If It Isn't Broken, Even Just a Little, Then Something Is Amiss

Twelve years ago, when I had the abortion, I remember promising myself that someday I would become a mother and I would make it right. I would be such a fucking stellar mother that the heavens would open up and angels would swarm down plucking giddily at harps and that somehow I'd bring balance to the universe. Or my little tiny piece of it anyway.

I was operating under the misguided assumption that having a baby would fix me. Make right many things I felt were broken and had been for a long time. And since Zee's arrival, lo those many months ago, I've been coming to terms with the fact that that's an awful lot to ask one teeny tiny little person and, well, life just shouldn't work like that. And it would be really fucking unfair to Zee to shoulder the weight of being the miraculous cure to Her Mom's Shit. I think that’d fuck her up far more than having a Mom who just happens to have a few loose screws and some minor cracks in her foundation. You know?

In a way, I can’t shake that I’ve gone back on my promise. I’m not the most stellar mother ever. I’m just, well, me. And all of my imperfections. I still get sad that I was raped and got pregnant. And then had an abortion. And I still, once in a while, shake my fist angrily at the universe that I went on to have three miscarriages years later. Usually when I'm pondering the possibility that when we try to grow our family again, I might have more. And, and, and...

I hope, though, that when she's all growed up she'll love me even if I'm sometimes sad and occasionally a little too Where's My Black Beret? Oh I'll Find It After I Cry Myself a River introspective. Even if I did break a promise I made to myself back when I didn't have the foresight to know that our children aren't brought into the world to fulfill our promises.

I hope Zee believes, as I do, that we're all the more interesting for our loose screws and cracks...I really, really hope so.

I'm Here...And Humble...

My life as a mother is still so colored by my miscarriages. Not necessarily the sadness of them. But the fact that I know, having had them, that other women struggle to have a baby, too. And some are in the midst of that struggle. And it breaks my heart.

There have been times when Zube Boy and I have been seated in a restaurant with Zee Baby. The hostess will attempt to seat a couple near us. And they'll ask to sit somewhere else. Sometimes I'm tempted to get all, 'Dude, my kid is totally well-behaved in restaurants, at least for now,' on them. Okay, maybe I actually have gotten all motherly proud like that to Zube Boy. But then I get a little sheepish. And I wonder if maybe it isn't the fact that my baby might misbehave that makes them want to sit elsewhere. Maybe they're trying to have one, too. And it's hard. Fucking hard. Maybe I was one of those people. Yes. I was.

I'm remiss to 'show off' Zee Baby. Ever. When I'm at work on Sundays, Zee randomly joins me. It's difficult as HELL to find daycare on Sundays! A problem I am lucky as hell to have. Anyway, I try NEVER to get all goofy grinned, Tee-hee, isn't my baby CAH-UTE! while checking people in to the screechy tune of her "MA-MA-MA-MA!" I AM proud glowy Mom, when people ask, and go nuts over her, but when they don't, I maintain whatever professionalism I can in such a situation.

I just never know who might be struggling in my midst. And I KNOW how that feels. Actually, wait. I DON'T know how that feels. Not anymore. I can try to remember. But I can't fully FEEL what it's like to stare the what if's in the face. What if? What if I NEVER carry a baby to term? What if I'm NEVER a mother the conventional way? What if I'm NEVER a mother?

I don't know how that feels anymore. And while I thank goddess every day I DO know what it's like to be a mother, I am a mother. I'm no longer able to say, "I KNOW how you feel. And it sucks." All I can say now is, "I used to know how you feel. And it sucks." Even writing that feels crushingly arrogant. But I hope no one takes it that way.

I don't know. I've been thinking about this a bit lately. I do pipe up when people dote on Zee. I let them know she was hard-earned. I also let them know how I was entirely NOT relaxed. Because if I can help in ANY fucking way, I would like it to be by dispelling that whole fucking 'JUST RELAX!' myth. That one. Ugh. Fucking hated that one.

Nothing about my pregnancy with Zee was 'relaxed'. Not her conception. Not unless one could consider taking my temperature every morning and timing sex 'relaxed'. Not about her early weeks in utero. When I thought I was miscarrying her, too. Thought I HAD miscarried in fact, and took all the cold medicine in the world to rid myself of the non-crying-induced sniffles. The curable ones. Not during my entire pregnancy. Bleeding for the first 20 weeks, bedrest for the next 16. Naturally, I only share these things when I deem it appropriate. Because I am the Queen of Propriety. Ha! Not a chance. But, really. I just want people to know, if they're thinking of asking their niece-in-law when in the hell she is planning to have children, rethink that please. And don't tell her to fucking relax if she responds, "Well, it's hard." You just never know.

I pray like fucking hell that those of you who want babies join me where I am now. Be it through luck, medicine, adoption, all of the above. Some of the above. Don't lose hope. Until you're over it. And you'll know when you are. And I don't blame you one tiny bit if where I am now distances us a bit. I can't fully understand it anymore. But I do. I'll hold your hand. And I'm grateful for our friendship.

Well, like that made a damn bit of sense. I'm feeling sleepy. And introspective. And out. Peace.

I'm Bitter...Just a Little...

I'm sorry to leave you all hanging! My cervix measured well on Wednesday, so the bedrest seems to be doing something. I'm kind of, eh, pissy about this whole thing. Not the bedrest, necessarily. I'm pissed about the fact that I've been so 'good' this whole pregnancy, not allowing myself to tempt fate and get too excited, and I just don't understand why I have to go through this shit. I told my Dad, the night before the Big Ultrasound, the scary one, that after that appointment I was thinking about finally letting myself be happy. And now this. So I went 21 weeks keeping a low profile, and now 2 1/2 more doing the same. I haven't bought one single baby related thing. I think at six months pregnant, other women are finishing up nurseries, so they don't have to worry about doing it when they're all big and round. Then there's me, who's sifting through the shit ton of Baby and Parenting magazines at the doctor's office to read some TV Guide or AARP crap because I just can't bring myself to read magazines having to do with babies. Bleh.

I'm feeling sorry for myself, and it's not pretty.

I'd like to share a photo with you. If you can find the kid, you win my admiration and respect. Because it took me quite a while. Like an hour or so. Here 'tis...



I'm hanging in, sustained by some brownies Painting Chef sent me and wearing the most adorable pair of PJs she and Bonanza sent my way upon hearing that I had no maternity pajamas, just Zube Boy's pajama bottoms. Physically, I'm doing pretty okay. Mentally, sometimes, not so much.

Ah! PS- From now on, I have to approve your comments. It's a pain in the ass, but I'm sick to death of deleting 10 spam comments on 10 different entries a day. Seriously, it's that ridiculous. And I figure I'm on the computer most of the time anyway, so I'll approve them quickly. You don't have to agree with me. EVER. You can piss me off even. Just don't try to direct me to some website that sells girl on girl BDSM porn or some shit like that.

Edited to add:

Does this help with the interpretation of the ultrasound photo?

Hmm, How Not So Odd...

My hcg on Thursday was 33. That's not so good. Actually, it's terrible. It means that, not only did my numbers not roughly double every 48 hours, but they've dropped from what they were a week ago.

I'm having a rough time not blaming this on the dropping of a myriad of balls on the part of the doctor's office. Primarily, I'm really torqued about the fact that, despite me calling the office last Monday requesting a progesterone test, and being ignored, it turned out that on Wednesday, even though my request for a progesterone test was ignored again, the nice blood taker lady heeded my pleas to take another vial to test progesterone, and it WAS low. Only I didn't find out until Friday night when the doctor called. And it was too late for me to find a pharmacy in Chicago and have him call the prescription in. I'd like to mention here that by Friday night my tatas were already beginning to shrink back to their usual pre-porn star size and all the crazy ass blue mappy looking veins had all but receded.

As I was told, I called the office at 8:01AM on Saturday with the phone number of a pharmacy around the corner so the prescription could be called in. Lo and behold, by 4:00PM the pharmacy had STILL heard no such thing of this Zube chick, much less were they able to prepare a cure for what ailed her. So, I called the emergency line at the office and my doctor happened to be on call. He told me he'd asked his nurse to call that in at 9:00AM and he was sorry she hadn't. He called it in immediately.

I didn't get my hands on those pills until 6:00PM. That means I endured six days of low progesterone, the pregnancy kick-start hormone. Which is really shitty considering that if they had taken my progesterone on Monday like I'd asked, and been all timely and shit about getting me on supplements, I could have started it on Tuesday. Tuesday when I still happened to have porn star blue mappy tits. And felt the faintest bit of nausea. Pretty much, when I was still feeling pregnant.

I'm pretty sure that by Saturday it was too late and things had already begun to deteriorate. It's infuriating that it took almost a week to take care of this. One would think that, given I lose my pregnancies so quickly, it might've been a priority to get things figured out in a more timely manner. I don't get the feeling that the people at this office CARE about me. In fact, since my name is responded to with a knowing sigh whenever I call, I get the feeling that I bother them. And that is not the kind of bedside manner I'm looking for.

So, I'm pissed. But I'm also a little hopeful. Perhaps it IS the progesterone that is the problem. And I can take that information to my NEW doctor, whom I haven't found yet. I'm still asking around.

Oh, and to add insult to injury. I received a phone call from the pharmacy on Tuesday. They recieved a second order for the same prescription I'd picked up on Saturday and wanted to know what was up with that. I guess Nurse Fucking Moron finally found the time to call in my scrip. Three days later. Bitch.

I feel absolutely assish putting you guys through this. I really do. I thank you immensely for your well wishes and love. It means A LOT. And in the words of my most awesome husband, "I really think we're getting closer." Me, too. I hope.

Adventures in Outer, Er, Uh, Rather, Inner Space

In other words, I have an appointment with a psychologist in two weeks. Because bursting into tears at work a few times a day is not something I care to put on my resume. It's probably not normal, even. Once in a while, every one woman army needs to call in for a little back-up.

I talked to my potential counseler over the phone and she sounds wondermous. She's a doula who has worked with Planned Parenthood at abortion clinics as a counseler and specializes in grief over loss of a pregnancy. She has dealt with women in every aspect of childbearing. We were meant for each other. I have a renewed faith in eeny-meeny-miny-mo-ing your way to a counseler in the phone book. Or fate. Who knows? I think it might even be a little of both.

I am so utterly relieved to have admitted to myself that I'm in a little over my head with the sorrow and stuff, I can't even tell you. And I have to thank PaintingChef for Google-talking my ass into what it really needed to do. Friends rule. Sometimes I need to be told by someone else to take care of myself. That's always been a problem for me.

The thing is, you guys, I REALLY, REALLY hope this counseler chick helps me find my voice. Because I am SO hating having lost it. Truly I am.

In the meantime, smooches to you all! I'll keep you updated and maybe someday soon this blog of mine will get interesting.

I'm at a Loss...

For words.

I've been afraid to tell you that. Or couldn't figure out how exactly to tell you. Words used to be my best friends, but now they're, well, letting me down. I can't find the right ones or the right ones can't find me. And that sort of sucks.

I'm not too sad or too happy or too busy. I'm just...hmmm...too trying not to be introspective. Have you ever felt like if you stopped and thought about things, you just might cry? For a really long time? Because it's all too much?

I didn't really want to say anything, because I hate to be anything but the 'little engine that could' but, I just...I'm off track. And I've got every engineer on my payroll working to get me on course again. It's just taking some time. Because that's how I roll.

I'm alive. And I'm okay. But I'm hibernating a tiny bit. Some call it self-preservation. I call it...indescribable. Or, the failure of words. Eether, Eyether.

I hope I haven't worried you, and I hope this post doesn't make you all, "OH, POOR ZUBE!" That's not what I'm looking for. At all. I just had to say...something. However unfunny, unprofound, and un-Zube like it is.

Again With the Humping of Legs...Will It Ever End?

In a word? No. Not in a million years. Or at least not for as long as I'm on this planet, swilling beers. Or folic acid. Potayto, potahto. Kylei, you are TOO damned sweet. Fer real. Just in case inquiring minds want to know, Kylei nominated me as an inspirational blogger. One who says 'fuck' a lot. Heh heh. Kidding. About the 'fuck' part, at least. Anywho, you can find her nomination over yonder. The post she was referring to in the comments is right here. I kind of dig it, too, to be honest. There are some choice naughty words therein that I'm rather proud to have strung together.

Thing is, when ya'll give me props about the stuff I write here, it kind of, I don't know, makes me want to hump your leg. Which isn't all that unusual, sure, given my penchant for humping the legs of those I adore. But it's a compliment nonetheless. Most of the time I feel like just sum beetch with a screwed up uterus who can't manage to shut the hell up about it. Forever and ever, amen. But when I learn that these little rants and goofy dialogues actually mean something to people sometimes, at least maybe something good is coming out of it. As much as I'd like something good to come out of my CERVIX or a big incision in my tummy, hell, I'm not picky, I'll take just about anything good these days. Shit, I don't care if something good comes out of a damn beak (HELLO, STORKS! The hell? Where are you? Just wondering, 'cause the parenting skillz? I am willing to acquire them.)

At any rate, welcome to those of you venturing over here via Club Mom. WARNING: Sometimes I write about my husband's flatulance. And our ridiculous conversations. Mostly when I want to be a member of your club so badly, I can't bring myself to be all introspective about it.

He Said, She Said

or...

A Memoir of A(nother) Year in the Marriage of One Zube Boy and One Zube Girl

or...

The Verbal Olympics of Second Year Veteran Marrieds

or...

Random Snippets Involving Cookie Crisp, Chipmates, and Heaps of Other Stuff

He Said (50 Times): You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

She Said (5 Times): I don't really GET what makes Cookie Crisp SO much better than store brand stuff!

He Said (105 Times): Woman, you're gonna drive me to drinking.

She Said (3 Times): Honey, I'm knocked up.

He Said (365 Times): Honey, where's my hat?

She Said (3 Times): Meh, I'm not knocked up anymore.

He Said (3 Times): I'm sorry. We'll try again.

She Said (1 Time): So, I know you're driving to Mississippi to buy a truck and all and this is kind of a bad time, but I can't wait to talk to you when you get back because I need to make a decision now. See, there's this rally and Planned Parenthood called me because I forwarded them a letter to the editor I wrote about Gov. Owens and Emergency Contraception for rape victims in the ER and they've asked me if I wanted to SPEAK at the rally. And, um, it's OKAY, honey, if you don't want me to, really. But, I don't know, I kind of think it would help me.

He Said (1 Time): You do what will help YOU. Don't worry about me.

She Said (A Gazillion Times): You rock so hard.

He Said (350 Times): Zoobs, where's my work pants?

She Said (530 Times): Right here.

She Said (150 Times): In the dryer.

She said (50 Times): Oops. In the washer still.

He Said (90 Times): CHRIST! Is that Brad peeking in the window again? I'm really sick of kicking his ass all the time. Why do you have to be so hot, Zube? These celebrity stalkers are getting kind of annoying.

She Said (1 Time): How ironic that all this gay marriage ban shit is happening on our two year wedding anniversary. Kind of taints my celebratory attitude.

He Said (1 Time): I just don't get what people are so riled up about. Who cares?

She Said (1 Time): Because DONTCHYA KNOW, honey, that if two dudes were able to marry each other it would THREATEN our marriage.

He Said (1 Time): That's the least of our worries.

She Said (1 Time): Heh.

He Said (1 Time): Unless you suddenly start making me cookies all the time.

She Said (Probably on more than one occasion): BWAHAHAHAHAHA!

He Said (1 Time): Honey, it's really nice being married to you. Happy Aniversary.

She Said (1 Time): Damn. I'm gonna cry. That was fucking sweet. It's nice being married to you, too. If you could just lay off on yanking my pajama pants down when I'm unloading the dishwasher, I'd say our marriage was damn near utopia.

Prepost...And postpre...And Stopper...And Toppers...And, Okay, That's Enough With the What Word Can You Make With These Letters...

A couple of posts back I was wondering what made Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl different from Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl. I think I've found something that speaks to at least part of the vast openness between that great divide.

Pre-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl had the luxury of worrying about her ability to be a parent. Whether she would suck or whether she would rock. She'd like to think she'd rock even though her future kid might be all, "JESUS H. MOM! I stayed up late STUDYING and that's why my eyes are all red, HELLO!?!?! I don't know what you're so worried about anyway. I work an after school job, get good grades, and buy my own _______________ (insert fancy pants name here), so back off!" Which, heh, stayed up late STUDYING! Whatever, kid. *snort* But see, I know that for all my concern, I'd raise a decent self-sufficient human being, if not for any other reason than, well, for ALL MY CONCERN ABOUT RAISING A DECENT, SELF-SUFFICIENT HUMAN BEING. Even if the kid smokes pot? S/He'll still be a good one. I think, anyway.

On the other hand, Post-Three-Miscarriages Zube Girl worries that she'll never even BE a parent, so she doesn't want to jinx it by fretting about whether or not her sixteen-year-old will slam the bedroom door because she's just told them s/he can buy her/his OWN Land Rover. See, at the ripe old age of thirty I understand now that fighting with your parents as a teenager? Is kind of important. So long as we're talking about a functional family. And I'm aiming my arrow towards functional. That's my goal. But, taking my family as an example, 'A Little Weird' doesn't fall far from BULLSEYE! And I'll be happy with just short of perfect. Actually, 'perfect' is a little annoying.

Which reminds me, I've been meaning to tell any future embryos of mine that even though I've sworn to myself that you WILL purchase your own first car, and you WILL NOT have all the fancy clothes you want no matter how much money we have, and you WILL share a room at some point in your life with a sibling because I did, with my brother and then my sister and then both sisters, and then my brother got all sad because he had his own room and I got to share my room with TWO people, so Mom let My Belle stay in his room for a few weeks upon Bro's insistence, and he said, uh, nevermind, she cries at night, and...um...nevermind...

Anyway, I think it was good for my character, sharing a room. It prepared me for life and sharing and caring and all that good stuff, and...WOOOOOOOOAAAH! I'm getting a little ahead of myself here. Note to Self: Yo, Zoobs, let's get pregnant and STAY pregnant for at least 35 weeks, which I think is a safely viable gestational age (I haven't researched pregnancy much past the first trimester...It's all about self-preservation, people. Really, 'tis, and I can't be concerning myself with 'trimester' pregnancies when I fail to achieve even a 'unimester' one) before worrying about SIBLINGS! Jeebus. Sorry, every once in a while I have to remind myself that the dreams which live inside my head are not always the same ones that manifest in real life. Allrighty then...

...Where was I? Ah yes...I was going to make all kinds of promises to my potential children-to-be that might convince them that while I MIGHT be sort of a Bitch Mom, I'll be AWESOME. Really. You will SERIOUSLY love me. You can be WHATEVER you want!

You can...

-Have purple hair (so long as that doesn't interfere with the high school job thing...there's always tattoo parlors out there looking for high school help...I think?)

-Be Gay (Damn kid, I'll love ya more, because you'll fucking need it what with all the gay-hating going on around these, ahem, united states of ours.)

-Not want to go to college (because I didn't. I went anyway because that's what everybody else thought I should do. But I know that being all smart and shit doesn't necessarily mean that you're college material. This is one thing your Dad and I will wholehartedly agree on. We'll never pressure you to do what doesn't feel right. You'll be smart. I know that. And you'll do what's right with it. I'm sure.)

-Tell me ANYTHING. And I mean ANYTHING (*wishing right now that I had the ability to Double-Capitalize*). I promise not to go all MATERNAL when you really, really fucking need me. Life happens to people. This I know. And if something horrible happens to you? Even if you maybe had a tiny bit, or a BIG bit to do with it? I SWEAR I'll step back and breathe...only to return with a big hug and a hearty, "I'm sorry life had to happen to you THAT way, but here's how we deal with it." I'll avoid trying to fix it because fixing it never really works anyway. At least when we're talking about life and not plumbing or a bad starter.

While I'm being all random and whatnot, I'd like to thank those of you who've stuck by me throughout my weird blog abandoness. You LURKERS, too! I'm having trouble posting things because all I can think about is the fact that I bled for a month, then manhandled my boobs for the past week and a half (which OHMYGOD MAYBE I'M PREGNANT BECAUSE THEY'RE SORE!) (But they're more probably only sore because I've been manhandling them ), and I want to be pregnant/have a baby so bad it, uh, kind of hurts. And there are many other gals out there that rock the infertility blog thing so much better than I ever could. Anyway, I've been sporadic at best because I'm concerned about beating ya'll over the brow with my woes. Which makes for a VERY random, VERY sucky (in my opinion) blog, and I can't believe you've hung in there.

So, thanks.

From Solid to Liquid...In .2 Miles Flat

I was driving home from the post office the other day. The trip was enjoyable, if only for a moment, given the lack of gapers driving five miles an hour with the ever recognizable 'I Don't Know Where the Hell Skier Parking Is So I'll Just Give the Crazy Lady with the Flailing Arms Behind Me Fair Warning That I May Turn Sometime in the Next Five Miles' blinker on. Anyway, this lack of gapers was quite conducive to some Behind-the-Wheel Introspection. I started to think about this miscarriage thing. It's changed me somehow. I don't really know in what way, but I know that I'm different. I was trying to pinpoint just WHAT differentiates pre-miscarriage Zube Girl from post-miscarriage Zube Girl.

I said out loud, "I think it's hardened me," while making a pissy, speedy right turn onto Wellington to take the back way home, because whenever gapers have gone back home, CONSTRUCTION is EVERY-DAMN-WHERE. Fucking construction.

Then I started to cry. And I mean BAWL.

Yeah. So much for that hardening theory.

Things That Are Shapely...Like How Some Things Are IN Shape and Some Things Are OUT of Shape...

Cervix holes? They are pissy little fuckers. Or at least mine is. Like when a catheter with a deflated balloon at the end of it is insterted up there? Well, honestly, I don't know what it's like to have something insTerted, but to have it INSERTED? Sucks a little. My cervix hole no likey that so much. I mean, the procedure wasn't TREMENDOUSLY painful. Just toe-curling, fist-clenching, gasping and then holding your breath, kind of painful. Tolerable. And then? When they inject fluid into the catheter to expand the little balloon up in there and send a sonogram wand up alongside it so they can see my uterus and what its shape and its lining look like? And to make sure there aren’t, like, cobwebs and spiders and matchbox cars up in there? Oh, for the love of GOD, PLEASE, unless you see a little welcome sign with a fire at the hearth and a rocking chair on the porch, because that's the kind of shit that needs to be seen in REAL TIME, just take a damn picture with the sonogram already and show me my insides LATER when all the junk you've got UP there is OUT, because my uterus? Is TOTALLY spasming and REALLY BAD CRAMPS X 10 makes it difficult to care about the appearance of my picture perfect girly bits!

And, also? If any of you gals ever consider having a little rendezvous with a balloonified catheter and a sonogram wand? You should bring a girlfriend like Becki because then you can talk about making swan hats and gowns out of the napkin skirts and finger puppets with the little sonogram wand condoms and finger painting on the walls with iodine and it will be FUNNY! To be fair, Zube Boy is pretty damn funny too with the turning on of the little gyn lamp and shining it on the magazine he's reading and his declarations of, "Well, honey, I'm not a doctor but I'll have a look." But sonogram wand condom finger puppets? Hee. Which reminds me...what the FUCK is up with having to wait a damn half hour ALWAYS and FOREVER in the doctor's office? I'd rather be in the waiting room, ya know? Actually, I take that back. Because the three ladies with their big huge baby-filled bellies commiserating about their pregnancies? Kind of made me sad. Iodine fingerpainting is the way to go.

Anyway, my uterus is in great shape. I mean, it IS a great shape. The way it's supposed to be. Like, it's not a star or a hexagon or anything. And the lining looks fine. Another clean bill of health for me. Which is cool because as much as I'd like to find a REASON for all these miscarriages, a badly shaped uterus might not be rectifiable. And I'd rather have a rectifiable problem. Or no problem at all. Just really bad fucking luck. Three times in a row.

Speaking of shapes, while my innards are all adorable and just what the doctor wanted to see, my outtards are, um, maybe not. At least that's what I think it means when your Spanish-speaking coworker, Pedro, returns from Mexico after a year and starts working with you again and says, "Zube, mas gordita, eh?" Which means, in a nutshell, hey girl, you're more chubby. Or it could mean a little more fat, but I'm partial to chubby for some reason. When he said it, I laughed, because he wasn't being malicious about it, and it's DAMN TRUE! He was just making an observation. A very true one. Why get mad? But when I reiterated the tale to my male co-workers, they were MORTIFIED. But, I'm kind of wondering if it's a cultural thing? Like, is it okay in Mexico to point out that someone has gained a little weight? Is it not as taboo to mention as it is here in our weight obsessed culture? I don't know. I thought it was interesting, though.

Well, it's time to get my great-shaped uterus having, mas gordita ass the hell off the computer. Peace out.

Fucking Twat...And Our House. Er Rather, HouseS...

So, for about three weeks now I've been anxiously anticipating (READ: worrying endlessly) about a doctor's appointment. It involves catheters and dye and an ultrasound and MY FUCKING CERVIX and a warning from the doctor to take some ibuprofen a few hours before because the procedure can be, ahem, uncomfortable. Which, whatever. I begged a vicoden from a friend of mine who figured he could spare one and still get a painless evening's embibing at the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.

The appointment is today. At 2:00PM. Only, I won't FUCKING BE THERE because for the first time in two months, my body has decided to function NORMALLY and Aunt Flo paid me a visit. Last night. Because my luck? It is of an UNUSUAL nature.

I've rescheduled for Thursday. Great. Another four days of anticipating. Or rather, worrying.

Oh yeah. We're buying ANOTHER house. Well, maybe. If my piss poor credit doesn't fuck it all up. We'll see. We've put in an offer. They've come back with a counter-offer. Contracts are being drawn up. I'm freaking out. Because the prospect of paying not ONE, but TWO mortgages is a little daunting. But we've already had numerous offers from potential renters, so I that's helping assuage my neurotic mind.

I'll keep you up to date. On the status of my uterus AND our potential purchase.

Licking Wounds and Humping Legs

I've decided that if I can't be anything but melodramatic, I'm going to do it in the privacy of my own brain.

But, to give you a clue, here are two phrases that are burrowing themselves into my skull as of late:

Mother's Day
Due Date

That's right, folks. The due date of my first miscarriage is coming up. Four days before Mother's Day. And I remember so clearly my Mom squeeing that I'd be a mother just days before Mother's Day. But, that was back when I so STUPIDLY and BLINDLY assumed that positive pregnancy test = baby. Anyway, I'm licking my wounds a little bit.

I do kind of want to hump Stephen Colbert's leg. And the legs of my Jersey Devils. Life's not all bad.

Six Things That Nobody Knows About Me

I was tagged forever and ever ago by PaintingChef with this meme. It's going to be difficult to think of SIX things nobody knows about me because I suffer from a severe case of Overshareitis, but I'll give it a go.

1. I fiddle with my earrings when I'm nervous. And really, Zube Boy knows this, but no one else. It's kind of sweet that he picked up on it, too. I'll be playing with my earlobes and he'll say, "What's the matter, honey?" It's one of those things I never even knew about myself until he pointed it out.

2. I have OCD when it comes to change being left around the house. The other day, Zube Boy sauntered in after work and emptied his pockets of loose change on the counter. Minutes later he said, "Honey, I see that you've put my change in a neat little pile."

"I did?"

"Yup. In order, too. Quarters, nickels, pennies, then dimes."

"You know what really pisses me off, though?"

"What's that?"

"That dimes are the smallest. They really should be sized in between quarters and nickels, don't you think?"

"Really, I never put that much thought into it."

3. You wouldn't know it by looking at me, or you might, or you might not care one way or the other, but I'll tell you anyway. My thyroid is fine. Dammit. Okay, well, I guess I'm kind of happy that my thyroid and chooch are all healthy and shit, but it would've been nice to have an explanation for the miscarriage bizness. Oh well. More tests to come. Lucky me! I'm looking forward to having my uterus dyed and examined by ultrasound to look for fibroids or other such nonsense that might be screwing up the reproduction thang. Actually, I'm not looking forward to it at all. But, it'll be nice to get a full clean bill of health, I suppose.

4. When I was little my parents only let us kids have one glass of milk with our dinner. After that it was water. For some reason I was an anti-water kind of rugrat so I always made sure to save my milk for last. So I wouldn't run out during the meal. To this day, I still do that. I eat all of my dinner before drinking the beverage that goes with it.

5. Sometimes when I'm home alone, I'll gather up all of my journals from years past and read them in one sitting. I'll laugh and cry and roll my eyes. Truthfully, though, I never, ever want to forget who I was all those many and not so many years ago. You know? And reading things I've written in the past keeps me and who I used to be and am from slipping out of my memory.

6. I have a little straw angel that I bought after the abortion at a dollar store. I felt like I needed something to sort of signify and honor what was lost. The road I didn't go down. A lot of times, I'm afraid to tell people that because they'll use it as evidence that ABORTION IS WRONG otherwise why would I be buying a little angel to comfort me. But the truth is, it makes me feel better, so fuck what other people have to say about it.

One day, while my sister, Hoot, was staying with Zube Boy and I for the summer, I enlisted her help in throwing away a bunch of useless crap. She picked up the little straw angel and said, "What is this thing?" "Just an angel I bought." "Is it junk? Should I toss it?" From the next room, my fabulous husband whom I didn't even know was listening, yelled, "YOU CAN'T THROW THAT AWAY! IT'S SPECIAL TO HER!"

I'd only ever told him about it once. Years before. And he remembered. I fucking love that guy.

I'm not going to tag anyone, unless you ask me to.

I Don't Know Everything, But I Know How Not to Be a Dick...

Because sometimes I think it's important to let yourself be defended...It helps negate the "One Girl Versus the World" Feeling...And you guys, at least those of you I know about, aren't on vacation. So, I don't mind making you work.

Your assignment today is to respond to this comment which can be found on this post:

For someone with no guilt, you sure threw into a tirade about how not guilty you feel really quick. I didn't think you felt guilty, but now I'm starting to wonder.

I am sorry for your losses. Because I recognize that what you lost were human beings with worth. You just lost something that you wanted. You call them 'pregnancies' and not babies. You aborted one 'pregnancy' and lost others. I know you didn't lose or abort 'pregnancies', but babies. That's just a euphemism.

I am not sorry for the focus of your "pity party post". The "Why me? I had to go through the trouble of killing my first kid and now that I want kids, I can't have any." How sad and selfish is that? You only want kids on your terms. It's all about you. Maybe you'll have some empathy for the infertile couples that would have gratefully adopted your baby that you instead aborted.

Maybe your killing your first baby has nothing to do with you losing the subsequent ones, but I don't pity you.

I am sorry for your losses. I wish your children would have lived. ALL of them.

--
Posted by Anonymous to The Adventures of Zube Girl at 4/06/2006 02:29:12 PM

And don't you worry, I haven't lost my edge or anything. I'm simply about to embark on a vacation nap with the man I WANT to have children with and presently have NO interest in confronting ANONYMOUS dipshits.

Your turn. Even, and I know you're out there, Pro-Life folks who read me and understand me. I've never, ever, ever, ever insulted you. EVER! I've been careful to insult only the most assholey people. And there are assholey people everywhere. Among the Pro-Choice camp, too, I'm sure. So, can we build a bridge or something that makes us both appear a little more human? Please? Thanks.

Wherein I Can't Shut My Pie-Hole

Oh my GOD! How could I have been so STUPID as to overlook the OBVIOUS? I'm ashamed of myself, really. You see, even after having three miscarriages, it never ONCE occurred to me to explore the possibility that having surgery on my cooch ten years ago, namely an abortion, might affect the current shortcomings of my uterus. I mean, one would think that I, having proclaimed time and again how fucking smart I am and all, would have at least looked into it. Fortunately, for my sake, the Know-It-All Fairy descended upon this blog of mine and thwomped me upside the noggin with her/his Thirty-Year-Old-Studies-Decree-That-the-Miscarriages-Are-YOUR-Fault! Wand. Well, DAMN! Does that mean that if I hadn't ever HAD an abortion, I wouldn't be having these problems? Hmmm...

Pfbt. Whatever. Before any Pro-Lifers out there go parlaying for an all out victorious conversion of the Zube Girl, it's not gonna happen. I've been there, done that. I WAS Pro-Life. I argued until I was red in the face that having a BAYBEE would be HEEEEEALING for a rape survivor. Then I got raped. And found myself pregnant. And I wasn't really finding that healing crap to be very true for myself so I opted to have an abortion. Exercising my right to choose kind of made me think that maybe it wasn't my place to go around denying others that right. So don't go convincing yourself I'm on the edge of conversion or anything.

Without further ado, here is what the Know-It-All Fairy, cloaked in anonymity because I imagine that Fairy's of ALL sorts must protect themselves from crazy-ass magic wand seeking stalkers, had to say:

Anonymous commented on this post:

I'm sorry for your losses. This might explain more...

Women who had one induced abortion had a 17.5% miscarriage rate in subsequent pregnancies, as compared to a 7.5% rate in a non-aborted group. Richardson & Dickson, "Effects of Legal Termination on Subsequent Pregnancy," British Med. Jour., vol. 1, 1976, pp. 1303-4

Women who had delivered their first pregnancy had (in the second pregnancy) the "best reproductive performance." Those who had a spontaneous miscarriage on the first had "the highest frequency of an early loss." Those with induced abortion on their first had "the highest frequency of late spontaneous abortion and premature delivery." Koller & Eikham, "Late Sequelae of Induced Abortion in Primagravida" Acta OB-GYN Scand, 56 (1977) p. 311.

(Bolding mine)

First off, I find it difficult to believe that you are sorry for my losses. Given that the thirty year old research you've quoted can be found on every Pro-Life website from here to kingdom come, I get the impression that you're anti-abortion. And that's fine. Good for you. I'll fight ya tooth and nail if your goal is to outlaw abortion, but I support your right to feel how you feel about it. Though it seems like, rather than feeling any sort of sympathy for my losses, you're rubbing them in my face and you could say that I don't fancy that so much. Let's not keep up with the facade that you've got any sympathy for me, allrighty?

I do find it interesting that these studies are so damn old. Really. So old that they took place not long after the legalization of abortion in Britain and the US. Which, at least to me, means that the subjects involved in the studies just might have had illegal abortions. And illegal abortions are often not done properly and CAN lead to damage to the reproductive organs. Just for fun, here is a link to a site where the findings of those studies are disputed.

To make you feel a little better about my current state of affairs, after my second miscarriage, one of the first questions I asked my doctor was whether or not he believed my previous abortion could have anything to do with it. He said, "Absolutely not. There is a possibility that ONE miscarriage might be the result of the embryo trying to implant in scar tissue, but if you had a legal first-trimester abortion with no complications and follow-up care, scar tissue would be minimal, and the odds of an embryo attempting to implant in that same exact spot are very, very slim. In fact, it's promising that you have carried a pregnancy further in the past. At least we know that you can." Are ya all warm and fuzzy now? Good.

Lastly, what in the HELL were you thinking making a comment like that on such an emotional post? I mean, come on! Fortunately, I'm far too self-assured to let it bother me, but I have to believe you were trying to induce guilt where none existed. What if I weren't so comfy-cozy with the choice I made? What kind of FUCKED UP ASSHOLE would you be telling an obviously grieving woman that she was responsible for the loss of her pregnancies? A CUNT-LIKE ASSHOLE, comes to mind. And not only because CUNT is one of my most favorite words, either.

And, you know what else kills me? How some Pro-Life people will go around lamenting the badness of abortion, and how they want better for women and blah blah blah and they give hugs and love and support with reckless abandon to women who regret and feel guilty and pray to God for forgiveness for their abortions and any women that create memorial websites in honor of their aborted BAYBEES get coddled and forgiven and paraded about as a reason that abortion is bad because JUST LOOK AT HOW GUILTY AND HORRIBLE THEY ALL FEEL! But show them a woman who is comfortable with the choice she made and doesn't feel guilty, a woman like me, and these same Pro-Lifers POUNCE at the opportunity to create guilt where none exists! I've seen it and experienced it a million times and I have to ask: If abortion is SO HORRIBLE because it makes some women feel guilty, well then, what does that say about you? Huh?

All Aboard!

This post is brought to you by a wickedly introspective passenger aboard the Why Me? train. She decided to hop aboard mostly for shits and giggles, and partly for old time's sake.

I HATE the Why Me? Train mostly. I avoid it. At least in recent years. I rode that bitch straight through from the tender age of 21 (WAHOO!) to the ripe young age of 25 (WHOA! Where the fuck did time go?), and while I was certainly navigating my way through life in some form, the view from the window was so blurry, flying by me at lightning speed, that I feel like I missed out on a lot of awesome scenery. The "Oh my GOD, it's New York City/the Rocky Mountains/a slew of TUMBLEWEEDS crossing the road!," so to speak, of my early twenties. The good shit. The stuff that happens while you're curled in a ball in the same pajamas you've been wearing for three days, in the same body that hasn't been showered in more, reading your way to SELF-HELP Land! I lost precious years, I feel like, and I don't want it to happen again.

I got off that train when it landed in a town called He Throws Hoagies at My Head!, which is a suburb of a highly populated city called My Boyfriend Is an Asshole!, and moved to Colorado. I vowed to travel the rest of my life differently, never boarding that fucking train again. I negotiated my own path, propelled only by my own two feet.

Recently, I got to thinking, what the hell is wrong with riding that train once in a while? Like, a month or a day or even an hour or so. Not long term, but for a little bit? Really? Why shouldn't I? I've earned it, I think. Hiking my happy ass over all sorts of terrain for five years has taken its toll. Especially when I'm standing at the bottom of a cliff, wondering how I'll ever manage to climb up it. My fucking legs are tired and I'm parched. Putting one foot in front of the other has gotten me this far, but now I'm watching my feet, making sure I don't fall, and that, well, is not conducive to rock-climbing, which requires looking up. I'm not ready to look up. Not yet.

Happy Villain responded to an e-mail I'd sent her proclaiming how okay I was. It reeked of optimism and, well, lies. I'm not okay. Not completely, anyway. She responded, "While I'm glad you consider yourself "fine," I also want you to know that I think it fucking sucks. You're sad, and that's awful, because you don't deserve this," and I want to say to her, "THANK YOU!" Really. From the bottom of my heart. Thank you. Thank you for saying what the battered and bruised cheerleader curled up all fetal-style in the darkest corner of my brain is whimpering through tears. THIS FUCKING SUCKS AND I DON'T DESERVE IT!

I REALLY DON'T FUCKING DESERVE IT!

WHY ME? WHY THE FUCK ME?

Why do I have to be one of the 1% (*cough* that statistic is bullshit *cough* because rape is not just some dude jumping out of the bushes *cough*) of women who get pregnant as a result of rape?

Why do I have to be the one whose body managed to maintain that pregnancy for eight weeks?

Why did it take an abortion to make that pregnancy end?

Only to have the pregnancies of an awesome and loving man fall out? Three times?

Why does life have to fuck with me? I've STRUGGLED and SOUL-SEARCHED to be carefree, happy, and relatively well-adjusted. It's been hard work.

Why do I have to do it yet again?

Why do I have to be the vase of flowers on the dinner table of a shitty amateur magician? One who doesn't quite have the tablecloth trick down yet? And is fond of Jack Daniels?

Why? WHY, WHY, WHY?

No one knows the answer. Not me. Not you. Not the deities. But can I question it? Can I pound my fist in the air and scream it? Can I? Please? Is it okay to wonder WHY ME? I'm sure it is. It has to be. Because otherwise I'm going to stow away on that godforsaken Why Me? train for much longer than if I'd just bought myself a damn ticket with an expiration date.

And then, in the midst of my Pity Party, complete with thready at the feet pajama bottoms that get stuck under the swively computer chair and countless hours of watching shitty-ass actors on Lifetime, My Belle calls and says, "Hoot and I talked and if Project - Make a Baby isn't going to happen in your uterus, it can happen in one of ours."

And she wasn't inferring that we'd find some crazy ass uterine swap thing that has yet to be discovered by scientists. She meant that Zube Boy's and my offspring, if my uterus simply isn't having it, has permission to live in one of their respective uteruses (uteri???) for nine months.

And I'm like, "Why me? Why am I SO fucking lucky? How could this be?"

And she said, "We want this for you. As much as you do. Wouldn't you do it for us?"

"Yes. I would. In a fucking heartbeat, I would."

So, while unluck runs amok, so does good stuff. And sometimes when you're unlucky, you find out just how lucky you really are. Only, you would never have known how awesome it is to hold the clean end of the stick if it weren't for the shitty end. At least I know where to hold on. At least I know now that there is a clean end. At least I've learned that flinging the shit while holding the clean end can be a little redeeming. Heh. Especially when it's aimed at asshats. Cockroaches in your hotel room MY ASS! Did you KNOW you dumb twit that cockroaches don't happen to LIVE at 9,600 feet! Take your lying refund-wanting ass elsewhere. And next time don't take a vacation you can't afford, eh.

Anyway. At least asking, "Why me?" isn't all bad.

Yo Yo Yo! An Update and Stuff...

I'm so sorry I left ya'll hanging. I didn't have bloodwork done until late afternoon on Monday, and then didn't get the results until late afternoon yesterday. My hormones are continuing to drop. Albeit, they're being painfully SLLLLLLLOOOOOOOOOOW about it. But, that compounded with the fact that things are starting to get ugly down there...well, it's over. Or will be soon, anyway.

Thank you ALL for hoping AND for encouraging me to hope when I felt kind of stupid about it. Seriously.

There are a bunch of things in the Zube's future, after discussing our miscarriage situation with the doctor, including but not esclusive to: Progesterone supplements, a baby aspirin a day, a thyroid test, chromosomal testing (maybe, that ones still lingering on our marital discussion table), and much, much more.

There are also some things that I've decided I'll do before we try again which includes, but, naturally, is not exclusive to: acupuncture, NO caffiene, exercise, no more Happy Hour at all, and la, la, la.

Zube Boy has suggested that we ask our friend Zig to be a sperm donor, if it's true that his and my chromosomes aren't working out. Heh. He was kidding. And Zig is NUTZ, yo! So we'd have a fucking crazy kid. And if it's true that your children are worse than you, well then, Zube Boy doesn't deserve that really. Or maybe he does. Who knows. The man's a mystery, I tell ya. Anyway, we're robably not gonna go the sperm donor route.

In OTHER news! I'm an auntie, remember? Miss I and The Englishman and little Alexandria Jade AKA Alex are all doing wonderfully. And? Miss I grills one hell of a steak. Since I can't cook steak FOR SHIT, we'll surely return again and again. Here are some photos:

Miss I, Alex and I (You can probably figger who is who, but in case you're wondering, I'm the one hogging the baby!):


Oh my, how embarrassing! She fell asleep right in the middle of a good joke! YOU GUYS! I thought you told me I was funny!!!


Zube Boy (AKA - The Godfatha) and Zube Girl and Alex. Zube Boy was one of only two men besides Dad to hold her. What is it with boys, eh? Babies, believe it or not, are FAR less fragile than we fear. Anywho...Zube Boy lost his wallet that night. He's convinced that little Alex is a klepto. She's surely got the innocent look down pat. Hee.

The Regurgitating Uterus and Where the Wild Hairs Are

Zube Boy peers over my shoulder while I'm doing a bit of googlin'...

Z-Boy: Brown spotting?

Z-Girl: Yeah, honey. I'm trying to figure out what the hell is going on down there. That's ALL I've had is brown spotting, and not much at that.

Z-Boy: Would it make you feel better to know that sometimes I have brown spotting in my undies, too?

Z-Girl: Yes.

Z-Boy: Okay, then. I do.

Z-Girl: Ew. ffffff-ffffffff*

I'm still hanging out, waiting for the damn fat lady to sing her ass off already. I have to have my blood drawn again tomorrow, and I'm like GAH!!! ENOUGH WITH THE NEEDLES! Hate them. Loathe them. But, I'm really curious to know what my counts are because I still FEEL pregnant. Like, don't come within an inch of my titties or you'll lose your damn head. Which is making this whole escapade worse, in a way. I keep thinking about the fact that I was a twin, and Mom lost one of us, so maybe that's what's going on here? But, my numbers still shouldn't have dropped like they did. I don't think. This dragging on of events is keeping my hope on life support, and, well, I had a VERY strong opinion regarding the Terri Shaivo debacle. It's time to pull the damn plug already.

Z-Girl: It's OVER! Okay. OVER. Not gonna happen.

Hope: But, the last TWO TIMES your symptoms disappeared before everything went awry. This time they haven't.

Z-Girl: I know, but could you please SHUT UP already! PLEASE! Could it just be tomorrow? I need to know what the flip is going on with my uterus. If it's going to regurgitate, I'd like for it to get on with it already.

Hope: There's still hope.

Z-Girl: Shut up. For real. It's not that I don't like you, Hope, but things are dire. And you're making it difficult for me to accept that.

Hope: You can still hope.

Z-Girl: Meh.

Hope: Hope-ity, hope, hope?

Z-Girl: GOD you're annoying.

Hope: You, too.

Z-Girl: I know.

Regardless of all this inner turmoil, Zube Boy and I are sprouting wild hairs in the oddest of places. Our respective asses. There has been talk of running off to Mexico. Preferably the Yucatan. Not permanently. No, no, no. We're far too responsible for that. But for three or four weeks. Just to get away and do some version of the 'Nanny-Nanny Boo-Boo' dance on Project- Make a Baby. What could be more fun than getting jiggy on a beach without peeing on ovulation predictor sticks first?

I'd like to enjoy the gift of the time we've been given. Just the two of us. Shit. Is this a bright side? Am I going soft on ya'll? No. I'm trying to deal with this crap on my terms. You know? Suffice it to say that if any of YOU told me that maybe this was a blessing? I'd kick your ass. And I'm sure you'd expect nothing less. Because you're geniuses like that.

Anywho, I'm okay and I'm not okay. All at the same damn time. It's like duplicitous is my middle name these days. One minute, I'll want to crawl in a hole and die, and the next I'll be thinking, "Why don't you just crawl up your uterus? That seems to do the trick." And I'll laugh. The laughter of a very sick individual. Which is comforting. Because at least it means I'm still in here, among all this chaos. Being a big old bitch. As usual. Heh.


*That's how sound when I'm trying to be annoyed, but laughing despite myself.

Fuck the Bright Side

That crazy ass sillhouette chick up there? The one I daydream about hanging out with over frothy adult beverages? I still wager that she makes a kick ass margarita. Well, I stared at her for a bit wondering if her girlie parts worked properly. After deciding that they did, I stabbed her repeatedly in the cooch with my little cursor arrow. It was cathartic. And she didn't even get mad at me because she's got my fucking back like that.

The weird thing about this whole Miscarriage Mess I'm experiencing these days is that some folks want to look at the bright side of it. And, well, I don't. Not yet. Forgive me if I can't seem to find solace in the fact that at least it's happening early or that now I know I can get pregnant. Well, actually, I have to laugh a little at my fertility. I guess Zube Boy CAN glance my way and I'm pregnant. Three times in seven months. It's just that the little buggers fall out. So, laughable maybe, because not much escapes my scathing humor. But, comforting? No. Not in the least.

This 'looking on the bright side of things' got me thinking about rape. When people say to me something to the effect of, "Well at least blah blah blah...It could be worse," it makes me want to say, "Would you say to a rape survivor, 'Well, at least you didn't get pregnant?' or, 'Well, at least you weren't kidnapped and raped repeatedly?' or, ad nauseum?" No. At least, you shouldn't say those things. Rape is fucking horrible no matter how you spin it. So is this miscarriage business.

I'm not saying that people don't say all the wrong things to rape survivors. They do. I know. The moral of the story is this: People don't like to see other people sad and they try sometimes to look on the bright side of things in the hopes that the person hurting will feel better. Which, well, their intentions are good, but you know what they say about good intentions and the road to hell and all. What people don't seem to realize is that sad is just one step on the journey towards healing. And if that step is taken away, or if the journeying person skips it because they feel undeserving of sadness? The journey will be incomplete. And I've been there, done that. The journey CAN eventually be completed. It's just much tougher when you have to go back to square one years after you thought you were on the verge of HEALED.

I was talking to Hoot the other day and I was explaining this to her. She said, and I've never felt prouder, "One of the millions of things I've learned from you is never to judge someone's sad experiences. Whatever is their most sad thing at the time is their most sad thing at the time. Just let them be sad about it." Aw.

And it's true. I remember approximately ten Februarys ago, sitting in my dorm room contemplating whether I wanted a future of custody battles with a rapist or one without the child of a rapist in it. I heard a knock at my door, and yelled, "Come in!" It was a girl from down the hall that I knew fairly well, but not well enough to tell her what was on my mind at the time. She started tearfully explaining how she was caught in a Love Triangle and didn't know which guy to choose. At first, I wanted to be kind of pissed because I had bigger and badder things on my mind. And then I was like, "What the hell good would it do to get pissed and spout of something like, 'Oh yeah, you don't even KNOW what indecision is!' That'd only make her feel guilty and why should she have? She was crying and stressed, and, well, that IS a pretty big decision." I don't know. I guess you could say I learned an important lesson that day.

What I'm trying to say, more to myself than to anyone else, and in a rather disorganized fashion, if you ask me, is that THIS is my most sad thing right now. And I'm NOT going to think about how much worse it could be. I don't need to. Because it's bad enough and if I think about it in terms of me being lucky, that'll only serve the purpose of making me feel guilty for feeling bad. And I shouldn't feel guilty about that. I know better now.

I felt guilty for feeling bad ten years ago. I thought I should be over it. Recovered. I was lucky. I was alive. I was young. I was cute and in college and had my whole damn life ahead of me. So, I pretended I was all good. I rocked my combat boots and baby barrettes and laughed and smiled and played along. Only underneath, I wasn't all good. And pretending to be all good fueled by guilt only put off the REAL healing about five years or so. Too damn long.

So, with three miscarriages under my belt, I'm going to mourn that for as long as feels right. Until I say enough with the mourning; I'm done. Until I want to look on the bright side. Because I will. When I'm ready. And not a day sooner.

PS- You guys rock. That is all.