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.


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.

The Worst Part

The worst part is unsubscribing to the 57,000 email lists and reminders I’ve signed up for in the last two months.

The worst part is feeling myself leak like a sieve and thinking irrationally that I’ve pissed myself.

The worst part is wearing a maxipad like a twelve year old and remembering how the damn things work. Then disposing of them. It’s gross.

The worst part is this overwhelming rage. And the sudden need to break something. And then realizing there’s nothing to break.

The wort part is this cramping that I can’t do anything about. Because I can’t take a bath for two weeks. And the only thing that relieves the cramps is a two hour bath.

The worst part is my pants still don’t fit quite right.

The worst part is hearing “God has a plan.”

The worst part is the guilt.

The worst part is the months and years of waiting waiting waiting waiting… It was supposed to be over now.

The worst part is Monday morning and going back to work.

The worst part is the crying everyone else is doing over this.

The worst part is not being able to curl up in my mom’s lap and cry and cry and cry.

The worst part is feeling completely inarticulate.

The worst part is being a member of this club.

The worst part is not identifying with anyone or anything I read online.

The worst part is not knowing if this is denial.

The worst part is knowing this would happen.

The worst part is knowing this is how this adventure would end.

The worst part is knowing no way it could be this easy. No way I get this lucky. No way this ends well.

The worst part is not knowing how to help my poor sweet husband.

The worst part is fighting tears during not so random songs on the radio.

The worst part is no longer feeling empowered.

The worst part is being the center of all of this sad attention.

The worst part is putting on a brave face because I don’t want to cry anymore.

The worst part is feeling like I should just be over it already.

The worst part is this feeling of defeat.

The worst part is being bloated and feeling deflated at the same time.

The worst part is the whole fucking thing.


There’s no easy way to say this…

So, uhm, awkward conversation ahead.

I’ve spent all summer trying to figure out the best way to tell my blog I’m pregnant.

As of Thursday, I’m not anymore.

Maybe I’ll blog about my feelings. But not today. I’ve written this post in my head a thousand times, and right now I’ve got nothing.

There it is. We miscarried.

Yes, we’re mostly okay. Yes, we’ll try again in a few weeks after my poor body gets itself together.

And maybe in the next, I dunno, three to four posts I’ll write about something not emo and maudlin. We’re buying a house once we find a house we want to buy. That’s fun, right?

If you try to email, comment, facebook, or tweet, I probably won’t answer. But thank you in advance for whatever nice and encouraging things you might say.