when we went to the hospital (day-wise/Friday), and now today, the day I would have delivered her, day-wise, or the day we had to say good bye.

Ugh. One step at a time.

So back to the dream, or Day 30. This dream, you realize, is premised on this little guy coming home with us, and staying, and being healthy and whole and ours.

Looking out a few years, I see C and I holding the boys' hands as we stroll down the streets of Paris; taking them to Les Tuileries, eating pain au chocolat, teaching them French, nodding a quiet "bonjour" to the passers-by. I expect to get a little misty eyed as we pass a boutique with frilly little dresses and assorted froufrou in its windows, and offer up a little hug and kiss to Calla.

Or exploring the Grand Canyon together, holding hands, teaching the boys about geology and the passage of time and the smallness that we all are.

Or swinging on hammocks together overlooking the beautiful Italian countryside, outside our little rented farmhouse. The yard is ample enough for the boys to run and chase, as C and I enjoy a little vino from the farmer down the road.

Or driving up to Canada, or Cape Cod, or Connecticut, or Maine. Or camping in the Adirondacks.

Living a happy and adventurous life, showing the boys some of the places C and I loved, finding new favorite spots together. But most importantly, just being together.

Before we had children, C and I had these visions of taking a family vacation, and then an adults-only vacation each year. The second one is not nearly as appealing anymore. What's the fun of having children if I can't explore the world through their eyes, too? (That's not to say I'd turn my nose up at a night away, or even maybe--down the road--a long C-and-me weekend.)

Anyway. I just want to recapture the happiness we once had so easily. I want to be a good mother, I want our children to be happy and curious and adventurous and, most importantly, kind and compassionate. I want to learn how to make our daughter a part of our lives, despite her missing presence. Once, I'd not have thought that was too much to ask. Dare to dream.

Day 29--Hopes, Dreams and Plans for the Next 365 Days

2010-10-29T13:41:00.000-04:00

First of all, I'm both impressed and annoyed with myself by this point in the 30 days game. I am proud of myself for having stuck it out; I sometimes have a tendency to start a project, only to leave it unfinished. But I also feel a little self-indulgent writing all these things about myself, too. But it's been a fun endeavor, and I've enjoyed reading everyone else's posts.

Now here is the depressing part. I don't really have any hopes, or dreams--and definitely no plans--for the next 365 days. My obvious hope would be to bring this little boy home alive. But I've learned the hard way that plans can go to shit in an instant. I don't know that I can handle hitching my wagon to a falling star again.

So, I guess my hopes and dreams are that my children and C and I stay alive for a year? And longer? That we have a healthy 365 days ahead of us? That our house stays standing? We have food and money enough to feed and clothe ourselves? I can maintain a somewhat reasonable grip on sanity and reality?

When your life hits rock bottom, there's little in the way of expectations to reach for. Waking up alive is enough. And I guess that's something right there. It's just not how I enjoy living my life. I'd love to dream of a vacation, getting myself back into shape, being happy, accomplishing some sort of personal goal. But I can't even formulate any of those things in my mind yet.

Sorry for being depressing, it's just kind of where I am right now. How's that for self-indulgent?

Day 28--What's In My Handbag

2010-10-28T10:10:00.000-04:00

I carry a huge Big Buddha purse. I wish I could carry something smaller, less cumbersome, but I need a huge bag into which I can throw just about everything. I really need a new bag, as I've been carrying it for about a year straight and it's looking a little shabby. I have a tough time choosing purses; what will I want for every single day? Sigh.

On a daily basis in my handbag you can find: my wallet, a garage door opener, a pack of gum, a package of baby wipes, a package of boogie wipes, a small packet of tissues, a pen, a notebook, several lip glosses, a mirror, my keys, a few chocolate Reisen caramels, a package of Annie's fruit snacks, my phone, a bottle of hand sanitizer.

Additionally, I usually have a book (for waiting rooms), a few snack cups and a sippy cup, receipts, possibly matchbox cars, sometimes an apple and a string cheese. Sometimes my huge water bottle.

That damn purse is simply cavernous. And while I love the size, I'm often digging around in the bottom of it for something I can't find. Shit just disappears in there when I need it most.

Right now the new Belle and Sebastian CD is in there, waiting to be listened to in the car.

Day 27--My Worst Habit, And Where We're At . . .

2010-10-27T12:39:00.001-04:00

Obsessing. I can obsess over anything. It's been amplified over the past 10 months, especially now being subsequently pregnant and being overly tuned in to every little burble and gurgle and wiggle and ache in my giant body.

If you don't believe that I've always been this way, ask C about the film container I thought I'd lost on our trip from SanFrancisco to Seattle. Shudder. Two days of that trip ruined, but my peanut brain couldn't focus on anything else. This was in the stone ages before we had a digital camera. That's all we need to know about that.

But usually I obsess over something I want, or can't figure out. Like, for instance, I see a cute pair of shoes I'd love to add to my collection. I'll spend HOURS online searching for the best price, cheapest shipping, my size, the right color, planning if they're worth the expense. I can't sleep for thinking of these shoes.

Now replace the shoes with the current resident in my uterus. In light of the fact that the last resident did not make it out alive. Welcome to my fun brain.

So where we're at is here: tomorrow will be the bookmark in my pregnancy where Calla died. Maybe it was tonight. I've always thought of it as 35 weeks and 3 days; imagine my surprise at my dr appt today when she said I was AT 35 weeks and 3 days today. So maybe it's four days. Whatever. My point is, I RATIONALLY know this is a different pregnancy, a different baby, a different set of circumstances. But EMOTIONALLY I'm right back there.

Here I am, some 10 months almost later, hyper-aware of this little one's every move. Was I not paying attention back then? Was there something I missed, a gradual slowdown? Now THIS is some real obsessing.

I had an NST today, and while they're usually reassuring, this one got me a little on the ropes. It was overall good, and steady, and he was moving a lot--which lead to the nervousness. Every few minutes, we'd lose his heartbeat. He was moving so much, moving away from the monitor. I'd glance over and see 59 BPM, 72 BPM. Clearly, MY heart rate. And try not to freak out. The doctor (the same one who delivered Calla, BTW) came in and stayed with me, kept moving the little pad around to stay with him. And she was satisfied. So I guess I was, too.

If only it wasn't, you know, RIGHT NOW. And if I am induced the day we hope, that same doctor will deliver this little guy. It doesn't make me nervous--she's awesome and level and very smart and compassionate--but she was worried that I'd be upset, not want her there. I guess that doesn't so much matter to me. It's not like it was her fault. I'd actually feel better giving her a do-over, I guess.

Fuck. Everything is so goddamn hard.

Maybe that's why another of the doctors, the one I had an appointment with today, gave me a hug and a kiss before she left the room.

Good thing I'm seeing the therapist tomorrow. Day 27--a day to indulge in bad habits.

Day 26--My Week

2010-10-26T13:04:00.000-04:00

So, each weekday is a variation on Day 25's post. C works M-F, and E and I hang home-side. We like to get our goings-on done before lunch and nap time.

We are lucky that both sets of grandparents (my parents and C's) live in town. I try really hard not to overuse them for babysitters--E has never stayed with anyone else, except my brother and sister-in-law, and my sister-in-law and brother-in-law. We are very lucky.

My point is that lately it's been a real boon having all this babysitting help. I have at least two doctor's appointments a week for myself (OB and therapist), and usually some random, better-if-kid-free shopping to do (i.e. choosing picture frames or greeting cards). Also, since I'm usually an exhausted whale by the end of the afternoon, it's nice to have people around to spell me if needed.

So, our activities, to be plugged in on any given day, usually include a trip to the zoo or science museum, a trip to the dry cleaners, a trip to Wegman's, music class (usually Fridays), and, twice this Fall, Cub Club at the Zoo. I was initially bummed out because we got shut out of most of the classes I'd tried to register . . . for . . . anyway. And then we attended our first class. Oy. All I can say is I'm sure I would have enjoyed it more if I wasn't a former K teacher. And thankfully, E is pretty well behaved and even-tempered. But then again, what do you expect for six bucks?

Thursday nights I have a standing date with some super cool friends--we watch Project Runway together, eat lots of tasty treats, and laugh our asses off.

Weekends are generally really nice. C gets up with E on Saturdays, so I can sleep in. Although, sleeping in for me is about 7:30 or 8--but it's still really nice. We've been going to the Farmer's Market a few blocks away nearly every Saturday since early Spring. We usually meet Mo and A and O (her kids) at the Market. C and I take E for a walk with the dog in tow. Unfortunately my walks have been abbreviated, as waddling through the streets isn't all that comfortable these days. C gets things done around the house--recently it's been painting, taping, raking, fixing concrete, getting our basement ready for the heating-system huge overhaul happening, oh, next week. When E takes his nap, I usually run to Target or on some other errand. The afternoons see more of the same from the morning. Lately C and I have been trying to fit in a date night--a necessary component of any marriage, I believe.

Sundays are church days--we head down to the UUCB. Sometimes I go alone, but when E and C accompany me, C takes E up to the kids' room after about 15 minutes. These days we come home to watch the Bills (blech), and then when E gets up, we head to my in-law's for pasta dinner. E gets to play with his cousins, T and D who are 9 and 7. They are so good with him, and he loves them so very much. "The gulls, " he calls them. We eat our pasta dinner with my sister- and brother-in law, my parents-in-law, usually C's grandmother, too. It's very cozy and filling and delicious. I like pasta dinner. Sets a nice tone for the week ahead.

I used to bake bread every Sunday; I think as the weather gets colder I'm going to fire up my oven once more.

So there you have it.

Day 25--My Day In Great Detail

2010-10-25T13:07:00.000-04:00

First, I am a stay-at-home parent. I consider myself incredibly lucky to be one. I didn't realize the transition from career wife to home wife would be even a little bit of a challenge, but amazingly it took some adjusting. In my previous life I was a Kindergarten teacher, but for a wide variety of reasons that career was deeply unsatisfying. For me. And when I became pregnant with E, C and I decided I'd stay home for at least a year. I was lucky enough to have a job in a district that would hold my position for two years. If, during that two year time, I had another baby, I'd get another year before I'd have to either go back or resign.

The extra year? Um, yeah. Didn't happen. And although I already knew I wasn't going back, it was a bigger shock than I'd thought sending in my letter of resignation. "Hey school district? You know how people are DYING to get a teaching job, and you're laying people off, and people are taking any jobs they can to bolster their resumes? Know how you're the top school district in the area? Yeah, well, you can shove it. Thanks." Or something like that.

Anyway, I'm now an official SAHM. So here's the typical day. C gets up with E on weekdays and Saturdays. Which, these days, can be anywhere from 5:30 to 6:30. They head downstairs, feed the pets, E has his yogurt--all while I'm catching a few extra minutes of sleep. I come down around 7:15, and C goes to get ready for work. Usually we watch a whole bunch of TV--E will have an apple, look at his magazines, watch a few shows, all while I have my coffee (that C made for me) and catch up online; checking email, blogs, FB, whatever.

After all that, we head upstairs so I can shower and get E dressed. He still sleeps in a crib, so while I'm in the shower he hangs in there with some books, trucks, magazines, his monkey--Pull (long story)--and his pacifiers (don't judge--they're just for in the crib). We get dressed, head downstairs, and start our real day. Usually this includes errands--today it was dry cleaners and the library--but some days it's the zoo, music class, the science museum, or a random trip somewhere. I prefer getting errands out of the way early, before the after-work-and-school crowd shows up. (Ever try going to the grocery store at 4PM? Horrors.)

We have lunch at around 11:45, then E goes up for a nap. He's--knock on wood--a really good napper, and he'll even tell me, "Mommy, I go up for a nap now." Bless his little heart. Any time in the crib usually involves books, trucks, or magazines (I swear, this kid LOVES looking through magazines/catalogues of toys, bedding, books--you name it). While he's asleep I get my only quiet time of the day--and to me this is sacred. I can nap, but usually I go online again, clean some things, usually vacuum somewhere, think about what to make for dinner, and, oh yeah, write (hence the name of this blog. Clever, no?).

When E gets up, we usually watch a little more TV, read some books, and, most recently, have lots of TRUCK TIME. This is what he calls it: "Hey Mom, let's have some TRUCK TIME!" So we play, hang out--we used to take the dog for a walk in the afternoon, before heaving myself down the sidewalk became too much of a chore. Poor Cosmo.

C gets home around 5-5:30, for which I am eternally grateful. I feel very lucky he's able to be home at such a reasonable hour, because by 5 I'm about at my limit. He takes E upstairs to change clothes and then I can make some dinner. We eat around 6-6:30. C takes E up for a bath, then when they come down E and I watch trucks on TV--YouTube on the BluRay player. E goes to bed around 7:45, where I read him some stories (recent favorites are Tom by Tomie De Paola, and Ten Red Apples by Pat Hutchins). The benefit of being a former teacher is the wicked library I accumulated --we have hundreds of great picture books, leaving out library gathering to the non-fiction variety.

So then I head downstairs, where C and I are so exhausted we watch TV, or "Dexter" on streaming Netflix, or now the Sabres games. Sometimes we read, sometimes we play games. I, invariably, am in bed by 10 PM.

Some of you reading this might think, "Holy crap, what a boring-ass day!" But I love it. Being a SAHM has given me the space I need to grieve--outside of people watching me, away from the tedium of a job I don't enjoy. I find my son to be funny, and a good conversationalist, and we have fun together. Is it monotonous sometimes? Sure. So we go to the playground or somewhere he can run around.

I hated the rigidity of my work schedule--thinking about working and having to make an important, personal phone call makes me break out in hives. Or, goodness, taking a day off? Scheduling a doctor's appointment? It's not as though I could leave my desk and catch up the next day. I'd always be more worried about what was happening in my classroom, how things were going down, wondering if I'd covered all my bases. I love the freedom I have now--that's just my personality. Do I like being busy? Yes, I do. I like having projects to work on and a to-do list, and I like being extremely organized. Only now it's for things that are truly important to me. And for this I a grateful.

False Alarm-Updated

2010-10-24T12:59:00.001-04:00

UPDATE BELOW--Nothing dramatic, don't worry.

We had a little, uh, incident this morning. I'm not going to get into the nitty gritty, but I thought this morning I'd sprung a leak. The upshot: I didn't, but SOMETHING was going on. We ended up heading to the hospital just in case.

Now, since I'm past 34 weeks we went to the hospital where I'll eventually deliver. Where E was delivered, and Calla too. This was our first visit since Calla's birth, and I was, um, freaking out? Kind of. I knew Petit Trois was OK, as I could feel him going crazy the whole way there. As soon as I was hooked up to the monitor his heart rate was good, he was moving and kicking and just having fun. I was even having some contractions; I couldn't help but wonder if this was the day.

Wouldn't that almost be nice? I've never gone into labor spontaneously . . . twice induced. And, if all goes according to plan, I won't ever. And I'm OK with that. But I was very unprepared this morning. We don't have the room ready. We don't have the car seat installed. I don't have anything organized or even remotely ready. And we had to hurriedly shuffle E off to my in-law's house. But, huh. If he'd come today, no more fretting over the amnio. No more stressing over his movements.

I'm cool, and he's absolutely perfect. The sonogram was fantastic--he was even practicing breathing. The last time we had a sonogram at the hospital, on that floor . . . I STILL have a tough time thinking about it. It was hard taking the elevator up to the L+D wing. There were lots of nurses in there on our way up; they were all, "ARE YOU IN LABOR?!" And I was like, "Uh, duh, I don't really know." But thank goodness PT was still wiggling, or I'dve freaked way out.

All in all we were there for about two hours. Am I a teence disappointed he didn't arrive today? Maybe. I'm still not putting that car seat in, not unpacking any clothes, not digging out my nursing bras. All that can wait. And so can I--what choice do I have? Hoping, hoping, hoping for the best.

ETA: Please don't read this as a selfish, I-want-to-be-done-being-pregnant-preemie-be-damned wish list. OF COURSE the health and long-term well-being of this little guy is tantamount. Along with his arriving alive. I should have written that it would have been nice for him to arrive COMPLETELY HEALTHY, not just early. Sorry for the confusion. I'd wait forever for a healthy, living baby.

Day 24--Where We Live

2010-10-24T12:49:00.000-04:00

I love our city. Many others do not. I love that it has some cosmopolitan areas mixed with residential neighborhoods. Our city is chock full of beautiful architecture; mansions line one of the main streets in the city, once referred to as Millionaire's Row. I'm an unofficial "Buffalo Ambassador;" I tend to geek out on Buffalo history and its beauty to strangers. I remember a few times being in elevators on vacation, telling total strangers to come visit.

I love our beautiful Olmsted parks, I love the parkways and Frank Lloyd Wrights and EB Greenes. I love that it's relatively cheap to live here, leaving extra funds to travel. I love that our house is within walking distance of nearly anything I'd need to do: shop at the Co-op, go to dinner or a coffee shop, buy books at my favorite book store, take a yoga class, shop for cute things. I love the seasons here--Fall being my favorite, but Winter's pretty great if you know how to make it work. Buffalo is home to brilliant, inspired dining--believe it or not, we don't eat chicken wings every day of the year! We are close to many farms and have access to gorgeous produce for most of the year. Eating local year-round is easier than one might think.

Buffalo is much maligned in the national media and by people across the country. We have our share of black eyes: the Bills being one of those (how's it feel to go to the SuperBowl 4 times and never win? Shitty.) (Oh, and a 0-5 start this year? ugh.). "Is it snowing there now?" "No, it's August." Friends live far away, as there's not a whole lot going on job-market wise. I could go on listing negatives, but why? I love it here--it's taken me awhile to fully embrace it. I grew up here. I've spent nearly my whole life here. Do I feel a bit provincial? Sometimes. Who cares? I'm happy. We have a great life, we eat well, we play well.

You should totally come visit!

Day 23--A Youtube Video That Makes Me Laugh

2010-10-23T08:43:00.000-04:00

Well, this one doesn't exactly make me laugh, per se, but it makes me really happy. I should preface this by telling you I don't visit the youz toobz too often for my own self. We're there a lot, but mostly for dumptruck, firetruck, monster truck, cement mixer, any-knd-of-truck-you-can-think-of videos for E. That's his before bedtime treat.

Here's my YouTube treat, hope you enjoy:

I defy you not to at least smile.

Day 22--A Website

2010-10-22T16:16:00.000-04:00

I can't point my finger directly at one specific website that helped me after Calla died. It was the whole. damn. internet. Seriously. Shortly after her death, I started spending HOURS online, looking for . . . what? Who knows. Something I couldn't hold in my hands, someone to understand, something to help everything make sense. But really nothing did.

Until I discovered the loss community blogosphere we have all found ourselves a part of. I found one blog, and then another, and then I was poaching links from others' blogrolls, jumping into people's lives, trying to find some answers. What the hell happened? You too? Holy shit, we're still alive to tell the tale? Wait, this happened to you more than a year--two years--three years ago? I couldn't get enough of the stories, the histories, the names, the babies.

And I'll admit, I'm a relative rookie to the blog world. I found myself commenting on blog posts without introducing myself, jumping right in as though I'd been there all along. I don't know from blog-iquette.

But then friends, and strangers, and anonymous people, and fellow loss mamas started commenting on MY blog. ME! Someone was actually reading, internalizing, listening. And knowing that made each day a little less lonely. It became helpful for me to type instead of talk. I could get it out of my head without actually having to speak.

So I guess a specific website that was helpful? This one, the one you're reading. Not trying to pat myself on the back or anything. Just trying to be grateful. Thanks for reading, even if it's not interesting. You can't imagine how much it has helped, and continues to help keep me afloat every day.

Day 21--A Recipe

2010-10-21T07:48:00.000-04:00

I really like cooking. I like to experiment. For my birthday, or maybe Mothers' Day, C and E got me The Flavor Bible, which was recommended to me by a chef at one of our favorite restaurants. It's basically all the most delicious taste combinations for any and every ingredient known to man. I have at least 50 cookbooks, a subscription to "Cook's Illustrated," and notebooks full of recipes I've collected over many years. I have church cookbooks collected from who knows where, and recipes bookmarked on my computer.

But I don't actually use many of those recipes. Baking almost always requires a recipe for me, as I view it more of a precise scientific process rather than "cooking." But for every night dinners I usually go with my instincts and think about what might taste good, and then go for it.

Fall really reinvigorates my cooking desire. Summer grilling loses its appeal early, leaving me wanting water and popsicles most of the time. By Winter I'm through with heavy food, and while holiday baking gets me jazzed, I'm over it by about December 28th. Spring's exciting, what with her asparagus and peas and broccoli; it's a promise that the abundance of garden goodness is on its way.

But oh, Fall. Soups, muffins, fresh bread, roasted goodness from the oven. I like the fruits of Fall: apples, squash, pumpkin, pears. So hearty and versatile. Soup really makes me feel like I'm a good person--eating it is relaxing, making it makes me feel resourceful and productive.

The other day, using what I'd zealously purchased from the farm, I made a batch of Butternut Squash soup. This is one of my favorites, in all its iterations. Last week I made a curried squash soup. This week, straight up, throwing in things that might work together.

3 or so cups of peeled, cubed butternut squash
2 shallots, minced
olive oil
apple cider vinegar
apple juice or cider
honey
salt and pepper
chicken or vegetable broth
butter

Heat the butter and olive oil in a heavy stockpot or Dutch oven. Add shallots, cook til translucent. Add vinegar and juice, then add squash, salt and pepper and honey (just a little). Cook a minute of two. Add broth to cover veggies, bring to a boil, then simmer, covered, for about half an hour. Take it off the heat, taste and readjust s and p, and use an immersion blender to make it smooth and unctuous (I love that word!). Serve with a pat of compound butter (chive butter would be delicious here) or a swizzle of maple syrup or a dollop of Greek yogurt. Or just straight up out of the pot. Whatevs--it's your soup.

It's a simple one, but so delicious and satisfying. Dang, I love soup.

Day 20--A hobby of mine, and how it changed

2010-10-20T16:51:00.001-04:00

Running. This is the only "hobby" into which I put any sort of real time. I do enjoy cooking, trying out new recipes and being an adventurous eater. But, well, I have a toddler. So, um, my experimentation in the kitchen is limited to finding food he'll actually eat. I'm not crafty, or artistic, or, well, hobby-tastic. I used to play the piano pretty well, I used to sing quite a bit. Shopping? Is that a hobby? If it is then I'm nearing pro-level (although, I've recently cut myself off, cold turkey).

So back to running. I ran in high school, quit, went to college, would periodically attempt to run again, was fat, quit, graduated from college, worked insane hours, joined a gym, made a new friend, ran with him, quit, got myself a real job--a career, one might say--and was asked to participate in the Corporate Challenge on my school's team.

Then I started running for real.

I actually ran the whole 3.5 mile race, and placed in the top two females for our school district. So, I signed up for some summer 5Ks, and, to my great amazement, started winning medals and trophies for placing in my age group. Like, pretty often. I started getting faster and training harder, and my times steadily got quicker.

This was about 10 years ago. I've made so many friends through running, and have logged about a billion miles alone and with these friends. I've learned there's little better way to get to know someone well than to spend an hour and a half huffing and puffing together. You find lots to talk about. I've run nearly every distance race, from 5K to the marathon. My favorite is the half marathon. My first half marathon was an eye-opener, but I learned how to pace myself to get faster and to actually race one, rather than just survive it. I haven't mastered that for the marathon yet.

Let's not kid ourselves. I'm not going to the Olympics, or setting any kind of records. But I do enjoy competing against myself, pushing to do better on races year after year. Sometimes it happens, sometimes not. My favorite time to run is the Fall, and my favorite races happen then, too.

When I found out I was pregnant with E, C and I went on a seven mile run together; it was Columbus Day, a Monday. I felt, well, different. And the whole time I kept saying, "Oh my god, I can't believe I'm pregnant!" I stopped running about four months in because my body just HURT. With Calla, though, I was coming off months of marathon training. I kept running, logging about 15 miles a week. I ran all the way to Thanksgiving--the Turkey Trot was my swan song. I was almost seven months pregnant, and that had been my goal. Also, immediately after Thanksgiving the weather turned to winter, so I decided I didn't want to risk slipping on the ice, even though I felt great still.

And then Calla died, and was born. I remember lying in the hospital bed, wishing I could run away. Run home. Run anywhere. After wondering how to survive, and how E was going to be, my first thought was, "When can I run again?"

I got the green light two weeks later, and it became my salvation. The only time I could escape my life, my head. I loaded up my iPod and just went. I started running with a new bunch of friends, every Saturday morning at 6:15AM. I figured, hell, I didn't have to be home to nurse a newborn, why not? And it really helped preserve what remained of my sanity.

That's not to say I enjoyed it. It was hard. My body was shot; my brain and heart were hurting. The few races I ran were slow and miserable. My bestie Mo helped me through and especially hard 5K--one run in memory of an infant who died from childhood cancer. And uh, I was pregnant and fighting wicked nausea the whole way.

Oh, right--remember how I got pregnant two months after Calla died? Yep.

So here we are. It's been over three years since I've been fit, or fast, or have run like my old self. But to be honest, the summer before I got pregnant with E, my running was losing emotion--I was running out of gas. Now that I've spent three years running while pregnant, running while nursing, running while grieving, running while overweight, I'm looking forward to getting back to the girl I was a short time ago.

I've learned a lot about my body and what's really important over these three years. It will be awhile before I'm fit, or fast, or race-ready or healed. But the time will come. And maybe I'll bring home another medal yet.

But. I'd gladly trade it all in for a healthy baby in a few weeks, for some peace, for a different outcome. Nothing can bring my little girl back, but I'm glad she was my running partner for many miles.

Day 19--A Talent of Mine

2010-10-19T13:47:00.000-04:00

Um, zero? I mean, I can do lots of things. Nothing that's going to win me any contests. I can sing, I can make up funny voices to go along with stories, I can string words together to form sentences and even paragraphs. But nothing that's going to make anyone--even me--think, "Whoa! Take that show on the road!"

But speaking of roads, I do have an uncanny ability to remember directions after being somewhere only once. Doesn't matter where I am--out in the country, another state, another country. I remember how to get where I need to be, even if it's months or years later.

Well, except for Venice. That place is nuts. I got so supremely lost there, alone, at night. But it was a cool kind of lost. I figured as long as I stayed on the island I'd get back to my hotel eventually.

That and I can remember nearly every word to every song I've ever heard. Mostly.

I'd not call these things talents, but odd personality quirks, or unnecessary life skills acquired by living too much in my own head.

The end.

Day 18--Our Wedding

2010-10-18T17:06:00.000-04:00

I recently unearthed the CD containing all the pictures from our wedding six years ago. All of them. Be afraid . . . there was much dancing. Lots of sweating. More on that later.

C and I met the day after I'd broken myself out of a seriously dysfunctional relationship. (Well, actually, we met that night.) Anyway. We met in a bar (ugh) but really, I was there with my bestie Mo, having dinener. I was lamenting that I'd never meet anyone, never get married, boo hoo boring hoo. So on my way to the ladies's room, C stops me, introduces himself and asks if I'd run in a race a few weeks earlier. I did, we chatted, he asked me to dinner. I told him about the breakup from a mere 12 hours before.

Now, this was only a few days before Thanksgiving, and I was planning to run the Turkey Trot before gorging myself on stuffing and pie. I told him if I saw him there, I'd give him my number.

Um, this race? Yeah, it's the oldest and longest-consecutively run race in the country. And it's huge. We're talking, that year, about 6000 runners. So, the chances of me running into him would have to be left to fate.

We met up, I gave him my number, and almost two years to the day later we got married.

The day of our wedding in late November was a weather-wise anomaly. It was warm, sunny, and NOT SNOWING. Unbelievable.

The service at our lovely Unitarian Universalist church was tailored by us; we each picked a secret poem for each other, and had someone deeply meaningful to each of us read it. Mine was by Rumi, C's was "She walks in beauty like the night . . . " Then we had a couple read a poem to everyone gathered, from The Spoon River Anthology. I walked down the aisle to "My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose," by Robert Burns, sung by our amazing choir. The ceremony was our favorite part of the day.

A close second was our reception. Holy shit were there a lot of people there. All our families, most of our friends--those who could attend--and LOTS of friends of our parents. As in, "Hey, you! Thanks for coming . . . (whisper to C: who the hell is that?)!"

I was, I think, quite a low-maintenence bride. (Bridezillas make me want to puke.) My priorities for our reception were not focused on flowers, or table arrangements, or place settings or colors or any of that shit. It was the food and the dancing. I wanted everyone to eat, drink, and be as merry as they wanted, for as long as they wanted. And oh, did we dance. And eat. C and I were exhausted by the end of the night, but were so happy that we, and everyone else, had a fun time. Exhibits A through . . . :

Um, did I mention my mother-in-law choreographed a dance for C and me, one which included a LIFT?! Yeah, I couldn't relax until that dance was over. But man, it was fun. I'm so glad I found these pictures. C and I take seriously the whole sickness-health-good times-bad vows. Good thing, because we've sure followed them to a T.

Day 17--A piece of art that moves me

2010-10-17T13:20:00.000-04:00

I'm in a bad mood today. Just putting that out there before I post.

A piece of art that moves me is a dance my sister-in-law choreographed for her and my mother-in-law's dance school recital this past spring. She taught it to her advanced lyrical class. It was a dance for Calla. It was stunning. And I have the dvd in my hands and can't for the life of me get it either on my computer or into this post.

So, blergh. That's what it is.

Also, I have always loved "Christina's World" by Andrew Wyeth. C thinks it is depressing. I find it hopeful, and inspiring, and it makes me want to stop feeling sorry for myself. And, when I was little and a reproduction hung in my grandmother's house, I always thought it was a picture of my mom. I obviously didn't know the piece's backstory then.

Hoping for a better mood tomorrow. Off to snarl and gnash my teeth in solitude. Rowf.

Day 16--A Song That Makes Me Cry, Or Nearly

2010-10-16T09:18:00.000-04:00

It was nice to sit with our little candle glowing away in the night. But it turns out, in my remembering, I'd forgotten lots of babies. Because I kept remembering more all through the night and this morning. Which made me increasingly sad, because there are just so MANY babies missing, families grieving. Names, memories popping to the surface of my mental Magic 8-Ball. And I'm sure as the days go on, I'll think of more.

It's totally not fair.

Day 16. Halfway through October. And choosing a song that makes me cry, or nearly, is pretty easy these days. Especially songs with well-crafted, intricate harmonies. Being the dutiful alto I am, I love to pick these apart as though looking for the caramel in the box of chocolates. (I am convinced the Beatles made me an alto.) I love to find the discordant note, the subtlest line of harmony and follow it to the end. There are so many: Fleet Foxes are geniuses here, but then again, so are the Beach Boys.

But if I had to choose one, I'mma have to go back to the summer after graduating from college.

So, back in the spring of 19blahbiddyblah, I was finishing college with no real direction. It was a tough time for me, as I felt like I'd aimlessly drifted through meaningless coursework for the prior four years. I had no career prospects, no direction. My friends were mostly in long term relationships, some even engaged. I knew in a few short months I'd be leaving all my friends. They were on their own paths and, since we all came from far-flung cities, it was inevitable we'd lose touch. Their lives would go on without me being in their daily narratives, and mine without them. I felt like their paths were much more promising, fulfilling and intriguing than mine.

And then I met this manchild. It was a whirlwind of drama, a relationship into which I put much more heart, energy and meaning than he did. But he made me feel like my life could have some direction, a direction I'd been looking for and wanted so desperately. He told me he loved me and I drank that Kool-aid right the hell down.

And of course, he lived in my college's state, and I was moving back home. Doomed, I know. Only I didn't know. I clung to this, now obviously, pseudo relationship as a way to hang on to a life I wasn't ready to leave. When if finally, fantastically crashed and burned, I was living this ridiculous life at home. I was working a million shifts waiting tables, trying to lose all the pizza and beer weight I'd accumulated in college. I was making new friends in my hometown, where I felt more lonely than ever. I didn't know how to be an adult at home. I had no idea what I was going to do for a career. It was an insane summer.

What does this have to do with Calla? Well, nothing really. Except if my life had turned out differently this maybe wouldn't have happened? But then I wouldn't have all the wonderful things I DO have, and that would be terrible. Oh, that and the song.

So that summer I was driving this car that would eventually run itself into the ground. A few years later, after landing my first grown up career-type job, I'd push that old girl onto a car lot and get about 48 cents as trade-in value. But during that summer I'd make the ultimate break-up balm, mix tapes. Incessantly. And the one song that would just rip the band-aid off again and again was "Carry On," by Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young. I'd sing this at the top of my lungs; scream it, really. I knew every single note of that song, every line of harmony, trying to make my own. When they bust into the first "CAAAAARRY OON, LOOOOVE IS COMING! LOOOVE IS COMING TO US AAAALL!!!"--ooh, chills every.single. time.

So, again, what does this have to do with Calla? The very first line:

"One morning, I woke up, and I knew you were gone."

Gawd. I did. I really, really did. And this song still rips the bandaid, every single time.

October 15th

2010-10-15T16:15:00.000-04:00

Please know if you're a DBM reading this, I'll be thinking of your little one tonight as we remember Calla, lighting a little candle and remembering. Probably crying, too, but remembering all the same.

There's so many, it makes my heart hurt.

Much love.

Day 15--What I Love About Our House

2010-10-15T14:13:00.000-04:00

We moved here a year and a half ago. I remember the day clearly when we found it. A cold, snowy January day, our first "official" trip around town to look for our new house. We'd been on and off looking for a year or so, just browsing. We'd put an offer in on another house about six months earlier; a test drive. So this day was my first day back training for the marathon I'd eventually run in May. Those 8 snowy miles that morning wore me out--I was out of practice and didn't hydrate enough after. Looking for houses seemed exhausting.

But we walked into this house and instantly fell in love. At least I did. It had everything we could have wanted: huge kitchen, big yard, nice sized dining room, a large living room, ample bedroom space, big basement and attic for all our ~~extra crap~~ storage needs. And, unlike nearly every other house in our price rage, there wasn't anything we absolutely had to do immediately. We wanted it so, so badly. And, sadly, it was priced juuuuuust outside our budget. Sigh.

And then we went to see a huge monstrosity of a house with a sauna on the third floor. Shudder.

Cut to the chase, we offered the top of what we were willing to pay, which was still lower than the asking price, but our agent sat down with the owner and explained how much we loved this house. We weren't playing games, we just really wanted this house.

And she sold it to us.

So. What do I love about this house? So many things. I love our bay windows overlooking the backyard, especially the one that perfectly frames our older-than-the-house maple tree's trunk. I love that I have more cabinet space than stuff. I love the skylight in the playroom. I love that we have room for our parlor grand piano. I love the built-in bookshelves.

I love that it felt like home as soon as we moved in.

I love that it is nearly across the street from the cemetery where Calla's stone is laid.

Day 14--A Non-Fiction Book

2010-10-14T13:23:00.000-04:00

I just started getting into non-fiction a few years ago. I can't remember the memoir that got me started, but I've grown to really enjoy reading true stories. Well. As true as a story can be, I guess. depends on who's doing the telling.

So anyway, I had a tough time choosing a favorite. Non-fiction is such a broad brushstroke. And so, yet again, I've picked two. The first is The Omnivore's Dilemma by Michael Pollan. I like his philosophy on food--eat close to the ground, local over imported, local over even organic, if it means organic is from thousands of miles away.

I read this book at a time in my life when I was in transition. I'd been a vegetarian for several years before I got married, and for a few years after. When we were getting ready for a trip to Italy I decided I couldn't go there and miss out on cingiale and prosciutto, or constantly explain in Italian that I didn't want meat in my food. So, I dropped the ball. But even though I'd incorporated meat back into my diet, I still wanted to be responsible about it. Let's face it: eating meat isn't exactly the environmentally responsible choice.

And this book helped me flesh out my own philosophy on responsible eating--while still maintaining my enjoyment for meals. Ergo our burgers aren't cheap, but I feel pretty OK about eating them.

The second is a book I recently finished titled Born To Run, by Christopher McDougall. This dude basically heads to Mexico to find a guy called Caballo Blanco--a legendary, off the radar runner who lives among the Tarahumara Indian tribe. This is in a seriously badlands part of Mexico where people routinely get lost--or rather, vanish--at the hands of drug cartels or the treacherous, labrynthine Copper Canyon.

Blah blah blah. This was a wicked awesome read, and made me feel some kind of faith in the strength of the human spirit. And it really made me want to go out running. Dudes, check it out. Check both of these out.

Day 13--A Fictional Book, Redux

2010-10-13T12:49:00.000-04:00

So way back on Day 4 I wrote about my excessive bookwormery and got into many of my favorites. But since Calla died, and my life has been, um, a complete unexpected whirlwind, I've been thinking quite a bit about one of my all time favorite books.

The Alchemist, by Paolo Cohelo. Damn, if this book doesn't teach about living in the moment, believing in what we already have, following your dream, and listening to the Universe. I haven't read it again, and it's been awhile since I read it the last time (of how many, I don't know). I think I'll pick it up again when the 3 (!) I'm reading now are done.

I'd highly recommend this book to anyone who is living any kind of life.

Day 12--Something I Am OCD About

2010-10-12T12:46:00.000-04:00

This would be a better exercise to find something I'm not OCD about. Not that I have been diagnosed with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. I don't quadruple check lights and locks, I wash my hands once per time at the sink, I don't perseverate or repeat phrases.

But I'm particular about many things. My CDs are organized alphabetically and chronologically within the artist's work. My shoes are arranged by color, occasion, heel height. My clothes all face the same way in the closet. Books are organized by author, topic, COUNTRY OF AUTHOR'S ORIGIN. Bills in wallet all face the same direction. You get the picture.

Basically, I like things to be in a certain order; I like to know where all things are at all times. This made my life just a teence difficult when E started playing with lots of different toys. "Where's the green matchbox dumptruck?" I'd search the house for some stupid little car--E didn't care where it was; I was the lunatic turning over cushions and peering under couches. And then I realized I needed to chill about that.

So what am I particularly obsessive about? Moreso than anything else? Waiting for, and feeling finally, this baby move. When I start to get anxious, I absolutely CANNOT concentrate on anything else. Hence the insomnia--waiting for a sleeping inside baby to wake up at 2am gets a little nerve-frazzling.

I figure this is one thing no one will roll their eyes at me for obsessing over. And if they do, they can eat a shit sandwich. (Burn!)

Day 11--A Recent Picture of Me and How it Makes Me Feel

2010-10-11T14:59:00.000-04:00

There's not too many pictures of just me laying around these days. Mostly our camera is filled with pictures of E--as it should be--and those pictures are mostly taken by me.

Gosh I remember the old days, bringing my camera out with me when we'd go out. Oh, I had bazillions of pictures of me then. Crazy, sweaty, dancy, boozy pictures. Pictures that now make me thankful we didn't have FB way back then.

(Although, when I first joined FB one of my bestest friends from college posted some delightful, fat-faced, post-kegstand pics of me she'd found and scanned in. Cringe.)

Anyway. As I was saying, pictures of me now are few and far between. Mostly I don't enjoy looking at pictures of me. I don't like what back-to-back pregnancies have done to my body, nor what having my life turned inside out has done to my face. But here we are.

One that comes to mind was actually taken right before (the day after?) I became pregnant with Calla. I was running the Cleveland Marathon, and this picture was taken at the halfway point. Then, I was feeling happy, confident, thinking the Boston Marathon was well within my reach.

Glad there's no picture of me from Mile 22.

And here's one from a few weeks ago:

Different physique, different emotions, same mindset: let's make it to the finish line.

Day 10--A Photo of Me from Over 10 Years Ago

2010-10-10T14:38:00.000-04:00

Sadly, there are no pics of me on my computer from over 10 years ago. I wasn't quite in the digital age back then, and right now all the old pics are buried in the basement. So scanning's a no-go, too. But I'll gladly paint a picture of my life from 10 years ago.

(Cue Conan O'Brien) In the year 2000 . . .

Oh jeez. I was a teence out of control. I was finishing up my Master's degree, waiting tables, teaching classes at a gym, teaching kindergarten . . . it was a little insane. And I still managed to find time to go out drinking til all hours of the night. I have many cringe-worthy memories from that time in my life. I was in transition from one unhealthy relationship to another. I was living on my own in my first grown-up apartment. I was nursing a broken heart left over from college. I was driving a car that threatened me daily with a breakdown or parking ticket--or both. I was living on student loans. I was neither woman nor girl, a female in flux.

I'd not go back to that time in my life for all the bee's honey, but I wouldn't trade it in, either. Thankfully I did it then, so hopefully I won't have to do it again.

And I had no idea my life would look like it does now, but boy am I happy I'm here.

Day 9--A Photo I Took (After Our Loss)

2010-10-09T08:23:00.000-04:00

This was my first kid-made mothers' day gift. C took E to a big-box home improvement store one Saturday and there was a kids' workshop going on. Planting flowers for Mom. E picked this purple one all by himself, potted it with some help, and was so happy to give it to me.

And later in the spring, we had our backyard redone. Concrete ripped out, beds put in, tons more grass laid down for playing. We'd ben planning this project since the previous Fall, but now I wanted to leave a space for a "girl garden." A little space where I could plant all the pink flowers I could round up. We planted an apple tree there, too, knowing the blossoms would be pink. I know it's cliche to have pink for girls, but it was to be all the pink we'd have.

Anyway, we got these wispy pink petunias and planted them all in the front of the garden. I decided to plant E's purple flower to me right in the middle. Kind of symbolically having both my babies out there together.

Unfortunately, there were a lot of factors against this garden. A blazingly hot summer, my black thumb, a crazy dog who thought nothing of tearing through the garden during a game of fetch. Those petunias didn't stand a chance, and it made me feel even more like a jackass. But, amazingly, E's little purple flower lasted the longest.

Day 8--A Picture That Makes Me Sad

2010-10-08T12:34:00.000-04:00

But first, an update. I was so freaking PISSED yesterday at my cat that I totally blew past my 100th post. Oh well, big whoop. I didn't have anything exciting planned, but still. The finger is sore, the arm that received the tetanus shot is sore, and the arm that received the IV of antibiotic is sore, too. But only 9.5 more days of antibiotics and this whole incident will be behind us!

Ugh.

Anyway. I have quite a few pictures that make me sad. More than I think any of us really deserve. And you know what kind of pictures I mean. After coming home from the hospital, after delivering Calla, I was in a weird, parallel universe. I'd just delivered our baby, and I had pictures, so, maybe I should share them? But wait, no, that's not right. The baby in the pictures is dead, and everyone else, who would normally be beaming and laughing and cuddling--they're all sobbing. So, hm. Maybe I should keep these to myself.

I did show a few people. I didn't know how to do it. "Do you want to see the pictures?" I'd ask. And then I felt weird--like that scene in "Stand By Me" where they go see the dead body. No one really wants to see it, but no one doesn't, either.

At least that was how I felt.

So I have another picture that, to me, is equally sad. It was taken by who knows who the day I came home from the hospital. The first picture with a little-girl-sized hole in it. The first day of the rest of our lives, I guess. Fake smiles, exhausted, puffy faces, wishing to be anywhere but where we were, even though we were in our favorite place.

Seriously?!

2010-10-07T16:34:00.000-04:00

OK, I am for reals pissed right now. Remember yesterday's post, when I was all, "ooh, my pets are my FAVORITE?!" Fuck that shit.

I mean.
I love my pets.
I do.

We have this one cat, she's a total bitch. I do not exaggerate or say that out of meanness. She is a jerk. Initially. Until you get on her good side. We got her off the street as a stray when C and I started dating. She hated me and loved C. Eventually she's learned to tolerate me.

My mother in law? Not so much. No one can quite figure out exactly what she has against her, but any time my mother in law comes over this cat freaks the hell out. And my mother in law is awesome! And a cat person!

So she came over today so I could run some errands E-free, and of course this cat starts in with her shit-ass attitude. She swiped at E as she nastily perched on the train table, so I picked her up to put her downstairs.

And then she bit the EVERLOVING SHIT out of my left index finger.

That's not to say my entire left hand and part of my arm aren't scratched up. But she really clamped down on my knuckle. (Damn, that hurt. I cannot overstate this fact.) But I cleaned it, put on a bandaid and went on my way.

Cut to this afternoon and I can't bend my left index finger, it's puffy and red, and hurts like a mofo.

I called my OB, they said since she's a housecat it should be fine, just keep the punctures clean. But then I called my GP and I have to go in and may have to have an ANTIBIOTIC.

As though I have nothing else to worry about right now. Totally not stressful, this is.

As I shake my head, because what else can I do, I wonder, WHAT THE FUCK?

Day 7--A Photo That Makes Me Happy

2010-10-07T14:59:00.000-04:00

Happy 30th Birthday to me!

I really thought about this one. Since we entered the digital age late, we have no pictures from the first few years of our marriage on the computer. Or anywhere except for boxes and photo albums. And really, I'm no scanning whiz, so there they will stay.

Anyway, I chose two photos for today's post. The first one is obviously me next a ginormous cake. C really outdid himself for my 30th birthday a few years back. he had a huge surprise party for me at this cool shop on Elmwood, called Delish. It's a bakery and a cooking school. He rented out the part where classes are held, and my best friend, Mo, tricked me into thinking we were going there for class. When we showed up, all my friends and family were there. It was a pretty awesome night.

I think my adult life truly started at 30. I looked critically at what I was doing, where I was going, what I wanted. I kicked old, stupid habits to the curb for good (goodbye, binge drinking!) and started to focus on important things. My birthday is in February, and by this point C and I had been married for 2 and a half years. We had travelled quite a bit independently and together, remodeled our cute North Buffalo home to a comfortable point, enjoyed going out to dinner, had both completed marathons and half marathons and numerous other races. But we still weren't at the point where we were sure we wanted to have kids. We did, however, already have our dog and 2 cats.

By May I knew it was baby time---it suddenly clicked.

But we had another trip planned--this time to Paris that summer. It was my 30th birthday present, in a way, and we decided we'd start the baby-making process when we got back (TMI, I know. But hang in there). And just a few months later, WHA-BAM, I was pregnant with E.

That Paris trip was one of my favorites. It was riddled with disaster, mind you. It took us 2 days and an overnight in both JFK and Reykjavic airports to get there. We got supremely lost while sleep deprived hours after settling into our apartment. C ended the trip with debilitating food poisoning, during which I may or may not have taken advantage of his incapacitation to shop solo for an entire day. (He needed an IV when we returned, as he'd tried to dehydrate himself for the trip home. It was ugly.)

But despite all those hurdles, we really had fun. We ate like crazy, drank lots of wine, walked, shopped, spoke French exclusively (me, not so much C). Every day started with pain au chocolat and a noisette for me, croissant and cafe for C. Oh, it was decadent.

A sort of adieu to our unattached, child-free existence. It was a fantastic send-off.

The picture below is of me, obvs, at a wonderful cafe in the Marais, right around the corner from the Picasso Museum. I'd been shopping while C was resting. He surprised me with flowers when we met up, and we proceeded to have an amazing lunch, ending with chocolate crepes. The likes of which I'd never before tasted, and have never since. Magic. Afterwards, as we made our way back to our apartment, we shopped for C, and I learned the word for cufflinks: boutons de manchette.

We got a kick and a cough out of the dude next to us. And we thought about all the times we must have been inadvertently featured in random people's vacation pictures. Makes the world seem a little smaller, and again, magical.

Ah, 30. You were a good year.

Dude, your cigarette. Blech.

Stress. Tests.

2010-10-06T14:33:00.000-04:00

So I had the first NST today. Last week at my appointment my doc suggested I start coming in every week and get an NST at each appointment. Sign me up!

Non-Stress tests. So ironically named. But you know what? I'd sit in that quiet, dark room for the next 5 weeks, listening to his heartbeat and clicking off every movement in a hot second. Somehow, this stressful procedure calmed me. Because even when he wasn't moving, I knew he was alive. The whooshing of his heartbeat washed my anxiety away, if only for those 30 or so minutes.

And, it was nice and warm and dim, so I nearly fell asleep.

The receptionist keeps asking me if I want to make all my appointments for the rest of my visits. I put her off every time. I still can't bank on it. She asked today if I'll still be pregnant the week after next. I told her I hoped so.

And then there's the amnio and induction in the main tent of my life's circus. We sort of firmed up a date, and I refuse to entertain the possibility that the results with some back negative. Meaning we would have to wait another 2 weeks. Meaning my grip on sanity would come unglued. Can't happen.

But until then, I'm going to keep on keepin on. As best I can.

Day 6--20 Things

2010-10-06T14:06:00.000-04:00

So today's thought is to list 20 of my favorite things. Let's see. In random order:

1. New books
2. Gelato
3. Checking on E right before I go to bed, when he's asleep
4. Getting (good) mail and packages
5. High heeled shoes
6. Running
7. C's wedding ring on his hand
8. Seeing my friends
9. Going to bed and staying asleep
10. My pets, especially when they are well behaved :)
11. Baking bread
12. Hosting parties
13. Doing the laundry (really!)
14. Purging my closet/changing the clothes for the season
15. Watching E dance and sing
16. Feeling this baby kick after worrying that he won't
17. Travelling
18. Chocolate chip cookies
19. The first red leaves of Fall, and the first green shoots of Spring
20. Date nights with C

Day 5--A Favorite Quote

2010-10-05T13:38:00.000-04:00

In high school we used to keep notebooks full of quotes. Lots of Indigo Girls and Tori Amos lyrics were in there, I'm sure. Our yearbooks overflowed with these phrases, interspersed with silliness of our own uttering.

Lately I've paid not a whole lot of attention to quotes. I read them, internalize them, and immediately forget who said what to whom and where and for why.

What I have heard, a billion times over since Calla died, is platitudes. Do these count as quotes? Clearly SOMEONE was the first to say, "Everything happens for a reason," or "It will get better."

I remember sitting in my hospital bed, waiting to deliver our dead daughter. So many times I wanted to scream "WHY ME?!?!?" But I couldn't. It just didn't make sense. Because to me, WHY ME? implies WHY ME AND NOT SOMEONE ELSE? And really, who would wish this grief, pain, sadness, emptiness on anyone?

Words that stick to me are usually the most simple of phrases. Maybe it's because I can't remember an entire sentence, or maybe that's all I can handle in my brain.

"Just Do It."
"It Is What It Is."

These two phrases have played over and over in my head on steady rotation for months now. JDI is how I have to live my life. I have no choice. One foot in front of the other, on and on, slow and steady. But I have to just do it. I don't have to like it. And IIWII is the answer to all my WHY'S? It just is. There doesn't have to be a reason other than it is what it is and was what it was.

Not exactly inspiring, but right now they are my words to live by.

Day 4--A Favorite Book

2010-10-05T13:22:00.000-04:00

Like so many other DBMs out there, the book that really pulled me through the fire was Elizabeth McCracken's An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination. I remember tearing this book out of the paper wrapper from the mail, sitting on the kitchen floor, and reading nearly all of it in about two hours. I couldn't get enough.

It was only weeks after Calla died, and I felt like this woman, this stranger, was writing my exact life. (Well, except we weren't living in France. And we're not writers. And lots of other little things.) Anyway, this book was like a life raft, thrown out to drowning me. I'm not trying to be overly dramatic here, but I felt like reading this book helped save my life. At least, my emotional well-being. After I finished it I immediately read it again. I wish I could show Ms. McCracken my gratitude for so eloquently, perfectly, painfully committing to writing my exact emotions.

I really have always been a bookworm. From my childhood straight through adulthood I have found solace in books. These days I usually have 2 going at once, sometimes 3. What I read varies, but I've started to enjoy non-ficton more in the past few years. I tend to read everything by one author in a row--right now I'm on a Richard Russo kick. For awhile post-college it was John Irving. In high school my go-to author was Tom Robbins. Jitterbug Perfume is one of my all-time favorite books. I spent a few years catching up on literature I either skipped over or just plain didn't read in high school or college: lots of Dumas, Hugo, Dostoyevsky, Balzac. I've always loved deeply Toni Morrison and James Baldwin.

I am not someone who HAS to finish a book I start. I've been known to throw a book across a room and turn my back on it forever (hello, Life Touches Life!). Bill Bryson is one of the few authors who has made me laugh so hard, out loud, to the point of convulsive tears, that C has woken from a dead sleep wondering what the hell I was doing. Some books make me wish I could go back in time and read them for the first time all over again--Les Miserables and The Book Thief come to mind immediately.

Clearly, I could go on and on and on. There's a lifetime of books both behind and ahead of me. How delicious is that thought?

Sometimes it's just easier to escape into a book than it is to deal with real life.

Day Three--Must See TV

2010-10-04T08:29:00.000-04:00

For years I'd been a LOSTie. C and I got hooked on it in Season 2 and never looked back. We were such LOST nerds we watched Season 1 on Netflix in anticipation of the final season this past spring, looking for clues, trying to find parallels. Every day after the previous night's episode I'd go online and read recaps, trying to piece together the puzzle.

Last fall and winter as the commercials started airing for the final season, I realized the first episode was dangerously near my due date. "Oh no!" I'd lament, "I CAN'T be in labor for the first episode!" To paint a little picture, we would not make plans on LOST nights. We'd CANCEL plans for LOST nights. We were mainlining LOST and had no interest in rehab.

Cut to January 8th, when we realized Calla was dead. It was little solace knowing I'd have plenty of free time to catch any episode I may want to watch. But still we did.

LOST's premiere was a pinpoint on the endless horizon, something that gave me direction as I put one foot in front of the other on my aimless, rambling path, stumbling through the shallows. It sounds silly that a television show gave me focus, but I clung to just about anything in those drifting days.

It would be overly dramatic to link my state of emotion to this show, but LOST indeed I was, and was desperate to be found, to be understood, to be told everything would be OK.

So each episode was a stepping stone--I leapt from episode to episode, week to week. Something to look forward to. C and I would discuss what we thought was going to happen, how it all came together, how it would end. It was a welcome distraction and escape from our grief.

And then I joined a group of friends every Thursday for Project Runway. These guys have all been friends for a LOOOOOONG time, and I knew a few of them individually from various places in my life. S and E, who live two blocks from us, invited me to join their Thursday night FASHIONS! parties, and, once again, they became pinpoints on the dark horizon. Somewhere, like watching LOST, I could step out of the immediacy of my life and just escape.

And then Thursday night FASHIONS! became stepping stones, making the leaps shorter, more manageable. It was less about PR for me--although we loves some fashions!---and more about laughing, eating, making new friends who knew about our loss and weren't weird about it. Supported me without the awkwardness.

In those early days and weeks after Calla's death, I immersed myself in music, television, books, the internet and online shopping. Watching television might be a guilty pleasure, but those two nights a week really helped me feel human again. Sometimes a step out of life helps put that life back into focus.

Day Two--A Non-Favorite Movie

2010-10-03T13:35:00.000-04:00

As I mentioned in my Day One post, I think there are music people and everyone else. I also feel this way about movie people. I am not particularly a movie person. In high school some of my best friends went to the movies all. the. time. I'd go occasionally, but these two were buffs. I never really had the attention span to sit comfortably through and entire mov--hey, are those new shoes you have on?!

See what I mean? I just can't sit still for that long. I do enjoy, on occasion, watching movies at home. In fact, some of my favorites are better suited for sitting on the couch--Dirty Dancing, for example. I know, har har har, so corny. I had some good times as a kid re-enacting this movie in my living room, and I will forever love it. In college my roommates and I made up some fun drinking games to play along while watching "Billy Madison." So my tastes skew towards the easy and stupid. Brain candy, if you will.

C and I optimistically joined Netflix when we were first married. We'd put movies in our queue that we thought we should watch. They'd arrive in the mail, and we'd never really get around to watching them. We've since learned our lesson, and we tailor our choices to things we'd actually want to watch. For example, we've been catching up on old episodes of "Dexter" and, just the other night, enjoyed "Hot Tub Time Machine."

Such philistines, we are.

A few weeks after Calla died, we decided to stay awake past 8pm and ordered "The Hangover" on Demand. Um, terrible choice. I was so disturbed by the irresponsible handling of that freaking baby that we nearly had to turn it off. Even now, thinking about those scenes, makes me wince. Everyone we knew absolutely RAVED about how funny they thought this movie was, and it made me feel even worse knowing how far I'd drifted from mainstream society.

Lately C has been making fun of me for choosing movies without a climax. For example, "Away We Go." Come on, nothing REALLY happens in that movie. But I think that's what I need now, in a way. Dealing with so much drama in my real life, coming down (up?) from such a climax (nadir?) I need a little stability. Movies on methadone.

I leave you with this clip:

A philistine, indeed.

Day One--A Favorite Song

2010-10-03T09:23:00.000-04:00

All right, so A favorite song should grammatically read MY favorite song, as favorite implies one, the ultimate, the top, the best. But for someone who lives and breathes through music, choosing one song out of the billions is impossible. So today I'm talking about one of many, one that just crushed me in the aftermath of my life falling apart.

I think there are two types of people in the world: music people and everyone else. My husband falls into the second camp. When we met he owned about 1 CD. He listened to talk radio in the car--and NOT EVEN NPR. I'd talk about legendary concerts from my past, about singing with my friends to mix tapes in the car, and dancing around the living room as a child to Christopher Cross (ha!) and Neil Young and Michael Jackson and the Beatles--nothin'. The irony of all this is his mother OWNS A DANCE STUDIO, and he literally grew up listening to music.

I knew I had a huge task on my hands. Summers of my youth were spent on the porch, reading and listening through headphones to The Smiths, 3rd Bass and a Tribe Called Quest (we're talking "People's Instinctive Paths . . ." back then). Many afternoons and evening of high school I spent locked in my bedroom playing Dire Strait's "Romeo and Juliet" over and over and OVER again, with some Elvis Costello and Cypress Hill and De La Soul thrown in for good measure. College inevitably brought out the Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction in me. (Oh, and also Phish. Good god, so much Phish.)

I have a whole library of music I have to ramp myself up to listen to--the summer of Van Morrison, the Grateful Dead and Guru. The memories are visceral. The first CD's I owned were LL Cool J and Jesus Jones and EMF--what would I have done without Columbia House and BMG?! I hear songs from the early 1990's and can remember the CLOTHES I WAS WEARING the first time I heard them.

So to say my husband and I have a completely different world view on music is an understatement. He likes music, even enjoys it--don't misunderstand. It's just not a central part of his world as it is mine. When we got married I remember asking him, "How EXCITED are you that I come with ALL THESE CD'S?!?!" Blank stare.

So for his birthday a few years ago I made him a collection. About 10 CDs I titled "The Essentials." Alphabetically ordered from Alice in Chains to Yes, and quite literally everything else in between. he listens to them in rotation, and as I discover new favorites, I try to keep him updated.

These days for me it's a steady rotation of Belle and Sebastian, Fleet Foxes, Blitzen Trapper, my all-time perennial favorite R.E.M., Q Tip and Ben Folds, among others. This is where I am right now. I tend to gorge myself on certain bands, genres, albums, and then they have to hide for awhile. For example I'd probably run out of the room if you put on Great Big Sea at the moment, despite my deep rooted love for them. I've been like this my whole life, and it works for me.

So back to my original thought, a favorite song. In the aftermath of Calla's death, I loaded up my iPod with loads of new music. I tried to forge a new identity through music, and if blasted loud enough into my brain, maybe I'd become her. And, while I'm still me, despite all the cracks and fissures, I've found some new favorites. The playlists don't really contain a theme--there's Alphaville, Lady Gaga, Peter Bjorn and John, Bon Iver, Krishna Das and Leo Kottke.

But the one song that stopped me cold was Kate Bush's "This Woman's Work." I love Maxwell's version too, but the vocals on Kate Bush's rendition are enough to bring me to my knees. I remember one afternoon, out for a run, when this came through the earbuds. And suddenly I was running and huffing and puffing and crying. This woman's work, indeed. This grieving is work, it is hard work. And although this song isn't necessarily about my particular loss or situation, it feels right. My new theme song.

"I know you have a lotta life left,
I know you have a little strength left."

I sure hope so.

30 Days of a Welcome Distraction

2010-10-03T08:49:00.001-04:00

I just learned that October is Pregnancy Loss and Awareness month--right along with Breast Cancer Awareness month. For some reason that struck me as significant, these two issues so important to women remembered and fought together. Not that a pregnancy loss or breast cancer doesn't affect the men in our lives too--it's just that we are the front lines, the foot soldiers in these particular battles.

So anyway, one of my favorite blogs to read is written by Angie at Still Life With Circles. Girlfriend is seriously talented, and her posts are a pleasure and inspiration to read. Yesterday she wrote about the 30 Posts in 30 Days challenge to bring focus to Pregnancy Loss and Awareness month, and provided a list of jumping-off points. She tailored these ideas to fit with her grief, and I thought I'd like to do the same.

Here's the list:

Day 1 - your favorite song

Day 2 - your favorite movie

Day 3 - your favorite television program

Day 4 - your favorite book

Day 5 - your favorite quote

Day 6 - 20 of your favorite things

Day 7 - a photo that makes you happy

Day 8 - a photo that makes you angry/sad

Day 9 - a photo you took

Day 10 - a photo taken over 10 years ago of you

Day 11 - a photo of you recently

Day 12 - something you are OCD about

Day 13 - a fictional book

Day 14 - a non-fictional book

Day 15 - your dream house

Day 16 - a song that makes you cry (or nearly)

Day 17 - an art piece (drawing, sculpture, painting, etc)

Day 18 - my wedding/future wedding/past wedding

Day 19 - a talent of yours

Day 20 - a hobby of yours

Day 21 - a recipe

Day 22 - a website

Day 23 - a youtube video

Day 24 - where you live

Day 25 - your day, in great detail

Day 26 - your week, in great detail

Day 27 - your worst habit

Day 28 - what's in your handbag/purse

Day 29 - hopes, dreams, and plans for the next 365 days

Day 30 - a dream for the future

As you can tell I'm a little behind--today's the 3rd and I haven't even gotten to the first one. But I'll play a little catch up and work it as best I can. If you'd like to play along I'd love to read all about yours, too. Let me know so I can check you out. I'm going to write about how each of these topics has fit into my life, if only to illuminate how one's life is completely, totally, utterly affected by babyloss. Like, there's no escape.

Things That Go Bump in My Head

2010-09-29T14:03:00.000-04:00

I am afraid of October.

Not always, not every year. Just this year.

I am not afraid of witches.
I am not afraid of haunted houses.
I am not afraid of the dark.
I am not afraid of spiders (although I don't really prefer them, either).
I am not afraid of ghosts.

I am, this year, afraid of Halloween. Because Halloween is only days, less than a week before the doctors talk about amnio.centesis, of induction.

I am afraid he won't make it until then.
I am afraid of 35 weeks and 3 days.
I am afraid of 35 weeks and 4 days.
I am afraid of living the rest of my life like this.
I am afraid of living the rest of my life without my baby.
I am afraid of living the rest of my life without two babies.

A life ruled by fear is shit, let me tell you. Despite all the other good things that happen, that I have, the pervasive, underlying fear is like an anchor, drowning me.

My quiet joy it sitting alone, feeling this baby move. I could do it for days, weeks without end. As long as it doesn't end.

I am afraid of feeling that feeling again; the quiet stillness inside my body.
I am afraid he'll stop kicking.

I'm afraid of saying anything out loud.
I'm afraid my worst fears will come true.

Head, Meet Wall

2010-09-26T12:45:00.000-04:00

This is why I dread social situations, where the crowd is out of my control.

I love our church. We are members of the Unitarian Universalist church in our city, and I absolutely feel welcome and loved there. For a long time I was a member of the choir, until my life took a turn for the insane. But we still attend, sporadically, and we're trying to teach E how to sit quietly . . . which, as you can imagine, is a challenge. Anyway.

C and I were married in that church. E was dedicated there, and we had Calla's memorial service there. Our pastor is about the kindest person on earth, and was there in the hospital to name, dedicate and bless Calla before we had to say goodbye.

But still, you never know who's going to say what to completely shit on your cereal. As we waited for the service to begin today, an old friend came up to me to say hello. She was surprised by my giant belly, and I said, "Yeah, uh, about six more weeks of holding my breath."

To which she replied, "Well, everything happens for a reason. You're young enough to have all the children you want."

I'd rather she'd smiled and punched me as hard as she could in the face.

I just would like to know how to take these things politely--I mean, REALLY?! What kind of person do I need to be to hear that my child, my daughter, died for "a reason," and that I'm still "young enough" to--what? make my child come back from the dead? I WANTED my daughter--so I guess being young won't solve that one. There is no good "reason"why she died--it's not the same as, oh, not getting a job I wanted, or not winning a prize, or anything else I may have wanted but didn't get. I DO NOT HAVE THE EMOTIONAL WHEREWITHAL to go through another pregnancy--I barely have my shit together going through this one--so being young really, I guess, is a slap in the face.

Ooh, ooh, think of all the babies I COULD have, if only it wasn't such a goddamn MINDFUCK to gestate!!!

Muh.
ther.
fuck.
ing.
GLLLLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

So I'm left to sit and be mad and cry silently. AND SHE WAS TRYING TO BE NICE.

Can we send this out as a public service message? DO NOT TELL SOMEONE WHOSE BABY HAS DIED THAT IT WAS FOR A REASON. OR ANY OTHER SUCH JACKASSERY.

Oh, and tra la la la la, this baby I'm carrying does not erase my dead daughter. So get that shit right out of your head, folks. (No, not you. I know you get it. The rest of everyone else. Them.)

Thanks for listening, I feel ~~much~~ a little bit better. I'm ~~only a little bit~~ not even mad at this person, it just caught me off guard, at the wrong place at the wrong time.

Sigh.

Picture This

2010-09-23T19:20:00.000-04:00

Photo: K. Schneider, 2008

This was me. This was me over 2 years ago, pregnant and anxiously awaiting E's arrival. That pregnancy I did a ton of yoga, read all the books, got prenatal pictures taken, never really thought anything terrible would ever happen to us. I have plenty of pictures of my expanding belly, like this one:

As my due date approached, came, and went, I got bigger, more anxious, and more ready for E to be born.

Then, almost a year later, I became pregnant with Calla. And as that pregnancy continued, we never really took any pictures of my belly. I don't know, it kind of slipped away from us. As I got bigger the weather got colder, and well, I just don't know why we didn't take any pics. Until the night before she died. We had our prenatal photos done as almost an afterthought, a quickly scheduled session. The next day we found out Calla was dead.

I feel like a heel.

Did I subconsciously know something was wrong? Why didn't I celebrate that pregnancy as I did the first? Who knows. All I really have as proof that Calla was here are random photos with me in the background, side shots, belly as an afterthought. I can chalk it up to being exhausted, to chasing a toddler around and not remembering to capture the little moments. But I was a real pain during that pregnancy, and what I remember most is not happy anticipation, but irritation. I was uncomfortable, my clothes were ill-fitting, I was tired, I was grumpy, I was nauseated, I was unsure how I was going to manage two under two.

And then it all ended, out of the blue.

And we still haven't ordered any of the prenatal pics from that night. Right now it's the only message in my inbox--I keep things pretty tight in there. Dated January 21, 2010, a link to the photos. Only a handful of times have I looked at the link, through the photos. We are going to order some, I swear. It's just, well, it's just hard. The last time I remember smiling without a backdrop of sadness.

This time, I've not really taken any pictures yet, either. I don't want to jinx anything. We're NOT doing the photo session/studio picture thing. I just can't bring myself to do it again. A friend may take some shots of me, and of us, and I guess it should happen soon. It makes me nervous.

This past summer, this hot, ridiculously humid, miserable summer, I actually put on my bathing suit and WENT SWIMMING. It's gotta be pretty darn hot for me to actually go in a pool, but I did it. Two piecer and all. And I never once got a picture of me in that swimsuit. Huh. It would have been the easiest way, I guess. But once again, it got away from us.

Here's the closest thing I have:

And speaking of pictures, here's another confession: I still haven't done anything to bring the pictures of Calla home. They're on my hard drive, uploaded to a web album somewhere. I keep meaning to make them into a book. And I will. I really should, before this new baby arrives (however he makes his way into the world, Universe willing fingers crossed). Only a select few have seen the pics, and it's really difficult to look at them. I couldn't even force myself to smile in any of them. The look on everyone's faces is sheer misery, sadness, despair.

Here's one:

A thousand words? Try a billion tears.

To Not Cry

2010-09-20T14:03:00.000-04:00

I have to relearn how not to cry. Growing up I was a sensitive child, and seemingly cried at the drop of a hat. Once, a family member commented on my Easter dress, which was sleeveless, that he thought my shoulders looked nice. I cried for at least an hour because I was embarrassed. Another time, I was desperately trying to fit in during a game of basketball with my dad, uncle, cousins and brother when the ball clunked me, HARD, right on top of my head. I tried in vain not to cry, to no avail.

I was always easily embarrassed, saddened, frustrated, anxious; all of which led me to tears. This didn't make me the most popular girl in town, and, quite frankly, I hated trying to conceal my tears. I was embarrassed to be embarrassed, saddened by my sadness. It made me anxious to care so much, and to be unable to control my emotions. Let's face it: it's uncomfortable when someone's crying, for seemingly no reason, in front of us. I hated making anyone uncomfortable.

So I worked on it. Gradually I became better at steeling myself, trying not to care when people made fun of me or teased me, when boys didn't like me back, when someone shared sad news. I could feel the emotions enough, I just refused to let anyone know it. (Well, unless there was a wee bit of booze involved--then all bets were off) Sure, I'd sniffle a little at a wedding, tear up at a sad movie, but I could quickly recover and regain composure. It was nothing like O.prah calls, "The Ugly Cry."

Anyway, when Calla died, I felt an immediate shift. I clearly remember freely and loudly wailing. "Wailing" is really the only word to describe it. The sounds I made equally matched my emotions, for the first time in a long, long time. And the tears and sobs just kept on, seemingly unending. In front of everyone, in front of no one I'd cry and cry, not caring what anyone thought or who I made uncomfortable.

And now, it still won't stop. I realized this while sitting in a darkened auditorium, watching a dance recital. Of all things, a children's dance recital brought me to tears within the first few numbers. It could be I was sad knowing I'll never have a little girl in a frilly tutu up on stage, but I don't think that was the whole of it. It was the music, the beautiful movements of the dancers. The beauty. I chalked it up to hormones.

But it kept, and keeps, happening. A sniffle at the end of a sad movie leaves me in body-wracking sobs. The excitement on my son's face, my excitement for him, at a live performance of his favorite television show gives me the weepies. A beautiful harmony from the choir turns the waterworks on. And then I can't stop. Even laughing uncontrollably until I cry leaves me sobbing.

And it makes me feel foolish. Things that once made me happy, though moving, now thoroughly move me to tears. When I least want them to appear. It's as though Calla's death was the key that unlocked the floodgates, and now the lock is broken. Everything comes back to that night, those wails; it's all connected. I can't separate emotion from emotion. Happy, sad, fraught, anxious--all manifest the same.

I discovered this B.on I.ver song this past spring. A perfect example of auto-tune/vocoder being used for good rather than evil. Sometimes listening to music as loud as I can stand it brings me back to those days when I could steel myself. I remember this tactic from long ago, and sometimes it helps. Sometimes it makes me cry harder. But for some reason I connect to this song, its simplicity, the harmonies.

I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm building a still
to slow down time

Wherever My Rational Brain Went, I Hope She's Having Fun

2010-09-17T07:30:00.000-04:00

All I have to say is this: after a laugh-filled night of fold'ems and P.roject R.unway, I came home and flopped into bed. Despite waking at 2:30 for a pacifier request, and being horribly thirsty all the live-long night, I did manage to squeak out a few hours of sleep.

After C took E downstairs, I had the most dream-filled sleep of the night--somewhere between 6 and 7 AM. This stretch involved short films featuring friends from college (the likes of whom I haven't seen for at least 10, 12 years) and their fictional families. Also, I dreamt I was in a race, a sort of physical fitness test that's administered to pregnant ladies around this time. Again, hmmmm. But the best part, and of this I was completely convinced upon waking, I was pregnant not with a human child, but a tiger cub.

I remember thinking, "Oh shit! I can't have a tiger! What the hell is wrong with my genetics that this happened?!" And I asked the nurse, "Well, is it hard to nurse a baby tiger?" And then I was sad because I knew I wouldn't be able to nurse this baby tiger, and this baby tiger would have to go live in the wild, away from us somewhere and I still would be lonely.

I had an ultrasound that looked like I was peering through a porthole, only to see a life-sized, adult tiger peeking back at me.

Of course we want the best outcome, and I'll love this child no matter what. But I hope he doesn't have striped fur and giant teeth.