I am seriously in need of a super large mug of coffee right now.
This morning I woke up on the couch (I am completely unable to sleep in my bed when John is gone) and my brain was talking to me. In blogpostese.
It was composing a blog post.
Which, you know, my brain really hasn’t done of its own volition in a long, long time. I mean, it used to do that all.the.time. So I don’t know if this is a sign that my muse is actually back this time and I’ll be posting a lot more often again, or if it’s just a sign that I really shouldn’t have gotten up at 3am and eaten that spoon full of creamy peanut butter with my eyes half open.
Does anyone else do that shit when they’re trying to lose weight?! I think something is wrong with me. Waking in the night to sabotage your own weight-loss efforts in order to damage that bitch’s self-esteem is probably not a sign of excellent mental health. Just sayin.
So, anyway, last night I totally dreamt of this guy from back when I was in school. Remember school?
And by school, I don’t mean all those losery years you spent actually working your ass off in college/grad school.
And don’t even tell me that you spent all those years partying, getting drunk and drugged off your ass and being a total whore with anyone who would hang around while you dropped trou. Because I KNOW that those years are for serious academic pursuit and the preparation for your successful adult life. Besides. I did all that other stuff in high school already.
What I mean is the grade school years. Dig in and pull up all your “Stand By Me” memories, folks. This is what I’m referring to presently.
His name is Kenneth, and I always found him to be sort of quirky and really nice. And we shared the exact same birthday, which I thought was the coolest thing since crotchless underwear. (None of your business, it was a weird 4th grade year.)*
Kenneth is literally the only person I have ever met that has the same birthday as I. And really, I always thought that was some special kind of groovy. I kind of always figured him for my super secret long-lost twin.
In addition to that being totally crazy and interesting, it means that my real dad, out there somewhere, is African American. Which really kind of makes this super pale skin and my complete lack of dancing groove a total embarrassment to the other side of my family. And for that reason, I can understand why they have kind of pretended I don’t exist this whole time. And I can forgive.
But I digress.
In my dream, Kenneth was in this convention area thingy or something (back off, it was a dream) and he was standing behind a podium when I walked by and noticed him there. Of course, I totally stopped walking to where I was currently going, and went over to talk to him (super secret twin importantness, duh).
He was set with a large audience of people who were filing in, and was about to sing the entire last chapter of some religious book in another language. No, I don’t remember what book or what language, or even why in the damn hell he would have been doing that (dream, remember?) but I do remember one thing. I was HELLA impressed. And also really bummed, because I totally had to go to this other thing, so I couldn’t attend.
I told him I had to go to a jazz concert instead.
WTFH? Who goes to a jazz concert instead of watching their super secret twin friend from grade school sing the entire last chapter of some crazy religious book in another language? That’s the kind of shit you get a super footlong hotdog and a big gulp for and you watch that with bursting excitement and pride.
But, no. Jazz concert.
And then, you know what I did? I didn’t even go to a jazz concert. I went to some random classroom where, apparently, I was the guest of honor, because they made me sit up front next to the teacher and everyone clapped. And then she made me say something about myself.
I did. It was incredibly intelligent and intensely hilarious. Everyone clapped and laughed and there was much carrying on.
But I don’t remember what I said.
Which is really pissing me off, since I’m absolutely positive it contained the key to happiness for my entire life, and if I just knew what it was, all my problems would cease to exist. Of course, my own brain is still in on the whole “sabotaging my happiness” thing, and it refuses to retrieve this information for me.
So then, after that class thing was over, I exited the building and noticed that all sorts of hell was breaking loose over by the convention area thingy. Every manner of emergency vehicle was all over the place and the atmosphere in general was grey and ominous.
I ran over to find out what the hell was going on, and some official person told me that Kenneth had been murdered while he was singing his religious thing.
Apparently some crazy ass terrorist type person ran up and shot him, and then jumped on him until he went through the floor and into a large vat below the podium, which was full of some type of liquid that dissolved Kenneth.
Uh. Don’t even ask me. I have no idea.
So, Kenneth was dead, and he never even got to finish singing his religious-in-a-different-language-thing and I was supposed to be there for my super secret twin friend from grade school, but I wasn’t.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, I woke up in the middle of the night last night (different time than the peanut butter sabotage event), and an ominous voice inside my head said, “The end of the world is not far off. You have had your time with your son. You will not see your husband again.” And then I fell asleep again.
Which is all pretty much making me lean towards the whole “don’t freaking eat a big spoonful of peanut butter in the middle of the night” thing.
I hope you are alright, Kenneth.
*No. I did not actually have any experiences with crotchless underwear as a child. I was actually not into that kind of thing at all. Studded leather was more my style.
May 10th – 16th
Canon Powershot G9
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
I have become a stinky, flaky skinned, hairy, brutally disgusting version of my former self.
I’ve gotten used to going for long periods of time without taking a shower, brushing my teeth, or shaving.
I took a shower the other day… but I couldn’t remember when the one before it had happened.
At some point, this is going to become so ridiculous that something is going to have to change.
I mean, there’s only so long I can blame it on Braden or claim I’m saving water to protect the environment.
Eventually, I’ll be POLLUTING the environment.
Like, early next Thursday.
Or whenever that dirt-encrusted thing growing off the side of my body starts talking. (It already has a face. I’m thinking of naming it Grubbo.)
To add to my new-found charm, I’ve gained quite a bit of weight.
Yes. Kevin & Leroy are back, and Pattie has become ginormous. Once again, parts of my body are rolling over onto other parts of it, saying, “Oh, Hai! I’m TOUCHING you and I’m SO NOT supposed to be touching you! Neener.”
I have a largish pile of clothes I can’t wear, but I’m rockin’ the maternity clothes. And no, I’m not pregnant.
Unless we’re counting Grubbo.
It’s time for Operation Unfattenning and Destanking.
Hold on people, I’m about to step away from the fridge, onto the treadmill, and then into the shower.
This could get ugly.
I think Grubbo just hissed at me.
But it can be easy to forget to do it regularly. I know that a lot of people don’t like Mother’s/Father’s Day because of the excessive commercialization. I’m not really bothered by that aspect of it – that the days are advertised and talked about just means I’ll remember to send something to the woman who spent hours playing in the sun with me, and the man who taught me how to love a garden.
That’s quite alright with me.
Yesterday, John let me play outside without worry, as he took care of household duties. I mowed the lawn and played with my flower beds. I watched him and Braden play together, talking of birdies and such. It was really lovely. (The chocolate cake I got to cram into my facehole last night wasn’t bad either.)
I can’t say I didn’t spend considerable time off and on thinking about things related to Mother’s day that are sad and which have no emotional or logical resolution that I know of right now. Things related to what is and what is not, what could have, would have, should have been. For myself. For others.
But I also spent a lot of time being aware of what I have and being grateful.
And, you know, eating that chocolate cake. Layered with chocolate mousse. *drool*
And while I enjoyed my day, I knew that there was a photo magnet and card from Snapfish in my mom’s hands, and the same for John’s mom. I know that even if I’m too much of a distractible, lazy douche to let them know every day, at least right now those two moms know I appreciate them.
I have a few things stashed away for June 21 (Father’s Day), too. Snapfish also helped with that. And there’s a $50 giveaway over here from them you can enter to get a jump start on your gifts, too. You can thank me later. (With Chocolate Tall Cake from Ruby Tuesdays. Just, you know, if you were wondering. IT’S GOOD.)
May 3rd – 9th
Canon Powershot G9
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
Definitely should have gone through his bookshelf and reclaimed this one already.
I won’t lie and say I haven’t seen it and thought about that already. I have. I’ve noticed it over and over again. Why did I leave it there? Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe I WANTED him to ask me about it. Maybe it’s just like the bottle of Prometrium. Or maybe it’s simply another one of those things I haven’t had the energy for lately. I wouldn’t doubt it – that list seems to grow exponentially.
When Braden brought this book, “I’m a Big Brother!” to me to read yesterday, it was one of those Big Sigh Moments. What was I going to do? It’s not like I could tell him, “Oh, no, Braden. Mommy can’t read this to you because you AREN’T a big brother! Mommy’s attempts at elevating you to that status were what The Internet likes to call a FAIL. In other words, Braden, U can haz babee bruthr? #NO.”
So, I just did the Internal Tamping of Emotions and took the book, opened it, and prepared to read it to him. With perhaps a few edits, or maybe even an entirely fake story. “This totally looks like a baby, but it’s really a rocket ship headed for outer space! Weee!”
He had one of those ultra I CAN DO IT MYSELF moments suddenly, however, and he snatched the book back because he had decided he didn’t want me to read it after all. He wanted to read it to himself. He employed toddler gibberish style reading… something along the lines of, “Sebbah litte bear and a shhh shhh bee bee alla beb and too and no no no hahahahaha, then daddee so hehe see? Hahahaha!”
Much better than anything I was going to make up. And definitely a moment when I was so glad that he inherited my his dad’s control issues.
April 26th – May 2nd
Canon Powershot G9
To view all my photos, visit my Flickr Photostream
This past Sunday was an anniversary.
But not the kind you celebrate with an extravagant weekend getaway.
If you’re like me, it’s the kind you await with anxious trepidation, wondering what sick emotional games your head and heart will play with you.
The bottle of Prometrium prescribed by the kind, helpful, and compassionate doctor on the other end of the phone with a sobbing, fretful, worried mother that night, one year ago last Sunday, still sits in my kitchen cabinet.
I still don’t have the heart to throw it away. Yet, I have no use for it. Seeing it reminds me of the baby. That’s not a great thing, but it’s not altogether a bad thing, either. It’s just… a thing thing.
Even though that first miscarriage ripped my heart out, and then I got an injection of Unexpected Hope only to suffer another Cosmic Sucker Punch, I have experienced a bit of healing in a whole year’s time.
But I don’t want to forget. And I don’t mean forget the babies (which I most certainly will not). I mean the pain.
There is something about the pain that is left after something that tears at your heart so fiercely. There is something about it that I don’t want to lose.
That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?
Perhaps it’s just the idea that this pain is the only thing I have left of this baby (of both of these babies), and the thought of letting go of it and moving on is just… well, shitty. Unpoetic as it may be, that is the best word for it. Letting go of that pain feels shitty.
If I can smile all day long every day (even when I’m looking at the damned bottle in the kitchen cabinet), then it feels as though I have nothing left of them. As if it does not matter that they were here one moment and then gone the next.
Fault me for it if you will, but nutty as it sounds – this pain is a tragically beautiful thing, and I don’t plan on letting go of it until I am holding my babies somewhere. Whether that is in some eternal dream or Heaven, or wherever else… that’s when I’ll release this gnawing grief.
Until then, that very pain helps me appreciate every hug, flower, and ray of light in this world. Because I’m a foolish girl, and when the light of the sun shines too prettily for too long, I have a tendency to take everything that’s good in my life for granted.
This pain? The way it lingers and sometimes flares up? It taps me on the shoulder and says, “Be grateful, woman.” It’s my reminder.
I refuse to even want to let go of that.
This past Sunday, I planted flowers for our lost babies, who we call Taylor and Davin.
They were purple alyssum, a choice made in order to simultaneously bow my head to another soul that was spirited away too soon.
I could want to be numbed (and some nights, I kind of am) or I could wish for complete healing, to leave these feelings behind and forget them.
Instead I’m going to hold onto what’s left of this pain, and when it feels the most raw, I’m going to try as hard as I can to turn that prism of pain toward the light, so that it creates the most beautiful rainbow I can make that effer shoot out.