Merging

I remember in Italy, when we mentioned we were renting a car and driving from Florence to Rome (cue hysterical laughter) in order to make some day trips along the way, an Italian told us, "Don't follow the lanes. Don't expect to. Just move with the flow."

Best advice we could've ever received.

Imagine my surprise though, when I went out on my usual run of denial normalcy last Saturday at the beach and found that on the boardwalk was a demarcated lane just for me. Despite the fact that it was a cool, crisp morning and everything was eerily shut down for the season and the boardwalk was close to deserted, I got in my lane and stayed there all the way down and back. Sometimes it's nice to know you fit in somewhere.

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Two weeks ago I got a message from Ms. Prufrock at Barren Albion wondering if I lived anywhere in the proximity of [place to remain unnamed, story belongs on her blog] and I believe my reaction was "HOLY SHIT, that's 10 minutes away."

And last Thursday night, I let Ms. Prufrock in my front door and despite popular internet legend, she was not an attention-starved 14-year old boy or a 56 year-old male axe-murderer. She was beautiful and sweet and had this lovely little British lilt despite her Pennsylvania roots, and we sat and drank tea in my kitchen and chatted and it was . . . . awesome. It's really quite strange to sit with someone you've never met, and yet you know their whole backstory. It's like you don't know them at all, and know them more than most.

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Less than 24 hours after my tea time (Ms. Prufrock promised not to make fun of my gauche American tea-making skillz, which consist of putting a bag in a mug of water and putting it all in the microwave if I promised not to mention that she sat at my kitchen counter and tried to get her no-plan mobile phone to work and . . . did I just say all that out loud?), I loaded my car with goodies and set off for the shore to meet . . . . total strangers. Psychopaths. Internet hoodlums. Well, ok, not entirely true -- I had met Angie and Sarah before, so I knew it would be at least three against seven (if they were still alive), and I more or less trusted Niobe and Julia since I had communicated with them a bit and knew a bit of non-internet information . . . . but you never know. I mean, even if everyone else there -- M., TracyOC, Lani, Molly, Laura -- was legit, what if (gulp) we all just didn't click? And then I saw people unloading Dogfish Head and Victory beer from their coolers and knew, knew right then and there, that we were all going to get along just fine.

And we did.

There was chatter, and eating, and eating yet again, and laughter, and crying, and even crying because you were laughing so hard. (Ok, that was me.) And everyone just fell into their places at the couch or the table or walking down the boardwalk, and conversation was usually chippy and up but occasionally the elephant entered the room, and how nice to know we were at the convention of florescent pink elephants and no one skipped a beat.

It was so nice to finally fit in.

I think what I really liked was the normalcy -- the knitting (though I don't), the photo taking, the game playing. I didn't know what to expect, and while I didn't think there would be seances and chest beating and shrine design sessions, I was pleasantly surprised at how beachy and weekend-y it all turned out.

I know what you're all thinking, I can sense it through the interwebs, and the answer is . . . YES. Yes computer friends, I DID get a picture of Niobe. Right before she threatened to grab my camera and smash it to bits.



Niobe Playing Jacks







I jest. I would never attempt to photograph such a spirit.

Friday Afternoon News Release, Typical

Genetics called.

All chromosomes are there, all accounted for, no extras, none missing. No breaks, no obvious translocations.

It's a boy.



I'm 14+w pregnant.


:::


I suppose there's a somewhat humorous and interesting back story here (isn't there always?), but I'll have to sort through what I feel like mashing through and what I don't.

I guess the big thing is that I thought this would be hard. That I'd either be a) petrified, cowering in the closet, clutching my safety blanket and weeping while rocking back and forth and wishing a coma upon myself, or b) fighting off hope. DAMN YOU! GET AWAY YOU INSOLENT LITTLE SHIT! BEGONE! (Stamps foot, sprays poison, wields blowtorch.)

I'm neither. Frankly, I'm nothing. This has, to this point, been the most out-of-body experience ever. I stare at the ultrasound screen, and I might as well be watching television. They flip it off, and I ask when I need to come back. My due date has been said out loud to me a grand total of once, and thank goodness for short-term memory loss, because I've honestly forgotten. Something in May. Mid-May, I think. I function. I'm . . . nothing. I'm not pessimistic, which is good, but nor am I optimistic. I feel surprisingly fine, good even, which perhaps is significant, or maybe just evident considering I'm not moving to another state, I'm not bleeding, I've yet to visit the ER (knock wood, throw salt), and I don't have a two-year-old. I've been cleared to run, so I lace up my shoes and leave out the back door and inhale the Fall and it's like none of this is really happening.

And right now that's exactly what I need.

So . . . . no C-word please. You know the drill. We know if this works, um, sometime in May. Save the C-stuff for the first day of Kindergarten.

Seeing in the Dark

Yesterday, the US Preventative Services Taskforce recommended that the age of regular mammogram screening get bumped up to 50 from 40. Furthermore, they stated that getting screened every two years was enough.

In addition to providing fodder for the next conversation with the ol' OBG, this story crystalized some of my newfound problems with modern medicine as a result of Maddy's death. Do you have any problems with doctors, medicine, technology, or science in general as a result of your experience? Join me today over on Glow In The Woods.

Own Goal

As a soccer fan, I was shocked to read the headline yesterday about Robert Enke, a German goalkeeper who apparently, willfully, lethally, put himself in the path of a train. According to all reports, he was to be named Germany's starting goalkeeper in next year's World Cup.

And as a soccer fan, may it be said I would've been drawn to this story whether he was a German goalie or a Ugandan midfielder, and as a human being I would have kept reading the story -- whether he played soccer or not.

I wrote about attempted suicide in the second post I ever wrote for this blog. I remember that particular story and person being a small paradigm shift of sorts for me: pain is yours, no matter the cause. And gratefully, my pain at that moment was no where near as great. Poor Owen Wilson gave me relativity, exemplified my first lesson in pain olympics, and proved that despite my shitty circumstances I was able to still show sympathy, and empathy. And did I mention gratefulness of my own pitiful condition? I should underscore that: I wanted to disappear, but at the end of that metaphor, I always wanted to come back.

I don't know what drives people to want to end their lives, but I no longer compare rationales because in the end it's moot: it's what the individual feels, and who am I to judge what someone feels?

Buried at the end of the saga of Enke, the lovely quotes from coaches and teammates and fans, descriptions of mourning taking place, pictures of candles and flowers, was this:

Enke is survived by his wife and eight-month-old daughter, who the couple adopted.

The couple's two-year-old daughter died in 2006 from a heart condition, and [soccer commentator and journalist Rafael] Honigstein said the loss of his child had taken a toll on Enke.

That brought me to my knees. Because I do know this pain. I just don't know his.

Rest in peace, Robert. And my profound sympathy to his family.

Un-muted

I may be quiet here, but I have a new post up on GITW today about my newfound ability to discuss death.

Also: Today, October 15, is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Day. I have a pin I will wear today, and will light a candle at 7 p.m. tonight in memory of Maddy, and all of yours. Much love.

Excuses

Sometimes there are legitimate reasons for not posting.

In No Apparent Order

I owe y'all pictures of the garden. So! First there was this:



which led to this,




pun completely intended. We ripped out poison garden, and my industrious husband built these:




(Two more to be added next year.) It was July by now, so we threw in seeds for beets, arugula, lettuces, carrots, and beans. At the nursery we found a couple herbs and peppers and a really raggedy tomato plant, all looking withered and on deep discount. We threw them in too.



It's not quite the harvest we wanted or intended but hey, I'm an aim-low kinda gal now. At least we know we can actually grow things to next year should be fun.

My big conundrum now is what to do in the bed adjoining the garden (see behind Bella's shoulder in the cucumber picture? The round bank of windows with a basement window underneath? That one); it had been over-ridden by some vine weed and mint (people, don't put mint in the ground. Grow it in a container, or if you must put it in the ground, plant the whole effin' container in the ground. I learned this valuable life lesson when I was about six from my mother, and am mystified to find people who don't realize what a pervasive weed it can be). The original plan was to put in blueberry bushes, but now with the lead we are not so crazy with this idea. Someone (I'm going out on a limb here and assuming not the people who planted the mint) planted peonies, which I really liked, but were overtaken and smothered. I'm toying with more of those and something tall in the corner next to the door (butterfly bush?). I welcome suggestions.

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Because we've been busy with getting rid of houseguests and school and whatnot, the fishtank was cleaned and refilled (and forgotten pretty much, but) and has now been "established" for at least a month. We now have an ammonia sensor, not to mention a couple bottles of stuff to regulate water chemicals. The filter is clean and running. In total, I've probably spent $70 on fish-tank related accouterments. And yesterday, we went and bought two tiny feeder goldfish -- that bill was 28 cents. I told my mom this was apparently about guilt.

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We're now wading knee deep in Fall and in addition to the pile of minutia I need to deal with, I've added to my docket . . . .coaching. No, for real. I am now head coach of Bella's soccer team after a fair amount of arm twisting and then using the arm to beat my husband over the head with. It's nerveracking, it wears me out, it's hilarious. After more than 20 years of playing the game, coaching the first time really puts things in perspective and has forced me to return to the essential, the raw, the root: Don't touch the ball with your hands. Followed closely by, Don't take the ball away from your teammate. The point is to score a goal. (A point quickly retracted when my wee scrimmage team goes up 3-zip in about two minutes, and I then tell them I'm not counting any more goals until I see them use today's skill of pulling the ball backwards on the way to the ball going in the net.) For me, it's a valuable lesson in not swearing for an hour, not laughing (out loud), realizing that running around with eleven 5-7 year-olds wears me the hell out. Aging is not a pretty thing.

It's also served to remind me that I haven't completely turned into some bitter, pariah freak of nature that really shouldn't be around innocent lovelies, even if I do know a thing or two about how to effectively bend a corner kick. It's reminded me I used to love soccer. Apparently, I still do.

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It's my first fall with my new kitchen. Last year I wistfully looked at the recipes for baked apple whatevertheheck, and this year I'm itching for an excuse to make pumpkin cake. (Does one need an excuse?) We've ushered in the season of hot breakfasts, and afternoon cups of tea. It almost feels like my first settled fall -- the first one where I wasn't in fear about the spooky pregnancy, or tied in emotional knots, or running my house out of a makeshift kitchen while contractors took up residence in my downstairs. The first fall where I can now sit with my tea and pumpkin cookie and look at my favorite tree in the yard, and watch the yellow and red start to erupt behind it.

I wonder if life will be like this, always a series of firsts as Time that uneven bitch makes it way beneath my feet.

I'm sure there's more, but seriously, I'm still catching up on my August Tivo. Not to mention my blogroll. Which I feel like a real asshole about. I'll come say hi, I promise. PROMISE. In the meantime, what are your Fall plans if any? (I know this is loaded, any season is a ton of crap for some, so I'm really sorry. Feel free to tell me about those plans, too. Really.) Also, have any of you ever considered letting your parents live with you? Because when we moved here, we honestly thought this was in the realm of possibility. After August, we're both thinking we were fucking mental to have ever entertained that thought, and we've forbidden each other from speaking of It ever again.