The plan WAS to make these really quick photo updates for the months I’d missed until MC’s birthday, then start blogging again on the regular.

But then the damn mice got in the way with their glee or whatever.

And I’ll be honest, I don’t know where this is going. WordPress has evolved since the last time we hung out, and I’m just a teensy bit lost. I have no real vision for this space other then the ADHD-fueled verbal (finger?) diarrhea pit it’s become.

And maybe I just need to be okay with that. My life isn’t organized by any stretch of the imagination, and organization has never been my strong suite. I tried reading The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up and developed palpitations. So why would I expect something different from a blog?

See, I set these expectations, and then get all intimidated by them, avoiding them as a result. Something profound about attempts and failure would go really well right here. Feel free to fill in your own blanks.

Facebook has a new(ish) feature that lets you look back on your social media presence through the years. There’s also TimeHop for you app-savvier folk. Two years ago, I was deep in my first first trimester, blissfully oblivious to what August would hurl at me.

And it’s got me thinking about this pile of keystrokes I have just sort of…festering? nah, too gruesome…marinating? yes! Tasty, delicious marinade…marinating over here, patiently waiting for me to wander back around to it. Maybe, regardless of its ability to resemble anything remotely master-planned, I need to come back and unleash my fingers on the keys, free form whatever comes to mind, or needs to be fleshed out from my brain. Maybe it doesn’t matter that this place is a mess. I’m a mess. I kind of like it that way. Yeah, I wish I could get the laundry done in a timely manner, but… that’s probably not going happen, ever. I have unfinished thoughts on our miscarriage that deserve to be made whole. I have so many thoughts and feelings on MC’s diagnosis and birth that I need to get down in some form before I forget them (what I can remember of them anyway).

I can’t guarantee anybody reads this, so why should I worry about making it “pretty?” So what if somebody (who’s not Dave, bless him) DOES read it. This is my space, and it should reflect who I am as a person, delightfully difficult as that may be to…uhm…handle?

This has become one of those long, rambling, paragraphed posts I’m liable to skim over on anybody else’s blog, maybe.

TL;DR? I think I’m going to start blogging again, maybe. There’s a chance I’ll say important things.


December 2014

Adventures in furniture building.

Cutting our tree… That we never managed to decorate. 😐😑

  And this guy moved in.

Today was not a good day.

I would like to talk about something else
Anything else.
Something not sad or frustrating or enraging
Something I’m not ready to get excited about (house things go well, yes.).

I just don’t know what.

I don’t even want to post this. I don’t want this stuff consuming my blog.
Isn’t something else going on in my life, something I’m not worried about jinxing (still house)?
School is… eh.
Work is… see line three.
Home is… home is a disaster. So let’s not talk about that. I might have to do something about it.

I think I can hear someone taking a shower in the kitchen. Apartments, man. Everybody’s business all up in your business.

I’m not even sharing this link on Twitter.

I can smell it.

If I stand very still in the shade and focus on nothing at all, I can smell fall.

It’s coming. It’s a welcome relief even.

Fall means summer is over, and this summer can’t end soon enough. This month can’t end soon enough.

Some of the best moments of my life have happened in the fall.

With any luck, I’ll add another.

I confessed to someone else, a midwife, in front of Dave that I’m not dealing with our miscarriage. I’m just stumbling along until we’re pregnant again. That this is just a break. That once our baby is on his way again, everything will be fine.

I confessed to Otter today that I’m just faking my way through my days. Most days, I have myself nearly convinced life is normal again. It’s not, but some days it almost is. I further confessed that if I’m not pregnant by the end of October, I may lose my shit entirely.

That maybe a slight exaggeration. If we can be expecting our baby again before Valentine’s Day, I’ll be okay. If I’m not pregnant again by Valentine’s Day, I really will lose my shit. I will be absolutely devastated if we don’t conceive again the first go-round, but I may be wholly inconsolable if I have to survive my due date without knowing that another due date is around the corner.

There’s no way I’ll be able to meet Baby V if my own baby isn’t cooking along, and I so desperately want to meet Baby V. His parents have waited for him as long as we’ve waited for ours, probably longer, and they’ve worked much, much harder to get him here (side note: I’m just defaulting to masculine pronouns. I don’t know anything you don’t). I’ve spent more time torn up about Baby V never getting here than I have about my own baby never getting here. And I’ve prayed more prayers for that little fetus than I have for… probably anything else.

I’m torn most days about what to ask God for. Do I ask for myself (Please dear Jesus God let us get pregnant again quickly) or do I repeat the same request I’ve had for the last month (Please dear Jesus God let Baby V keep growing and be healthy and perfect. His parents have waited so long for him)? I make it a point to only ask for one thing a day.

After we found out we were pregnant, I dreaded telling anybody in my family, almost wholly because I dreaded telling Baby V’s mother. I know that sick sinking feeling when yet another couple announces they’re expecting, and you’re still not. You’re still waiting. I didn’t want to be the cause of that gut-check for my friend. We’re not close, but I like her, I think she likes me, and if I had to only invite twenty people to an awesome party, she and her husband would be on my list. So I kept mum about it, and made my mother an grandmother do the same.

When his parents announced that not only was Baby V on the way, but he would arrive almost exactly the same time as our little S-ling, I was so relieved. I was happy and excited for them sure, but I was just so very, very relieved their wait was over. And better yet, I didn’t have to be just one more pregnant woman. I didn’t have to feel sick about inviting her to a shower, or even seeing her, because we’d have the same big bellies (although let’s face it, she’s smaller so her belly would be proportionately humongous compared to mine). Thank God! Thank God this would be easy. Thank God I wouldn’t be the cause of distress for her. Thank God she was finally knocked up! Please dear Jesus God let her stay that way!

I’ve stopped following almost all the baby related Pinterest Boards. I’ve unfollowed most baby related things on Instagram, including a friend or two (sorry). I don’t touch the pregnancy blogs. I think I’ve managed to unsubscribe myself from every mailing list. I’ve even deleted my Babies’R’Us registry. I’ve had to hide a few news items from my Facebook feed. But I can still managed to look at and read updates from Momma V. Right now she’s the only expectant mother I can stand to see, the only one for whom I can honestly be happy. Baby V is the only baby I can consider making anything for.

But I know that if we’re not on the road to people-parenthood by the time I have the opportunity to meet this precious little creature, I won’t be able to do it.

Please dear Jesus God, let the fall bring another good thing. Don’t let me down Fall. I need you this year. I really, really do.

The Good News

The good news is no matter what it feels like, this is not the end of the world.

The good news is I never knew I could want something so much.

The good news is I don’t have to move pregnant.

The good news is we don’t have to shoe horn one more trip home into the rest of our year.

The good news is I can get through one more semester of graduate school before splitting my attention.

The good news is we don’t have to make daycare decisions just yet.

The good news is I have this wonderful family.

The good news is I have fantastic friends, some of whom can unfortunately commiserate.

The good news is the only person on the planet for whom I could possibly be happy right now is pregnant. Thank God for something.

The good news is it happened once.

The good news is I can find another job.

The good news is I still have Dave.

The good news is I still have four healthy, wonderful, beautiful children who think their dad and I hung the moon.

The good news is I can have a glass of bourbon.

It’s been a week

Five days since the D&C and one week since “This just isn’t right.”

Eight weeks almost to the hour since the pretty blue + sign.

I’m expecting (and expected) to feel something soon.

I just don’t. People ask how I am and I fight the urge to shrug. This is denial. This is what denial feels like.

Being pregnant didn’t feel real in the beginning. How could you possibly wait for something for so incredibly long, and then learn on a whim, pure whim, that you’re waiting was over? There’s no way this was actually happening to me, to us. It can’t be.

And now, being not pregnant doesn’t feel real. I mentioned to Dave that I was in denial, and his first question was “Do you think you’re still pregnant?”

No, that’s not it. Maybe I’m in denial that I was ever pregnant in the first place. “Honey, you were pregnant. You saw the ultrasound. There was a baby in there.”

Ugh… okay. That’s not it either. I’m not in denial that I ever was, and I’m not in denial that I still am. It took me an hour to articulate how I feel.

I feel like this happened to someone else. I feel like this dream come true turned living nightmare was just that. An awesome dream that turned into an awful nightmare, and then I woke up and life was normal again. Except that I can’t take a bath or have sex for… nine more days. But who’s counting?? I really want both of those things to happen, BTW. This is my blog, my raw feelings, and my overshare. I want a bath and sex with my husband. Deal.

I mean, rationally, I know that the last eight weeks of my life actually happened, and that it’s not just June 11th.

It’s just impossible to believe that this happened to us. This happened to us. Not our friends, not someone one of us knows from work. Us.

Maybe it’s early. Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe I’m not in denial and I just accepted our fate really well, really quickly.

Maybe I should have gone into psychiatry instead of library science.