Envy and a pale shade of jealousy

“In any war story, but especially a true one, it's difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen. What seems to happen becomes its own happening and has to be told that way. The angles of vision are skewed. When a booby trap explodes, you close your eyes and duck and float outside yourself. .. The pictures get jumbled, you tend to miss a lot. And then afterward, when you go to tell about it, there is always that surreal seemingness, which makes the story seem untrue, but which in fact represents the hard and exact truth as it seemed.”
― Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

So here we are. Getting back into the groove. Laundry is getting done, I'm cooking meals, and I'm trying to reclaim the former person I was. Moreover, I'm working on repairing relationships that suffered.

Getting back into a routine is pertinent to my healing process. It's something tangible I can control; it's comforting to wake up knowing there is something to do. Life gets pretty bleak when your day consists of wearing your husband's bathrobe and watching Nick Jr. Being powerless is terrifying.

But like I said: here we are. Getting back into the groove.

My body is beginning to heal and, with each passing day, it's closer to forgetting the miscarriage. It keeps on ticking, a well oiled machine consisting of processes and systems with specific jobs to ensure function. And though my body is moving forward, my heart is left behind. There's an aching hole there - a hole that carries what should have been.

On one hand, trying to get pregnant again seems like a good idea. That's what I wanted in the first place. Right? Unfortunately for me, it's not that easy. Because the grieving process vastly differs for each individual, trying again is moving too fast; almost as if we're forgetting too soon. It feels like we're trying to bake cupcakes, but dropped the flour. Oh, well, let's just go to the store and buy new flour. Let's replace what we can. This statement really isn't fair because it's not that black and white; children aren't cupcakes and everyone has their reason for trying, or delaying, to conceive. There's no set time to grieve. I get that. But I wonder where the light is at the end of the tunnel.

Recently, Kevin and I discussed our goals in terms of pregnancy. I confessed to feeling overwhelmed, especially because Emma is in the midst of an extremely difficult time. Can I handle a newborn? Can I handle 2 a.m. feedings and breast feeding again and trying to haul two ginger monsters around? Kevin agreed and suggested I go back on the pill. In that moment, a tiny part of myself shattered because I desperately wanted him to disagree. I wanted him to fight and stand up for my mothering abilities! I wanted him to feel the conviction I do. It doesn't matter that I agreed to waiting - that's not what I felt once the words were actually said aloud.

Going back on the pill, in my eyes, represents failure. It symbolizes me failing to carry this pregnancy to term. These feelings of being overwhelmed and questioning if I am a good mother are stem from doubt.  Even though the miscarriage was purely an act of nature, I carry this doubt within me. It's in all that I do. It's a bed of weeds killing my assertive and confident nature.  How would I ever put myself back together if I had another miscarriage? How on earth would I be whole?

And I am envious. Holy fuck, almighty I am envious! Six women I know have announced they're expecting. Don't get me wrong - I'm happy for them. They deserve the joy a child brings! And yet...it doesn't change the fact that I want to be pregnant. That I want to be where they're at. It doesn't change that I am carrying envy within me. It doesn't change that I am struggling with differentiating between forgetting a child to be and remembering all that I wanted for them.

But I'm not jealous. Well, maybe a teensy bit. Maybe the slightest pale shade of green. It's like a moss or a fern green. Don't confuse this with asparagus or sea green. We'd have quite the problems if I were, gasp, forest of shamrock green!

Though both terms are often used as synonyms for one another, they're not. Jealousy is an emotion in which you want another person, such as when you're jealous of a woman who married your long time (ex) boyfriend. You want that person - nobody else will do. Envy, however, encompasses coveting another person's accomplishments or coveting objects. An example of this would be if your best friend won an awesome trip to Thailand, for instance.

I'm happy for these women. I really am! Being a mother is very challenging, yet also rewarding and represents unconditional love. I totally welcome them into the Mommy Club with open arms. Step on in - there's enough diapers and boo boo kissing for everyone!

It's a crappy place to be in - to want something so badly and to be fearful of what happens once you get it. It's a crappy place to be carrying doubt and feelings of emptiness in every action.

 How will I untangle myself? How will I not destroy everything I love because I'm so scared of "replacing" something I care deeply for?

The power of margaritas, mojitos, and mexican cuisine

" Is it in you now, to barely hear the truth that you have spoken? Twisted up by knaves,to make a trap for fools? Is it in you now, to watch the things you gave your life to broken? And stoop and build them up with worn out tools." -If  by Rudyard Kipling

With the exception of dropping Emma off at preschool and mundane errands, last night was the first time I ventured outside since the miscarriage. Leaving my home and facing people has been a fear of mine. The anxiety surrounding social events is frightening.

Perhaps this anxiety stems from a fear that those who know me best will see the ugliness in my heart. Maybe they'll see me for who I am: bitter, devastated, and grieving. I am afraid of my loss. I am afraid to recognize I failed to carry this baby to term. What does this say about me? What does this imply about my mothering abilities? Is my body broken and worthless?

I tentatively attended a small gathering consisting of my core group of friends. My hesitation did not derive from lack of trust. It surrounds many other issues, such as grieving and feeling inadequate. Upon arriving, however, the circle of women embraced me with a kind warmth, their faces portraying genuine support and care. The anxiety and fear melted away; it dissipated into the floor boards, and I knew I made the right decision.

The hostess was lovely! She prepared margaritas, mojitos, and a variety of Mexican cuisine. The fried plantains were delicious, and I certainly appreciated the strong cocktails. One of my girlfriends commented that the margaritas were "sippers".  I agree: without sipping, clothes could have possibly come off (and believe me: we are not those type of mommies).

Throughout the evening, the conversation and drinks flowed. The topics ranged from light to truly intimate, and at times I felt my chest tightening at the honesty. Sometimes we assume we know everything about our friends. We are certain of their depth and persona, when in reality,  we do not have the keys to their heart and an uninterrupted view of their past. Things were said that changed the way I viewed everyone. The changes, however, are positive. What strength these women have! What sacrifices and love they have given. Their life experiences and wisdom are truly moving.

Everyone carries pain. Everyone has scars. We all must grow and change, developing into the people we are destined to be.

Hearing the stories and experiences my friends offered gave me a new perspective. In this current moment, I am stuck. Quicksand engulfs me, and I am unsure how to move forward. Imagine you're traveling in the wilderness. Oh, no! Suddenly you fall victim to quicksand. If you struggle, you sink further, doomed to a heinous muddy death. But if you relax, breathe deeply, and do not panic, your likelihood of survival increases. Is this what I need to do? Must I stop struggling against my grief? Must I take one breath at a time, focusing on the moment and not on the distant future?

I want to change. I want to stop worrying about next week, next year, or the ultimate outcome. I'm filling myself with doubt and feelings of inadequacies because I cannot possibly see myself as a future productive member of society. I am focusing on who I am now; I'm unable to see who I could be, how I could grow, because of this loss.

This new perspective, however, is already taking root. My outlook is becoming less fuzzy. I'm seeing the tiniest hint of color instead of grey hues. I am beginning to connect that the struggles and pain I feel now, the uncertainty, will pass. It's part of my design and will mold me into the person I will be 5, 10, or 15 years from now. These amazing, wise friends of mine became that way through their own scars and periods of doubt and uncertainty.

As I write, I fondly look at Emma. Clad in PJ's, her ponytail is high upon her head. She's  absolutely beautiful! Her spirit is endearing and purposeful. When did she get so big? When this did this accidentally hilarious sense of humor develop? Emma is articulate and full of joy! It's like I'm seeing this for the first time. She embodies happiness and innocence.

I want to be present for these moments. I don't want to be stuck in a pit of quicksand, paralyzed. I can't live like this. 

Healing and change is a long process, at least for me. It's going to take time. Many thanks to last night's company. Thank you for your support and grace. Thanks for being there. Thank you for your kindness and lack of judgment.

Baby steps. I have to remember it's all about the baby steps. And yet I can't help but feel ever so hopeful.

One load at a time

As I sit here, I'm surrounded by mountains, hills, small countries, and even different zip codes, all consisting of laundry. Some is clean. Some is dirty. Some I am unsure about. Laundry starts out small and innocent enough: a shirt here, a towel there. Over the week, however, it grows into a colossal beast from a cheesy sci-fi movie or even a science experiment gone wrong.

Oh yes. Every housewife AKA domestic goddess has a nemesis: Laundry.

In my neck of the woods, laundry is a week long endeavor. I start with the best intentions but somewhere between sorting, starting a load, putting the load in the dry, starting the dyer, taking it out of the dryer, folding it, ironing it, hanging it up, and actually putting it away I screw things up. The shit hits the fan and I say, "Oh, screw it. Emma has two pairs of underwear. It'll suffice." If I ever won the lottery, I'd pay for every mom in the world to have her laundry professionally done. Marriages would be happy! There would be cocktail hour every night, husbands would get blow jobs, and world peace would soon follow. Seriously...I'm onto something here.

Do children and husband's think there is a laundry fairy? Perhaps the envision she, the Grand Laundry Fairy, comes to their home and neatly flicks her wand to magically complete the laundry.

Don't get me wrong: I'm not lazy. Laundry and I simply have a failed connection. Give me a toilet to clean or a kitchen to scrub. I'll do windows. I'll dust. I'll mop. I'll sweep. I'll steam the carpets. I'll make beds. But laundry, oh holy hell, I hate laundry. I loathe laundry. I despise laundry. In fact, for Christmas, I asked my husband to do laundry for a month as my one and only present. Screw perfume and jewelry! Screw clothing. Screw a romantic weekend away - it'll just result in more laundry.

Sigh. It's part of my duties as a stay at home mommy. Duh, did you actually think I remain a Domestic Goddess from eating bon bons on the couch all day and watching Days of Our Lives? Once it's done, however, shit  - I have a touch down dance! I joyously parade through the house ecstatic that I completed something worthwhile in life. Hey - some people climb mountains, some people design rocket ships or cure cancer, and I contribute to society by clothing my kid in clean clothes and saving CPS a trip over here.

In case you're not convinced that laundry sucks, here is why:

1) It never ends. EVER. People keep saying the world will end on 12/21/12, and let me tell you what: the world may end, but there will always be fucking laundry. It's a commitment that never has an end in sight. Just when you think you're finished, there's always another sock or pair of panties or gym t-shirt that pops up in the most peculiar of places. I don't mind commitment. I am, after all, married. This is a give, give, give relationship. The laundry doesn't commit to jack shit. The laundry just chills like a boss while you wait on it like you're its bitch.

2) Sorting sucks. Period. There's at least five combinations: whites, dark, lights, delicate, jeans, towels, ect. And then because I hate having to making multiple trips to different closets and bedrooms, I sort each person's laundry into the former categories. I've tried to be lazy and avoid this but then if I don't sort, I end up with dingy colored t-shirts in my sock drawers, or Kevin has pink underwear, and you'll probably notice Emma wearing something that shrunk.

3) Folding. Sigh. If you were ever a teenager who worked at Hot Topic, Abercrombie and Fitch, or Hollister you know why I hate folding. There's a process to it, and then someone, (like my two year old) walks by after I meticulously folded everything and knocks it onto the floor. Parents: if your child does this in clothing store, smack their little grubby hands and tell them to have some god damn manners and pick up what they dropped. The teenager folding your clothes is getting paid around $7.25 an hour (before taxes) and this is not enough to pick up after bratty, unattended kids.

4) Putting it away. Man...it's like a marathon to do laundry. Except it's a marathon that lasts...UNTIL THE REST OF YOUR LIFE. Anyway, if you can actually get through sorting, washing, drying, folding, ironing, hanging it up...you're a saint! But putting it up is where I run out of gas. I am exhausted and give up. I promise myself it can hang out on the kitchen table or counter for 1/2 hour while I make dinner for my tot or grocery shop. I'm...so....close. And yet I have nothing left to give to the inanimate objects known as laundry. They've sucked my soul dry at this point (think demontors from Harry Potter)

The never ending pile of laundry is a STD you  can get all the medicine for, but it keeps coming back...over and over, taunting you. If I could catch up on laundry, I'd be normal, and could feel as if I'm actually making progress in terms of reassembling myself after the miscarriage.

I've included proof of the atrocious nemesis known as Mount Washmore (and this is after doing SEVERAL loads yesterday or Kevin's closet(s)). If you haven't heard from me in weeks, have no fear - just look under ones of these piles.

Mending broken fences

During the past few weeks, I've burned many bridges. I made rash decisions and acted upon pure emotion. I've said things I regret and failed to acknowledge those who deserved recognition. I subconsciously categorized friends into "those I can talk to" and "those I can't talk to".

Prior to our loss, I believed I had a firm grasp on who my friends are. Humans, however, constantly surprise me. There are friends I truly thought I could lean on for support that did not come through. It probably was not their fault; they're not able to help because they're not trained to. Simultaneously, however, there are individuals, even acquaintances, who have surprised me in the best of ways. They've provided comfort in the forms of an encouraging e-mail or offering helpful advice (and no: God is watching over your baby is NOT helpful advice, for the record).

There is one person who particularly caused me to ponder my own introspective. A few months ago, her and I dissolved our friendship. There was not much to begin with, and we weren't particularly close, but something was said and the friendship ended. Though it ended, both parties (her and I) do not regret this, and recognize it's for the best. I wish her all the best because in the grown up world, not everyone gets along. That's fine with me. This person, however, recently sent me an extremely kind text message. Her words were exactly what I needed to hear. I saw a part of her I had never seen! I saw a genuine, warm, and gracious person. Her and I texted back and forth for a bit; the conversation was not lengthy, but she knew where I was coming from. My walls came crumbling down.

This is not say allude her and I are best friends. We're not. We have not communicated since that day, but I was able to remove my goggles full of bias and examine my own actions.

I can be really harsh sometimes. I expect a lot from people. I am earnest, rash, and have a hard time sitting back before reacting. I focus on myself and what I need (as a person), and do not view the greater picture.

I am saddened that friendships I viewed as solid and concrete really aren't. This loss, however, has exposed areas of flaws and weakness within myself. These friendships suffered because I expect so much of people. By subconsciously categorizing friends into who I can or can't talk to about the miscarriage, I isolated myself and burned a lot of bridges. I had a really hard time seeing the kindness and well meaning in their words because I was so wrapped up in what I felt I *should* be hearing from them.

On the other hand, however, I'm glad to have had the chance to have powerful conversations with people I normally did not connect with. Humans are amazing. During times of sadness or loss, humans wrap their wings around others and do what they can. It may be something small like dropping off a bowl of soup, but every action is remarkable.

I'm realizing I am selfish and self absorbed. I'm coming to terms with my character flaws. There are numerous things I need to change. I have many fences to mend. I want to start, but I don't know how. Now that the miscarriage is over (the worst of it - the bleeding is really bad still), I am dedicated to moving forward and working on goals for myself. There are things I want to fix. There are things I want to work on before trying to get pregnant again.

I lack patience and understanding. I am judgmental and focus on the words rather than the meaning. I close myself off and build walls around myself because I'm angry and spiteful and would rather be by myself than act vulnerable.  I feel so broken. The loss of this pregnancy has caused me to question my abilities as a mother, woman, and person. I am examining the core of my being and not liking what I see.

It's not that I don't like myself because I do, at times. But when I remove the veil and analyze how I interacted with others over the past few weeks, I see how much I isolated myself and refused to let anybody inside the gates surrounding my heart.

How am I supposed to be a good mother to Emma, wife to Kevin, and friend to others when I am so flawed? What on earth was I thinking bringing a child into the world when I lack much needed patience and the ability to set aside my emotions?

I want to move forward with my life. I want to change the things that are bugging me. I want to remove the part of me that was so hateful and empty, lacking all kindness and turning into this slithery, cold beast. I can never be that person again who screamed at their toddler or yelled at their husband over meaningless things. I can not be the person who bitches out a close friend for not "getting it".

I've burned bridges. I regret it. Please know I'm sorry. Please know I am working to change. 

The business of healing

Grief has not been kind to me. I am a huge wreck. My life is falling apart. Suddenly I cannot talk to my husband anymore, and I have absolutely no patience with my toddler.  I am developing into a vile person. It's taking me into this dark, pessimistic bitch-the-glass-is-not-even-one-quarter-full type of gal. Yeah, nature ate a bunch of Indian food and decided to take a giant dump on my chest.

I don't even recognize myself. Emma asked for watermelon and cereal. After preparing it for her, she pushed her plate away and deemed the meal "yucky". I am such an asshole. I lost it and told Emma she could eat what I gave her or starve. And I'm pretty sure I said god damnit. And I'm 99.9 percent sure she started to cry; her little face scrunched up and she backed away. Falling to the ground, she covered her face. "So sad, mommy. So sad to you!"

It's not like I was aiming for mother of the year, but...gulp. There's nothing like breaking your two year old's heart to bring you back to reality.

Part of this darkness stems from the lack of control I have. I'm a planner. I'm organized. I like control. I believe we make our own luck; I believe  in fate, opportunity, and making the most of things. I don't believe in intelligent design or that things happen for a reason. So to me, control is awesome. Structure, order, and routine are my best friends (next to Malbec). I've tried to have a more spontaneous outlook, and guess what? The laundry doesn't get done, no one packs Emma's lunch for preschool, and I end up running out of gas. I shit you not: without me planning things, our lives fall apart. Kevin is laid back and goes with the flow; he probably eats a giant bowl of "let's chill" every morning for breakfast. This is why our relationship works! He is cool and I am OCD. I'm totally cool with this: I'll never be the person that fails a class or ends up in some freak accident because I wasn't prepared. Yeah, judge all you want but if you ever got lost in the woods with me, you'd be happy to know I generally have the best snacks around and a fully charged cell phone.

I digress. The point is: I like control. A miscarriage, however, epitomizes lack of control.  Everything is taken away. It's not knowing.  The unknown is really fucking scary. My biggest fear is being out in the ocean at night, floating. Don't get me wrong: I like water and I like the night, but combining the two with floating in ocean  is a nightmare. What's below the surface? There's no where to run. Fuuuuuuuck that! I'm at the mercy of Mother Nature (who, by the way, is probably a transvestite who wishes she could have beautiful ginger babies like Emma). Sitting around waiting for my body to pass ginger fetus 2.0 makes me a jerk.

It's hard to heal when you're carrying something like that around with you. It's hard to move forward and see the beauty around you when you're stuck in a sand pit of frustration and devastation and animosity and pain.

I miss who I was. I miss how optimistic and carefree I felt about pregnancy. Why can't I find her? It's because carrying a dead fetus is truly life changing. It changes everything, and not in the best of ways.

But there's hope. In the midst of some scary ocean with monsters and sharks...there's hope under the surface. I had a break through last night! Healing took place. There is much more that needs to happen, but instead of the usual two steps backwards into the darkness, an inch forward took place.

Yesterday afternoon, I started having contractions. Oh-holy-fuck-where's-the-advil type of contractions. As I stated earlier, I chose to not have a d&c (at the last minute) because I needed to be home and to endure this by myself. Anyway, the contractions were not exactly pleasant, but I promised myself I would remain calm. I did! 8 hours later, I breathed through it. It was just like labor, but a mini version. I chose to have faith in myself and my body. I needed the closure. I knew that until the miscarriage was over, this ugly heaviness was going to be carried in my heart.

Buckets of blood. Hours of pain. Clots. Contractions. Swearing. Cursing. Doubling over. Everything passed. In that moment, I felt instant relief; the waves of pain ceased, and there was a calm within my body. Peace surrounded my heart, as my body let go of the pregnancy.

I fished the little sac out of the shower. Placing it in a ceramic bowl, I stared at the golf ball size mess of tissue, fluid, and a tiny tiny tiny fetus. It was as if time had suspended in my womb, perfectly preserving the baby.

We buried little Jack or Amelia that night. I said good bye. I won't elaborate on what I said as I buried the fetus because it's highly personal, and I'd like to keep that part to myself. Nonetheless, it felt right.

I am content with my decision to avoid the d&c. Each woman must choose what's right for her. To some, it's having a d&c, and for others, such as myself, a natural miscarriage at home is in order. I needed to give up control. My body needed to let go of the pregnancy. I couldn't force this to happen, but allowing my body to lead me into a place of closure was truly cathartic. 

Afterward, Kevin and I talked early into the morning. I told him everything I previously could not. The hopes for little Jack of Amelia. The dreams I had. How much sadness and grief I'm feeling. How much the pregnancy means. He listened and I felt heard. Heartfelt apologies were made, except it wasn't sophomoric like some cheesy Lifetime movie. Kevin opened his heart to me, and it was truly amazing to be connecting and really talking to one another again. He has a beautiful spirit. This is the man I am supposed to be with. In those moments of quiet intimacy, we saw each other for who we are. Forgiveness is such freedom. Letting go of the anger and resentment marks a new chapter in the healing process.

It's a long road ahead, but I am not feeling so fearful. I trust Kevin and know he is walking beside me, his hand in mine. The grief is not quite as raw; it is there, but there is peace taking root.

It's a great feeling.

Frustrations

Perhaps what is most frustrating for me is that not everyone considers a miscarriage to be a "real" loss. In their mind, the pregnancy is a bunch of cells that never formed into a person; a person with a personality, goals, and the physical presence we associate with what is real and what is not. Though the pregnancy is personally connected to me, the idea of the pregnancy as a person is quite abstract to others. They know it existed, but they really have nothing to associate with the developing baby.

Humans have a need to "brand" others: We ask questions to remove uncertainty surrounding the person. It's an evolutionary device aiding in survival and human connections. By asking questions, we assign meaning to a person. We remove the uncertainty. This is how we bond and build relationships. We're curious about their family, movie choice, or favorite food. We ask where they grew up or what they do for a living. What's their favorite song? Who is their favorite actor? The list goes on.

A miscarriage, however, does not lend a physical person to assign meaning to. I am the only one who bonded.  This is not to say society, in general, is heartless and inconsiderate. This is to say that society often uses the terms "sympathy" and "empathy" as interchangeable when they're not.

Sympathy and empathy are separate terms with some very important distinctions. Sympathy and empathy are both acts of feeling, but with sympathy you feel for the person; you’re sorry for them or pity them, but you don’t specifically understand what they’re feeling. Sometimes we’re left with little choice but to feel sympathetic because we really can’t understand the plight or predicament of someone else. It takes imagination, work, or possibly a similar experience to get to empathy.

Empathy can best be described as feeling with the person. Notice the distinction between for and with. To an extent you are placing yourself in that person’s place, have a good sense of what they feel, and understand their feelings to a degree. It may be impossible to be fully empathetic because each individual's reactions, thoughts and feelings to tragedy are going to be unique. Yet the idea of empathy implies a much more active process. Instead of feeling sorry for, you’re sorry with and have clothed yourself in the mantle of someone else’s emotional reactions.

Please don't think I expect family or friends to stop their lives and focus on me. Don't hold my hand and chant. Don't make me a CD with "soothing" whale noises. Just recognize that telling me,  "Yeah, my day sucked, too. I spilled coffee on myself in my car and my cat threw up on the carpet," is not having empathy for me. Stating, "I know exactly what you're going through," is a lie unless you've experienced the same thing. Comparing a miscarriage to your cat throwing up on your carpet makes me feel like you're minimizing my loss. It hurts!

I'm really scared. I am terrified I am going to sabotage my marriage. What happens if Kevin cannot understand my grief? What if I become bitter and hateful? What if I become a resentful woman? He is sad and tries to be helpful, but he does not get it. He lacks empathy because he wasn't pregnant.  He truly is a good man, though! He helps me care for Emma, makes meals, and fills any requests I have. Despite his goodness, I am having a difficult time emotionally connecting with him.  It's only been a few weeks, and he seems to have moved on. When he comes home from work, he smiles. He plays with Emma. He makes jokes, and when I don't reciprocate, he asks, "What's wrong?" I'll feel the anger rising and I'll screech, "Our baby is rotting in my uterus! It's dead! I am grieving. I cannot wrestle with you and Emma!" I will find myself burning and the adrenaline pumping. I find myself physically biting my tongue because if I'm not careful, my emotions will get the best of me. I'll end up saying something that will forever scar our marriage.

Last night was rough. He was putting Emma to bed, and she was not listening. Kevin was speaking to her sharply, his nerves on edge. Emma kept crying and asking for me. Although I am bleeding profusely, I carried Emma in my arms to the bathroom in order to brush her teeth. Kevin glared at me and said, "You're spoiling her. This is why she acts like a brat. She knows you'll come to the rescue." He might as well have shanked me. Seriously. The contempt I feel towards this comment is astounding. Emma needed me! She is two years old! Our routine is out of whack and I'm an emotional mess; it's not her fault things are messy at home. It's not her fault I'm despondent. The least I can do is comfort her. She is my child. I'm desperately desperately trying to step out of this shell of who I currently am, and get back to who I was: her loving mother.

 The shooting in CT has consumed me and I feel sorrow for all that were touched by the tragedy. After putting Emma to bed, Kevin and I were discussing the tragedy. Through tears, I told him how I admire the teachers who protected the children with their utmost strength. Some died for these children! That is unconditional love! As a mother, I can understand that love, and I am deeply affected. The devotion of the Sandy Hook faculty gives me a glimmer of hope in humanity. I cannot imagine the fear the teachers felt as the gunman entered the room. I can't imagine the horror as he pulled the trigger.

 Kevin stared at me as if I was a nut job. Don't get me wrong: he isn't devoid of feels, but he views the shooting as a tragedy and is taking a political stance (gun control vs more slack gun control laws). I, however, mourn the students and faculty, and am beyond saddened by the tragedy. I am haunted by the the faces of those lost.

I don't know how to convey the realness of this pregnancy.  How much I think about it. How much I carry it with me. How I cannot get out of this deep funk and dark place. I am terrified of becoming resentful of him. My birthday was on the 14th and he wanted to go out and celebrate. What?! Go out? I am bleeding buckets of blood and losing our baby. I am aching and cramping and having fucking contractions as my body lets go of our baby...and he wanted to go out. Does he not understand I am an inch away from losing it?!

It is selfish to think of this as "my" loss - because this baby belonged to both of us. But why am I the only one acting like something happened? Why am I the only one who cried? Why were his first words, "It's okay. We'll try again." In my mind, this is our CHILD. This pregnancy was Jack or Amelia - everything I wanted for them has been stolen from me.

I am not comparing my loss of this pregnancy to the loss of the lives at Sandy Hook Elementary. Please do not think I am. It's more that with a tragedy such as the shooting, my heart is breaking for their families. The pain I feel for my own loss is nothing compared to the parents and family of those lost at Sandy Hook. Losing the baby, however, has put me in tune with my emotions and from a place of grief for my own loss, I am also grieving for their families and what they lost. And in both instances, I don't think Kevin can understand where I am coming from.

It makes me feel alone and desolate. He is my life partner and yet we're not connecting. I don't know what to say to make him understand. I found this blog (written by a man) and I think he does a beautiful and eloquent job of describing miscarriage from a male point of view (which is here, please read). I am envious and jealous this man has a firm grasp on his introspective. I wish my own husband could understand this.

If anyone has advice, please send me a quick message. I am afraid.

P.S. I am obsessed with this video. The video is cool, but the music is my favorite. It's so soothing and quiet. I listen to it while I write. Maybe you'll like it, too. Did You Know 2.0

Another year older

" Happpppppppy birrrrrrthdayyyyyy to Mommmmmmmmmmmy!" - Emma

At 7:16 a.m., Emma pounced in my Den Of Warmth AKA my bed. Small children are insanely precious at times. They're ever so purposeful in all that they do. The have an intense sense of intuition, and oftentimes, between the grime and messes and poop, they do things that bring such peace to your life. Maybe it's just me. Who knows?

Her feet like popsicles against my back, Emma whispered, "Mommy, I am not going to school today." Ah, that's why she's being so sweet! You see, yesterday Emma had a very "spirited" day at preschool. When I arrived to pick Emma up, her teacher was almost in tears. She looked exasperated and frustrated. I truly did feel for her. Teaching preschool is very demanding and requires a great deal of patience, love, and energy.

Walking into the classroom, Emma ran to my arms. She fell forward, a mess of tears and snot and leftover cookie crumbs. With a deep vengeance, Emma pointed her finger and yelled, "Mommy, Miss Elriva ("Miss Elvira"), put me in time out! So rude! She is so sad!" She stamped her foot, condemning the sweet teacher. "You need to go to time out! Go see your mommy. Emma will not listen to you!"Gulp. Golly gee! Could the floor please swallow me? Embarrassment and horrified do not begin to describe my reaction.

Emma is having a problem using her listening ears and looking eyes. Part of this stems from the fact her classroom does not have an attached bathroom, so when she needs to go potty, one of her teachers has to venture out to take her to the bathroom down the hall. Whilst doing so, Emma runs away and hides. She will not come back into the classroom, and yells in the hallway, thus disrupting other classrooms. In this particular instance, when her teachers managed to wrangle her back in, she was placed in time out.  Emma responded by morphing into Demon Toddler. She kicked, wailed, and cried. She roared with rage, demanding her blankie, and declaring she was "not going to sit in time out." Sigh. I came in on the tail end of it.

While I do sympathize with her teachers, I don't think they handled it properly. They punished her in front of the class, and they told me this happens a lot. When I asked to see logged documentation, they had none to give me. When I asked why Emma was receiving daily report sheets stating "played well and listened", if she was not doing the former, I was not really given a straight answer. Her teachers are very sweet, but they're also elderly and from a different generation. They expect Emma to listen the first time. While this would be great in a perfect world, Emma needs consistency, firmness, and you must mean what you say and say what you mean. Sounds like a lot, I know. 

Long story even longer: I was not pleased, and Kevin and I had a very strict discussion with her. We told her she has to apologize to her teacher, and when she does not listen - she loses privileges that are in the near future (such as taking away a favorite toy or staying home from the park).

While some children are docile and well behaved, Emma is extremely challenging. She is consistently questioning authority, pushing the limits, trying to strike the boundaries. She is a white hot flame bursting with energy and spunk. She is also very stubborn and strong willed: rarely does she back down from anything in life. She even stands up for not only herself, but other children. Oddly enough, she is always the "mother hen" of the playgroup, and has much empathy for others. I see so much good in her, but her fierceness scares me at times. There are times to blaze your own path, but there are also times to listen and absorb. I am not sure how to teach her these things.

Anyway: back to my birthday.

It's come to my attention that not everyone likes pity parties. This, admittedly, kicked me in the gut because I’m throwing the biggest one of 2012. Haven’t you heard? I’m even dedicating a blog in which I spill the details of what it’s like to fall in love with a pregnancy and then, gasp!, miscarry right after you told everyone how utterly thrilled you are (insert  "It's my party" by Leslie Gore).

The irony, oh the irony.

When I first found out I was pregnant, I made a joke to a friend. “While all of y’all were on Pinterst weaving fall baskets and recycling your urine into super cool crafts, I was so crafty I have freaking life inside me. Hell yeah!”

Then the shit hit the fan. But anyway, happy birthday to me! I’m 23 and have yet to kick the bucket so that’s something to celebrate.

In all seriousness, I am canceling my pity party for today. Though I am still feeling an immense amount of grief and anger, I am starting to realize I cannot let this consume me. It's easier said than done. I'm stuck in this crappy place. Maybe it's like that for alcoholics: they know what they're doing is not healthy and probably will have negative outcomes, but they continue to drink anyway. This is not to say my situation is the same as an alcoholic, but to identify that when you're in pain and in a shitty place in your life, or maybe making choices you know aren't beneficial, you can have the cognitive differentiation to comprehend they're not positive choices. 

For instance, I know wallowing in my grief and ignoring everyone around me is not beneficial. But guess what? I can't do anything else! A friend texted me last night saying I needed to get out in order to heal, and I appreciate her honesty - I do, but I am in such a crappy place right now that I cannot tell if it was tough love or her being insensitive.

Yeah - I'm that warped. I want to believe it came from a good place. She is my friend, and I consider her to be a close one. I think she was trying to be helpful, but I felt so freaking defensive about it. 

In that regard, I am making choices and thinking thoughts that aren't productive. So for today, today I will cancel my pity party. I will answer my phone when people call (with the exception of the 7 I missed this morning due to my phone being on silent) and I will smile. I am going to do dishes, and the laundry. Emma is pretty sick, but I'm going to let her nap in my bed and watch movies with me. 

I am going to celebrate the good things in my life. I am surrounded by loved ones and concerned friends. I have a beautiful little girl. I have a handsome hubby who I deeply love. 

Even if I cannot ease the grief, anger, and devastation, I will ignore them for today and focus on what is worth celebrating. Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to meeeeee!

*Three positives from yesterday:

1) I aced three of my five finals. I have one ungraded and one to take Saturday.

2) Kevin and I had a very constructive conversation about our plans for 2013.

3) Emma counted to 23. Go Emma! 

4) I only said the 'f' word about 2342423432 times instead of the usual 4346464862384623846234.

Working on goals

Earlier this week, I posted some goals I have for myself. They're pretty small and nothing worthy of the Nobel Peace Prize, though I am working on them, slowly but surely.

Here they are in case you don't feel like reading the novel that is my blog.

1) Wake up in the morning and write down three positive things about yesterday. It can be anything.
2) Make an effort to leave my home, even if to check the mail or go to the store for milk.
3) Call one of my friends for coffee (this seems terrifying to me. Oh lord.)
4) Start being productive around home. Do one load of laundry a day. Cook a meal. Mail off a few bills.
5) Make a list of those to Christmas shop for. I have not done ANYTHING in this department.
6) Have more patience. Stop being on edge.
7) Remind myself this is loss. It is nothing personal. Sometimes life sucks and I need a fucking huge ass nerd helmet. Hell, I'll even take head gear if it means I'll feel better.
8) Do something nice for myself. I am not sure what this is yet.
9) Plan something special to do with Kevin and Emma
10)  Find a mantra. Memorize it. Repeat when I feel inadequate or things get pretty dark.

*I need to work on number one daily. Here it goes:

(1) Yesterday while driving home from my in laws house, Emma and I rolled down the windows. We listened to Semisonic's "Closing Time". On the chorus where it states, "I know who I want to take me home, I know who I want to take me home, take me home...", Emma would triumphantly yell, "MOMMY!" from the back seat, her arms raised in fists. Yeah - that's right: my kiddo thinks I am pretty cool. Don't mind if I take a bow here and there. (2) I talked to someone about something that hopefully will help them make better decisions in life. I won't elaborate on the conversation, but I think I shone some light on some conflicting things for them. It's not because I'm an expert or super smart: it's because I made the same decision (over and over) and wish someone had told me. (3) I fell asleep last night with the help of one sleeping pill. Usually it's 2-3. I'm not sure if my body shut down due to total exhaustion, but hey - I got 6 hours of sleep...until a certain toddler jumped on Kevin and I in mid-slumber, crushing Kevin's baby maker. LOL. It was pretty funny; Kevin was cowering under our covers begging me to remove her from our room. Poor hubster :-(

(2) I took Emma to preschool. And I went to target. I avoided going to Walmart because although Walmart is definitely cheaper (I needed photo paper), I looked so disgusting that I didn't want to end up on peopleofwalmart.com (seriously - it's real) Feel free to laugh here.  Nobody has invested a sloppymomsoftarget website, so I'm pretty safe for now.

I have not called any friends. I don't know what to say. I'm so awkward and don't want to deal with the elephant in the room, aka the death of ginger fetus 2.0. I probably won't ever talk to anyone about it. It's such a buzzkill and it makes me pissy.

The rest of my goals aren't happening, but I did do a load of laundry. I just forgot to put it in the dryer. Or fold it. Or hang it up. So I need to add "complete laundry from start to finish" to my goals. It was an effort, RIGHT?

Find a mantra? Gee. How about all-I-want-for-Christmas-is-my-uterus-to-not-suck? Yeah. Sounds pretty catchy. I foresee advertisements piggy backing on that one, and making catchy jingles. Better yet, fertility centers should jump on this while it's not copy righted!

I kid, I kid.

All in all, today is not terrible. Emma is at preschool. I took two finals, dropped off a prescription, and swear to shower before picking her up. OR.....I could lounge on my couch in my PJs and watch LOST!

Sigh. Still waiting. I've always been terrible at waiting. I don't think we can get past this until something happens. It's this ugly thing between Kevin and I; it's always on my mind, and just when I forget for a brief moment I remember there is a dead baby in my uterus, and it's probably breaking apart. Christ almighty, I am so morbid. But it's true: those are my thoughts.

 Off to shower and pick up my unruly bambina from school. I think deserves and ice cream and I'm 99.9 percent sure I degree a giant coffee with a healthy heaping of alcohol (...seriously, Starbucks is missing out on some lucrative sales, here!). In all seriousness, no liquor for me, but coffee is a must. I also promised Emma I would take her to the park.

We'll see how it pans out.

The waiting game

Something I've been surprised about is that there is so much pressure to make a decision. At this point, I'm sort of depleted of energy and don't-really-give-a-fuck so every decision feels...enormous. It's overwhelming and this chore that I have to force myself to do.

This includes showers, doing the dishes, and playing with Emma. Most worrisome to me is that Emma should be my top priority, but I've been reduced to this loser mom who lets Emma eat Lunchables all day, drink juice boxes, color wherever the hell she wants, and oh - we watch T.V. ALL DAY (insert cries of horror and shrieks of death).

Yes, in your local theaters I'm sure there will be an upcoming horror film about me: The Mom Who Killed Her Child's Soul.

I need to get on the ball. We've watched almost everything on netflix via instant play. It's just so much easier to lounge on the couch in our PJ's and eat unhealthy food.

I'm paralyzed by grief. I am not in denial; that stage lasted about 2.3 seconds. Instead, I most paralyzed because I have to choose if I am going to have a d&c or a natural miscarriage.

I'm sure you're confused at this point thinking, "But you already had a miscarriage?" In that sense - yes, I already did. But there are several different types of miscarriages - not just one. If you're curious, all the info is here. To save you some reading, however, the type of miscarriage we had is the following:

Missed Miscarriage: Women can experience a miscarriage without knowing it. A missed miscarriage is when embryonic death has occurred but there is not any expulsion of the embryo. It is not known why this occurs. Signs of this would be a loss of pregnancy symptoms and the absence of fetal heart tones found on an ultrasound.

And this sucks because it's this shitty purgatory spot to be. I know the fetus is dead (at around 8 and a half weeks or so), but it's still...inside me.I feel the weight of this decision. Once it's done, it's done: I cannot take it back, and if I fuck it up, then it'll haunt me forever. Vision of dead baby ghosts who are disappointed in me flash across my brain. Yeah, I'm that morbid.

What I find most odd, nonetheless, is I have had only spotting and light bleeding. Oh, and cramps from hell. And back pain like no other. But nothing else. The night I realized I was no longer pregnant, my back began to ache. I mean fucking ACHE. Like you're about to give birth. My husband cooked eggs and the smell didn't make me hurl. I went to pee and there was spotting. I instantly realized what was happening. We were losing the baby. Nature was fucking RIPPING our baby from my body. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop it. That's probably why you feel so helpless because as a mother, you want to do everything in your power to reverse the harm, and yet...you're sitting there bleeding, knowing the baby is no longer viable.

It's a hard pill to swallow. The doubt sets in. The seed is planted. You start to think, "If fucking 16 year olds on Teen Mom can get pregnant in a god damned corn field or crack addicts can deliver healthy babies, WHY THE HELL DID MY PREGNANCY JUST END?!" That's why I don't believe it's an act of God. I refuse to believe there is a God who steals babies from nice chicks to charted for a year and have already picked out a nursery theme. If so, screw you, ass. 

So we're waiting.

My doctor said I can have a miscarriage at home, naturally, or I can have a d&c (read the details

here).

Essentially though, in a d&c the procedure includes dilating your cervix and scraping everything out. Then all the contents is sucked up and thrown away. If you have a miscarriage at home, your body expels the contents of the pregnancy on its own. It is like a mini labor or a really, really, really, really bad period. It can last for days or be over in hours.

For some women, the d&c is the best option. They schedule an appointment and have the pregnancy removed (as it's already dead). They can move on with their life. They can start to heal. To others, the d&c is too invasive and unnecessary. They receive closure from having the miscarriage at home.

In my case, I do not want to have a d&c. Although I am pro-choice, this procedure seems too much like an abortion to me. I want a different path for my baby. Nature has already chosen my baby will die, but I want to trust my body and have faith it will know what to do. Moreover, I am so happy to live in a pro-choice country, where I have the right to choose what procedure I want. A woman must choose what is right for her; nobody can make that decision for you.

The hard part about waiting to have a miscarriage at home is the waiting. It's waiting. And waiting. And waiting. Your body will start to spot and you'll have terrible cramps...and then nothing. Nothing. Emotionally it's very hard, too. I know there is dead fetus inside me. My hopes and dreams are gone. I am carrying the heaviness of my loss. I’m suffocating beneath it, but I cannot bring myself to have a stranger suck the pregnancy out. It’s too much.

My body is fighting to keep the pregnancy intact because it's doing what it's supposed to do. It does not know the pregnancy is dead. Somewhere in all those nerves, muscle, blood, and systems my did not get the memo. It was lost in translation. I am trying to love my body because I know it’s doing what it is supposed to. I am trying to not be angry because it’s not my bodies fault. Sometimes pregnancies just…end. They never really get much of a start. 

But because we're waiting, I am stuck. I don't want to leave my house. I don't want to do anything. I have so much anxiety thinking, "WHAT IF IT STARTS TO HAPPEN HERE?!!!!" I mean, it's ridiculous, but the thoughts are there.

The seed of doubt has been planted. No matter what happens in my life, the doubt will be there. I have so much self-doubt. It’s in everything I do. I am afraid to do anything because I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to feel the searing pain knowing I sucked at something millions of people can do. I was taking a final the other night, and I gave up. I gave up on myself and my 4.0 GPA. I just…walked out. I could not take it.

The grief and anger I have are talking, I know.

Did I mention I'm sucking at completing the goals I posted a few days ago? I don't have a mantra except for, "I don't want to get out of bed. Or shave my legs. Or check the mail." I haven't called a friend for coffee or gone to a play date. I have not noticed anything happy in my life. There is happiness - it's THERE. It's just BURIED and I'm doubtful and ridiculous and a huge fucking sloppy mess.

Sigh.

Today is a bad day. A really bad day. I need a giant coffee and my fetus back. Everything would be okay. If we're friends or you don't wish the shitiest death upon my soul, please let me know that I am being a big baby and life will be okay. At some point.

Perception as reality

Perception and reality are often viewed to be one. This is because the process of perception is extremely unique. Though there are always five stages of perception, the stages are highly influenced by an array of characteristics such as life experiences, culture, self-concept, judges of attribution, and particularly the basis on consensus, consistency, distinctiveness, and controllability (if you're curious how I know this, it's from a course I took. This is nothing that I made up myself, of course).

Memory and recall (the last two of the five stages) are highly finicky; we choose to remember what we wish to remember, and we do not always remember everything we originally selected to be organized (such as choosing  a stimuli to attend to).

In laymen's terms: If I perceive myself to be happy, perhaps I can will myself to believe such.

In this instance, I am analyzing my perception of what truly happened in the case of our loss, the miscarriage. I find myself to be extremely emotional and feeling like the victim. Woe is me! Why must this happen? Why me? Why not someone else? What did I do to deserve this? I am also very defensive and refuse to discuss this with anybody (with the exception of the grief counselor I will be seeing soon). I can talk about it with Kevin, but that's it. Not my grandmother. Not my mom. Not my close friends. When anybody calls to talk about it with me, I feel extremely...violated. I want to say, "Dude. Back the fuck off. I'll answer my phone when I want to talk to you. Stop taking it personal. I need my space. Go enjoy your life and leave me to wallow in my feelings of worthlessness."

It is my hope that by viewing the stark facts and removing the emotion from the experience, I will be able to see the situation for what it was: a terrible and unfortunate occurrence. A spontaneous act of tragedy. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Facts:
We charted to get pregnant. We planned this.
I was healthy. I lost weight and worked out. I changed my diet. I took daily vitamins.
The pregnancy took.
I continued to eat well and exercise. I gave up caffeine. I bought the best prenatal pills on the market.
My back started to hurt. Sharp, deep pains. I had spotting.
The pregnancy is no longer viable.
I do not know why this happened. I do not know if it something I did.

On paper, it feels like I am not at fault. I did everything I was "supposed" to do. Yet my perception of the situation could not be further away. I cannot untangle myself from the web of emotions and feelings of blame.

I cannot help but feel so violated and angry.

Sigh.

It's going to be a long, messy road in front of me. I am going to get through this, though. I have to. I must do it for Kevin. I have to do this for Emma. Most of all, I must do it for myself because what good am I when I have little to energy and am feeling like I cannot accomplish jack shit?

So I am setting some goals for myself. They are small. Don't laugh.

1) Wake up in the morning and write down three positive things about yesterday. It can be anything.
2) Make an effort to leave my home, even if to check the mail or go to the store for milk.
3) Call one of my friends for coffee (this seems terrifying to me. Oh lord.)
4) Start being productive around home. Do one load of laundry a day. Cook a meal. Mail off a few bills.
5) Make a list of those to Christmas shop for. I have not done ANYTHING in this department.
6) Have more patience. Stop being on edge.
7) Remind myself this is loss. It is nothing personal. Sometimes life sucks and I need a fucking huge ass nerd helmet. Hell, I'll even take head gear if it means I'll feel better.
8) Do something nice for myself. I am not sure what this is yet.
9) Plan something special to do with Kevin and Emma
10)  Find a mantra. Memorize it. Repeat when I feel inadequate or things get pretty dark.


These are much easier written than done. But I am going to try. I need to focus my energy elsewhere. I need to stop wallowing in my own personal pity party. There is too much goodness and beauty around me. It's just covered by an insane amount of shit and fog and anger and devastation.

Why is it easy to recognize what you have, but hard to change the things you don't like about yourself?

Fuck you, Nature. Fuck off.

To Baby Borchgrevink

Dear Baby Borchgrevink

I do not know if you’re a boy or a girl. I do not know what your fingers are like. I don’t know what it feels like when you kick inside of me. I was never given a chance to do so. I do, however, know what unconditional love is. 

You are wanted, even from the moment of your very existence. You are cherished. You are treasured and deeply loved.  Before you were even conceived, I thought of you and fell in love. Sometimes you hear couples talk of love at first sight; though I believe they are committed to one another and have concrete feelings, I also firmly believe love at first sight is seeing the first sonogram. The screen is fuzzy and you’re questioning if that’s an arm or a belly, but the love is there. Love at first sight is also felt when seeing the first pregnancy test affirming a positive result. With such knowledge, the seed is planted and continually flourishes. 

I dream of you. I dream of your face. I dream of your baby noises. I have a dream in which I have given you a bath, and am in your nursery rocking you back and forth. Your eyes are closed, your body tightly swaddled.  Like Emma, you are long-lashed, but your chin and cheeks are your own. Holding you to my chest, my heartbeat is a lullaby. I breathe in your scent; you are clean and smell like hope, love, and fulfillment. You drift off to sleep, and in the soft darkness of your room, I am content. I am whole.

I dream of you as a toddler. You are inquisitive and fearless.  Other times you’re shy and cautious, looking to your father or me for support. Emma holds your hand and is your partner in crime. You have a lovable laugh and a liking for nature. Emma bestows crowns made from wildflowers upon you. Your back is turned to me, in this particular dream, and when you turn around – you are smiling. The sun is behind you, lighting up your body. You are happy. You race towards me, flinging yourself into my arms, and I inhale your scent. No longer do you smell of baby shampoo, but the warm sunshine and earth; your hands are dirty from digging for treasure with Princess Emma. You call me, “mommy,” and I call you “my darling love”. 

But it is here I wake up. My mind does not allow these dreams to go further because it’s such a dark unknown. Beneath the feelings of love there is a deep sense of loss, a subconscious level of truth. Despite dreaming of you, my heart knows these are only dreams and you are gone. My subconscious will not allow me to think beyond your early years. It is much too painful. It simply hurts too much.

From the moment you were conceived, your father and I have been ecstatic to meet you. We lay in bed, wrapped together in the sheets, and talk of you. What color are your eyes? Will you be feisty like Emma or perhaps quiet natured? We dream about the sort of man or woman you’ll grow up to be. How we will raise you. How we will always love you. Please remember you are always wanted. 

If you’re a Jack, I want to teach you to be strong yet also tender. I want you to have empathy for others and to not be a good but great man. I want you to disregard the simplicity of male stereotypes, what a man is “supposed” to be, and embrace who you are designed to be: the individual encompassing succinct yet undefinable layers. Open the door for women. Learn to cook. Listen to your heart, but also consider your mind.  I want you to work hard and accomplish anything and everything you can. I want you to be confident in whom you are; there will be times you will be tested. Knowing your true self is vital in times like these. Buy flowers for your future wife. Learn the art of Eskimo kissing. Don’t be afraid to stand up for your beliefs. I want you to read the best bedtime stories to your children.  I want to dance with you at your wedding. I want to grow old knowing you are happy, knowing I gave all my strength into being the best mother I could be. I miss you so much, and it’s only been a few days.

If you’re an Amelia, I want similar things for you. Rise above the female stereotypes of the world. I wish for you to never feel small. Brains are even more important than beauty, and a woman’s self-worth is not measured by who she is dating, but who she is.  I want you to be fierce; you must be fierce because if you’re not the world is a troubling place. It can be disheartening. I want you to be nurturing and warm. Love others. Accept others. Flaws make for interesting dinner party conversation. I hope for you to have grace and passion, to follow your convictions. Marry a man who cherishes and honors you, knowing you complete one another. Explore your dreams and make choices that affect your future in the brightest of ways. Dance and sing. Play instruments. Never look down on those who are less fortunate than you. I wish for you to speak eloquently and to have self-assurance. It’s okay to cry and need someone. I want everything good for you – it is selfish to want so much, true, but you deserve it. 

Although you are gone, this is not goodbye. I can never forget you. I feel saddened that I will never be able to hold you. I feel such heartbreak knowing very few people know you are part of this world. I am having an incredibly hard time coming to terms with that simple fact that you have been stolen from my body. Our family will always miss you because you’re the missing piece.  You will always be our second child. 

Despite such, you are buried in my heart. I am holding you here. I refuse to let nature be the keeper of you, and as your mother, I will fight to reclaim whatever aspects of you I can. Though not physically, you will remain with me. The hopes, wishes, dreams, and love I have for you cannot be taken away. It’s here you’re remembered. There are going to be times I need you so much. It’s going to hurt like hell. Even in this moment, I ache for you, my arms begging to hold you, my womb desperate to feel you kicking and present. 

I am trying to be strong because Emma and Daddy need me. They need me as much as I need them. I am stuck in a gutting wrenching place: as your mother, I want to stay in the moment, remembering the short time I had with you. I know I cannot stay here, paralyzed in grief.  Please forgive me. I will write again soon.

Thinking of you.

Sleep, why are you so shy?

Though the pain of my loss is ever present, the daylight hours are number. The pain is there, but it's slightly duller. Maybe it's because my mind is focusing on my almost three year old, who has, admittedly, turned into the spawn of Satan. Yeah - whoever told you about terrible twos LIED: It's the threes you're going to have to worry about.

Yesterday she emptied a bag of sharp cheddar cheese onto my black living room rug. She proceeded to dance upon it, singing the theme song to Yo Gabba Gabba. Followed by this act of love, she converted my bathroom into a slip and slide. Have you ever wondered how many bubbles a bottle of lavender shampoo and toilet water can make? If so, you're in for a treat! Oh! Here's a great one to add to the baby book: she scaled the kitchen counters. Clearly, Emma has amazing fine motor skills. She easily opened sealed garlic and paprika powders. Dancing in her underwear upon the counter, and hopefully not foreshadowing a career as an exotic dancer, she dumped the spices out, a vibrant parade of creme and rusty red filling the air.

 The end result? My home smells like the filthiest whorehouse on the planet: old cheese and garlic with a hint of lavender shampoo failing to mask the assaulting odor.

During the day, I try to be cheerful. Despite Emma's moments of demon-hood, she is extremely intelligent, loving, intuitive,  and daring. I love her spirit! One day she'll be a professional bad ass if she doesn't get sidetracked by that pesky counter. I try not to let my sadness and grief eclipse her day. Her shenanigans are age appropriate and she has joy. She deserves joy. She deserves to feel this before becoming hardened to the world.

I ventured outside for about 1/2 an hour yesterday. I picked leaves with her. We found acorns. We collected pine cones. We listened to the traffic off Westheimer, and enjoyed the sunshine - until I had the worst heartburn of my life from whatever the hell I ate. I ran inside to consume 3468534986534865 pounds of Tums. I could not stand to be inside, feeling the aching vulnerability of the loss.

Regardless, the days are hard. I cannot lay on my sofa and cry. I can't pour a glass of wine. I cannot watch trashy daytime t.v. so I can have this awesome confidence boost. There's nothing that makes you feel better when you know that at least you're not on Jerry Springer trying to differentiate if the father of your baby is a horse or one of the many men who ran a train on you. Yeah, pure class right there.

I am bitter aren't I? In the last few paragraphs I have spewed judgmental and vile things. My fingers are like venom as I type. I should not attack the weak (so I promise not to make any Teen Mom or Ke$ha jokes).

During the day I put my energy into coping. For being strong for Emma. For not bursting into tears when she comments about the baby in my tummy, especially when we're playing babies. I do not want my grief to take away the beauty of my relationship with Emma. I am very close with her - only a mother could understand.

It is very difficult, though. Never have I felt so challenged. Not when I worked full time and took 18 hours while taking care of Emma, too. Not the 100 page papers I've written. Not running a half marathon. Not even organizing a toddler playgroup (which is a jungle within itself).

By the evening, I am drained dry.  Have you ever tried to fake happiness when you really wanted to crawl into bed with a bottle of vodka? Yea - that's every second of the past few days. My husband comes home around 7 and I am so ashamed. My house is still messy, and there are still dishes to be done. There are probably bags of cheddar cheese on the floor. There is probably a toilet Emma didn't flush. There are, however, beautiful bouquets of flowers placed around the house, absentmindedly as I never know where to put them. See? I'm already seeing a silver lining to my rain cloud.

Kevin, oh Kevin. Bless his heart.. He comes home from work and tells me I look pretty. He doesn't say anything about my lack of domestic skills. I swear - someone took a vacuum and shoved the hose down my throat, only to take whatever skills I had in cleaning and mopping and starting the washing machine. He will quietly start dinner, and bring me the side sleeper deluxe (his pillow, the one I covet) to me and lay me on the couch. He feeds Emma, and bathes her. He cleans up the kitchen, and rubs my feet.

Eventually, though, he becomes tired. He works about 65 hours a week, and around 12 a.m. he must go to sleep.

This is where the hard part starts. My body and heart are physically and mentally exhausted. My eyes feel scratchy, begging for sleep. Though my brain - fuck my brain, it insists I stay away, haunting me with the moment I realized I miscarried. It screws with me as I analyze every cup of coffee, every time I accidentally missed a prenatal vitamin, the time I had sushi; the time I took ibuprofen without knowing Tylenol should be my drug of choice. It's so much what if's. It's so many if only's. It's so many could've-would've-should've.

Sleep is so shy. Sleep lurks behind the furniture and Christmas tree, and I am like Peter Pan chasing my own shadow - chasing something I need to be whole. If I could just sleep, I could think clearly. I could feel restored and ready to face the day ahead of me; the forced happiness, the patience I must have when my toddler has a meltdown or refuses to eat something she has eaten the last three years of her life.

The strength to not fall to the ground, my leg and arms a chubby mess of rage as I let everything out.

Maybe I don't need a grief counselor: maybe I need a good old fashioned temper tantrum. It seems like a cathartic experience. Emma is subdued after one. She lays there, her heavy-lashed eyes blinking, her small chest heaving, and she will suddenly say, "Alright, Mommy. Let's go color. I am ready to color."

If only things were that easy. I can't just lose it though. If I lose it, I don't think I'll ever be able to stop.