sueeeus

I had a catchier title, but it escapes me.

In the not so distant past, I’ve pined for an espresso machine. Then life provided its normal array of twists and turns, so in the clutches of despair, despondency, depression, and self-absorption,interest of health and well-being, I went ahead and ordered a machine. I will say that retail therapy has, in my life, proven well-effective. There is a sweet euphoria that overcomes oneself when one puts forth some of that hard-earned green to treat oneself to something scrumptious. And to think, an act such as this recirculates said green and keeps the economy thriving. Woot, as they say.

I pestered the UPS tracking site like a child counting down the days until Christmas. Finally! It arrived. In such a ginormous box. Once the first box was opened, I discovered another box. Which held yet another box. A box within a box.

Finally. The machine. And it’s a beauty. So sleek. So substantial. Even though the coffee snobs and coffee geeks (those are actual web sites, I’m serious) tend to say that it’s not on a par with a real machine because of the plastic body, etc etc etc, I beg to differ because a) all the important parts are the same as the higher-end models that sport the metal housing and b) well, there is no b) but I was on a roll.

The cost-conscious part of me fully embraces the plastic housing, because it saves dollars, hundreds, mind you. I can live with a plastic housing, thank you very much. Of course, if I were bursting from the seams with mad money or if I had a kindly wealthy benefactor, I would love to have a full metal solid hunk of professional Italian splendor the likes that could whip out countless fabulous drinks one after another to the delight of friends and family. But generally, I have nobody but myself to impress*, so really, there’s no call for such a thing. And why, oh why, do these machines cost a king’s ransom to begin with? Why? I could say that I could justify the expense by showing the savings in Starbucks cappuccinos over a year, but the thing is, I can never see spending $3+ on one single beverage, so I never, evertreat myself to an espresso drink at a coffee shop. I just don’t. Even though I love, love, love cappuccino. (I have, however, ordered normal drip coffee and added heaps and loads of half and half, which is oh, so decadent, and at least $2 cheaper.) Grande drip in a vente cup, please. For the shame of it!

And now? Now I am obsessed with reaching that barista nirvana of micro-foam. Because I want my cappuccino to be beautiful, as well as sumptuous and scrumptious. I’m not there yet. The steam wand has its idiosyncrasies.

Yes, it’s a king-sized cappuccino. Not a latte. Not a cafe au lait. Not a macchiato. Cappuccino. My love. Is it not a thing of beauty? (I cheated and used the tip of the thermometer to scroll the design in the foam.) Yes, I used a thermometer to find that perfect temperature at which the milk gains sweetness and warmth, but shy of a scald. Can we say obsession?

But as with all love affairs, there is a bitterness that follows. The beast aroused. Gut wrenching side splitting body doubling cramps. Lactose intolerance. The sudden infusion of milk on a daily basis has left me questioning the wisdom of this purchase. I am mindset to overcome the body’s intolerance of that bovine nectar. Practice makes perfect, so they say. Enough, and I will suffer no more. That is the theory. And I don’t want this affair to end.

*Actually, my sister came to visit the day the machine arrived, and I was embarrassed to unveil and admit that I had spent so much on a kitchen gadget. My megalomania has a humble side.

I wonder if things are as bad as one might lead another to believe, or if I’m just a sucker.  Or perhaps a little bit of both.  Well, actually, that’s a given.  I’m definitely a sucker. 

We had a wellness fair at work not long ago, and my ‘numbers’ came back great.  Well, not great, but I was pleased that they were as good as they were.  At the fair were some chiropractors and other peddlers of ‘natural’ health products.  I had a gait analysis, complimentary of course, in which I learned that I am a good candidate for orthotics.  So I scheduled a follow up appointment, and it turns out the orthotics peddler is also the chiropractor.  He suggested that it wouldn’t be best to do the follow up exam since pregnancy affects gait and all that, and I was pregnant at the time.  So in the meantime, he suggested chiropractic adjustment.  Yes, I’ve been to chiropractors before, I told him, in years gone by, and grown frustrated with the lack of progress.  He seemed knowledgeable and sincere, so I decide to give him a try.  I didn’t want x-rays of course, but after the miscarriage I went ahead and got the x-rays.  Even though a part of me, the part who used to see a naturapath and learned the warnings of over radiating oneself, thought I ought not to get bombarded further.  What with the yearly mammograms and the occasional dental snaps, I get plenty of radiation, thank you very much.

Fast forward to today.  The infomercial.  He gave us an hour long spiel on the workings of the spine and nerves and all that.  It’s all very informative and good and enlightening, but also very much a sales pitch.  I’m wary of the latter, and thankful for the former.  Then comes the x-ray analysis.  According to the measurements, my spine is all curvy here and there, and my neck is at a -22 degree angle when the optimal angle is +45, plus it leans forward two inches from where it should, which means that carrying my head that far forward exerts 20lbs of constant extra pressure in my spine, thus making it try to compensate elsewhere.  Hence the frequent headaches, aching neck, sore back, etc etc etc.  Okay.  Fine.  So I’m on the road to becoming a cripple. 

This pressure on the nerves and into the region of the brain stem affects so many basic life functions, including appetite, reproduction, anger, and pleasure.  So the essence of the infomercial is that proper spinal alignment will solve all the problems of one’s health.  Fine. 

We want to see you three times a week for the next several months, he says.  My insurance covers 26 visits a year, so that will run out very shortly.  Why not twice a week for a few weeks and we’ll take it from there, I say.  We can work out affordable plans, he says.  I make an appointment, planning to possibly go twice a week for a while, and then taper it off.  I’m not going to be paying full out-of-pocket for that much adjustment.  It seems to me that one has to change many things, like the whole musculature attached to the spine, in order for the spinal adjustments to stick.  What’s going to keep them from trying to go back to the place where they’re used to being?  It seems like they need musculature to keep them in place as well.  But that’s just me.

I quit going to previous chiropractors because I decided they weren’t being very helpful.  At least this guy gives me a good cracking, but even so, I can’t see going three times a week, indefinitely.  I know it has taken many years of bad posture, seated at a desk, click-clacking away at a keyboard (yes, exactly what I’m doing now) to get me to this point. 

I don’t want to be in full denial about my health.  I do want to be healthy.  But I don’t want to be bamboozled into spending thousands of unnecessary dollars.  I understand that I need to exercise much much more, and that that will improve postural things, among others.  What I would like to know is the unfiltered truth.  Is it really as bad as they say?  Won’t weight loss and exercise turn the tables and help relieve all the pressure and gradually improve the alignment naturally?  It just seems like it would.  Is that not common sense?

I can test this out, but it takes time to lose weight.  Not to mention determination and steadfast commitment.  Both of which are difficult when one also struggles with emotional issues from time to time.  And it’s a classic catch 22.  The sedentary overweightedness is a byproduct of a decent-paying desk job and the coping mechanisms employed to tackle stress and depression.  The misalignment of the spine and accompanying nerve irritation are exacerbated by weight and inactivity, and cause stress and depression.  How can one possibly win without just biting the bullet and vowing to oneself to buckle up and ignore the pain or ignore the depression or ignore the stress and just DEAL with it.  It seems futile.  And with a conclusion of futility, one might tend to just throw up one’s hands and give up and give in.  And go have an ice cream or a cappucino or a nice warm piece of French bread.

I’m so annoyed.

But I haven’t thrown in the towel this time.  Yet.

And I’m still annoyed.

…or…

Thank God Nobody Reads My Blog

by sueeeus maximus

I don’t edit very well.  The point of blogging, for me, isn’t to acquire a following or a worldwide hit count.  The blog has, for the most part, replaced my paper journals.  I still write in the paper journals from time to time, especially when there are momentous things to write about, such as the passing of life.

I need to work through things.  I don’t have a therapist (although my ob-gyn recommended it).  I don’t have the company of close women friends.  I work in a mass of men, some whom I adore, but I don’t get that woman to woman kinship, for the most part, except through the blog.

And it’s not that I’m all that needy.  I’m not.  Well, sometimes I am, but I attribute that to a childhood in which the father figure didn’t love me.  Or, it could just be my genetics.  It could just be the way I am, regardless of childhood nurturing or lack thereof.  I’m seeing in my own child that he is who he is.  It’s innate.  So me, being the way I am, could well be innate. 

I’m overly sensitive, and I have a gift, or perhaps curse, of empathy.  I’m overly driven.  I don’t know why.  I like accomplishments.  I like to make things.  To design, to create.  I like to get things done.  I like closure.  I like completion.  I like order.  I like form, fit, and function.  I like simplicity.  I like beauty.  I like life.

It’s not all roses, and when the thorns prick, I write about it.  When the flowers bud, I write about it.  When the petals bloom, I write about it.  When they get infested with aphids, I write about it.  And when they wither and fall, I write about that as well.

Probably, I shouldn’t be quite so honest or forthright with such personal things.  But what good would that do me?  The blog is not about what others might think or deem appropriate.   It’s for me.  To work things out.  All of it.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.  I could make it private, I suppose, and lock everyone out.  So I suppose the hesitation to do so means that I do, in essence, crave those virtual pats on the back, words of sympathy or comfort, the hurrahs and the guffaws.  Well, of course I do.  Who wouldn’t?  The kind blogfolk comprise the biggest part of my social life.  In this virtual world, there are real, warm, breathing, decent people behind the avatars and screen names. 

Yes, I ought to modify my real world life to roust up a collection of live, in the flesh, accessible women friends.  But how would I do that?  People make connections through work, through church, through school, through children.  I work with men.  I don’t go to church.  I don’t go to school.  How do people keep on with school, year in and year out?  I was so traumatized at the end of my bachelor’s degree, twenty-some years ago, that I still cannot consider further education.  (Of course, that’s probably my own fault for choosing electrical engineering, classical control systems, instead of art, architecture, English, or design.  And not that EECS was all that hard, but I made it much harder on myself.  Because I do that.  And I digress.  Frequently.)  My child is in daycare, and the other daycare mothers are busy with their own lives.  I don’t have much time for special interest activities in which I might meet people.  So this is it.  Le Blogue.  This works for me.

And gosh, I do appreciate the hugs and white light energy that beams my way from all parts of the earth when I’m in a dark and cloudy place.  But I’m not all gloom and doom.  Of course, gloom and doom is excellent fodder for a good blogorific unwind, but there are other aspects of life that inspire the fingers to leap to the keyboard.  Now and then.

I wish I were funny and entertaining.  Or more so.  Who doesn’t secretly or blatantly wish to be the belle of the ball, the cheer leader, the centerfold, the ring leader, the rock star, the stand-up, or the sage, the wise one that others turn to for guidance and inspiration.  The one that everyone else wants to be like.

I am who I am.  I’d like to be able to leave a legacy when it’s my time to go.  I’d like to know that I did the world some good.  Isn’t it so egotistical, to want to leave a mark?  I probably won’t end up writing that best-selling book, and I’m surely not going to end up writing a hit-single or painting a masterpiece that moves the masses.  I might leave behind a uniquely and well-designed home for someone later to enjoy, but I will never be a Frank Lloyd Wright.  What I can do, and will do, is love my child with all the love that I have, and try to help him grow to be a fine man who embraces the world and shines love all around.  And when it comes down to it, perhaps that is the most important thing of all.

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

To everything – turn, turn, turn
There is a season – turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

I’ve always loved that song, as performed by The Byrds, adapted from the book of Ecclesiastes. 

It’s all over.  My womb is empty.  Tonight, I buried the fragments beneath these stones.  I thought it might bring some closure, but for now, all I have is tears.  Tomorrow will be a new day.

Don’t cry, Mommy, says my sweet little boy.  Don’t cry, Mommy.  It’s okay, Mommy.  How can a child so young have such beautiful compassion?  There is much to learn from the beauty and innocence of children.

To my lost loves.
Angel.  I never gave you a chance.  Please forgive me.
Grace.  You knew I wasn’t ready, and you saved me.
Hannah and Max.  Sweet twins, you rekindled my hope.
Harmony.  How my heart shattered for you.
Chance.  How I don’t want to say goodbye.
Though your moments of life were fleeting, I loved you all.  You are all a part of me, forever embedded in my heart.  I will always love you.

(quoth Pinky, of Pinky and the Brain)

I haven’t been able to write.  There are things I want to say, but I’m at a loss for words.  The outpouring of love from people all over the planet, people who I’ve not even met, is such a thing of beauty.  How marvelous is the human spirit, to well up and spring forth with such empathy, compassion, and love.  I can’t say thank you in such a way as to express truly how thankful I am.  But thank you, I do.  Thank you.

Mostly I’ve been keeping myself busy, trying not to think too much, and just trying to get through.  I think that I’ve come through the worst of it.  I’m hoping that’s the case, because if there’s more in store, I’m simply unprepared.  I have an ultrasound tomorrow to determine if further action is necessary.  Finally.  For a doctor who assured me he would be there for me, the timing certainly didn’t pan out.  Of course I could have gone to the ER if necessary, and I was ready to do that, but I got through what I hope was the worst of it.  It wasn’t like the last two times.  I didn’t have those incredibly intense and painful contractions.  It was no picnic, be assured, but it wasn’t sheer and terrifying hell either.  Perhaps knowing what was in store helped, as sometimes the fear of the unknown or the experience of the unfamiliar is greater than the thing itself.

Friday, as I waited for the inevitable, I made a sleeve for my laptop.  I found some fabric that I liked – it reminds me of Dr. Seuss, a Dali clock and Van Gogh’s scream, all in one, even though it’s just black and white.  Wanting to use stock on hand (i.e., being too cheap to buy proper batting), I spread puffs of polyfil across the fabric and tacked it down a bit, and machine quilted along the lines of the fabric design.  It’s not a bit uniform, but I am pleased with the result.  It’s my first attempt at ‘quilting’ and I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing.  I just did it.  Avante garde.

Friday I also noticed, with delight, that there is new life in my garden.  It made me feel happy, that there could be some new life amidst the departing life for which I’m grieving.  I’ve never grown vegetables before, and didn’t know what to expect.  I planted some peas and beans and discovered that every little flower now has a bean or pea suspended from it.  It’s truly a wonder to behold the beauty of life.  It brightened my otherwise dismal day.

Saturday, while I was still waiting, not knowing when the floodgates would open, I gave my boys haircuts, and bleached Gadget’s hair.  He likes that California surfer dude look for some who-knows-why reason.  There was quite a lot of extra bleach so I decided to make some crazy streaks in my own hair.  What the heck.  A change always makes me feel better, especially at times like this.  I knew my sister the hair Artiste would admonish me when next she saw me, but I paid no heed and bleached away with near abandon.

Saturday night was a rough night, with the bulk of unpleasantries taking place early early Sunday morning, around 2:30 am – 5:30 am.  I got through it without untoward trauma, hoping that the worst was not yet to come. 

One of my brothers and his girlfriend made a surprise visit that evening, with the express agenda of the annual hair do, so Sunday we all went to the salon for a private hair day.  Too bad for Gadget.  One day more and he could have had a professional hairdo, rather than a kitchen botch job.  As predicted, I was admonished, and my sister did a right fine job of making my hair look delicious and more than presentable.  I should call it crisis hair.  Every time I have a crisis, I do something completely different to my hair.  To change things up.  Distract me.  Make me feel better.  It works.  It’s very therapeutic.  It helps to have an exquisite Artiste as a sister, though.

My brother’s visit coincided with a planned visit from my mother, so after the hair date, my sister and nephew came back to my place to complete the party.  It felt wonderful to have a house filled with exhuberant noisy people that I love.  We laughed and reminisced about all the ways our mother embarrassed us as children.  The most unfortunate time she was a substitute teacher in my sister’s health class when the topic du jour was reproduction.  We asked my brother if she’d given him the talk.  You know the one.  It was hilarious, what with his girlfriend there and all.   We thought he should get a refresher and nearly got my mother to start into it.  Rolling on the floor laughing.  That was the scene in my living room on Sunday evening.  Now that does a heart good.

They all helped me prepare that fabulous chicken tagine dish, but most of the boys weren’t keen on the olives.  I was a bit scatterbrained, I guess, because I managed to burn myself quite admirably, not once, but twice.  My arm met the oven door on the first occasion.   Hot oven doors are not the least forgiving when it comes to direct fleshy contact.  The next encounter took place whilst adding chicken to hot oil.  Shimmering olive oil is also not the least bit forgiving.  Fried forearm.  It almost looks like a heart.  Nothing but love around here.  I doubled the recipe (chicken tagine, getting this tale back on track) and it wasn’t quite the same, so I recommend sticking to the recipe as written, more or less.  The flavors mingled better after a day of refrigeration, so at least I will get the benefit of enjoying all the leftovers, now frozen for future meals.  I was just hoping the family would love it as much as I did, the first time I tried it.  Even so, it was wonderful to prepare a meal as a family, regardless of how it turned out.

Monday I decided to tell my mother the reason I wasn’t going to work that day.  She knew I was planning to see the doctor, and she was polite not to ask, but I could see the fleeting thought across her face that she was thinking and hoping I would soon be telling her there was a baby on the way.   So I told her the sad news, and we hugged and cried together, and she told me that she was sorry, and it just didn’t seem fair that this would happen to me, again.  It was an endearing moment.

An added bonus from my mother’s visit.  She came bearing gifts.  Inheritance.  A treasure from our childhood.  Thirty years ago, or thereabouts, she made a stuffed pig and piglets for our grandmother.  My sister and I loved this pig family.  It was the most clever thing, with little snaps for the teats and baby snouts.  The piglets snap to the mother and lift her off the ground.  It’s the most adorable thing.  I even asked my mother for a pattern years ago, and found it recently while going through old boxes of things.  I’ve been meaning to make this very pig family, and even mentioned it to Blue Moon Girl recently, as I noticed she has a bit of a pig fancy as well.  It seemed such a coincidence, because my sister said that she also was thinking of this very pig just a few days ago .  It’s a marvel, the ties that people have, that random thoughts from years past can spring up at the same time.  Amazing.  Very Twilight Zone, even.

And finally, a word about the boy.  When there are moments of silence, I come upon tableaux of sundry sorts.  From miniature mountain ranges made from baby powder to home made confetti.  Although I need to find more secure places to store scissors, I must say that I am quite impressed with this two year old’s dexterity and the precision with which he wields a pair of full sized scissors.  He masterfully cuts paper into tiny pieces.  And the Spiderman craze?  Yes, he can make the web slinging hand motion.  With both hands.  He’s at a wonderful interactive age in which he gives me the best snuggles, albeit fleeting.  He laughs and plays with such glee and energy.  He fills my heart.  I am very blessed to be a mother.  To be his mother.  It helps me overcome the sadness of all the lost babies.  I have one, and for him, I am forever grateful.

There is a little old lady who stands on the street corner across from the hospital holding a giant sign with a picture of a bloody dismembered baby. In huge letters it says ‘abortion kills’ and there is a measuring tape that shows the baby is 21 inches long. This is a very horrible sign. I think they want to imply to the general public that this is what abortion is like. Always. I don’t think so many people have elective abortions in the late term. I can’t imagine why they would. I can see how they could find themselves in the second trimester after a time of denial, but it’s very hard to imagine the scenario, apart from grave fetal anomalies such as absence of brain tissue or brain tissue growing outside of the skull, in which a woman would choose to terminate at such a late stage. But I’m not informed, so I really don’t know.

Three months after I turned 18, I had an abortion. I was 5 weeks along, or possibly 6. It’s a very hard thing to say, now that I see the words in print. It’s one of those things that I’ve spoken of very rarely, and to only a very few. It happened from a one-time event, and the condom broke. The odds are staggering (not for the broken condom, but to fall pregnant having had intercourse only once), yet there it was. I spent many years in anguish over that choice, and it took nearly two decades to forgive myself. In the early days after, I went to the library in a depressed stupor and looked through picture books of abortions, torturing myself. I nearly walked in front of a bus, to punish myself. I didn’t have the courage to go through with it, but I punished myself relentlessly, internally, for years. I mulled the whole scenario over in my mind, time and again, trying to make sense of it, trying to find a way to forgive myself, or just continuing to punish myself. I was angry that my boyfriend wasn’t supportive. He was on summer vacation with his family and he told me he couldn’t talk. He wanted me to get rid of it. I don’t know how much remorse he ever felt, if any, but years later, when he married, he and his wife were unable to have children, and stopped trying after one or two miscarriages. I felt sad for him, and wondered if he ever felt like he was being punished for that teenage choice. I spent the latter part of my twenties and most of my thirties thinking that I was being punished for that teenage choice.

Eventually I came to a somewhat settling conclusion. I thought it was such a shame to have done what I did. But upon deeper consideration, it occurred to me that the real shame was shame itself. The driving force behind my decision was the simple fact that I didn’t want my mother to know, because of how ashamed of me that I knew she would be.  To this day, I’ve still not told my mother.  I couldn’t live with her judgement. I would rather face whatever emotional repercussions that might be in store, than disappoint my mother. The real shame, therefore, was the perceived inability to seek guidance from anyone besides my own, immature, shaken self. She would have been upset, yes. She would have said hurtful, judgemental things, most likely. But she would have gotten past that and quite possibly would have helped me find a way to cope, either through adoption or even keeping the baby. But I didn’t know that. A few years later, when a younger brother and his girlfriend wound up in the same predicament, he had more courage than I did, and he told our mom. I don’t know how she reacted, but they continued with the pregnancy. His girlfriend went away to a boarding school, delivered the child, and they gave her up for adoption. I think my brother got to be there when she was born, and it was an open adoption. He was allowed to maintain written contact with her as she grew to be a fine adult. When she was sixteen, he got to meet her, and later he got to meet her daughter, his grand-daughter. Their story ended well, and his daughter, my niece, spoke of how she always considered him her hero, for letting her live.

So I sometimes wonder if mine would have lived. And I sometimes wonder if I’d have miscarried anyway. They say fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice, shame on me. I found myself pregnant again a year later, under nearly the same circumstances. More shame. Shame on me. I miscarried that one, very early, around 5 weeks. I was relieved to miscarry at that point in my life. I did tell my mother about that one, because the doctor recommended a D&C, and it didn’t have the same shame factor, because the baby had gone on its own. It became just a medical thing, rather than a life choice thing. I assumed, from that point on, that I was Fertile Myrtle, just like my mother. She bore nine healthy children in rapid succession.

I tried valiantly to conceive throughout my thirties, to no avail, then finally became pregnant with the help of Clomid. Twins. I miscarried. My first missed miscarriage. Then came my beautiful perfect boy, for whom I am eternally grateful and blessed. And then my second missed miscarriage last December. And now, my third. I don’t know why my body doesn’t figure out that the baby has died, and goes on fooling me for weeks and weeks. It seems that I don’t get past 5 weeks, yet my body goes merrily along until 10 or 11 weeks; 13 weeks, by the doctor’s calendar wheel.

I started spotting this morning, so here I sit, waiting for the contractions to start, hoping they’ll start soon, but not too soon. If it can wait until morning, I can check myself in to the clinic for a D&C. My doctor said to wait and see if the bleeding stops, because he still doesn’t want to rule anything out. If the bleeding becomes heavy then it will be certain, and he’ll do the D&C. But I know it’s inevitable. I KNOW. Not wanting this to drag on for days and days. Not wanting it to happen on the weekend. Just wanting it to be done with. But I’ll do as I was told, and I’ll wait.

No heartbeat. The doctor said that from the ultrasound (and he only used the portable since I hadn’t made an appointment for the super-duper machine, since they normally don’t order that until after the first prenatal visit) things looked promising as far as yolk sac and size of things goes, and that it looks to be around 5.5 to 6 weeks along. So, let’s have another ultrasound in 10 days, he said, and then we’ll know. But I already know. I already know that things should be nearly 10 weeks by now, and if I was grossly errant in my charting then maybe things would be 8 weeks, and with that, there should be a heartbeat. By their numbers, since LMP was May 20, I should be over 13 weeks. But there is no heartbeat, so how can I take heart to what he said and not worry until next Friday, at which point I will know?

I know that worry does nothing but make things worse. I know that despondency will do nothing for me, if, by some miraculous chance, there really is a 5.5 – 6 week old fetus growing inside me. But all the numbers just don’t add up so how, how, how can I be anything but devastated?

So today I feel sick to my stomach, but that’s emotions and not morning sickness. I’m fairly certain.

Feeling oh, so old, wondering how much longer these 42 year old ovaries will hold out, and if I will ever be able to have another healthy child.

Crying buckets of tears.

Bracing myself for what lies ahead.

Hoping that if miscarriage is inevitable, it will wait another two weeks, so that I will have time to schedule a D&C before going through that horror of horrors again.

I am now officially traumatized.  It isn’t enough that my diet consists mainly of salad these days.  No, let’s step things up just a wee bit, shall we, and add a little live protein.

NO THANK YOU.

There I was, chomping merrily away on my bowl of mixed greens.  Earthbound Farms organic spinach tossed with their organic greens mix, all pre-washed and ready to serve, mixed with chopped romaine that I carefully chopped, washed, rinsed, spun and inspected.  Because I do this.  I inspect my food.  Top it off with a handful of grape tomatoes, some chicken pieces, and a little ranch dressing, and I was good to go.

Imagine my horror when, as I’m tossing the mixture together, distributing the dressing, getting ready to take a big satisfying bite, I spy something resembling bug legs in the mix.  Only to discover, with even more shock and horror, that it’s a wasp, and it’s alive.  A WASP, people.  In my salad.  Where in the hell did it come from?  How long has it been hanging out in the salad container?  In which one?  Could there be more?   The Offender is now drowning in the kitchen sink, because I am Sueeeus, Cruel Murderer of Salad Wasps.

I am distressed.  Now how am I supposed to eat salad any more.  It will take ages for me to get past the need to inspect every single leaf.  Ages.  It took years for me to overcome the obsession of inspecting every piece of broccoli, looking for worms.  Let me say, I have found far too many in my time.

I must say, my dear son was quite valiant.  “Are you okay?”  He kept asking me, with genuine concern.  He’s very sweet that way.  Of course, my heart was still pounding at the discovery, and now I’m going to have to think of other carb-friendly things to eat.

Driven to cursing.  Imagine it.  I simply must vent it here.  I’m trying to ignore the sounds of paper tearing and clanking metal that I hear in the background.  I should know better than to vent on a blog, if only for a few moments, because much, MUCH can be accomplished by a particularly busy toddler in those few moments.

And no, I don’t feel better.  There was still a wasp in my salad.  And very nearly in my mouth.   Ewwww.   I am only interested in Survivor as a spectator sport.  Eating live bugs?  No thanks.

When one thinks that one can enjoy a few minutes of a quiet morning because the wee one is sleeping soundly, one might do well to make a pass through the house and ensure that all bathroom doors are childproofed and closed.  That way, one would not soon discover that some children wake up silently, spy open bathroom doors through which they stealthily enter, and proceed to find their daddy’s mega hold hair gel, the kind that comes in pint-sized containers, and squeeze it out, here, there, everywhere.  No, one would not find a gel saturated towel stuffed in the toilet, nor discover gel all over the Spiderman bed sheet that the child had dragged in to the bathroom to join the party.  One would not find gel smeared all over the side of the bathtub, the floor (the carpeted part), the sink, the counter, and the cupboards.  One would not stumble across a very young man, embalmed, as it were, from head to toe in a good thick layer of the sticky stuff.

A more vigilant mother might take heed from events of only one day prior, in which a particular expanse of silence produced a fine coating of bubble slime all over the heirloom cedar chest, the floor (again, the carpeted part), and the child.  Yes, when a young one boasts his motor skills and shows how proficient he is at opening things with twist-top lids, messy results can occur.  Of course, being the somewhat tidy and organized mother that I am, I keep all the bubble-blowing paraphernalia together.  So of course he emptied every container of bubble liquid.  Mind you, it doesn’t take long to drag (or quietly pick up and move) a foot stool to the counter, step up, retrieve the bubbles, take the loot to a fun kid-sized surface like the cedar chest, twist open the tops, and dump out the contents.  Glug glug glug glug.  Glug.  Glug glug.   What fun!

Imagine the delight at squeezing the contents of a full bottle of talcum powder into little mountains all over the living room floor (the carpeted part).  Imagine the fun clouds of powder that go poof when one bats at them or jumps on them.  There is so much fun to be had in a household when one has a less than vigilant mother.

Yes, when a child learns the secret of the twist top, a new world is opened.  Cups are no longer spill-proof, as evidenced by the half cup of milk pooled at his feet (on the carpet, again), just below the quarter cup pooled on the seat and splashed on his body.  How long does it take to achieve this splendor?   Seconds.  Mere seconds.

There is no rest for the weary.

Oh, and is there a way to describe the look on the child’s face upon discovery, for any one of these or similar events?  He knows he’s being mischievous, yet he looks up at me with those big innocent blue-grey eyes.  Hi Mommy!  Look!

Finishing up the last loads of laundry.  Cleaning the kitchen.  Wondering if an espresso machine would be a worthwhile investment or a colossal waste of money.  I do love a nice cappuccino, but goodness me, they are expensive machines.  I’ve had several of the ultra cheap low end <$50 models and have given them all away.  From there, the price jumps to the several hundreds, and from there to the thousands.  Now, I would never venture into the land of commercial espresso gadgets, although of course I would drool and quietly covet from afar.  How I would love a shiny hunk of Italian metal machinery in the kitchen, though!

I’m feeling a wee bit more hopeful today.  It comes and goes.  The blood sugar is up, though.  Why?  Why oh why?  I even exercised yesterday. 

My lower back has been aching for weeks.  More so than the usual.  I’ve been thirsty and drinking gallons of water, yet still swelling.  I can no longer wear my rings.  Felt a little off this morning and thought toast would do the trick.  Was glad to feel off.  Is that a tad wee bit of morning sickness?  Was surprised at the high blood sugar, when I was feeling hungry and empty.  Wish I could make rhyme or reason of it.  I did have some cake, but that was over 12 hours ago.  At least there is none left to tempt me, so that won’t be happening again for some time.

By the time I make it to the doctor, I’ll be nearly 10 weeks, by my estimation, 12 by theirs.  That means that he might, just might, try to find a heartbeat with the doppler.  How I long to hear those galloping horses!  How I hope there will be an opening available for me to have an ultrasound, though.  I need to see.  I need to.

Gadget’s gone golfing with his boss and boss’s boss.  Networking.   Schmoozing.  Whatever one may call it.  I’m pleased that he’s liking his new job and that he seems to be fitting in well.  It is good for his professional confidence.  Of course it would be fabulous if he could bound into financial abundance and thus release me to the possibility of becoming a kept woman.  I can hardly fathom it, though.  I wouldn’t even be able to contemplate whether I should buy an espresso machine.  There would be no question.  Not in the budget.  Oh how easy it is to become a corporate slave.  Hooked by the 401k, pension, paid sick leave, paid vacation, medical and dental coverage, and most of all, by that steady pay check that arrives every two weeks, rain or shine. 

I like working.  I will always work.  I may not always earn, but I will always work.  What I need to learn, though, is how to pace myself a little better, rather than going all out, all the time.  I’m too driven, and I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s an Aries thing.