On a lighter note...

...Believe it or not, there are moments when the sadness and anxiety subside, and I am just a normal person. I go for walks, laugh heartily and often, get mad for no reason, bump my head into things, gossip, read, go to concerts, and snack in front of the television. And, I spend most of that time, either at school trying to jackhammer my love of literature into generally skeptical tweens, or at home with my husband and my pets. Here are a couple of quotes of "normalcy" to share from the last few days...

(Bill driving, me in passenger seat craning head to see out the window)

Me: "Wait, so the sun is relatively small for a star?"
Bill: "Umm, wow, I was sure that was common knowledge..."
Me: "I learn new things every day...hmm...And the moon is just a rock?"
Bill: "Yes, and while we only have one moon, some planets have many moons. Saturn has, like, 20 moons."
Me: "Wouldn't it be nice if we could get a few more moons?"
Together: "Hmmm....Yeah."
___________________________________________

(Bill holding Kitty's "lobster", which is just that, a fluorescent pink lobster on a string of elastic.)

Bill: "Watch this - kitty has serious 'ups'. This is going to be the number one 'ups'."
Me: ...

(Bill swings the lobster across the floor in a grand gesture, then whips it back, causing kitty to leap into the air, and twist wildly in the style of X-Games competitors.)

Bill: (Proudly) "I need to be in the Westminster Kitty Show."
Me: ...

(Later, Bill admits that he truly meant to say that "he", not the kitty, needed to be a part of the WKS (made up). He attributes kitty's "ups" predominantly to his superb lobster handling. Admittedly, he does manage to encourage kitty to leap to nearly my eye level - still a great feat, despite the fact that I border on legal dwarfism.)

It's kind of like breathing through a straw...

Whenever I get the urge to see what it's like to have terrible asthma, I try breathing solely through a straw. I am actually sure that an asthma attack is significantly worse than this, but I always think it might give me a little taste. Breathing as deeply as humanly possible, but never quite getting enough air. And, becoming more frantic with each gasp, and the mounting possibility that this could be your last one (if only mental, as obviously I have the opportunity to remove the straw should it become too intense).

This is sort of what being pregnant is like to me now. I wake up in the night, or am active for a few hours, or the bayby is simply sleeping, so I don't feel her move. Then, I immediately fall supine, and wait. Wait to breathe. Wait to scratch an itch. Wait to laugh. Wait to speak. All for fear of missing the life-breath of Bayby wiggling. I look at the clock. 6:15 PM. Then, I wait. I actually count kicks on my fingers, becoming increasingly frantic if the numbers haven't shot to ten almost instantly. Each time she shimmies, kicks or slides, I realize I've been holding my breath and heave for air, but with the immediate and chaotic knowledge that she must move again. That I must stop, wait, perfectly suspended, for the next nine little pulses. Then, when I've reached nine, I convince myself I've made the first five up, gasping between movements for minutes, sometimes tens of them, more. Each day, there are multiple periods of body-trembling, oxygen-less tension, as I wait to feel her next movement. Her movements are my air. In moments of stillness within, what I once took for granted (breathing, stretching, laughing, speaking), stops short, and I feel a bizarre blend of so statue-like, stock-still, and also rocketing and racing inside, fighting for air, willing her to move once more. I live kick by kick, and the hope that it's only three-and-a-half more months until lazy little girl is here...

PS - Thank God for Bill. Literally. He is the sweetest, most wonderful, caring, funny, interesting person I've ever known. That stupid laundry list of things doesn't even edge on describing him. There is just nothing like his heart.

Some words and snippets of phrases that always catch me off guard.

"...so funny..."
"...so f-ing..."
"...so freaking..."
"...sofa..."
"...so fine..."
"...soft..."
"...so far..."
"...so festive..."

Some of these come up more often than others. (The first three, for example, multiple times a day. "So fine", on the other hand, not really in my daily vernacular. :o) But, each time these phrases pop from mouths (others' or sometimes my own), I take about a millisecond to readjust. And, in other cases, as I walk by a conversation at work, I hear these words uttered, in ways that couldn't be less related to me, and I do an entirely inappropriate double take. I know these are extremely common combinations of words. But, it will take me forever to assimilate myself to hearing these syllables combined in such benign ways.

You know, the same old inane progression of thoughts.

About the Bayby:

"The baby hasn't moved in 11 minutes! Is she kicking vigorously enough? Here's some music with strong base. Am I deafening her? Kick! Twist! Don't twist so much - watch out for the cord! I need to eat - it's been 2 hours - am I starving her? If I eat too much, will she get squished, pressed too hard up against the uterine wall? I'll just drink tea. Wait, am I cooking her with tea? What if all this time, what I thought was kicking, was my own digestion? Kick! Is it possible to sleep for the next 14 or so weeks? Oh wait, no, that's no good - sleep is the enemy. Tragedies happen at night when I can't count kicks. Does kick-counting-count before 28 weeks? Wake up!"

About life:

I live each minute holding my breath. (As evidenced by the wild sequence of my actual thoughts above.) I don't think this will feel more real, until I have this little girl. And, then, probably not then until I have her home. And, then, until we've developed a routine. Then, until this milestone, or that one. I mean, won't we be waiting forever for it to feel "real", like life has really granted us the "permanent" presence of this baby? Just thoughts. We shall see. My friend from my stillbirth/infant loss and now subsequent pregnancy group is set to be induced on Wednesday. She is the first (of four) of us to deliver. (We are all pregnant.) I am thinking of her very often, and praying for the health of her baby, her, and her husband. I am so interested in hearing from her over the coming months, as I wait. She (and my other "group friend" (due in two weeks)) will be able to tell me quite a bit about what "it feels like". I am excited to meet their babies so soon (a girl and boy, respectively). This is a jumble. I hate when I am a jumble.

Somewhere Over Land.

I stumbled accross a woman's blog, in my perusals one day. This woman has very recently lost a little girl, a Princess. And, for her, my heart breaks.

Over land.
Somewhere over our heads, children meet.
Over land somewhere, tiny angels crying becomes music.
There is a place, over land, where babies sleep, sun-drenched and swaddled in cloud,
Breathing contented, warmed by the churning of blood,
and beating of hearts.

As we cry here on Earth,
Some where over land, babies wait, as in the womb,
Peace permeates their lives, pain-free, and living each moment, as if it were a lifetime.
Over land somewhere, in the time it takes for one ragged breath to drag through our lungs,
Sons and daughters are growing, living, dying and being born again.
In each moment, somewhere over land,
They dream of us too.

Life is a short and beautiful endeavor.

Her eyes are like morning.
Her hair like the night.
Her lips are like darkness,
Her heart is like light.
Her hands like paint brushes,
Her feet like soft song,
We know she’s an Angel,
We’ve known all along.

I normally don't begrudge a snow day...

But this is ridiculous. This is now my third (and a half) day off. And, oh wait, there is no snow. Sure, some patchy ice. But, come on. Now, I know what you are thinking, "Oh, too bad for you - snow days", your voice dripping with sarcasm. But, anyone who knows me knows that I don't do well with days alone at home. Yet, here I am again. And, tomorrow is Saturday, then Sunday. Then, the sweet relief of Monday...oh wait, Monday is President's Day. Wow. So little to do, and SO much time.

Correction.

After sharing my most recent post with Bill, he has informed me that it is "Let's Hear it for the Boy". My fault. Wow.

What war is this?

So, after we had Sophie, Bill was looking at my stomach one day, as I was lamenting my many stretch marks. His response to my groans of self-pity?

"You look like post-war Europe."

Of course, my response was to look at him, mouth agape.

He continued, "I mean, it's still pretty, it's Europe."

I grumbled as I walked away, "Not as pretty as pre-war Europe."

So, today, Bill was looking at my stomach, swollen and exposed after four bowls of cereal, and covered in those "little red bumps".

And, he said, "If you get more stretch marks this time, I am going to start calling you "Desert Storm".

Hmmm. Whatever. He is also the same man who, right now at 5:43 PM, is half asleep on the couch under his special "blankie" (which we have affectionately named O.B.B., standing for Oppressive Black Blanket, due to its obvious color, and a heaviness unmatched by lead or titanium). He is splayed out like a butterflied shrimp, and in his almost sleeping voice, he is singing "Let's Hear it For the Boys". Now, he is hugging the cat. Should I really take him seriously?

I heard this would happen.

So, I heard from many of my friends and family who have children (well, not many, but those few close ones who feel comfortable talking to me about pregnancy and babies), that there would be a moment in which I simply "popped". I was told it would be different than the first time, more abrupt and obvious. I was told that it would be around four months. Of course, I am an idiot, and I thought because I got past four months avoiding "the pop", that I would slide gradually through pregnancy, like a buoyant, resilient first-timer. Not the case. The change would just hit me a little later, and with the profundity that can only be equated with jolly old St. Nick. I am five and a half months now, and in the last week, my stomach has nearly doubled in size. People at work have begun to comment on my rapid growth, and my belly is now surely the most notable part of my relatively small personage. In addition to general largess (see closer to seven or eight months pregnant), I am having much of the heaviness and discomfort of that stage as well. I am off to the bathroom each night close to 10 times. I am having much trouble getting up from a sitting position, or bending down to perform simple tasks. My appetite is ferocious, and I am satiating it at every opportunity, regardless of the consequential bloating and discomfort. I have officially gained about 15 pounds, and I am just like some sort of waddling, grouchy, anxious, but somehow still joyful, stomach. Luckily, I am sleeping well, if always, obsessively on the left.

Here is a giant stomach for your viewing pleasure. I am sure Bayby girl won't mind.

Quote eighth grader, Derrick, "You know what's weird? You're a really small person all around...but your stomach is just so big." My response, "Well, Derrick, that's what happens when you try to grow one person in another person."

To my friends, who have loved and lost.

I was driving home yesterday evening. It was 5:45, and the day was just giving up to night. I didn't have my cell phone, so my typical afternoon gripping gossip, gratification or gripe session wasn't an option. All I had was the sunset (in front of me, as I drive westward toward home), and the radio. Now, normally, I listen only to 90's soft rock, peppered with very occasion alternate genres. But, yesterday, flipping through, I heard a soft guitar. I knew it was a country station, but sometimes I tolerate country, so I left it to play. It turned out to be a song that people love, from the pop-star of country (circa 2000), Garth Brooks. (Right around the time he took on the persona Chris Gaines.) Normally, I eschew pop music of any kind (originating after '95), but again, I left this song to play. And, for the first time, I felt like I understood why people love this song (even if they don't really even understand).

Looking back
on the memory of
the dance we shared
beneath the stars above
for a moment
all the world was right
how could I have known
that you'd ever say goodbye

And now
I'm glad I didn't know
the way it all would end
the way it all would go
our lives
are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
but I'd of had to miss
the dance

Holding you
I held everything
for a moment
wasn't I the king
but if I'd only known
how the king would fall
hey who's to say
you know I might have changed it all

And now
I'm glad I didn't know
the way it all would end
the way it all would go
our lives
are better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
but I'd of had to miss
the dance

Yes my life
is better left to chance
I could have missed the pain
but I'd of had to miss
the dance.

I always looking for ways to commemorate Sophie, and the others we've lost. Ways not to be sad, but to celebrate their short lives that so wonderfully scarred our collective existence. And, this is just one feeling among more than I can count. This song captures the worth of all things, even if they end in ways all but tragic. It captured, for that moment for me in the car, the feeling that each bit of our lives has its own beauty and resilience. For those of us who have lost, we can look back and know that without the pain of loving and losing, we would never have the known the strength and true grace of that very experience of giving love its moment, or "the dance".

Just a little cry desperate now toward heaven. I hope no one can see, but I have to put it somewhere in writing. I have to make it real.

Please God, let this little girl make it.

I have two daughters...

...both of whom I love.
...neither of whom I can see.
...both of whom I can speak to.
...neither of whom speak back.
...both of whom are beautiful in my mind.
...neither of whom I can hold.
...one of whom is warm.
...one of whom is in heaven.
...one of whom has infinite promise.
...one of whom is preserved in still framed perfection.
...one of whom I pray has the chance to be imperfect.
...both of whom I think of with each passing moment.

I am totally disoriented...

...because it's a Girl. I have so many feelings, that I don't even know where to start. But, here she is...

So, our first befuddled reaction was, "Well, at least we don't have to buy anything..." Then, we promptly went to Babies'R'Us and spent $80.
















Happy Monday.

Something I wrote on the day of our "finding out" with Sophie. (June, 2005)

My Daughter
It’s a remarkable feeling when you finally, after months of speculation, find out one true identifying characteristic of your unborn baby. Needless to say, I started crying Friday at my sonogram when the technician sang the word “girl”. I don’t need to fulfill some sort of young mother-daughter fantasy relationship, but from the beginning I felt I was carrying a female child. Had I been wrong, I would surely have been just as happy, but I felt that I knew in my heart I was having a girl, and couldn’t imagine totally redefining the creature inside me midway through my pregnancy. It was an amazing moment to know that the baby was a girl – my daughter. We had named her at the double pink line, and never looked back. We had never even thoroughly considered boys’ names, sure that we knew inside that this child was a girl. Sophie Salome.

Night settles on the day we met you
Stars rise over the moment
Making you real.

Morning light pours through the window
On another red day with you
Closer to leaving me.

Music laughs and cries in the tones of your voice
Felt only in tiny thrashing appendages
In the deep of blue womb.

Knowing this day would dawn like any other
I brace myself for your strength
And sweet, Sophie Salome.

Almost a week late, but...

HAPPY BIRTHDAY BILL! Bill is 30. An old man. My old man...:o) Here is his birthday cake. Needless to say, it didn't quite "turn out".














We stayed home and ate my famed homemade pizza (and cake with our hands, in the style of Moroccan food). Bill said the pizza was "the best one ever", but he says that everytime. Maybe, it really does just get better with each go. Either way, he loved it. (The little red sidecar is mine. The big grown man size portion belongs to the birthday boy - I mean "man"...)

I know so little, but love so much more.

When I was pregnant with Sophie, I knew her. From the day she was conceived, we knew. Literally. From the first positive pregnancy test, we began calling her "Sophie Salome". I have a note Bill wrote me from that day, in which he writes about our family - Mom, Dad, and Sophie Salome. And knowing her sex without doubt from the beginning was only a tiny thing. I knew her face. I knew her dark hair. I knew all things about her. I knew her as a woman. I knew her as a little girl. Her movements throughout our too short time felt so intrinsic to me. I anticipated her kicks and squirms. I felt her thoughts. Although her birth was never what I'd wanted or expected, she was no surprise to me. Her face, her lips, her hair, all were no surprise to me. I have only seen her once, and yet still to this day I know her.

This new bayby, I do not know. I have spoken to other mothers with multiple children, and they have confirmed that some children are a shock from day one. And, years later, they are still coming to know and understand (or coming to understand that they do not know) these children. I never know when this baby will kick. I never know what will excite its taste buds. I never know what positions in which it likes to lay. I have no idea what features to expect. I love this little person with my whole heart, and yet I know nothing. And, most pressing and strange to me right now, I have no idea what sex it is...I am 20 weeks now, and my "big" ultrasound is scheduled for T minus two days. Monday is the "big day". We've taken off work. We are ready to embrace whatever news we receive. Health is my big concern. And, I simply don't have a preference in terms of the baby's sex. But, more odd, I just have no inkling whatsoever. Some people feel sure one way or the other. At first, the overwhelming consensus was "boy". Now, even my staunchest boy-supporters are waivering. So, place your bets now, should you feel the desire, because your window for guesses is closing quickly. Hmm - so is mine...