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Saturday, May 30, 2009

Recipe Time. You know you want to try this....

Ok, so you all know that I don't cook. I say it all the time. But what you really need to know is that it is by choice, not because I suck at cooking. You know, say it enough and you will never have to cook. Actually I am a pretty decent cook and a dam fine baker. But only when I want to be. I have a love for seeing how long I can go without cooking a real meal. Truly, my husband would back me up on this.

Since we are BBQ'ing tomorrow night, I thought I share one of my favorite recipes with you. It may sound bad, but it is freaking good. So, here goes... Beer can up the butt chicken. And yes, that is the technical name.

What you need is:

1 whole un-cooked chicken

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

2 tablespoons salt

1 teaspoon black pepper

3 tablespoons of Mrs. Dash (or some garlic salt and whatever else you want to throw on it)

1 can of beer (The crappier the beer, the Coors or something.)

Ok, so start you grill. Or if you are like me, you make your big strong, manly spouse do it. Your choice. Let the grill warm up as you prepare Mr. Chicken. First you give Mr. Chicken a nice lukewarm water bath. Please, no bubble bath, even if he begs. Take out any giblets and remove the neck. (If you are squeamish, have the meat guy do this for you. If you ask nicely they will even wash Mr. Chicken for you.)

Pat Mr. Chicken dry with paper towels and then give him a oil massage. He will super love this. Wouldn't you? If he gets fresh, just smack him around a bit. Mr. Chicken tends to get a bit fresh.

Then rub the spices all over him. Think of it as aromatherapy.

Open beer can. Take a few sips, big sips, cause you only want it to be half full. Stick half drunk beer up Mr. Chicken's ass. Apologize.

Stick Mr. Chicken on grill. Balance him on the beer can and his legs. Cook for an hour and a half or so. Spear Mr. Chicken with a fork to make sure he no longer bleeds. When he doesn't, he's done.

Remove from grill. Take beer can out of Mr. Chicken's ass. Enjoy your chicken. Goes nicely with salad and grilled corn on the cobb.

Come back next time when we learn how to skewer Mr. Chicken. Loads of fun.

ps. I needed to move that post below down a bit, so I decided to break my no posting on weekends rule. Hope you all have a great weekend.

Thursday, May 28, 2009

Why it bothers me

You write a post about silly nonsense, the first real post in a month and get told that you are a sheep and should kill yourself. By a person with no name, but none the less, some person who felt that was the right thing to say.

As bloggers, we are supposed to not care about this. We should get used to it. You have enough hits to your site, you are bound to get some trolls. We are supposed to harden our heart and not let the stupid comments bother us. As a seasoned writer in a public forum, I am supposed to just let this roll off my back. It doesn’t matter, it’s just some asshat troll. Delete and ignore. We’ve even come up with the blogging terminology to describe these people; the people who attack in comments, the people with no names.

But it does hurt and it does sting. Even after all these years of doing this, it bothers me. Intellectually it doesn't bother me. But the heart and the brain don't' always feel the same way. You just don't say that to someone. That is something that I can't just brush off. The, you should kill yourself comment. The rest of it can be ignored, but that one stings. I'm not sure why. Maybe because I had a friend who did kill himself. In some ways it bothers me more when someone attacks a friend of mine, than when they attack me. I am always willing to defend a friend and luckily I didn't have to say anything yesterday, as all of you were kind enough to defend me.

After the multiple comments and then the attacks on all of my friends, it almost seemed funny in some way. This person who so wanted to be known as the troll of the day. It seemed less personal after that, which was nice. But that one comment sits under my skin and eats at me. Because I wonder why someone would say such hateful things to a stranger. I wonder what I said to provoke him. Did my talking about Disneyland or my kids last day of school, provoke such a hateful response? Am I just an easy target?

It's not me. I've been told that two dozen times, by people I adore. I know they are right, yet I still feel responsible.

I think in some way, they must be jealous. Jealous of our families, jealous of our friendships, jealous that they have no name. That must be really sad for them, to have no name. I doubt they’d walk up to a stranger on the street and spew such hatred, as they are apt to do online. I wonder what makes someone feel that this is okay? That the words they type are any different than the words they say aloud. Words have power, whether you type or say them. Maybe they don’t care, maybe I am such a horrible person and I deserve it. However, I doubt it, because I’ve never in real life, had someone attack me like this. You want to know why? Because I am a nice human being. I am kind to others, even people who don’t deserve it. I say please and thank you. I donate money and time to help the less fortunate. I don't tailgate, nor flip off strangers who cut me off in traffic. I've never taken a thing in this world that did not belong to me. I am a hard worker and a responsible human being. I take good care of my children. I am a good person.

But they don’t see that. They don’t seem to care to see that. They don't care that telling a depressed person to kill themselves is just plain wrong. He doesn't care, because it doesn't affect his life.

It bothers me, this lack of caring. The ability to spew filth and not care what you’ve put into the world. It makes me wonder about the world. And I don’t like that feeling.

This person, who taunted the blog world yesterday, doesn't care about people. Doesn't care about people's feelings or emotions. Most likely it was a ploy for attention. There have been others before and there will be more after. Eventually they move on, because truly, why would you continue to read blogs written by parents, if you hate parents and children? (And hi, don't you have parents, weren't you once a child?)

It hurts me as much as it does, not really because of the 23 words this person said, but because I am still fragile. I am the first person to admit, I’ve had a hard ass month, which has come after a hard ass eight months, following a rough couple of years. I have my good moments and my not so good moments. Yesterday was the first time in a month when I hadn’t been depressed and this is what I get. Yesterday, by the way, was the four week mark. I lost the baby four weeks ago, last night.

I have been depressed and trying to be okay (and doing a dam good job of it) for a month. I’m fragile and I can’t handle this without talking about. I can’t ignore it like I should probably do. I can’t just let it go.

Which is why I'm writing this. Not because I want to give this person more attention. I have deleted and will continue to delete all of his comments. I am not going to link to his site, nor will I ever click on it again.

I am writing this, because I have to. I have to say all of this. I have to write that this isn't okay. That I am not just some random stranger behind a computer screen. I am a person with feelings. I am a wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend and dog owner. I am a good person.

I am taking a stand. I am saying to the world, to all the trolls out there, that this has gone on long enough. Go find a life and stay the hell out of mine. Leave my friends alone. No one cares what you have to say. Shoo.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

A little bit of random...but hey, that's what I'm best at

It's been brought to my attention, that I am a bit odd. Shocker, I know. This was not news to those who know me and not really even to me, but I did find it kind of funny how it came up.

I guess not everyone reads the last page of a book before reading the actual book? Or needs to have a movie ruined for them if it is sad or scary, before turning it on? No? I'm not the only one though, right? You guys have to know someone else who does this? Hmmm, maybe I am alone in this. It's something that I've done for so long, that I forgot how weird it might sound to someone else. I found myself explaining it yesterday to a friend and the best I can come up with is that it's an anxiety thing. If I know the ending, I can enjoy it. If not, I fret through the whole thing. Weird? Yes, I will admit that. But it works for me.

Next week, we are going to Disneyland for a few days. Some cousins are going and I decided the second I heard about it, that I was going to go. A lovely brother of mine, who has now been written out of my will (ha, I've always wanted to say that), asked me how in the hell someone as neurotic and anal as me, could just plan vacations like that.

Really it's a logical question, but I am not that logical of a person. Trust me on this one. I can't really explain it, other than, I have been planning how to do this trip, since I decided to go. I am just crazy like that. It's part of my charm. It might seem last minute and really, it is, but I've already mentally packed us. I know where we'll go, how we'll get there and basically have an organized list in my head of the entire trip. Exciting, no? Don't answer that.

In other news, today is the last day of school for the summer. Can you hear my sigh from where you are? In some ways, I am so happy for school to be over. However, I don't have any preconceived notions that it will be an easy. The girls have a love/hate relationship. Either they adore each other and play amazingly well, or they are a nightmare. It can change on a whim. Hopefully the kid sharing scheme my BFF and I came up with will work out well.

Bailey is a bit nervous about Kindergarten. She hasn't slept well in the last few days; having nightmares and crawling into bed with us at some ungodly hour of the morning. I think it's our fault, we may have talked up being a kindergartner a bit too much. She isn't my anxious kid, not normally at least and we tend to forget that she is still a little tiny thing. I am a bit sad about having her no longer being a pre-schooler. I also know, that she is so ready for kindergarten and she'll do phenomenal. Muh babee is getting big though. sigh.

That's all I've got today, I guess. It's going to take me a bit of time to remember how to do this again. It's been so long for me, that I'm kind of like, wait how in the world do I do this again. I'll get there, I promise.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Guest post: my 200th post, written by Mrs. Chicken

Today's guest post is by the lovely Mrs. Chicken. Because of what this post about, my intro is below it. After you read it, you'll understand why.

I've spent the past month or so tied up in knots about my blog. Should I keep it going? Shut it down? Open it to my family?

It's so stupid, all this angst about a series of virtual pages, a life imagined in the ether. I am not Mrs. Chicken; I am a living, human being with facets more varied and strange than I could ever share by tapping out a series of words strung together. Do you know me? Yes and no. Do I know you?

No. And yes.

Issa and I crossed paths last summer, when I was startled—terrified, really—out of my ambivalence about my second pregnancy. My OB decided I needed an iron infusion, administered directly into my veins with an IV. Later, I found out that this risky procedure is attempted only in very dire situations, and only in the hospital.

Only in the hospital, because it can kill you if you have an allergic reaction.

I had a reaction; not quite full anaphlaxsis, but close. I never stopped breathing, but I did black out and wake up to two Epi pens surging through my system, body seized with painful contractions, as frantic nurses and my midwife struggled for several long, life-altering seconds to locate the heartbeat of my 37-week old baby.

The babyman. Babyman was planned, expected, wanted. But that didn't stop me from gnawing on the idea of him like a dog with a bone. It didn't stop me from endlessly questioning how I would manage to love him, with a heart already so full of adoration for the little girl who stole my soul lo these four and a half years ago.

But that day, I realized how much my heart wanted him. How important and real and deep my love for him was, even as he lay hidden inside my inhospitable womb.

Issa read my recounting of those 30 minutes, and suddenly, the two of us were bonded. I changed her life, she tells me. That experience of mine allowed the ice floes inside her own heart to break free, giving way to the warm mother-love she has for her own son.

Issa, you see, experienced loss.

Issa feared the love. She feared loving her sweet baby curled up inside her, lest he be taken from her. She's suffered heartbreak and loss and she was brittle.

But Issa was not broken. And neither was I. But sometimes it takes a shock to break you free from the fear, and we both got a shock that fateful July afternoon.

And so, Issa and I are bonded. When my son was born, I thought of Issa. It sounds impossible, disingenuous. But I did. And I knew that shortly thereafter, she would experience the overwhelming love that I felt as I pressed my lips to my son's warm, freshly minted face.

A few nights ago, Issa and I chatted online about the strange wonderfulness of this imaginary world we share, and as we signed off, I wondered if I would ever meet this young woman who has become my friend in the strangest, most unimaginable way possible.

I might not ever lay eyes on Issa. But she and I share something difficult, if not impossible to articulate.

I think of Issa, and of all the other mothers and fathers out there in this vast universe, and I think of how I am changed because of them. How I love more deeply, share more openly, weep more copiously, laugh more uproariously, because of a series of words strung together.

Because of stories.

And because of Issa, and Heather and Mike and Tanis and Kristen and Binky and all the rest too numerous to name, I will continue to share my own tales. Because you just don't know when your life will bump up against someone else's, and change everything.

I can't really remember when I found Mrs. Chickens site. I think there is a possibility I read her a bit before I quit blogging, but I'm not positive. Who knows? It doesn't really matter in the grand scheme of life. What I know is that when I first started reading her blog last summer, we became connected in a way that most people in the "real" world wouldn't understand. In a way that some of you, might not even understand. I don't think I can do it justice, so I'm going to ask you to read THIS if you'd like to know a bit more. It's a post that I wrote, the one where I realized how amazing this new friend of mine was. It's a bit of a harsh post, because it discusses the last time I lost a baby. But that day last July, where Mrs. Chicken almost lost her Babyman, was the day I realized I could and did love mine. That he'd already taken over my heart, I just didn't believe it yet. This woman, who I'd not met had changed my view on my life, my son's life. In one moment, she changed my life. Strange? Maybe. But it is true. I hadn't been blogging again for very long last summer. I was still in the, share silly stories, not reality with the blogging world. I hadn't found my voice yet. But that day, I choose to be real with all of you, or whomever of you were reading back then. I hadn't said yet, that I wasn't sure I could love Harrison. I hadn't told the story of my loss, or my breakdown after it. I hadn't yet decided that I really wanted to do this again, this crazy blogging life. That day, I knew I was in, fully in. That day, I realized that I wanted to be apart of this community again. In some ways, I wish I'd never taken a break. But my experience is different this time around, my friends are different, I am different.

This woman, this beautiful woman, who I may never meet, is someone who I am honored to call my friend. It's a strange community we have here. Having people guest post and write such brilliant heartfelt things has really shown me how important all of you are too me.
I am still finding my words again, but I am getting there. I will be back, I promise. You can't get rid of me now.

Saturday, May 23, 2009

Blast from the past

I spent most of the day at the graduation and subsequent graduation party of a cousin's daughter. Nothing makes you feel older than going to the graduation of a beautiful young woman, who you've known since she was a bouncy four year old child. We had an absolute blast, but I am tired and sunburned.

Since this weekend will probably be dead on the Internet, I thought I'd post something from my original blog. One of our cousins has a 20 month old and it reminded me how much fun that age is. Bailey will be five in July people. Five. Like five years old. I look at her and it shocks me how big she is. I still picture that little toddler who I wrote this post about, instead of my big girl, who will be done with pre-school on Wednesday. So, here we go.

My assumption is that this was originally written sometime in Fall, 2006.

The things I love about two year olds

You know, two year olds get such a bad rap. Yes I know they deserve it a lot of the time, you know with the constant tantrums and no's and never seeming to know what they actually want...unless it is cookies and jelly beans. All of this and way more give two year olds a bad rap, but there are things about having a two year old that I adore. I thought I'd share the loveliness of having a two year old.

I love toddlers dancing. Mine dances in the mall, the grocery store, in an elevator, in the car and anywhere else where there is music. Last night while waiting for our to-go order, she made me play the songs on my phone. She danced to all of them. She (and her sister) love to show me their "moves", which vary from actual dance moves to stuff she's made up to a lovely booty shake to gymnastics. Now both of my girls are great dancers and have complete rhythm, but even when toddlers don't, it is still cute.

I love the fact that everything can be made into a story and that stories don't have to end with happily ever after and be word for word like it does when you are four almost five years old. I can tell her a story about a woman with a cell phone talking to a dinosaur about which shoes he'd like to buy and even if I'm holding a Thomas the Tank engine book, she is okay with my story.

I love watching their chubby legs run. I love that they love their chubby legs and love nothing more than to have you tickle them and tease them about them.

I love the sing song voice they have when they are doing something they know you don't want them to be doing. "I doin nothin Mama", in a singsong voice cracks me up every time.

I love that they clap for themselves when they learn something new.

I love when they say, I hold you, because it means they want you to hold them and cuddle with them. I even love the words, I hold you, because it shows that they really know who it benefits the most.

I love slobbery kisses and bear hugs and how they wrap their whole body around your legs.

I love that they don't care if they match or if you give them a Pebbles hairdo every day.

I love shopping in the toddler section of stores. I will be so sad when I have to move to the slutty bigger girl section.

I love Jammie's with feet and clean toddlers in them.

I love that they still have some baby qualities, like rolly elbows and chubby thighs, but you are starting to see that they look like little people.

I love how they speak, not quite right, but getting the hang of it. I love that the middle of the ABC's are all lumped together and that they say things like Nem, Nems instead of M&M's. And they have no problem with you correcting them or deciding it is so cute that you repeat it.

I love that they are so active that you think you might have a heart attack trying to keep up, but when they crash they do it quickly, sometimes falling asleep sitting up.

I love that they do everything whole heartedly, whether that is a tantrum or playing.

I love that they love to hold your hand and sit in your lap, the second you need to actually be doing something.

I guess that's good for now. But I really do love two year olds. What do you love about two year olds?

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Guest Post: Where real and imaginary blend together

Insta-mom is today's guest poster. Which makes me so happy. I am really loving these guest posters. I mean I loved them all before, but I'm loving this semi-break. I am feeling the urge to start writing again, so there will be more posts from me in the next few weeks, mingled with the last few guest posts.

Insta-mom managed to put into words what I have been wanting to say for awhile. Which really, makes it so much easier for me. Because hi, she's a teacher and has a way of getting to a point when she writes, which I tend to not be able to do. I tend to be in the, see if you can find the point of this post because I surely can't, camp.

A lot of you have your Internet life and your real life mingle. You do play dates, you go to every conference imaginable, your family and friends know about your blog. Maybe a few of your friends in real life, blog too. Mine don't, no one knows except for Logan and my BFF Kate and I'd like to keep it that way. They're not telling anyone. Most days, they pretend they don't know. It really has nothing to do with any of you. It's not that I feel any different about you than I do my real life friends. For me this is just the way it is. But I, like Insta-mom am seeing the lines being blurred. In some respects it scares me. In others, it seems like it's not a big deal at all. Like it's the natural thing. I care too much about all of you to worry about it anymore. I fought it so hard with my last blog and in the end I had to stop blogging because of it. This time, I'm just not willing to do that. Do my children and husband remain separate from my online friends, yes. They do, that is Logan's number one issue and I am okay with it. (To him you are all the invisible people in the computer.) But too me? No, it's just not that black and white anymore. I do this for me. To have something that is all mine. When you are friends with the same people your entire life, you each have a role to play. A role you know, a role that I am entirely comfortable with. Our lives our so intermingled that every story I tell has them in it in some way. Our kids are all the same age and it doesn't look like it will be any different for them. I love this about my life. However, blogging is just for me and I love that too. It's my thing that no one else does, that no one else is interested in. It's my deal.

Anyway, I am honored to have Insta-mom share in my space today. (See at first I had no idea what to say, then the rambling happened.)

At my mom’s house on Mother’s Day, my sister-in-law was looking through the World’s Most Influential People issue of Time Magazine. When she got to the page about the founders of Twitter, she declared, “I still don’t even understand what Twitter is.”

I didn’t offer anything by way of explanation as I sat there on the couch next to her, my Blackberry intentionally left at home so I wouldn’t sneak to the bathroom too often to read my Twitter feed.

Those of you reading this who do Twitter probably totally understood why I did that; those of you who don’t quite possibly think I’m a hopeless loser.

And that’s my point. So many people don’t “get” the relationships those of us who have Internet lives develop with one another. I’ve heard people talk about blogs and social networking sites with that air of contempt in their voice. Those things are for social outcasts, recluses, people whose skin is oddly colored because most of the light they get in a day come from the glow of their LCD screen.

I only told two people I know “in real life” about my blog. Another found out quite by accident. But that is the extent that my two worlds overlap. I like it that way. You see, in real life, I am a bit of a recluse. I tend to resist social situations that might involve large groups of people. I try to branch out, but I don’t do well overcoming my fears—the fear of rejection, ridicule, exclusion. In real life, I am self-conscious and insecure.

There is safety in the Internet. People don’t have to read your blog or follow you on Twitter. If they don’t want to know you, they won’t. They don’t laugh at the worn out pair of shoes you wore because they were the only ones you could find. They don’t judge that you haven’t washed your hair because you just can’t bring yourself to exert that much effort. And if they tell you they don’t like you, the sting can wear off more quickly because in many ways, they are not “real” to you.

So I have created for myself these neatly separated worlds: the “real” one, where I am what I know I am; and the Internet one, where I am who I wish I could be. I am open and confident and social. But these worlds stay separated. I am happy when life is neatly compartmentalized. For so long, I’ve needed them separated.

But several times recently, those two worlds collided. And they collided in ways that I can’t ignore. So the lines have to bleed and become fuzzy. I have had to come to terms with the idea that these bloggers I read, these people I tweet with, are not just ephemeral beings elsewhere in the universe who know me in a way that even people I am related to do not. They are actual flesh-and-blood friendships. Friendships grown in a different part of my self than the “real” friendships I already have. They are people who know me in a more honest way than anyone who actually “knows” me.

The power of those relationships has come crashing down on me in the last several months. You don’t realize how invested you become in someone’s story until that story includes pain—pain that you feel as acutely as anyone not experiencing it in the first person can. You are forced to accept these relationships into your life, the real one, not just the invisible one. All the strings of the two worlds become tangled, knotted, inseparable.

But offering friendship and consolation to people you have grown to know over the Internet is much more complicated. You can’t stop by with a basket of muffins and a box of tissues when you are in California and your friend is 1000 miles away. And even when geography doesn’t impede your outstretched heart, how do you offer your love and concern to someone who, in spite of being part of your every day life, you’ve never actually met?

Maybe I have trouble giving people the benefit of the doubt, but because these Internet relationships are so much different, I don’t trust that people who don’t have them will always understand the depth of the friendships. I can’t rely on them understand how you can hurt for someone you’ve never seen.

And I won’t ask them to understand how these invisible relationships can actually make you a better person, a better friend, in real life, too. Because when you can’t stop for a cup of coffee or offer a hug you are forced to find other ways to show that you care.

You begin to understand that just a simple “I’m thinking of you” can carry a well of emotion with it. You find other ways to be generous. Those acts are enough because they are all you can give. And they help you realize that the best you can give, even if it’s just a few words to ease a burden, will always be enough.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

I believe

I believe that coffee and donuts in the morning start out a day right.

I believe that you can have bff's in real life and bff's in Internet life and they are equally as important. (Even though my husband thinks you are all made up.)

I believe in eye rolling, heavy sighs and sticking your tongue out at people who deserve it. Although sometimes I want to smack my children for this.

I believe that music, sports and art should be requirements in every school.

I believe that teachers and therapists should make more money than sports players.

I believe that reading can take you anywhere and every child should learn to read.

I believe that video games, movies and TV have their place and it's cruel to never ever let your child have these things.

I believe that however you create your family and whomever you choose to have in it, is your choice and it should be honored as a real family.

I believe in adoption. I believe that a child adopted, is someones real child.

I believe in the healing power of ice cream.

I believe that flossing your teeth is beneficial, but I'm still likely to never do it.

I believe laughter is the best medicine.

I believe in bubble baths, date nights, pedicures, family game night and wine and cupcakes with the Internets night.

I believe music helps the soul.

I believe that a lot more people like country music than say they do.

I believe that people who bring toddlers to a PG-13 movie at 8pm on a Friday night should be taken out back and beaten.

I believe that everyone should see as much of the world as possible. Also the US, if you live here. (Then maybe we'd all ahem me not say things on Twitter like: "okay might be dumb, but Chicago is the east coast right? Anything past Ohio is in my head." Not realizing that you will then be sent a picture of a map of the US. Funny enough I've actually been to Ohio. To me, it's still the east coast. Ha. Gotta love the Los Angeles mind set that everything past the LA county line is the east coast.)

I believe every child deserves a good education.

I believe that this community rocks. Completely. For the support you all gave my guest poster yesterday and for all you give too me. For the continued support for Heather and Mike. For the love I've seen directed at Maddie Moo. For the support everyone gives each other on Twitter everyday. I adore this community.

Tuesday, May 19, 2009

Guest post: One step forward, three steps back

Today's guest post is from Kari at I left my heart at preschool. I intended on posting this last night, but I couldn't think of what to say in this intro. I want to tell you how sweet and kind Kari is, because it's true. That she is a good writer and friend. I want to tell you how adorable her girls are; how much prettier her blog is than mine and how I can't wait to drink some wine with her at BlogHer this summer.

Mostly though, I want to just let her words speak for her. I think that is possibly the best thing to do. Please, please support this lovely friend of mine, because I think she could use some kindness right now.

Thanks, Issa

When Issa asked me to write a guest post, I was more than happy to help her out. Because what she is going through, how she just isn’t inspired to write a lot lately, I get it. I’ve actually been feeling the same way myself lately. The main reason I’ve personally been ignoring my blog lately, is because there’s something that I’ve wanted to write about for a long time now, it’s just been too jumbled up in my mind to come out as a coherent post. Also because it’s not something I’m comfortable posting on my own blog. Too many family and co-workers read my blog, and I’m not ready to get too naked in front of them at this point. So I guess I’m also taking this guest post as an opportunity to get naked in Issa’s backyard instead…thanks Issa!

My marriage sucks.

We’ve never had what you’d call an easy relationship, but the past few years especially, I feel like for every step forward we take, we end up taking a few steps backwards shortly after. To start at the very beginning would make this post the length of a novel…my husband and I have been married for eleven years, and have known each other for eighteen years in total. So I’ll start a few years after we were married. We hit a turning point in our marriage, where we easily could have split up before starting a family together – but ended up staying together. Sometimes I wonder if I stayed partially out of guilt. For quite a while before that point, when things were going badly in our relationship, I withdrew – almost entirely. But I felt like I had invested so much of my life into this relationship, with a man that I loved dearly – that I owed us both a chance to focus completely on making it work. And we did. We went to counseling, we decided to move closer to our families and we started our lives over again, so to speak. When things were solid in our marriage, we decided to start a family together.

We struggled every now and then, but we were able to keep working through our issues. There was, however, a strange undercurrent in our relationship that kept pulling us back to seemingly the same problems. So about a year ago, we decided to go to counseling again. I got a lot out of our counseling sessions, and I thought we grew as a couple because of them. I continued going on my own for a while after our couple sessions were over, which made a huge difference for me personally. Then, not too long after counseling, we were arguing over something that I cannot even remember – when he told me that he was unhappy in our relationship solely because I am overweight. According to him, this was the one thing that everything else hinged on, and the one thing that has kept him from being happy ever since we were married – so for the past ten years.

I was broken. I’m not even going to go into whether or not I feel that I am overweight – or the history of my weight in the time of our marriage – because I think it’s irrelevant. I was broken by the fact that something external was his entire basis for happiness with me. I was torn between wondering if I would do more damage to my kids by leaving, or by staying with someone who puts that much weight in weight. Pun intended.

I spent months being angry, and putting on even more weight – probably as my “F you” to him – I had decided that this was his problem, not mine. Eventually, I made peace with it. I finally told him how hurt I was. He told me about his hurt. I listened. He listened. We both agreed that we were essentially staying together for the kids. We both agreed that it wasn’t good for them or for us, to be unhappy together in our marriage. We both agreed that we’re not ready to give up. We both agreed that we have no idea how to make it better.

I put a lot of thought into how to make things better. He was just about to leave for a week long business trip, when I told him about one idea that I had. We would both write down five things that were really important to us, and the other person would try their best to do those things. Neither of us actually took pen to paper, but knowing at least one thing that is apparently THE most important thing to him, I set out to lose weight. In attempting to understand him, I was also able to feel more loving and accepting towards him. I wrote him a long letter and put it in his suitcase. He called me the day after he landed and told me it was the best card I’d ever given him. Finally, I felt like we were taking some steps forward.

It’s been hard keeping up my personal motivation, because I feel like since then, he has not acknowledged anything that I’ve done to try to make things better for us. I also feel like he has not been putting in any effort from his side. Maybe he has, and I haven’t seen it, just as he hasn’t seen any of my efforts.

Tonight, we got into another fight about our different parenting styles. He seems just as angry and unhappy as the day he first told me about how unhappy he really was, if not more. He said something about how there’s no point talking about anything, because nothing will ever change. I said if we can’t continue to talk about parenting, then what is the point of being together. I feel like the kids are better off, if we just parent them completely separately. He said he thinks that is what we are doing right now.

Three steps back. I wonder how many steps backwards are left, before we fall off the cliff. I feel like we’re so close, I can’t see how we can come back to safety.

I keep thinking about a plaque that a friend gave me recently. It says, “Faith is daring the soul to go, where the eyes cannot see.” I do have Faith. I’ve never lost it. I dare my heart and my mind, to keep going, even though I cannot see what is in front of me.

Sunday, May 17, 2009


He crawls away from me, until he gets to the edge of the door which will lead him out of our kitchen and into the den. There he stops, turns around, looks at me and comes back to play with the Tupperware again. He hasn't found his baby wings yet. He hasn't realized that we are not one yet. I am still his person. At not yet eight months old, I am his world. He lights up when he sees me in the morning and cries when I walk out of the room without him.

This is the way it should be. Yes, he will get over his separation anxiety soon. Yes, he will one day leave the room I am in on purpose. But not yet. I will savor the time until then.


Logan: Iss, I think we need to eat at home this week. He reaches for another hot wing from the container in the middle of the table.

Bailey: Daddy, we are eating and we are at home.

Logan: Did you coach her to say that?

Me: Nope, she got that one on her own. Babe, I'm doing the best I can. Dinner is still dinner, as long as we all eat together.

Logan: Pause. I never thought of it that way. So, okay, dinner at home, no restaurants this week. But I don't care where the food comes from. One week, lets just try it for one week, okay?

Me: That sounds like a plan.


Morgan was as sick as a dog last week; food poisoning from some treat at the school. I've never seen her that sick in my life. Her long thin body, curled up on the bathroom floor in between retching. I sat with her, me and Harrison hanging with her on the floor until I finally decided to take her to Urgent care. I have been scared in my life; scared of many things. But nothing is scarier than watching your baby go as limp as a noodle from exhaustion and dehydration as you carry her too the car to take her to Urgent Care.

At 2am that next morning, she came into our room and said, mama I can't go to school today. I know bug, I do. But it's only 2am, I told her. Then I did something I rarely do, I pulled her into bed with us. She slept curled into me, nestled in between Logan and I for the rest of the night.

When I was in California, she slept with me two nights in a row. The two nights following my losing the baby. Those two nights, I felt guilty for, because she was there to comfort me. Now I know it works both ways. It's okay for her to be a comfort to me on occasion, just as it is for me to be that for her. That's what makes us family. Yes, she is seven years old, my first baby. But she is getting so big too. Big enough that we are starting to become friends in some way.

I want that, to be friends with my kids. Their mother first? Always. But friends too.


My Mom: So, Papa** and I are coming out mid-June. We're hoping to find a house to buy while we are there.

Me: Really? That soon?

Mom: Yeah. I've already started working on my book and he's pretty much finished with the practice. Jordan has a handle on it, he's been there for nearly two years. The practice runs itself these days. We're ready for the change. Ready for the new chapter in our lives.

Me: Mom, you know there is a house for sale down the block from us.

Mom: You'd want us to look at that? It wouldn't be too close?

Me: No, not at all. We'd love it.

Mom: Oh I'm so happy to hear that. Ok, well pull the phone number, so I can call on it, okay?

Me: I will call them for you.

Mom: You know it's funny, but so many people don't get to say that their grown daughter is one of their best friends.

Me: I know, that's just sad. God, I hope the girls and I are like that one day.

Mom: I know it will be like that for you.

**We call my step-dad, papa. Have since they got married when I was eight.


Kate: Are you guys sending the girls to summer day camp?

Me: I don't know. Maybe? We go back and forth on it. Morgan wants too, but Bailey doesn't at all.

Kate: Yeah, Aidan doesn't want to either. If we send him, you know he'll fight me every single morning. It's almost not worth the trouble.

Me: Yeah, I know. I want the time with them, the freedom to sleep in. Ha. But the reality is, I don't know that I want to entertain them, or listen to them fight all day every day for the next 10 weeks.

Kate: Well what if we share the kids? Take turns on certain days? Split them up on certain days and then have a day a week where we all do something together? Then we can both say, have a day a week free and the rest will work itself out.

Me: That is awesome. I'm in for sure. Can I have Friday off?

Kate: I knew you'd ask me that.

Me: At least I'm consistent.

Kate: Um huh. Consistent, pain in the ass maybe.


I wake up late/early one night to the bed shaking. He's sobbing, all 6'4" curled up around a pillow, with his hand shoved in his mouth to be quiet. I comfort him and calm him down and then ask why he is so upset. I wanted that baby. I wanted that baby so bad that it hurts. I wanted you to never have to go through this again. I couldn't fix it and I wanted too. You needed time to grieve, I had to be the one to not fall apart.

Well now it's your turn I tell him. Babe, we will have another baby, I tell him.

I can't even tell you how much I wanted to have another baby, he says. That baby, our baby.

We will. That one wasn't meant to be. But there will be another try, another chance. If not through us, we'll adopt. We'll find our baby. The one that is meant to be in this family.

There will be another baby. I know it. I feel it. Not yet, I need time. But sooner than one might think, I'd bet.


It's a crazy life, it keeps me on my toes, but it's my life and I wouldn't give it up for anything.

Friday, May 15, 2009

Guest Post: When two worlds colide

Today's Guest is from Stacey at AnyMommy. Stacey, for those of you who have never been to her site, is capable of making me (and most anybody) laugh and cry in the same sentence. (Read below, or read any of her posts and you will understand.) Also, she wins the best Tweet award for the month: "Most embar Seattle moment: Waiter: Ma'am, 4 u, a coke? sprite? Me: No, I'd like huge top shelf margarita. Blank look. Me: Is the bar closed?" For those of you who don't know her, she is like 32 million weeks pregnant.

She's a beautiful writer and friend. I tell her that she's a great writer, because she is, all the time. My only compliant about her is she posts really early in the morning and I NEVER wake up early enough to get any points. Because yes, her posts have points too. I keep thinking if I tell her enough times what a great writer she is, she might float me a free couple of points. But so far, it ain't workin.

But this post below is awesome and I'm blessed to be able to share it with you all. I have a post coming next week. With real words and all that jazz. I have more guests post coming too, but I am feeling the urge to write. Please be patient with me, while I find myself again. I hope you guys enjoy these guest posts, because I am loving them.

Different Worlds

She walks toward me quickly, with a huge smile, and hugs me tightly, "Oh, I knew you'd be here. I've been reading your blog. I think it's wonderful that you're walking for Maddie."

I am thrown off balance, stiff and awkward in my disorientation. The field is swept by a constant cold wind, but bright with sunshine. The purple balloons tied to my triple stroller dance crazily. My kids happily eat free doughnuts provided by the March of Dimes, their cheeks sticky and chapped red by the wind. She turns to them, her warmth and enthusiasm prick at my heart. "And here are Ess and Gee and Cue," she rattles off their names without hesitation. "They are gorgeous!"

"Thank you. It's great to see you here." I don't know her name and my brain is in a tail-spin panic. I should know it, we aren't friends exactly, but our kids went to the same co-op school in different years. We've chatted a lot at book club meetings. Also, she's lovely and I really enjoy talking to her. I should know her name in such a way that asking is not an option. It's more than just being poor at names, or being a social ditz, it's that some where deep down I feel I should know her the way she knows me, that I've failed some how.

I know she has a daughter a little older than my three-year-olds. I know her little girl was born prematurely and struggled to live for weeks. I can't remember her daughter's name either. She told the whole story at a quiet restaurant table with just three or four of us left after a book club meeting. That was maybe six months ago and I haven't seen her since.

She has seen me, though, here in my other world, where the mirror sometimes only lets people look in at me, as though I sit under a barren light at an interrogation table, gazing at my own reflection while those on the outside watch my movements for clues.

"I loved your last post, the one where you think about Cue at the pool while you're rocking him. It touched my heart."

"Thank you so much," I answer. "I love writing that blog, it means a lot to me that people read it." I want to say so much more, I want my three restless children and the windy field to melt away for a few minutes. I want to take her hands and lead her to a little table and buy her a coffee. I want to ask her, tell me, please tell me, what do you think about when you rock your little girl to sleep? But, the walk is about to start and the rest of my team is waving at me from the other side of the open space and all three of my kids are asking me something and someone is asking her a question because she wears a volunteer t-shirt. So, I give her another quick hug and surreptitiously wipe the strange, inappropriate tears from my eyes.

"See you later."

Thursday, May 14, 2009

Guest Post: Toddlers Rock

Today's guest post is by the lovely PsychMamma. I am kinda thrilled that I managed to trick her into writing for me, seeing how she doesn't really blog anymore. She Tweets, thankfully, because I'd miss her if she didn't, but she doesn't really blog anymore. She also is constantly kicking my butt in Scrabble, but we don't talk about that. This is basically something she wrote for her little girl, J, and was kind enough to share it with us. I have to say, it totally made me miss my girls being so little. It's strange how different a year makes, because really Bailey is only four and a half. But it is different; they grow so freaking fast.


(A journal entry for my three-year-old daughter)

Hey pumpkin!

Today was a most wonderful day with you. I have to admit that many of these days are not-so-wonderful. You seem to have saved the "Terrible Two" phase for when you turned three. Most days, you're busy testing boundaries (and my patience), shouting "NO!" and being in time out. I know that it's developmentally normal and that it's just a phase, but sometimes my sanity survives minute-by-minute.

Today was NOT one of those days. We woke up to a rainy day, and I was feeling lazy. Yesterday, I accomplished EVERYTHING from my "to-do" list for the day, so I was feeling triumphant. I decided that all the house things and work things could wait another day, and somehow managed to not even think about them. We had a great time playing together. We made a tent in the living room out of a sheet, the couch and a dining room chair and played in it for a long time. For a while, it was a tent, and then it magically transformed into a pirate ship (your idea)! Have I mentioned how much I love your imagination these days?? It amazes and amuses me without end. We prepared food for jungle animals on safari and for ponies on our pirate ship, and you made me some special tea. We read a couple stories, sang lullabies to babies and tucked them in to sleep. We took a walk to Venezuela, pushing a baby and two bottles in a stroller, and pulling a puppy pull-toy along behind us. We snuggled while watching Charlie & Lola together, which we both absolutely and completely adore, and I loved hearing you giggle whenever Lola giggled. It made me giggle to. We played with buttons for a long time - one of your favorite things to do. We talked about the colors, textures and shapes, sorted them into bowls and found the tiny ones that fit in the teapot spout, then strung them on a strand of dental floss. You love the flower shaped buttons best. After a while, we made a picture for Daddy by gluing buttons onto cardstock. Your declared that your picture was a cow with a flower (even though it looked absolutely NOTHING like either), and you were so proud of it when we were done. You were also completely amazed by glue. It was the first project we ever did with glue (Yes, I've been terrified of the possible repercussions) and when the picture dried, you couldn't believe that the buttons stuck! You declared it wonderful magic, and then asked if we could take the buttons off again.

Your phrase of the day was "C'MON! Work with me here!" and I have NO idea where you heard it. Neither your daddy or I say it, but I'm sure you picked it up from a library movie or something you overheard someone else say. Your memory constantly amazes me. I've learned not to question you unless I'm prepared to apologize, because you're very rarely wrong about things you remember. Although, weirdly, if it's something I WANT you to remember or find ("J, WHERE is your other shoe?") you mysteriously have no recollection.

You woke up from your nap on the wrong side of the crib (Yep - you're still in a crib, and will be for as long as possible), but happily snuggled with me in the rocking chair for almost twenty minutes. Because that rarely happens anymore, I treasure anytime it DOES. I can't believe how big you're getting and how the space on my lap is getting filled up. Your head easily rests on my shoulder when your knees are on my lap now, and I remember so well the days when you snuggled up against me with your head on my chest and your feet on my belly. I know that a huge part of me will be incredibly sad when these snuggling days are over. You'll be to big and too proud for that. But, I also know that new wonders will be waiting for me as I watch you bloom and grow at every new stage. This parenting thing is so bittersweet. I'm so proud of your every accomplishment, and I want you to learn new things and to become more independent. At the same time, I know that very independence means you'll need ME a little bit less, and that the snuggles will be fewer and farther apart.

Daddy and I had a date night tonight. We need those now and then. It's that sanity thing again - someday you'll understand. You love your babysitter, and are usually so excited when I tell you that she's coming. This morning, when I told you she was coming you got mopey, though. I asked you why you were sad, and you said, "Because you will go away. And I don't like it when you go away." My heart melted and I reminded you that I always come back and that I would be here when you're sleeping and when you wake up in the morning. Your little face lit up, and you said, "And we can play again? You will play with me tomorrow?"

For as many days as you let me, Pumpkin. For as many weeks as you ask me to. Until the years when you're busy with friends and I become the embarrassing mom. I'll take all the tomorrows I can until then, and I'll store them up in my heart.

I love you, Sweetie. Always.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Guest Post: The MIL version

Note from Issa: I've been blessed with lovely friends who have taken pity on me and my messy heart right now and have obliged with a few guest posts. Please be kind to them, as they are doing me a HUGE favor and I have no way of repaying them. Unless any of them takes sour Jelly Beans as payment? Ladies? Anyway, today's guest poster is going to be anonymous, because her MIL lurks on her blog.

This is an anonymous guest post, written by someone with sadness in her heart and a Mother-in-Law that chronically lurks on her own blog. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to share my thoughts...

On Mother's Day it came to hit me, my mother-in-law hasn't seen my children in over two years. TWO YEARS. My youngest is only two and a half, which means you don't need to be a genius to do the math, she's non-existent in their lives. As I grow older and wiser, I realize you can't force someone into your life even if it's a family member.

But I wonder when it's going to hit my children as well. Why doesn't Grandma come visit us?

Unfortunately my MIL likes to spend her travel time on things she likes doing, rather then visiting her grandchildren. You see my MIL isn't a knitter or crafter or bingo player, my MIL is a chronic gambler. Even though we live about 2,500 miles apart, she'll fly right over our house to a better destination Las Vegas. You know because when she travels to Vegas, she gets "free" rooms. We charge a high premium for our guest room, quality time with the grandchildren. I guess it's too much for her to handle.

We've tried to have the conversations, we've heard the promises of a visit in the winter, no a visit in the summer. But alas the years are passing and visiting us is low on the priority list. And yes, we are partially to blame because we haven't made the visit to see her or her husband that has never met our youngest child. Saying that blows my mind.

I just feel like being an adult and traveling with out little children in tow is not too much to ask of someone that loves and cares about you. Now for us, hopping on a plane or two with layovers, with our children is much more of a process. We are going to make the trip this fall, but I don't quite know how to accept that she doesn't want to be a part of our lives. I guess we don't provide the rush of a pull on a slot machine or the promise of the next big win. We just like to have quality time around the dinner table and create lasting memories.

Time to focus on the family members that do love us, love visiting us and creating memories. Although it sure is hard to let go when it's your husband's own mother that doesn't love you the same way.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

Mother’s Day and a few random announcements

To my mom, the woman who carried me inside of her for 38.5 weeks. The woman who laid in bed for the last 3 months of that time, hoping beyond hope, that she and I would make it through okay. The woman who nearly died having me. The woman who didn't know for 29 hours if I was even alive. The woman who spent the first two months of my life laying on a couch with me on her chest trying to get better. The woman who raised me, played with me, never took crap from me, who loved me every day and every night. The woman who taught me how to be a woman and a mother. My friend, my mom. Happy Mothers Day Mama, I love you.

To my babies, all three of you crazies, for making me the mother I am today. I adore you.

To my husband for giving me the three crazies. You have my whole heart.

To all of you, those who are mothers, those who have mothers and those who help mother the rest of us anyway, happy mother's day.


In the next few weeks, I'm going to have some guest posters. I need the freedom to not write when I can't, and to write only when I am ready. I've asked some amazingly lovely friends of mine to help me out. It doesn't mean I won't post at all, but I need to know that it's okay if I don't. I need time. Time to process, time to heal, time to grieve. Time to just be. Please know I'm still here, reading, tweeting.....I'm just needing a break from posting.


I found an old file, posts I had written before, on my previous blog. I might share a few in the next few weeks. I'll put the date on them, so you know they were previously written. Some of you knew me then, so you might recognize them.

Below is the first one. I thought it seemed like a good thing to share, seeing how tomorrow is Mother's Day. Obviously my girls were a lot younger then.

October 24, 2006

You know you are a parent when...

You buy the Princess and Spiderman Fruit Snacks instead of the organic real fruit infused with a cup of beet juice snacks, even though they are supposedly healthier, for three reasons. One, you know it is a lie, they are all full of sugar. Two, sugar never killed anyone. Three, it makes your kids smile and happy for at least three minutes.

You have Cheerios and Goldfish in your cabinets at all times. You also find random Cheerios and Goldfish under couch cushions and under your car seats at all times.

You drop a dry erase marker in a client meeting and say "uh oh", without even thinking.

You smile a bit and gently laugh at the woman who said "uh oh" in the meeting.

You give your last piece of spicy tuna roll that was on the way to your mouth to your two year old when she says, "Mama, I hab it, purty please", without a second thought. (Even if not eating that piece does make you want sushi for two more days, until you break down and buy more sushi.)

You find yourself dancing in odd places, like the grocery store or the elevator just because you like the song. When you realize where you are, you don't stop, because you're a parent and what the hell do you care what strangers think?

You go into a toy store or go online to start your birthday/Christmas shopping and while you do think to yourself, will she/he like it, you also ask yourself it it is loud enough to give you a migraine and will it hurt if I step on it at 2am in the dark?

You buy things that give you migraines and hurt your feet at 2am, because you know they will love it.

You get up in the middle of the night when you hear your child cry out even though you just want to say snuggled in you nice warm bed.

You watch The Incredibles, the Muppet's Show and the Magic School Bus over and over again until you know the entire dialog, but you don't make them quit watching it.

You take dozens of pictures, just hoping one of them will capture the magic of the moment. You also take pictures to remember how little they were once.

You read The Monster at the End of This Book, Goodnight Moon and Blueberries for Sal each and every night to your toddler, because they love those books and only those books, even though you'd secretly love to toss those books in the ocean or poke your eyeballs out before you will ever want to read them again.

You go into the kitchen at work and grab a bottle of water and before you take a drink, you write your name on it, so you know, there are no fights.

You look at teenagers and think they are such babies and wonder what your kids will be like at that age instead of remembering how cool you were back then.

You tell random people with newborns in stores to enjoy it while they can, because they won't stay that tiny and huggable for long.

Happy Mother's day everyone.


Thursday, May 7, 2009

Maybe ice cream is magical?

Last night I received a call from my BFF at 8:49pm ish. She told me that I needed ice cream and she would be there to get me shortly. Any attempts to tell I her I didn't need ice cream were met on deaf ears. She was coming, I was going to get in the car and that would be that. You don't argue with the woman. I mean you can, but it never works out well for you in the end. Only I would argue with her about not needing ice cream.

Anyway, when she picked me up, she asked me where I wanted ice cream from and I replied McDonalds, for a McFlurry and she promptly told me she didn't like that and we were going to go to Dairy Queen. At this point I have to tell you that with anyone else, I'd want to smack them, but this is part of why I love Kate so much. She is just like me in this way and normally we fight over who gets to be the most ridiculous in our demands. Last night, she won, because I really didn't care to begin with and I didn't have it in me to argue.

So we drive to the Dairy Queen, which happens to be a drive-thru and start to order our ice cream. Kate tries to explain to them what she wants, which is basically taking apart three different blizzards (two of which don't exist anymore) and making one of her own. She explains it to the woman three times, each time saying it a little different, because honestly the girl has no idea what she really wants. After trying to explain it for the forth time, the woman, through hysterical laughter asks us to just please pull forward.

Pull forwards? Because hai, we have no idea what you want and um we need to look at you while we try and figure it out. I had tears rolling down my face at this point, because I was laughing so hard. Pull forwards? I have never had a single person say that to me before. When we pulled up to the window the chick could barely keep a straight face as she asked Kate to explain it. To make matters worse when they got it figured out, I said, I'd like the same thing, but with the truffle pieces in it. (Because who in their right mind, doesn't want the truffle pieces?) Then of course, we knew one of ours, if not both would be wrong. But it didn't really matter, because it's ice cream, from Dairy Queen and we'd both eat it. And yes, mine was right, Kate's was wrong and that made us laugh even more. I could just hear them thinking, couldn't you people have gone and gotten a dam M&M McFlurry?

I laughed; we laughed, for a good twenty minutes. I laughed so hard that I had trouble eating my ice cream because my stomach and ribs hurt from laughing so hard. I laughed so hard that I had tears pouring down my face, in happiness for the first time in a long time. I laughed so hard that for an entire half hour, I forgot that a week ago, I was still pregnant. (Although it was a week ago last night, that I wasn't any more.) I laughed so hard, that I forgot I was sad and depressed; forgot that my children were spending the night elsewhere, just so I could be sad and not worry them; forgot that I wanted to be at home, in bed, with the covers over my eyes.

In that moment, that small window of time, I remembered that I am okay. That I will be okay, that I will soon feel like a whole human being. That my heart will heal, like it has before. That the cracks will always be there, but they will fade over time. Sometimes laughing um, with your best friend is the best medicine in the world.

Last night I dreamt about ice cream. Today, I woke up not crying for the first time in a week. Do I feel better than yesterday? Yes. Do I feel good? No. But you have to take it where you can get it. Last night, laughing was the best thing I could have done.

I want to thank you all for your comments. I want to hug you all for your kind words. I may email everyone, but I am having trouble with that, so don't count on it. Just know, your words have helped me more than I could ever tell you. Your support means the world.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

The elephant in the room

I knew right away. Some women don't know for weeks, a few for months, but I knew the very next day. Weeks before a test would ever show me a plus sign. The tell tale nausea, the kind that lasts all day. Morning sickness my ass. The sore boobs, the dizziness, the inability to eat anything besides bread, pineapple and ginger ale. I was pregnant.

There are next to no pictures of our vacation in Hawaii; no funny stories or great date adventures. There is none of that because I (well we) spent our entire vacation in the hotel room. And not in the fun way. (Trust me, there has been no fun in that way lately.) I have been sick for a month. Just waiting for the day that I could take a test, post a picture of it and tell the world. Because I was beyond thrilled. I told more people than I should have, because the excitement was overwhelming. I also thought it good to mention to a few people why I was never around, why I never posted anymore, why I rarely made any mention of being around. So people didn't forget about me I guess. That day, was Tuesday of last week. I peed on the little stick and it confirmed what I knew, what I had known for a month; I was pregnant. Excited, I told everyone I came across.

Late Wednesday night, I lost it. The baby, my baby. Gone as quickly as I told people. Just gone. One day after confirmation that it was true, it was all over.

I went on vacation anyway, this past weekend, because I needed a distraction. I slept a total of an hour and a half Wednesday night, but I went to California anyway. In the moment, it seemed like the best option. Maybe it was. But now I'm home. And I hurt. There are no more distractions now. There are no more family members to act fine around. No more places to go. Nothing, except me and my head for company.

I am writing this, because I can't speak. Not past the: please don't hit your sister or the, yes, sure have another piece of candy, I don't care; type of speaking. I am here, going through the motions. Changing diapers, doing dishes, playing along on Twitter; but I don't feel it. It's not real, it's fake. I am pretending. Pretending I am not crushed. Pretending I want to do anything besides get in bed and pull my comforter over my head for a week. I feel like a shadow of myself. Like I am watching myself do these things, but not really doing them. I am not sure I can explain it, not sure I need too. I will be forced to speak tomorrow, to my shrink. But I am not ready. I just want time to grieve. However to appease my husband I will at least go to the appointment.

Every time I open my mouth, I feel like I offend people. And it's true, because I have offended a few people. I am spewing on others, my lovely friend told me today. She is right and there are very few people I'd let say that to me when I feel like this. But I am, spewing and making asshat statements. So, now....I am not talking.

I hurt. I am sad. I want my baby back. I can write this, but I can't speak it.

I am not crazy, despite my jokes about it. I am just a woman who lost a baby. A sad, depressed woman who lost a baby. A baby that made me sick like a dog for a month. I would be sick for the next eight months, if I could have my baby back at the end.

Right now, my heart hurts. It hurts so bad that I feel it cracking. It hurts to breath, it hurts to smile. I have to make myself eat. If you don't believe me, ask Maura how little cake I ate when I met her on Saturday night. I know in a few days, I will feel better. I know in a few weeks, I will feel even better than that. I know one day soon, I will laugh at a joke, tell a joke even; it will feel good and natural. I will one day find myself smiling, drinking wine, or enjoying a moment. I have felt this way before, I know how it goes. Truly it's not as bad as last time around. But today I pretend.

I wrote this so you all know why I haven't been around, why I may not be around or be very pleasant for a bit. I wrote this for me, because I had to get some of it out. I had to say what I can't say, if that makes any sense. I had to write that I am crushed, because I am. Because it hurts to breath and it hurts even more to think. Because one day I won't feel like this, but I need to own it right now. To honor it; my grief and loss. To share my love for a baby I will never meet. My baby.