An Anniversary

Over the last couple of weeks, I have had several friends experience the loss of a baby. In the course of reaching out, it made me think of my own loss - and how much the word "miscarriage" is still one of those hushed words that no one wants to talk about. It is one of those things, like post partum depression, that is still expected to be borne silently - and I don't understand why. Particularly when so much good can come from opening up.

I was very fortunate, my miscarriage is, in all likelihood, what created the hospitable environment for conception that I had been trying for for so long. I was one of the lucky ones, too, who was able to bring two healthy children into the world after the loss. So many cannot.

Still, it was incredibly painful - physically, emotionally and mentally. I wasn't sure what to feel or how to act or what to say. I wasn't even sure if it was okay to grieve - and no one had told me that miscarriages were as physically challenging as they were emotionally challenging.

As I thought about, and prayed for, those friends who've suffered losses recently, I went back and read a journal entry I'd written the fall of 2010, after reading an article on miscarriage. It was cathartic to write, perhaps it will be helpful to others - if nothing else to say, "I know it hurts."

------ (October 2010)
Four years ago this month, I lost a baby.

I woke up in the worst pain of my life, in a pool of blood, in the middle of the night.

I had no idea what was going on. Still dulled by the effects of sleep and the searing knife-like pain, I crawled to the bathroom, tried to clean up, took some medication and, too weak to go anywhere (and stupidly, not wanting to wake up Himself who had to get up at 5 a.m. for a 5:30 hour-long commute), I laid down on the bathroom floor.

I was cold and shaking and nauseous and scared to death - in retrospect, my body was in shock. Given the pain and the amount of blood I lost, it's not surprising. All I could think was I didn't want to wake anyone up.

The medication did nothing but make the pain worse. At some point, I lose the clarity of the memory - I was not even able to remember the exact sequence of events mere days later. Himself got up. I told him I was having a bad time of the month, that I must not be pregnant after all. He didn't question my matter-of-fact assessment mumbled from across the room. I sent an e-mail via my Blackberry to my boss who was on a business trip to Las Vegas, telling her I wasn't going to make it into work - that I wasn't sure what was wrong, but I was fairly certain this is what dying felt like. At some point I ended up on the couch piled blankets with a heating pad, bleeding, hurting and crying - not necessarily in that order.

Several hours later, the miscarriage was complete. It wasn't until then, when I passed the tissue that looked more clinical than human, that I realized what had been happening. I called the doctor. Sadly, that morning my least favorite receptionist on the planet (then and still) was manning the phones. She explained that if I hadn't had a positive pregnancy test on record at the office they couldn't see me for a miscarriage. After that, the conversation goes fuzzy. I was standing in my bedroom, freezing and shaking and weak and still in pain - though the passing of what would have been a baby had brought the pain from white hot, indescribable to something that would actually register on the ubiquitous 1-10 pain scale. Not knowing what to do - and still not thinking well - I posted a question to some online friends, who confirmed my suspicions and chided me for not seeking medical attention.

I called the doctor's office back, where the receptionist reiterated that there was nothing they could do if I didn't have confirmation of a pregnancy on file. Summoning any last reserves of strength, I demanded an ultrasound and a blood test. The receptionist grudgingly acquiesced. The only non-emergency ultrasound available that day was in a hospital on the western edge of the known world at a hospital I'd never even heard of, let alone visited. At least 5 hospitals in a 30-minute radius, hundreds of clinics, and I had to drive my cold, shaking, pale, listless self nearly an hour to a clinic in a town I'd never even been to - (with a chirpy reminder by the receptionist to be sure to "drink lots of water and hold it"). Somehow, in my not-thinking state of mind, I decided I should swing by one of my project construction sites to deliver some materials I had promised them that day - a testament to my "trip-chain, thrifty, above all don't let anyone down" self and a reflection of just how much I believed I was being a drama queen. It was, after all, on my way - sort of.

The clearest memory of the day came next - I remember stepping into the construction trailer, the world spinning a bit, and the assistant project manager asking if I was okay. "I'm on my way to the hospital," I said. He asked if I was supposed to be driving. "It's not far," I said, leaving him to believe I was going to the hospital that was mere blocks from the site, not one in another county. He, and another manager, looked at each other, alarmed. Here I was, dressed for the office, pale as a ghost, glassy-eyed and dazed. He said, "I think one of us should drive you." All I could think was "what on earth would people think if I showed up at the hospital for an ultrasound to confirm a miscarriage and evaluate the need for a D&C or other procedure accompanied by a male construction project manager - and how could I explain the need to drive by TWO hospitals without explaining WHY I needed to go to the hospital in the first place?" Above all else, miscarriages were taboo topics of discussion - not something to be broadcast. Never mind there was a phone. Never mind, if given the facts, they certainly would have called Himself or a medical professional or the grandmotherly sales manager in the next office over. Never mind, they wouldn't have accompanied me back into the exam room. Looking back, the fact that I was unable to think such clear, logic thoughts, was clear indication that I should not be driving at all - let alone through the Virginia countryside for an hour.

I said "No. I'm fine. It's not far." And that was that.

I don't remember the drive to the hospital. I couldn't even tell you how to get there now. I vaguely remember the ultrasound, which told me nothing other than, "your doctor will contact you with the results." I found out later that the person calling in the ultrasound order from my doctor's office called it in as an "evaluation of potential menstrual complications" - which explained why I had to drive to the western edge of the universe instead of any of the half dozen closer hospitals. It wasn't important. I was that patient who was all dramatic about something that isn't so.

I vaguely remember going to the doctor's after - having eaten nothing, functioning on the few hours of sleep I had had before the events began, still shaking, still pale, still cold and confused and hurting. I remember paying the $25 ransom (er, co-pay), having the nurse stab me with a needle, taking some blood and sending me away. There was no conversation about what had happened, what I should look for, what was wrong, or that I had in all likelihood just lost a baby. It was cold and efficient and clinical - as if it happened every day.

Thing is, it does happen every day. It is one of the most common, and yet unspoken, experiences of pregnancy. Millions go through some sort of variation on the above theme (usually with more sanity to at least not go through it alone). But it had never happened to me. I was terrified. In pain. Confused. Not sure what to think - what kind of person with severe hormone imbalances trying to conceive doesn't know for sure she's pregnant until her body rejects the baby?

I can't even remember if I spoke to Himself about it. I don't think I did. I did later, when the miscarriage was confirmed. But it happened on a day when Himself worked nearly back-to-back shifts at the clinic and spent the few middle-of-the-night hours between at a friend's house - so he didn't even come home that day. After all, the receptionist and nurse had convinced me it was probably "nothing" - since I hadn't even confirmed my pregnancy now, had I? It was probably just a very bad period. Or a cyst that ruptured. No one asked to see the tissue I had collected - carefully preserved on ice in a zipper bag in my purse. The tissue that an Internet search that night identified as most probably the gestational sac - still almost entirely in tact. I didn't offer it. By that point, I was convinced I was making a whole lot of drama over nothing, even though deep down I knew better. The ultrasound report would be back in a few days and it would tell us. I didn't want to be a drama queen. I didn't want to be pitied or fussed over - how can you mourn the loss of something you didn't even know for sure you had to lose? I went back to work the next day.

Two days later, the doctor's office called. It had been a miscarriage. My hcg levels were still high, but the ultrasound showed a complete spontaneous abortion - such an ugly, clinical phrase. I had been about 8 weeks along. I was advised to take it easy and stay off work for a couple of days - the news conveniently delivered on a Friday afternoon just before a 3-day weekend, after two days of burying myself in work trying to forget the whole thing.

Just after I received the call, one of our VPs called. My boss - still out of town on business - had phoned him after receiving my cryptic e-mail, asking him to check on me. He had been out of town, having only returned that morning. He asked if I was okay. I muttered an unconvincing "yes." He asked if I was sure - unconvinced by my lackluster response. "I had a miscarriage," I blurted, feeling the hot tears prick my eyes. Wanting desperately to take it back, to hide, to sob, to figure out how to deal with the news - the reality I had been fleeing for 48 hours.

He uttered the one thing I needed at that moment: "I'm sorry," he said. "That is a horrible thing to have to go through. My wife miscarried not too long ago. It will be tough for a little while." I hung up the phone and, for the first time since the middle-of-the-night agony, I cried.

Odd that the first conversation I had out loud about it was with someone I had absolutely no personal relationship with. Or, maybe not, since he was the first one to be unconvinced by my false bravado, worn down by two days of physical and emotional toil. He didn't know me well enough to know that false bravado was what I did best.

Eventually, I wrote a letter to the doctor, pouring out the emotional agony and the anger I had at how easily I had been dismissed by her staff. She phoned me from her home the day she received the letter and talked to me for half an hour, recounting her own experiences, which included multiple miscarriages. She told me to wait for awhile - to let my body heal and that it was okay to grieve.

The same day, a woman from church asked me if we were ever going to get around to having children. "You aren't getting any younger, you know - you shouldn't put it off."
A few others shrugged it off - inferring that I shouldn't spend too much time mourning the loss of something I didn't know I had to lose or dwelling on the events. "It is God's will," they said. Or "It's your body's way of sparing you the pain of a child who would have a poor quality of life." Odd thing to say to someone in acute pain.

I stopped telling anyone at all who didn't need it for medical reasons.

It's been 4 years - 4 years last week, actually. I almost never bring it up, except when I have to declare how many pregnancies I've had on a medical form, and I almost never talk about the experience itself. Part of it is that 2 1/2 months later, on Christmas Eve, I found out I was expecting again. It was a harrowing several months, dreading a repeat of that fall's events. There wasn't the energy to think about it. Part of it was not knowing how to feel - feeling like it wasn't okay to mourn the loss of a baby whose humble beginnings resided in the darkest corner of our freezer, wrapped carefully in plastic and sealed - until I was certain no one but me cared to examine it. Physically the experience had been traumatic - a day of severe pain and massive blood loss followed by 6 weeks of roller-coaster hormones that should have earned me the label "clinically insane," but I was certain I wasn't entitled to the emotional pain I felt.

However, I still think about it - once in awhile, on days like yesterday, when the weather begins to chill and the leaves turn and the sunlight loses some of its luster, I remember that fall day, remember the feeling of being totally alone, remember the numb, barely-held-together determination to not be a drama queen. The emotional pain of losing a baby has long since subsided. I have two beautiful little girls. I would feel greedy to ask for anything more. But last night, I stumbled across an essay on a father's perspective on the loss of his baby due to miscarriage - and I recognized so many of my own emotions and feelings in his poignant recounting. I realized that I had essentially shoved it under the rug - quietly mentioning it when necessary, but still feeling like it was taboo to take out an examine too closely.

I realized that while the emotional pain of loss has subsided, that the emotional, raw feeling of terror and being alone and chided for not knowing my body well enough had never gone away.

I am blessed. I have a beautiful little family that makes my life so much richer. And yet, now, 4 years later, I realized it's okay to say I too understand the pain of loss and the hazy, suppressed terror in facing something feeling utterly alone.

I hope this is the final anniversary.

Calling on The Guv

It doesn't matter WHY I decided to call the Governor's office. Suffice it to say, I just did.

I have long been interested in politics and current events - and try to keep up to speed on what is going on, particularly during this state's rather short legislative session.

I frequently gripe to myself. I occasionally send an e-mail to my state representative or state senator about something. I always fill out the surveys they send out in the waning days of the year. I rarely say anything about it to anyone else, or join a "campaign" against or for something. As it turns out, while I'm passionately political, when it comes right down to it, my interpretation of things is just that - my interpretation.

However, finally, after 4+ years in The Frontier, something finally irritated me enough last week to sign a petition.

Around the same time, an article came out in the local news about how the governor proudly stated that he would not be swayed by e-mail or social media campaigns and would govern "in the best interest of the state."

I don't pretend to be smarter than the governor. I don't know him well enough to make that assertion. I don't pretend to know, on a grand scale, what IS best for the state. What I do know, however, is that I belong to both a state and a nation governed by a REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY. That means I vote for you, you take the input of your constituency into consideration, and you vote for legislation. It does NOT mean that I vote for you and you plug your ears and close your eyes and sing "nah nah nah, I can't HEAR you!"

A representative democracy works fine as long as you don't have state legislatures who fail you and come up with bills that are about 180 degrees from the actual things needing work (because they score re-election points)- and also about 180 degrees from what you would do if anyone cared what your opinion is (trust me, they don't). Then, it doesn't feel so representative.

It feels EVEN LESS representative when an elected official essentially nullifies the valid, articulated positions of tens of thousands of people because he can't be bothered with opinions when he's trying to govern, "in the best interest of the state."

I was irritated. I don't have time to make calls to some legislative aide who answers a thousand phone calls a day. Still, I wanted to voice my opinion - be counted among the ranks. So, amidst the 4.5 hours I've already spent on the phone today in meetings, I called him.

Or, I called his office, rather. The Frontier may be in a rather unpopulated state, but there are still enough people that one does not actually speak with the governor unless one is a lobbyist with deep pockets. Neither of which describes me.

I'm not sure what I expected - I don't make a habit of calling the governor's office on a regular basis (as evidenced by the fact that I am not chained to a bed in a psychiatric facility) - but I certainly didn't expect the abrupt response to my inquiry. I got a few words out - and was told, "Thank you. I'll pass your concern along."

*Crickets*

No one asking for my name, precinct or anything. No one wanting any information to certify that I'm not some looney bin escapee or paranoid conspiracy theorist. Even if they wrote it on an air post-it and rolled their eyes, I would want someone to at least ASK the right questions.

But no - immediately after being assured the governor would take my opinion into consideration (as if!) I was disconnected. Really? So the governor doesn't want to hear about anything via e-mail or social media or web forms - or, apparently, any other way, since I'm pretty sure that camping out at his office would be met with even less enthusiasm than taking the time to phone his office.

I still believe in democracy. However, there may be another election in my future where only those who are not currently serving in an elected position get my vote.

I'm only one of 3 million people in this state. But I AM one. The least you can do is make me THINK you're reading that e-mail or petition or receiving a note that says "the crazy lady from The Frontier called - she'd like a word."

Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

This picture says it all.

For the first time in 14 years, I have a full-length mirror again. Actually, a whole wall of them, since my Master closet has those  things of high-styling 80s innovation - mirrored doors. Still, gaudy polished brass and wall-sized mirrors aside, I'm grateful for them. Even if they are positioned so that it's the first thing I see when I step out of the shower.

Last week, I had an epiphany as a result of those life-sized pieces of reflective glass: I saw myself in the mirror.

Myself. My body. The body that has failed me on more than one occasion.  The body covered in skin that still looks like it did 20 years ago when my mother told me, "It won't always look this way." (She was partially right - it didn't - now it looks the way it did 20 years ago PLUS it has the fine-line wrinkles I'm supposed to spend my life's savings chasing away). The body that would never land me on the cover of a single magazine. The body that rejected 35 bathing suits this spring because it is (like everyone else's body) disproportionate. The body that is intent on rejecting one food after another - on the speedy path to a life at 80 on a plain oatmeal only diet. The body that inherited my mother's translucent skin, my father's fur coat and an unknown genetic ancestor's penchant for scarring. The body that has lumps and bumps and sags and cracks and follicles and wrinkles and oddities in places where none should exist, if I were to subscribe to the popular notion that my body isn't good enough unless it has been altered (either virtually or literally) beyond any natural predisposition.

But, I also saw something else: Myself. Not someone else. I saw my body - the one that has born two children, the one who has survived two near death experiences and has come close to several others, the body that has health and strength and vitality, the body that has four fully functioning limbs and sight and hearing, the body that is mine - a gift bequeathed from a loving Father in Heaven who knew it was a prerequisite for exaltation. I saw my body - the one I have, not the one that is a fairy tale plaguing us all at one point and time. And I thought, "for a thirtysomething mother of two with all the above bodily issues, I am really okay with how I look in a bathing suit."

I almost didn't admit this out loud - because I can hear it now, the chorus of, "I hate yous." For some reason, as women, we get insanely uncomfortable when one among us proclaims that she isn't trying to lose weight, isn't on a diet, and can fathom herself wearing a bathing suit somewhere beside the kiddie pool sans a full-body cover-up.

But the truth is, I was blessed with decent genes, and I work really hard at being healthy - so why shouldn't I be okay with how I look in a bathing suit, even if I'm in no danger of having to fend of modeling scouts? Why shouldn't I see the muscle definition that is illustrative of stronger muscles resulting from pursuit of cardio and resistance activity? Why shouldn't I see the unhealthy pounds I've managed to keep off for almost six years as a result of eliminating calories that aren't worth it and swapping them with calories that are? Or the unhealthy things that never were because I set a goal at 12 to treat a chronic condition with healthy lifestyle choices rather than medication? Why shouldn't I celebrate the fact that I'm in a place in which I see very few of my female friends and colleagues (regardless of size or health) - not a place of supermodel glitz and glamour, but a place of, "I'm okay. I'm healthy. I feel good, and I'm happy to be me,"? Why shouldn't I be glad that I have been blessed (genetically) and worked for (lifestyle) the health to spend a weekend afternoon running foot races with my 4-year-old? Or the health to anticipate a glorious outdoors trek with my father this summer? Or a body that has grown and sustained two little girls? (Even if I was certain it would, at some point, probably kill me).

It was a liberating split-second moment - to see myself as who I am and to rejoice. If I could give anything to my girls, that split-second revelation would be near the top of my list.

Starvation by Elimination

Sometime ago I blogged about the medical nightmare of my stomach. Mostly because I had shelled (or was about to shell) out a whole lot of money for me to be diagnosed with (drumroll, please...) Chronic Functional Dyspepsia. That's a fancy sounding word that those who went to medical school made up to justify the thousands it cost to come to the conclusion of, "Her stomach hurts, we have no idea why, but we must give a diagnosis."

 

The translation? Upset stomach lasting more than 3 months.

 

The breaking point came the day I ran my 12k. 7.44 miles. That day, I gained TEN POUNDS. Of course, that night was my high school reunion - the only one I've ever attended. I felt miserable. I was so bloated, my pants didn't fit and I was mad - I had run almost 7 1/2 miles that morning - I didn't deserve to feel akin to a sausage stuffed into a too-small casing. Two days later, it vanished.

 

A month later, at the end of my rope, I was lying shirtless on the exam table at my kids' allergist with 30 different scrapes on my back, testing for food allergies. I had been on the "diet of the month" (or starvation by elimination diet) for 7 months. I knew it was food. I just couldn't figure out WHAT food. The allergist came back and said, "Sorry, not allergic to any foods."

 

I wanted to cry. Then she said, but I suspect you have an intolerance of some sort. You know you're lactose intolerant. You know you're not gluten intolerant. What about fructose intolerance?

 

I shrugged her off. Couldn't be. And then I started reading - and it turns out the MD behind her name meant more than "more dollars," I now owed her $100, but even though the tests failed, she had stumbled across the source of my "dyspepsia" (I can't bear to write "functional" - really what is functional about chronic stomach pain?).

 

And that is when the Starvation by Elimination really began.

 

Anyone who knows me knows that I think about food constantly. I'm very particular about food. I plan my menus two weeks in advance, track what I eat (most days), and really try to be healthy. Some of it stems from having a body who has had a lifetime battle with food in general. Now, however, I've entered an entirely new phase in my life - think about COMPONENTS of food. What foods have a lot of fructose? What foods have more fructose than glucose? (Glucose helps reduce the symptoms) And why on earth did I not pay more attention in nutritional chemistry in college?

 

Just for kicks starvation elimination diet looks pretty much like this:

 

"List of things to avoid unless you want to feel like [fill in the blank with your favorite euphamism for a 4-letter-word]"

Apples

Cherries

Pears

All Melons

Jam/Jelly

Pineapple

Grapes/Raisins

Mangos

Artichokes

Avocados

Onions (all kinds)

Peppers

tomatoes

Lettuce - most greens in general other than spinach and mustard greens (which I loathe)

Eggplant

Whole wheat anything (other than in the morning, when I can tolerate some)

Pasta of any kind

Brown rice

Cous Cous

Squash

Pickles

Molasses

Agave

Honey

Stevia

Raw Sugar

Sucralose (splenda)

Beans

Ice cream

Milk chocolate

Coconut anything - oil, milk, coconut flakes

 

You get the point - pretty much 80% of everything. this is a very partial list.

 

Foods that never cause pain:

Fish

White rice

Celery

Spinach

Pumpkin

White Potatoes

Seeds

Nuts (when I'm not at home)

Plain yogurt

Grapefruit

Limes

Lemons

Cranberries

Berries (other than strawberries)

Cornmeal

Oatmeal

Buckwheat

Rye

 

Sometimes I can handle small bits of banana, apricots, lentils, chick peas, red peppers, sweet potatoes, raw carrots, cucumbers, sugar, maple syrup, soy and such. Yay for me - my special treat is adding something colorful to my food.

 

Keep in mind I'm also lactose intolerant and have a weird intolerance for most chocolate. Yeah, now we're down to about 85% of foods.

 

 I've fallen off the wagon in January - and been in bouts of pain the entire month - I've gone with "too lazy to think around my issues" and just made meals for the family and eaten those - bean burritos with roasted tomato salsa, minestrone soup, chili, etc. Hello bean and tomato overload - my stomach has bloated six inches just thinking about it.

 

There is, however, a bright spot to Starvation by Elimination. As I told Himself: "Sushi on a daily basis may actually become a medical necessity."

 

And that wouldn't be such a bad thing. Especially if it came with a side of sparkling water and lime with a fancy paper umbrella, a good book and a chaise lounge. Hey, if I'm dreaming, I may as well dream big. After all, one can only eat so much pumpkin oatmeal and spinach and plain Greek yogurt smoothies.

Musical Beds

So the new house is fabulous. The girls love their window seat (upon which all of their stuffed animals have taken residence) and their reading corner. They love the fact that their clothing are now at child-height and mom hasn't yet put any sort of latch on the closet, providing all kinds of tempting dress-up entertainment (the same goes for mom's closet by the way - *sigh*). They love the pale pink walls (we inherited them) and the mauve (*gasp* - inherited that too) carpet.

 

They do not love sleeping upstairs after 2-4 years of sleeping in a dark basement where the only noises were from the creaky floor upstairs or the noises that Himself and I made inside (a lot of noise, but comforting, familiar noise, apparently). They do not love the shadows that play across the floor in the dark from their sunburst window (must find a window covering) or the freight train whistles which start up about bedtime or the traffic sounds or - well, apparently anything about their room once the sun goes down and it's bedtime.

 

My amazing sleepers have turned into crazy little people.

 

Their mother is turning into a crazy big person.

 

White noise. No noise. Jazz music, lullabyes, BBC radio, nightlight in the room, nightlight in the hallway, door open, door closed, prayers, songs, stories ... and firm "Everyone stays in bed. Period." All to no avail.

 

Take last night. Quiet story and letter game (a new favorite) in a dimly lit bedroom. Family prayers. Individual prayers. Promises that sleep would come and that everyone would be in her original bed come morning. All seemed to work beautifully until I came up to bed 2 hours later. There I found one sleeping Woodstock - sprawled out on the landing. No blanket, no pillow, but apparently prefering the open hallway to her comfortable bed and the light sleeping noises of her sister.

 

I put her in her bed. She murmured. I gave her Meow (her stuffed snow leopard).

Twenty minutes later, she'd joined me in bed.

Himself came up, but her to bed, came to bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a train whistle sounded (keep in mind we're MILES from the tracks - it's not like we live RIGHT NEXT TO THEM), Pebbles, who normally sleeps the sleep of the dead, woke screaming "Scared of choo choo. Scared of choo choo!" and could not be consoled. On my way to get her, I tripped over Woodstock, who was now fast asleep on the floor next to my bed - a blanket, but no pillow.

I ended up with BOTH kids in Woodstock's TWIN bed. Woodstock next to me. Pebbles lying on top of me (a position, which, since birth has been the fastest way to get her to calm down - with her head on my chest). They immediately drifted off. I read the BBC and Washington Post and played a dozen games of solitaire on my phone.

When they were sound asleep and my brain was screaming because it was so tired, I gently put Pebbles in her bed. Her eyes flew open and she remembered why I was there in the first place - and despite the fact that there were no choo choos anymore that could be heard, she was not listening.

She toddled off and climbed in bed with Himself.

I went back to soothe Woodstock, who was now awake. She went back to sleep.

I went back to bed. In my delirum, I completely forgot Pebbles was in bed with us.

I woke up an hour later when Pebbles kicked me. I sat up, and tripped over ... you guessed it, Woodstock, who was back to sleeping on the floor next to our bed.

 

I give up. Last night was worse than normal, but aliens have invaded my children and no one is sleeping. I'm planning a train trip to nowhere (again) to show them that trains aren't scary, but I am almost as tired as I was when I had a newborn. Sleeping in hour to 90-minute stretches is not working out.

 

Apparently, Woodstock doesn't like it either - she asked if we could live in the new house during the day and go back to the old house at night.

 

I'm thinking those noise-cancelling headphones that Bose sells for a small fortune don't sound half bad. And I'm putting sheets on the guest bed, so when everyone invades me, I can run and hide - the door sticks in there, no one will ever find me.

I Resolve

I hate New Year's Resolutions. Mostly because I hate January (mostly
because I hate being cold, cooped up and forced to look at dead sticks
sticking out of the ground). I am in no way motivated to do anything
other than trying to keep myself from hibernating, which given that it
feels like the sun never actually reaches the ground in January, is
more challenging than it would seem.

Last year's resolutions were loosely defined in January, but not
refined until my toes started to thaw out - sometime just before the
Memorial Day Snowstorm. This year, I feel like since I'm starting the
year out with a new house, new neighborhood and new commute, I should
actually resolve to do something besides "survive until Daylight
Savings Time comes back."

I'm just not sure what. There are a thousand things floating around in
my head that I have contemplated listing - running a half marathon to
further prepare for my backpacking trip (which in and of itself could
be an item), saving up to replace the pink (mauve?) carpet in the
living/dining room (it looks beautiful with the pale baby blue walls -
I'm pretty sure that color combination has never been authorized by
the likes of Pantone or Parsons School of Design), reading more to my
kids, reading more myself, taking a class, finally putting in a garden
that produces more than tomatoes and beets ... well, you get the
point, I could go on forever.

At the moment, however, it all just makes me tired. And hungry. And
feeling very much like a bear that has missed half her winter's nap.
So if I resolved anything right now it would be this:

-I resolve to love more visibly and yell less
-I resolve to be more dedicated in work and in play - finding a better
balance of both
-I resolve to develop a hobby
-I resolve to learn something new
-I resolve to stretch myself physically and mentally
-I resolve to make a friend in my new neighborhood
-I resolve to be better at budgeting, menu planning and saving (the
last thing on this list is an automatic given since I set up an auto
transfer - go me - mark one thing off, and it's only the 5th of
January)
-I resolve to keep stamps on hand and actually send mail (this means I
resolve to get out my 2011 holiday cards that arrived just as I was
packing up).
-I resolve to eat foods that make my body happy and do better at
eliminating the ones that make my body hate me
-I resolve to be better than I was in 2011.

And I resolve to write more. To get all the jumbled thoughts and ideas
out of my head and onto paper so I can sleep at night (providing the
girls get over their newfound fear of freight train whistles and stop
inviting themselves into my bed).

Onward. Bring on 2012.

Imaginary Mayhem

Woodstock has imaginary friends - has for about six months.

There is Aena (closest approximation I can come up with for spelling
"Long A sound with 'na' on the end" - sort of feel like I'm making up
crazy Utah names/spellings), who died abruptly this fall and Samantha,
who is still living, but, as it turns out, is allergic to blueberries
- and Woodstock always reminds me not to feed Samantha blueberries if
she (Woodstock) forgot Samantha's epi pen.

For months, Aena went everywhere with us - she was 4 (even when
Woodstock was still 3) and was an Orphan. No mention was ever made of
her father, so I'm not really sure what the situation was, but
Woodstock said that her mom got sick and died and she (Woodstock) was
Aena's new mom.

About August, things started to turn for the worst with Aena. She came
down with the flu and Woodstock told me that Aena stayed at home when
we went on our week-long camping vacation. Samantha, a new imaginary
friend, showed up and enjoyed her camping trip. As the fall
progressed, Samantha took more of an active role in Woodstock's life -
accompanying her nearly everywhere we went.

The imaginary friend was quite a demerit against my mothering skills.
I frequently (much to the exasperation of Woodstock) forgot to buckle
Samantha or Aena into a carseat. I inadvertently squashed one or more
imaginary friend when putting groceries in the cart right on top of
the poor imaginary child. I once committed the cardinal sin of
abandoning one in a cart at Home Depot.

So when Woodstock announced that Aena had died, I felt rather bad -
but I wasn't surprised, given that Aena had taken a bit of a back seat
to Samantha recently. I wondered if Woodstock was deep in mourning,
and I felt rather bad that my sloppy mothering of an imaginary child
may have been to blame.

Woodstock's answer surprised me. "I'm not sad," she said.

My heart turned cold and I briefly wondered if I had given birth to a
sociopath. Isn't the first sign nonchalance about things others find
deeply disturbing?!

Casually I asked, "Why aren't you sad? Aena died. I think that is very sad."

Woodstock rolled her eyes (she began practicing to be a teenager about
halfway through her 3rd year of life). "Mom," she said with a dramatic
"going on 13" sigh. "Aena's in heaven. With Jesus and Heavenly Father
and her mom, why would I be sad about that?!"

I will admit, relief flooded me to know that I did not indeed have a
sociopathic child. But I also felt a bit chagrined in the fact that my
child's faith was so absolute that she wasn't sad about death - she
recognized its temporary nature and the blessings of heaven beyond the
veil.

So, Aena is in heaven with her mother and Jesus, and I continue to
drag, squish, run over, forget and generally cause problems when it
comes to the remaining imaginary friend, Samantha (who is,
incidentially, also an orphan - but she is five and goes to
Kindergarten).

I just hope I don't feed her blueberries. I'd hate to have another
lesson on death from a child who clearly understands it much better
than I do.

I am not, it turns out, who I temporarily aspired to be

When I moved to The Frontier some (gasp) 4 1/2 years ago, I found hte neighborhood just to the north of us simply charming - beautiful brick bungalows, craftsmen and Tudors from the 1940s-1950s. Beautiful tree-lined streets with replica gas lamp posts and oozing tons of charm. Many gutted and updated (read:expensive), some in mostly original condition (read: a huge amount of work and money).

For 4 1/2 years, I've assumed if we stayed here, I'd move into that neighborhood, priding myself on the "small house in the city" aspirations. I had no intention of being a big-house suburban dweller. None at all.

Until ... well, until our new house fell into our laps one chilly November day. And fall it did. We were becoming increasingly dissatisfied with the 70s Palace, the landlord, the whole "hasn't been painted in 10 years, never looks clean, kitchen causing Sara anxiety out the wazoo because both kids want to help and someone is going to end up doing a face plant on the stove" kind of dissatisfaction. So when the opportunity presented itself, we figured, "what the heck," and went with it.

Inside, I panicked - the house was BIG, and it wasn't just in the suburbs, it may has well been on the far side of the moon for how much I knew about the location. Never mind 1/3 of it would be rented to our baby sitter and would be occupied by pint-sized playmates for the kids 5 days a week (without that, it truly would be much too large). Never mind, the suburbs have all of my regular haunts - and the house is on a quiet street in a quiet development rather than on an Interstate cut-through. Never mind that every play date, every person that came to the door, every bin of outgrown children's clothing I had to add to the stack in the garage left me in cold sweats.

I was a city, small cottage dweller. A minimalist who didn't need much.

As it turns out, as much as I wanted to be right, I was woefully disillusioned. My idea of what I wanted - which has pretty much been the same since the beginning of time - had been taken over by the same romantic notion someone has when asserting that a 500 sf studio in Manhattan is large enough to share with a couple of roommates.

Now that the kitchen is unpacked, I can find clean underwear and the keys to the 70s palace are turned in, there is this beautiful sense of calm. Inside, of course, the voices in my head scream (loudly), "Space! Space! There is enough space! Maybe your house will be clean. Maybe your kids can have normal play dates. Maybe you'll actually make friends because you can host things."

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But right now - I am delirious. I've driven around the neighborhood shouting gleefully - "Look! A ___ (store/library/gym/place of worship/park/service)!" I've met more neighbors in 5 days than I did in 5 months at the last place. And there is already talk that the parentals will visit more - and *gasp* perhaps we'll even be allowed to host a holiday function or two.

There is a hymn that states, "It is well with my soul."

Indeed, it is well. Very well, indeed.