Children & Chocolate and Other Paths to God

I spoke to a former co-worker this morning and was saddened to hear she had just recently lost a baby. This was her first miscarriage, though not her first pregnancy. She has a little girl who is two.

While I’m no expert on the subject, I have had two miscarriages, and I have had many, many friends who have as well. This qualifies me, I think, to at least explain what the experience can be like.

My first pregancy ended in miscarriage at 12 weeks. I had been violently ill, and was working at the time, so the fact that it ended, though sad, was not entirely unwelcome. I was not at all prepared for morning sickness, especially to the degree that I get it (it’s a condition known as hypomeisis). I had gone in expecting to hear a heart beat at that doctor’s visit, and instead my ob escorted me down to the neo-natal unit where they did a quick sono. The baby was there, visible, but no heartbeat, and a bit smaller than she should have been. I felt like I’d been hit by a truck.

If you’ve never had a miscarriage, or problems conceiving, you just don’t realize how delicate the whole baby-making process is. EVERYTHING has to go right, at the right time, in the right place, to get a healthy baby. If not, things just stop (miscarriage), or they keep going in the wrong order (birth defect). And the statistics are overwhelming. Something like 50% of all first pregnancies end in miscarriage. It seems more common now, but I’m convinced that’s just the result of early pregancy tests. Our mother’s generation may have had just as many, but never knew they were pregnant. They just thought they were having a bad period.

I opted for a D&C as quickly as I could get it. The thought of walking around with a dead baby inside me was just too depressing. I’m someone who prefers to deal with tough situations up front, and get it the hell over with. I know other women who have opted instead to miscarry naturally, which can be incredibly painful and can take WEEKS. That’s not easy.

So what does it feel like? Physically your body has to readjust to no longer being pregnant. This means bleeding, cramping, and some hormonal swings. It took me four months to get a period after that. Emotionally, it’s like losing your best friend, or a beloved grandparent. It’s an abstract concept for people to get their brains around, but for the woman, it’s simple: their baby has died. All comments and actions on the part of friends and family should be responding to this fact, to the best of their abilities. I got flowers, food, cards, and phone calls - and then I had people that didn’t even acknowledge that it happened. People also meant well but said stupid things. That’s just the way it is.

It should be mentioned here that it’s also hard on the husband. It’s not their body, and if it’s your first pregnancy, most guys haven’t even accepted the fact that their wives are pregnant to begin with. Until you start showing, it’s not in their world yet.  So while he was supportive, I still felt like I was alone.

A year later I had my daughter Abby. I was sick as a dog for the whole 40 weeks, and had a C-section, but overall the pregnancy was uneventful and healthy.

Two and a half years went by, and I finally mustered the nerve to submit myself for the physical torture that I know pregnancy to be. This time, though, I didn’t get sick. Not once. I knew something was wrong. Sure enough, at seven weeks I started bleeding heavy and that was the end of it. I had another D&C.

Though still incredibly sad, I had my daughter to think about, and I had to pull it together for her. I gave it up to God’s will - if I was only meant to have one child, then so be it. The ironic thing was that the second time was easier for me (in that it was familiar and not too shocking), but harder for my husband. Now that we had experienced the joy of our daughter, the lost babies became much more real to him.

Then, a few months later, I got pregnant again (getting pregnant was never a problem).  I bled a lot in the beginning, had tons of hormone tests, and had six sonos. I  threw up almost daily for 40 weeks, and ended up on bed rest for the last nine weeks for hypertension, but the pregnancy itself was healthy. After another C-section, I had another girl.

So I didn’t just shut the door on my childbearing years after all this, I SLAMMED it shut.

Those of you who have gone through this should know that you’re not alone. It’s ridiculous how many women came out of the woodwork after I had my first one. It’s like you’ve joined some kind of secret club. We’re a tougher kind of woman, though. Whether or not we’ve gone on to successfully carry, we’re all survivors, and that’s what’s important.

Okay, I’ve been blogging for almost a month now and I’ve observed a few things. For my loyal 10-15 friends who read this with some regularity, I know this stuff is probably new to you too, so I thought I’d share.

First, I’m starting to feel like the fat girl at the gym who just realized that everyone else is gorgeous, and she’s wickedly out of shape. Meaning, I have read some amazing blogs, and where these moms really find the time to write such quality stuff is simply beyond me. I’m seeing just how rusty I am, but, much like at the gym (which you all know I don’t go to anyway…) I’m not vain enough to think that people are really looking at me anyway. So I’m going to keep working out, and when I do start to look (read) better, then maybe I’ll try to get people to notice me more.

Second, having access to my viewing stats is a bit like keeping a scale in your living room. It’s too easy to get obsessed over the numbers, when I don’t really care anyway. It’s fun to see it spike up to 50, but then I feel sad when it’s only gotten a few hits in a day. From the research I’ve done, getting hits takes a lot of self-promoting, a lot of networking, and you have to have some really meaty stuff on your blog EVERY DAY.  I just don’t have the time to commit to all that. It’s fun, but so is socializing with the “real” world.  And the stuff that gets a lot of hits on Digg and Reddit tends to be controversial, political, or a little crazy- and really, I’m none of those things.

I have to remind myself why I’m doing this - to get in shape. To exercise that muscle between my ears. To be able to write poetry again that doesn’t sound like something Theodore Geisel would write. To learn something about myself. To perhaps give my friends and family a chuckle and expose myself to them in a way I didn’t have the confidence to ten or fifteen years ago.

So, if you feel like you now need to forward this to all of your friends because you feel bad for me, well, I won’t say I mind it, but it’s okay if you don’t!

Timer is set: 5 minute writing exercise, fiction
Imagine you leave a note for a stranger- what could it say?

The next person to sit on this cold marble bench should know something. I was here this morning, and I sat for three whole hours, waiting. I watched men in suits and women wearing skirts with running shoes pile into the revolving doors, shielding their Starbucks from the biting gusts of January wind. The horns and racing engines from the busy street behind made it difficult to make out the conversation next to me. But eventually, the traffic slowed and it quieted down as rush hour passed.

The morning sun was blinding off of the tall white granite building. There were six benches around the courtyard. I sat on the second one in, two people sat on the next one. They had been here for ten minutes.

The couple never even noticed me. I could smell the bacon from his breakfast sandwich, and hear him smacking his lips as he licked the egg off his fat fingers. He wiped his hands repeatedly on the leg of his jeans. The woman had short black hair, and looked about twenty. She was wearing too much perfume, or I was just caught down wind, but the smell of lilacs was not meshing well with the bacon. In fact, it was making me a little queasy.

The woman had a long, purple, fuzzy knit scarf wrapped around her shoulders, and her manicured fingers kept pulling at the ends of the fringe. Tears were running down her cheeks. She spoke cautiously.

“Mumble…mumble…not your fault…it would have happened eventually…”

The man nodded, and threw the sandwich wrapping on the ground. The wind immediately scooped it up and sent it past me, scurrying down the street. He pulled a can of Coke from his leather coat pocket and rested it on the bench next to him, between us.

“Well, I’m not too surprised,” he responded curtly, “and it’s not MY fault, honey, it’s YOURS.”

“You’re not getting rid of me that easy,” she said bitterly. “It’s more complicated than a simple divorce and you know it.”

“Yeah, don’t I…,” he replied, with a touch of sarcasm.

She winced, folded her arms, and looked away.

Without looking down, he popped open the soda can, and I could see him slip a few white pills inside. The man waited a moment. He sighed heavily, and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, soda cupped in his hands.

“Coke?” he asked her, offering up the can. She turned back to him, smiled slightly, and took the beverage. She took a long drink, and looked wearily at the people rushing by. She handed him back the Coke.

“I think I’ll go home now,” she said, standing suddenly, ”I’m going to call the lawyer and figure out what we’re going to do about our problem.”

“You do that,” he responded with a grin, “but don’t worry too much. Things have a way of working themselves out.” He put the can down on the ground, got up, pulled his leather coat collar up tight around his scrubby cheeks, turned, and crossed the street.

She watched him walk away for a moment, caught my eye briefly, and turned in the opposite direction. She made it through the courtyard, staggered for a moment, grabbed her stomach, and then collapsed. No one has seen her yet besides me.

I fumbled for a napkin and a pen in my backpack, picked up the can of Coke, and walked to the last bench. I felt the warmth of the winter sun on my face, and began to write you this note.

Anyway, I thought I’d share a recipe a friend gave me that I tried for the first time - very easy and very tasty. Even the 3-year old ate it. And with Lent coming up, this would be a good Friday night dish for you Catholics out there. Bon appetit!

Shrimp Tetrazzini

2 tablespoons butter

1 onion, chopped

8 ounces shrimp, shelled and deveined

8 ounces fresh mushrooms, sliced

1/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/4 cup mayonnaise

1 teaspoon salt

2 cups milk

1/4 cup sherry

1 (8 ounce) package spaghetti

1/4 cup grated Parmesan cheese

I was reading Kate Wicker’s blog today, and with Ash Wednesday right around the corner, she specifically asked people to share thoughts on Lent, or the carnival celebration that precedes it.  So, now that the kids are in bed, and the last “Mommy, I have to pee” call has been made down the stairs, I have a few moments to reflect on this.

For as long as I can remember, “giving up” something for Lent has sort of fallen in the same category as New Year’s resolutions. I do the same ones every few years, with questionable amounts of success. I’ve given up chocolate, ice cream, swearing, and alcohol. Of course, these are all things I’d be better off without anyway (though they have proven now that chocolate is actually good for you, in case you needed further proof that God exists…), so I’m not sure that my motives were all that perfect. Yes, they were things I loved, or at least really enjoyed, but my end goal really was usually to shed a few pounds or break a bad habit. Not all that noble when you put it that way.

So much has happened in the last three years, however, that I think this Lent might actually be different for me.

Though I’m still nowhere near the Christian I’d like to be, I finally feel like I’ve gotten on the right path. God has led me to the right people, in the right place, at the right time. Everything has come together in a way even my non-religious husband can’t ignore. Every great thing (new baby, new job for hubby, and an incredible group of friends in our new neighborhood) and every unfortunate event, (including a miscarriage and a house fire), has opened our eyes to God - to the point where we feel like he’s been smacking us both upside the head for the last 36 months.

Some of us are a bit slower than others, but finally I can say, “I GET it. I’m LISTENING!”.

And so I’ve decided that that’s what the next forty days are about for me - quiet contemplation over all I’ve learned, all I’ve experienced thus far on the journey, and listening, really listening - to my friends, to my family, and to God. 

I grew up four miles from the beach in New Jersey. It was obviously great to be there in the summer, especially as a kid. Some of my fondest memories of the shore, however, are from the off-season. There is nothing more peaceful and relaxing than being on the boardwalk when the air is crisp, or there is snow on the sand. You feel like you’re witness to something special that all of the summer tourists miss out on, and it does wonders to clear your head.

Then I left Jersey for college in Maryland, and ended up staying here. I missed the sort of escape that the beach offered me, but I managed to find other locations that worked for my spirit. In the years before I met my husband I was living downtown and going to grad school. When I needed to do some creative work there were certain places I could go to get a little inspiration - Fort McHenry (which is essentially a large park on the Patapsco River), the local coffee shop on Charles Street, or my rooftop deck. I liked places that got me out of my own world (or at least my room), and gave me something else to look at.

Now it’s ten years and two kids later, and I’m trying to get my head in a creative place a little more often, but I have no where to go. We don’t live in the Rockies, or at the beach, so it’s not exactly visually inpiring. Sure, we go on vacation every summer to Hatteras, and it’s great, but we eventually have to come home. I can take the girls and go on a drive in the country (we’re on the edge of civilization, so it doesn’t take long to find horses and cows), or we can go for a walk on one of the many old railroad track trails around here. The problem with both of those scenarios is that my hands are too occupied to be able to write, so while it’s still fun and refreshing, it’s not meeting my needs.

So, like all busy moms, I’m forced to improvise.

If I can’t go to a great location, I need to create one. If I’m running all over the house with the kids, it obviously needs to be portable.  I may not be able to visually make a mood (like a beach or a hip coffee shop), but I can use music.  I find that if I’m writing, though, I can’t listen to anything with words. Sounds stupid, but I just can’t focus. So I dug out some old George Winston from my college days, and a Rachmaninov cd, and even a Pavarotti aria (it’s not in English, so it doesn’t bother me). If I can get the baby to nap, and the 3-year old doing a puzzle or art project, I can actually get something done.

I can’t immerse myself in a “mood” for hours like in my single days, but I’m impressing myself with how quickly I can get my brain in the right place. Like all things with kids, you learn to operate in ten-minute increments. I have a friend who figured out how to exercise in ten-minute spots. We all clean, pay bills, cook, do dishes, and shower in ten-minute increments, and now I’ve learned to write this way as well. It’s not ideal, and I feel a little fragmented, but for the next five years, it will just have to do.

Like the saying goes, “wherever you go, there you are”, and so it is with my “location.”  Until we move to Colorado, or the beach, I’m going to have to wing it and make a space of my own whereever I can. I’ve learned that you have to be creative if you want to be creative.

Whenever I call my children by the other one’s name (which happens a lot), the 3-year old will say to me “You say da wong sing Mommy.”

And when she, in her excited preschool way of explaining things, occasionally says the “wong sing”, I call her on it, and she laughs. Most of the time, I know what she means. But every now and then she comes out with something really strange.

The other night, after consuming a considerable amount of Mexican food, my husband and I bathed the kids and I put the baby down. It was still early, though, so he brought some of Anna’s board games onto our king size bed. The three of us were enjoying Candy Land and having a nice time when my husband, well, (and I hope he forgives me for this) passed a little gas. (guys are seldom really embarassed by this anyway, more often they take pride in this sort of behavior…thank God I have girls…)

As children are more honest than the rest of us, Abby declared loudly…”It SMELLS in here!”

My husband laughed, and said “Really? What does it smell like?” (I just shake my head…)

She thinks for a moment, and says “It smells like…HOT BLUEBERRIES!”

Hot blueberries?

Since I spend at least 85% of every day with Abby, I can usually see what she’s referring to when she spouts something odd. For example, the “wabbit on the motorsnacker” was the guy dressed up in a bunny costume riding a motorcycle on Halloween on York Road. She still asks if we can see him again. If I tell her I need to go grocery shopping, she’ll ask if we can get a “fwog”, which refers to the sugar cookies in the bakery. They had frog-shaped ones sometime last summer, and even if they’re footballs or snowflakes now they’re still “fwogs.” I think most mothers, or caretakers, have the same ability. It’s not hard when you spend your day looking at things from your kid’s point of view.

I am acutely aware, however, that this will change. They go to school, start hanging out with friends, and going places without you. Right now I have the luxury of dictating most of what my children experience, or at least I’m aware of what their worlds are like. As some point though, I’ll lose this ability to reference. In a few years I’m sure there will be plenty of times I’ll have no clue what my daughters are talking about, and it makes me a little sad.

So is this the beginning? What the heck are “hot blueberries” and why do they smell so bad? I’m sure I’ll never know, but I’ll always be a little curious. I guess I should get used to this feeling.

This week’s Catholic Carnival is up. Enjoy!
http://www.livingcatholicism.com/archives/2008/01/catholic-carniv-55.html

I want a new car.

And I never thought I’d say it, but I’m even considering a mini-van. We just need more space.

But this isn’t really the point. The point is that I haven’t had a car payment in years, and I’m doing all I can to not have one for long this time around either. We have some cash saved already, and we’ll get money for our trade in, so I need to be able to save another $5 - 10,000 this year.

So we’re on a budget. A very tight budget. I’m not even sure it’s going to work, but on paper it works fine. On paper we should have a lot left over every month. But then, I’m probably not being honest with myself. You have to account for everything. Gifts. Beer. Happy Meals.

Whenever I get a new savings plan going, it always makes me a little crazy. How did I not save this kind of money last year? Where the heck did it all go?

I do have to cut myself a little slack. Last year was all about survival, not savings. I had a pregnancy from hell, so I gave myself permission to spend whatever I wanted on food (if I could keep it down), on whatever I wanted for my toddler (if it would keep her entertained), and on plenty of things from catalogs (since I was on bed rest and not seeing much of the outside world.) But now that year is over, the year where I had no control and I’m ready to live a little more disciplined, and to be more deliberate across the board.

I’ve finally come to the point in my life, in both marriage and finances, that I need to plan for spontaneaity. I know that I hate to cook on Fridays, so I put it in the budget. I know I like to buy the 3-year old a special treat now and then, so that goes in the budget too. It’s not that I don’t have fun, I just go for the “better value” fun.  I don’t operate on impulse as much, and quite simply, I’ve identified my temptations and learned to steer clear of them.

I now throw away catalogs as soon as they come in the mail, and I only go to Target once a month. (Because, let’s face it, it’s impossible to get out of Target without spending a hundred bucks.) I now take books out of the library instead of buying them on Amazon, and I even clip coupons, more for the ritualistic reminder to stick to my shopping list than for the three dollars I’ll save.

Being disciplined and conscious of my choices feels good. It’s a healthy self-awareness that has carried over to other areas of my life as well. I don’t waste my money, and I don’t waste my time either. That isn’t to say that I don’t relax or play with my kids, but that I plan my day so that I can relax and play with my kids.

And if I can avoid Target for a whole year, I just might get that minivan with no car payments at all!

Ahhh, sleep. I have fond memories of sleep. Last night I got 7 whole hours, virtually uninterupted, but for the stuttered snoring of my beagle, Fred. Between the discomforts of pregnancy, and then the infant night-time feedings, it’s easily been over a year since I’ve had a decent night’s sleep. The baby (aka “the meatball” for reasons that would be obvious if you saw her) is 9 months now, and finally doing those wonderful 12 hour stretches of sleep that all parents look forward to. It would have happened weeks ago if not for a cold, and back to back ear infections, but at least we finally got here.

Yet I’m more tired than ever.  I’m sure it’s just a phase, but I wake up at the littlest sound from the children, and I just can’t get back to sleep. (I don’t use monitors any more for this reason) And short of getting a direct IV from Starbuck’s, I don’t think I can drink any more coffee without my head exploding.

The beauty of the first child is the whole “sleep when they sleep” ability. What you don’t realize, is that you only get to use that card one time. Unless your children are close in age, the older one may no longer nap, and there goes any chance for you to rest (or read, or make phone calls, or eat, or shower…). The most I’ve been able to convince the 3-year old to do is to have “quiet time” on the couch every day from 2:30-3pm to watch Curious George. Sometimes I can even get the lights out, and blankets on us, and close my eyes for a minute or two, but it never lasts for long.

I wonder if I will ever feel rested again, and decide that no, it will probably be a while longer. Because, no matter what time you go to bed, 6am is still darn early. And dark. Fortunately, though the baby is up, she’ll play and talk to herself for an hour before I really have to get out of bed.

The 3-year old is less subtle.

At the first crack of dawn, she’s two inches from my face. “Mommy, it’s DAY!” she says, like she’s surprised that it happened again.

Thank God for daylight savings time. The summer was brutal.

And this may explain my love affair with all things winter. I love snow, I love cold, I love being snuggled inside while it’s freezing outside. And I love sleep, which seems so much more permissable in the winter. In January, I feel no guilt about letting the kids stay in their pj’s until noon (or longer). I don’t feel like we’re wasting a beautiful sunny day if we lounge on my bed reading books for few hours in the afternoon. And, well, it’s darker earlier, so we may as well retire a little early too.

So that’s what this boils down to. Guilt. (or Catholic guilt, though I’m not sure what religion really has to do with it this time…) I finally feel like I’m allowed to sleep, and yet I can’t seem to get enough.

Oh well. There’s always next winter.