Saturday, October 15, 2011


Some wounds just won't heal.
No matter how much time has passed, no matter how different you are now, some wounds stay raw and painful.
My miscarriage is one such wound.
And every year, on this day, it bleeds anew.
Nine years. It doesn't feel like nine years. It feels like just an instant ago, and yet I know exactly how many minutes have passed.
Four million, seven hundred and thirty three thousand, two hundred and eighty minutes.
And I've felt every one of them.
In every joy, it's a shadow. With every pain, its another stone weighing me down. Every smile harbors a hint of sadness.
Because in my heart, there are always four.
Four faces around my table.
Four voices in my ear.
Four babies in my heart.
But that many minutes, that many breaths, I have learned a few things.
I used to think my first question to the Divine when I finally stopped would be, "Why?"
Now I know that answer. Because I wasn't ready. Because it wasn't time. Because it would have been too much.
The answer sucks, but I get it. Looking back, I know its true.
So my new question would be, "Where?"
As in "Where is my child?"
I've always believed we get the child we're meant to have when we're meant to have it. I know I'm meant to have Bug, Boo, and Punk right now. I know, despite ho weak I feel, I'm strong enough to meet Bug's needs, to hold Boo tight when he doesn't know he needs it, to dance with my daughter.
I know I'm strong enough, even when I doubt.
But when I finally keel over, the first face I want to see will be that child's. The first person I'll be reaching for will be that baby.
And God's help anyone who gets in my way.
A lifetime of pain, of a wound that wont' heal, and I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to call that shot in the afterlife.
October is National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness month.
Remember those mom's (and dad's) who struggle with their loss every day.
Because while my arms are certainly not empty, there is always space for one more.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

How time flies, when you're . . .


In marriage.

Sixteen years ago today, I was an innocent, unmarried, virginal nineteen year old.
I was fairly sweet (My true nature was still in its infancy. Trust me, I'm not even in the neighborhood of sweet now.) and eager to please.

And I hadn't mastered the word "no" as a weapon yet.

It was the night before our wedding, and, while I didn't know what I was doing, I knew I had promised The Man my hand (and all the girly parts attached) the next day.

And when I make a promise, I don't' break it.

I don't remember saying I do, and if it wasn't on video, I might deny that it ever happened. But it is, and I did, so here we are, sixteen years, four pregnancies, three heathens later.

Married . . . with children.

Oiy vey!

Over the years (almost half of my life, mind you" I've had ample opportunity to wax philosophic on my I pledged my troth to The Man.

And, while I still haven't come up with any really good logical explanation for what obviously was a moment of sheer insanity, I have come to the realization bout a lot of little things that make me stay here and not find a hot cabana boy in Mexico.

1. He loves me. I mean, who doesn't? I am loveable epitomized. There's is nothing about me that doesn't want to make you call me snooky and to declare your undying affection for my general person.

2. He's a great dad. Who occasionally hits his kid's head with the car door, can't pick out girl clothes to save his life, and gets routinely outsmarted by our seven year old. But he's a great play toy for the kids, so I keep him around.

3. He does housework and yard work. There is not a damned thing more to say about this except . . .he also washes dishes. (Wipe the drool, ladies. Even if it weren't for the other stuff, I know I good thing when I've got it and I won't be letting my housekeeper go!)

4. He tries to stand up to me. And I have to applaud the attempted use of his gonads (taken off their resting place on the back of the toilet) in the attempt to stop one of my rampages.

5. He has his own built in heater. Cold night, warm husband, cold feet on back? Oh yeah, baby!

6. When I just can't, he does. When I have fought so hard that I can't take another step, he finishes the fight. When my heart is shattered and I can't find all the pieces, he does and glues them back together. (Even if there's always a hole or two left open in the end, but that's because those pieces when to the stars with the people I love). Even though I am the obviously strong one, when I am weak, he holds me up.

7. He just gets me. Despite the fact that he doesn't understand me ninety percent of the time, he gets me, and he's okay with that. When I'm on a tirade, he gets me. When I'm upset, he gets me. And he gets me to laugh so hard no amount of Keigel's help. And that's pretty important after sixteen years.

So after that much time, I still don't have a clue why I said yes except for one little thought. At the time, something in him needed something in me and vice versa. When I said yes initially, it was out of need. When I say yes each day, right before I walk through the front door to my screaming kids and frazzled husband, I say yes again out of want.

Gods help me, I want this life. I chose this life, admittedly without knowing what our lives would be. I choose to stay married and not bury his body in the pre-dug hole in our back yard.

I chose.

And while we don't make sense to anyone else in the world, we make a strange kind of sense to each other, which is all that matters.

So here's a happy anniversary to me (and The Man, if I must--although I still don't know what he has to do with it.) because we've not only survived, we've thrived. we've made a life out of a hope and a dream.

We've made ourselves out of nothing out of half understood promises made when we didn't have enough sense to know what we'd just pledged.

And we still have another fifty years to go.

Hopefully, by that time, I'll be a old biddy like Wheezer and The Man will be holding my purse in the mall.

A girl's gotta dream!