Uncharted Territory

Saturday morning, having returned from our Outer Banks Family Extravaganza a night earlier than planned (more to come later), we found
ourselves with found time. We strolled leisurely through Fells Point waiting for a coveted table at the Blue Moon Cafe for a breakfast that quickly turned into lunch. Once The Boy's sister and friend packed up and headed north, we sat on the couch staring at each other. "There's so much to do but I feel like we beat the system," The Boy said. "You want to go look at baby stuff?" I was surprised at his willingness not only to go, but to suggest such a plan. The weather was unseasonably gorgeous, so his proposal had one caveat: We had to ride in the new convertible.

Windblown, we arrived at The Room Store, where The Boy swore he had once seen baby furniture. Though I knew better (but not enough), I humored him. Somehow, we left having paid cash for a red recliner that will arrive this Friday. "How is it," I asked as we left the register, "that since I've been pregnant you've acquired a convertible and a recliner and all I've gotten is fat?"

"We're going to Babies 'R' Us for you, honey," he lied. "And besides, the recliner is so the baby can sleep on my chest. Everyone will be much happier."

After weeks (months?) of delivering wide-eyed gems like: "I just don't see how a baby could need so much stuff," and "it's okay if I miss a playoff game when the baby is born; I'll just TiVo it for later," and "you're not considering cloth diapers?" The Boy accompanied me to the aforementioned baby superstore. It was a first trip for both of us. We were there to scout out the crib situation and so I could decide if the Ladybug theme suited my daughter (I've decided it's just her style, but with pale, barely green walls, no border, no black crib; you get the idea). Halfway to the cribs, The Boy stopped in his tracks in the middle of the aisle.

"Is everything okay?" I asked him, rolling my eyes at the dramatic response I knew waited for me.

"I'm just, umm, it's just that," he stammered.

"It's overwhelming to see all this stuff at once, huh?" I suggested.

"It's not so much that," he said, a hand to his forehead, "I just can't believe we actually need to be here."

He collected himself and we marched on. Within five minutes he had sketched out the nursery, complete with approximated measurements and had decided on a color and style of crib he preferred: white (for the versatility and ease of matching other pieces), convertible, preferably sleigh. It occurs to me that, by the time our child is old enough to enjoy the toddler or full size benefits these convertible cribs offer, we may have another infant, but I try to think of it as three investments for the price of one.

As we perused the oak section, we encountered a couple who actually kicked several of the cribs. When asked if they needed assistance, they responded they were just testing the merchandise. When we passed them a few minutes later, the husband was lodged under a crib as if it were a hot rod, disassembling it. His wife held the dismembered parts, completely unfazed. And I know we are first time parents and in many ways fit the profile, and I am aware my talk on this little publication has turned to all things baby-- for that I will not apologize-- that's just where I am; but I promise I will never ever contemplate the purchase of a crib as if it were an automobile. And I will never want that wagon wheel coffee table.

*The room pictured is not our nursery. Come on, do you think I'd paint a room pink?

Evidently, I really am Pregnant

"Oh, he's not here yet!" I cried when they called me back for my sonogram. "I told him to be early; a sonogram is not the same as a doctor's appointment." Vicki smiled.

"We'll just locate the placenta and take some measurements. He won't care if he misses that." A minute or so later, he knocked on the door.

"Come in, come in!" I said. He came in and grabbed my hand. We had been talking about this since we found out I was pregnant. Couldn't wait to see the baby, couldn't wait to learn our first details about our son or daughter. We saw ventricles and heart valves, femurs and a tongue.

Most of all, we sighed relief over what we didn't see. No signs of congenital defects. Things look healthy and normal which, though cliche, is always good news.

"Now," Vicki smiled, "Here's one leg, and here's another leg and . . . there's no third leg, so. . . " She typed "IT'S A GIRL" on the screen, confirming what I was convinced of and what The Boy feared.

"You'll love her anyway, right?" I asked The Boy.

"Yeah," he said, squeezing my hand, "I'll definitely love her."

Tell me how anybody thinks under this condition

I think I was waiting to write until I had something new to say. Something other than pre-baby hysteria or swearing at strangers under my breath or sometimes maybe not so under my breath. It seems, though, that this is where I live for now. No sense pretending it's otherwise. Every morning frustrates me with its challenge of having nothing to wear. Maternity clothes hang loose off my hips. Pre-pregnancy clothes don't fit. I'm awaiting a confrontation with The Boy over my frequent trips to Old Navy-- but it's not like I've been enjoying them, or like I have a wide variety of clothing options. And still, people don't seem to believe I'm pregnant. At work the other day, a man mistook me for somebody else. "I thought you were Kristen," he said, "but she is pregnant, and you are obviously not." When actually, I am four and a half months along. What to say?

I have always been clumsy; my mother once told me, watching as I practiced plies in the basement, that I had the gracefulness of a frog. I used to fall a lot. Not so much in recent history, thank goodness, but there are always bruises of unknown origin on my shins. Lately, though, it's even worse. Dropping everything, spilling drinks, banging elbows and other appendages into doorjambs-- you name it.

I had The Boy on speaker yesterday while I got ready for a girls' night out. I dropped makeup on my foot and swore loudly. "It's like talking to a sailor!" He remarked. While it's true that I've never been known for my patience, these days I have the shortest fuse I've ever had. I yell at drivers, think awful thoughts about shoppers in the mall, walk out of stores without what I need because it really feels like, if I have to wait in that line, I might explode. Today was not a good day, irritability wise. I made it through Pilates without much trouble, but it seemed to go downhill from there. Of course all of this new found salty talk comes at a time when my incubating child's sense of hearing is maturing. Our journal tells me, though, that the baby "might not understand everything" I say. So that's good to know.

We have argued lately over whether to have a Quad Screen-- an optional and somewhat controversial test used to screen for chromosomal abnormalities like Down Syndrome. A positive test would not result in any type of actionable information, other to than allow for termination of the pregnancy, which we are adamantly against. "So what is the point of the test?" I asked my OB while The Boy listened.

"It's really depends on your personality, whether you think it would help you to know." I told her I'd talk to my husband about it, figuring it would be another non-issues. I wanted to get it done because I figured, if we found out something is wrong, I could begin dealing with my disappointment then and learn as much as possible to prepare. The Boy doesn't see it that way. He's afraid it would just make things worse. We cannot agree on this issue. I am unaccustomed to being so divided on something that feels so serious-- we have a long history of concurrence, or at least compromise. When something is more important to one than the other, one concedes. On the things that have seemed important, we've typically just happened to agree. We were not equipped for this type of fundamental disagreement. We are still undecided.

The big sonogram is Tuesday, the one in which we assumed we would learn the sex of the baby, but I recently realized there's more to it than that. First of all, we may not be able to tell at all. That hadn't even occurred to me until a girl at work (who had never even uttered hello to me before she knew I was pregnant) told me all about the sonogram shenanigans leading up to the birth of her little Evan. They could never tell what he was. I'm really hoping ours child is more cooperative, but it wouldn't shock me if it isn't. And more important than all of that, this sonogram is meant to detect any congenital defects-- it's not all "Hi Mommy" written on a grainy image. So I'm nervous, of course, because that seems to be the pregnancy symptom more widespread than morning sickness: worry. When I found out I had only gained 1 pound through my 16th week of pregnancy, my first thought was "hooray!" Then, without even taking a breath, I asked the nurse, "Oh no, do you think that's okay?"

At Old Navy today, clinging to my sanity when I probably shouldn't have been allowed to be around people, I bought two t-shirts. One says "It's a Boy," and one says, "It's a Girl." I'm trying to be hopeful even though lately it feels like it would be more appropriate for it to say, "It's just too many hamburgers lately" or "It's the worst and longest-running PMS of all time." Take your pick.

Second Trimester Grumblings and Adventures

As it turns out, sharing the news of a well-concealed pregnancy is rather awkward. I told my boss earlier this week, and she was excited. Mentioned nothing of leaving or returning or any of that. Bringing it up in casual conversation, after 16 weeks, is kind of strange. "Yeah, so I'm pregnant," I found myself saying to a colleague the other day. To them, apparently, I do not appear to be pregnant. People say, "You're not even showing...that much," leaving me wondering if I should say, "You're right; I'm probably not even pregnant." But the top two buttons on my pre-pregnancy capris are unbuttoned right now, and it's not just because I'm in the comfort of my own home. The top is secured with a ponytail holder, doubling as a button expander. It's not pretty. When the aforementioned coworker told me to have a great weekend, I told him it would involve buying bigger pants. That hasn't happened yet, though.

These days seem to be filled with "Really, when's the next time we're going to be able to do this?" rationalizing. The Boy is still working on the rooftop deck; after I convinced him he should take me to IHOP for breakfast, I accompanied him to Lowe's for balusters and railings instead of scouring Target and Motherhood for stretchier pants and flowier tops. He has grand plans of bathrooms and new paint and, of course, the nursery, but also all kinds of things an infant would hamper. We've been to Connecticut (a short trip involving a picnic attended leisurely by The Boy's former love. Yes, she knew we would be there. No, she did not think it would be awkward. Everyone survived.); Houston for a wedding and Galveston for a day; we're spending the rest of July at home, then we head to the Outer Banks for a week with representatives from both families (two houses); The Boy's mother is flying in for Labor Day and somewhere in between there are weekend trips and visits yet to be planned, a nursery to be painted, blue or pink to be determined (though the paint will be neutral; this house has to sell eventually).

I've started a prenatal Pilates class and have been seeing a chiropractor I'm now seriously considering dumping after he mentioned, quite harshly and not for the first time, that I would quickly be developing varicose veins on the backs of my knees. I asked him what he proposed I do about it (I've already stopped crossing my legs almost entirely) and what he thought he was accomplishing by mentioning it to a pregnant woman who has plenty of those types of changes on her mind already. He was unfazed.

"Really, don't you have a daughter?" I asked, incredulous, on my face on the table, and very near tears.

"Yes," he replied.

"And do you talk to her that way?"

"Well, no."

"Then please stop talking to me like that! You're only making me feel worse!" He went on, flustered, to tell me my red toenails looked nice, but really, if you have to reach that far to compliment a girl, no one is doing very well. I cried to Amber as I walked home. The Boy referred to him in choice words and said he doesn't want me going back there. But still.

The time has come that The Boy has finally (hesitantly) acknowledged the belly, but it doesn't always show like it should. Sometimes, because of where the pre-pregnancy clothes hit, it just looks like I'm a little chubby around the middle. Especially when I'm seated which, obviously, doesn't sit well with me. I wouldn't mind looking pregnant-- I'm four months along today-- but that's not what it looks like to me. I've taken to casually resting my hand (usually the left one) on my abdomen when in public. Unfortunately, this has led The Boy on multiple occasions and a flight attendant to ask me if I'm all right. Not quite the desired effect.

Women say that the upside of pregnancy and weight gain is larger breasts, and I wish I could agree with them. I'm finding mine impossible to contain. The Boy frequently (especially last week in Galveston at the pool) and openly stares at them. "I'm sorry baby," he says when I reprimand him, "they're just ginormous." I'm starting to feel like a circus freak, and I'm nervous because they are not even serving their purpose yet. I complained at the pool, in my tankini, that I wasn't used to the presence of the belly yet. "Don't worry," The Boy said, eyes glued to my chest, "I don't think anyone is getting that far." Excellent.

At Meg's wedding in Houston last weekend, I wore a dress that I thought mostly concealed my pregnancy just because I still could. It did not, however, conceal the rapidly growing mammaries. I asked her about a large chested bridesmaid whose dress seemed more modest than the others.

"Is Kristy's dress pinned?"

"No, it's sewn with a button inside. I told her the only boobs I wanted on display at my wedding were my own."

"In that case, I apologize." I said, flushing slightly. "I didn't mean anything by it, but since I'm pregnant they've been really hard to control."

She glanced down at them for what was obviously not the first time and said, "That's okay, you weren't up there with me and you have an excuse." Well.

And now I've got to look through my clothes, so many there, so few that still fit, to go sit with another preggo at a bar where we will drink water (I'm so over O'Doul's and don't even ask me about St. Pauli Girl NA) and compare notes and listen to her husband's band. Another activity the baby would hamper. Really, who brings a baby to a bar?

Steady as She Goes

"So, any family history of breast cancer? Heart disease?"

"Yes, both," I said. She was plowing through a list of family history questions that, apparently, people do not typically answer in the affirmative.

"Diabetes? Stroke?"

"Yes, both," I said.

"If I had known she had so much baggage," The Boy quipped, "I'm not sure I would have gotten myself into this."

I expected my ob/gyn to look at him askance. Instead, she said, "Well, I certainly hope you're taking care of yourself."

I had my first "ob" appointment Tuesday. We tried to hear the heartbeat, to no avail. "This is the earliest it would be possible with one of these things," she said apologetically. I tried not to look concerned. "You just saw it on the sonogram last week, right?" I nodded. "We'll definitely hear it when you come back in two weeks." Again, I nodded.

"So, any questions?" She asked. And the answer was not really, since I have the Internet and use it rather liberally. "Just one," The Boy offered, "When do we get to have another sonogram?"

"At 18 weeks," she said, "And that's a really fun one. It'll look much more like a human being then, and we'll be able to tell what it is. You won't want to miss that one." And, of course, he won't.

Despite every calendar, online due date predictors and a sonogram she ordered to determine-- ahem-- gestational age, the good doctor insists that my due date is 5 days later than what everyone else says. Now, I realize, in the larger scope of 10 months, 5 days is nothing. Or at least it would be nothing if it didn't mean our baby is due not only a whole month later but in a new calendar year. When I inquired about the reason behind this difference, she said, "Well, all wheels are different. And since I'm the one who's going to be doing it every week, we'll go with mine."

Well. As soon as she would walk out, you can imagine we would not agree with that decision. "By the way," I would say to The Boy as I slipped my shoes back on, "we're sticking with December 30th."

"Oh, definitely," he'd reply, "what the hell was that about?"

So, our first parental act is mutiny against the ob/gyn's due date. Hopefully we're all wrong and it's earlier. Poor little Christmas baby. When the Rock Star Brother called to congratulate us he said, "Christina. Listen to me. Always buy separate presents. And separate birthday wrapping paper. Never give a joint Christmas/birthday party." Poor brother, I thought, born on Christmas Eve and a twin. He never had much of a shot at a day that was all about him. At least I can happily confirm there is only one bun in my oven.

"So far so good," she said as she left the room. Which are my sentiments exactly.

Expecting, but Not What I Expected

Everyone says if you wait until you're ready you'll never do it. That you're never ready. When it happened before, I wasn't ready because I didn't think I had to be. "It's not like all of the sudden we'll have a kid," I had told The Boy then. "We'll have nine months to prepare." This reasoning seemed to work on him, even if it wasn't completely sound. So, expecting what everyone says to expect, we didn't sweat it. I had heard it could take at least a year to get pregnant coming off the pill. I planned for it to take 6-8 months. It took two weeks. But I'm still convinced that one was over before it actually began. That doesn't doesn't mean it hurt any less, but it's something.

So many things about losing that baby surprised me. I used to think, were I to lose a baby, that I would be too terrified to try again. I thought I'd embrace drinking cocktails and work out until I was finally happy with my body before it happened for real. Instead, I wanted to try immediately. But of course, you can't do that. So instead, embarrassed, married, and longing for a baby, I hid Trojans in the bottom of my cart, face down, at Wal-Mart. I couldn't stand the irony.

Once everything was normal, we tried not to think about it, but I counted days and marked possibilities in cryptic initials in my Day Planner. And then I started taking tests 5 days early. I fought with The Boy because I was afraid he wouldn't be engaged like he was last time-- that he wouldn't allow himself to be attached until . . . I wasn't sure how long. I didn't believe I could be pregnant again, not already. Mostly I was scared. But this time, I got my first positive test two days early. Another one, with a darker line, came the next day, and one more, for good measure, the next. I don't think the blue line on an EPT test can get any darker. But we weren't excited yet.

The first person we told was a work associate of The Boy's we had taken to an O's game. She was 8 months pregnant at the time, and I drank $4 waters in rapid succession. We didn't have to tell, but he was dying to. A week later in Savannah with my girls, I begged off when everyone else ordered draft beer to go with their floppy pizza and finally asked for an O'Doul's. "Yeah, so I'm pregnant." I said. But it was so early. I felt like I might jinx it.

We told our families at 7 weeks, and I feared it would all be over then because that's what happened last time. But it was getting hard to fake that I didn't feel terrible, and news like that doesn't seem real when you keep it to yourself. Once the families knew, it was only a matter of time. News of the long-awaited first grandchild, first great grandchild does not stay quiet or local for long.

I am a little over ten weeks pregnant. At my first sonogram last week, The Boy had tears in his eyes. I strained to see the screen. "So is that the head?" I asked, pointing at the kid's feet. The sonographer was patient and explained everything.

"That black space in his head is where his brain will go!" She said, helpfully. Which is great, except that it means my kid doesn't have a brain.

So I've been waiting to talk about it, but I keep telling myself that waiting wouldn't make it hurt any less if something were to go wrong. We get calmer as days and weeks past. And as I eat fewer Saltines from day to day. I'm pretty sure the sound of crunching crackers on the other side of the bed is not an aphrodisiac.

I'm just not myself when I'm away

So where have I been since last we spoke?

The Boy took me for a surprise overnight getaway to New York, to a restaurant with a six-month waiting list (he "knew a guy"), a hotel with four stars, and a Broadway show with five Tonys. We went to his favorite bar, McSorley's, in SoHo, where sawdust covers the floors and actual dust covers everything else; where the only beers they serve are "light" and "dark" and they laugh at you if you try to order a bottle.

I walked around midtown wearing $20 Isaac Mizrahi shoes that dug into my heels and The Boy's suit coat because spring hadn't completely sprung in the big apple, and I had to at least appear to be wearing nice shoes. It was New York, after all.

A couple weeks later, I drove to Richmond to meet Amber and got up at 3:30 on a Saturday morning to fly to our other girls in Savannah.

In perfect weather, we browsed all the shops on River Street, ate at Paula Deen's famous restaurant, The Lady and Sons, went to bed earlier than we care to admit and ate and talked and laughed. Not the same as it used to be, but maybe even better. Because now we appreciate how hard easy friendships are to come by, and how they might never come again.

With The Boy's birthday rapidly approaching, we planned a big evening out. A brother and friends crashed on our couch despite the open beds upstairs; the boys played Guitar Hero in the middle of the night and we took a salsa lesson, I in my ill-chosen 4" red patent leather stilettos, they in their socks. The Boy surprised me by mastering a right turn and demonstrating in front of everyone. We ate empanadas at a big table surprisingly placed on the dance floor, but we yelled over the Spanish and it was fun. We rode around in the back of a white limo on somebody's prom night and pretended it made us matter. And for our last stop, at 2 AM, we picked up a large cheese pizza at Nacho Mama's.

And last weekend we stayed at the condo of our gracious friends in Ocean City. We arrived to white roses and a bottle of sparkling cider with a Happy Anniversary sign. That's right, I've been married for more than a year now. When I isolate the marriage part, I can't believe it. It was supposed to be hard, everyone said, and I guess sometimes it was. But in talking to Beth, another almost no longer a newlywed, we decided the hard stuff was mostly circumstantial, not so much marital. Yeah, in the beginning there were adjustment issues. There still are. But we're learning. The Boy stood in front of me nervous and giggling Saturday night before we left for our anniversary dinner. "This has been the best year ever," he smiled. I did a quick review: a layoff, the wedding and ridiculous honeymoon, but then my ailing father, a new job with little security, very tight finances, another new job, a pregnancy and a miscarriage. "If this was a tough year," he wrote in his card, "can you imagine what a good one would be like?" He produced a gold box with beautiful diamond stud earrings (that I have always wanted). It was too cold for the beach, but it was a beautiful anniversary.

And now, here we are, smack in the middle of spring, in the middle of the city for one more summer.

Getting Better All the Time

March came and went, alternating lions and lambs, and not a word from me. And people who know about it, but not what it's like, ask "how are you feeling?" Since I know (now) what a miscarriage is like, but also that it can be gotten through, if not over, I think they are referring to the cold that took too long to go away or the allergies that are causing me to cringe and roll my eyes at cherry blossoms. Then I remember. "Oh. That. Things are . . . getting back to normal." And I smile, because I don't think they really want to know that, at the sight of what I have sometimes called "the damn spot," I almost cried with joy and relief. I'm not broken, at least not anymore. Now I can move on, on to more waiting and wondering and considerable fear, but for now I don't feel like I'm stationary, casting a rueful eye over my shoulder at another tearful February.

That doesn't mean it's over, but it also doesn't mean that's all there's been. Another new job, another thing that makes me cringe. "So, Christina," my grandfather asked this weekend, rolling the 'r' as always, "how is the job?" He always asks me this, and although he is prone to interject memories of his days working with engineers, he always listens. Sheepishly I told him, and everyone else, that it's new (again) but I don't hate it. I am with a company who seems to want me to stick around for a while, with a supervisor who asked me, in my third week at work, "Is this really what you want to do? Because if it isn't, we can find a way to something else." It occurred to me that maybe, in these nearly five years after college, all I've been looking for is someone who deserved my loyalty. It would be really nice not to update my resume for a while.

The weekend was heavy on family time. My little sister spent the weekend with us, kind of. The Boy and I attended her concert on Friday, along with her boyfriend. (And it took all I had not to type that in quotation marks.) He has the hairstyle, so popular with teenage boys, that causes him to flip his hair out of his eyes constantly. He does this often, somehow while attempting not to move his neck. It would be funny, except at the end of the night this guy hugged my sister. He tells her, she says, that she doesn't need to wear makeup. He sings Rascal Flatts' "Fast Cars and Freedom" to her. At dinner after the concert, when everyone got up from our table to go to the salad bar, The Boy pleaded for me not to leave him alone with the boyfriend. "So, I heard you wrote a poem," I said, alluding to the way she said he asked her to be his girlfriend.

"Yeah."

"I was impressed when I heard that," I faked a smile. He flipped his hair to reveal one surprisingly blue eye. "Don't worry, she didn't read it to me."

"Yeah," he sniffed, "I'm not worried." And then I gave up.

Thinking about it now, I know what I should have said is much different than what I did say. Which is frequently the problem with me, leaving me to wonder why I have so many people who are still willing to love me. Instead of saying "you're not supposed to be dating," or "he has a stupid haircut," I should have said, "what does it mean to have a boyfriend?" or "what is it that you like about him?" Instead of rattling off reasons why too-young girls give blowjobs and the ominous outcomes this behavior, I should have said, "I'm worried about you, because I know how boys can be, but I know this is an exciting time. I want you to be able to come to me about anything." Well, maybe I could have said that in addition to the blowjob thing. Hopefully she'll give me another chance.

Mostly we rode around. Between a lacrosse game and our grandmother's 75th birthday party and an outlet mall and my house, where The Boy was waiting for Appetizer Night. A few months ago, while we rode from and to similar destinations, she told me, "It's one of my favorite things, riding around with you." So maybe I need to worry less and drive more, with a precocious and terrifyingly beautiful passenger who's still just a kid who looks up to her big sister and doesn't care where we're going as long as she gets to pick the music.

Losing What I Never Had

The days before the news I suspected but still can't always bring myself to say tingled. There was a low buzz, in me and between us, even if we weren't looking at each other, even if we weren't talking, even if he wasn't there. He knew, he said and said it for weeks: when I returned from frequent trips to the bathroom, when I complained that I was hungry again, when I held my breasts steady as I walked down the stairs, when I yelled at him for no good reason, then cried, then said I was sorry in Jamaica. But I was too scared to believe. As if believing ever jinxed anything. Even after my shaking hand, outstretched, showed proof, three times over three days, I still spoke in 'ifs' and 'maybes,' as if everything were hypothetical. As if my uncertain feelings on the subject had anything to do with its veracity.

I cried on the couch about what I was afraid I'd be losing. I vowed to tell our children, and especially daughters, what it really feels like. That it's not only choosing names and a nursery theme and godparents and pediatricians. That, at least in the beginning, it's not all storks and ribbons and cigars and pats on the back. It's also a whole lot of what-if and trembling. And after I cried and sneered at him, drinking my current favorite wine while I had water, I decided the tingling was a very good thing.

When a blood test confirmed what he was already sure of, I started using 'if' a lot less often, and we told my parents. As if it were true. He looked forward and then counted backward, filling in 266 days in a book we read every night. He cleaned the kitchen and made our bed. He worried about me and asked me how I felt. He looked at me, inches from my face when we went to bed, and he smiled that he couldn't believe it. He glowed.

Thursday morning, coming down the stairs, I realized I didn't need to hold my breasts. They didn't hurt anymore. I poked them periodically throughout the morning, willing them to hurt. I worried about the lack of pain. I put it from my mind until later, until I saw a pink streak on white toilet paper. A heartbeat I could feel in my stomach, but it was only mine. My mom called my doctor, who asked to see me immediately. We sat in the waiting room not reading parenting magazines. I tried not to make eye contact with the proud and exhausted owners of severely pregnant bellies around me. He made comments about the weather that didn't distract me. Because I already knew.

The word miscarriage, I've decided, and I've given it a lot of thought, is a terrible word. I recently learned that it's supposed to be the more sensitive term for what is medically called a spontaneous abortion. But maybe I prefer that more. Because if it's a miscarriage, that suggests that I did something wrong. I didn't carry it right; I didn't care enough; I failed. And I've thought that enough on my own over the last week without needing any reminders.

Mostly I've sat on the couch, when I can, or at my desk at work and stared at nothing. Wherever I go I find myself crying in reverse contractions. At first, every three minutes, then every five, and so on. I've only teared up once today, so far. I'm still bleeding and exhausted, surprised by how raw and real it hurts. I hid the book under my bed, aware that all the dates would be wrong but that I wouldn't care as long as we could use it next time. Aware that I was scared of losing the wrong thing, I promised myself that I wouldn't make that mistake again.

Everyone who knows works hard to validate my feelings, as I seem to be the biggest hurdle I'm facing, while everyone who doesn't tries to say things about next time and hope and their acquaintance that lost multiple babies but then became a mother. They are trying to help. But everyone who knows is aware that words never help. I have established rules I do not say that govern my thinking. No one is allowed to utter phrases in my direction that begin with "at least." Such as, "at least you know you can get pregnant," "at least you were only five weeks along," "at least you're very healthy and young." Also, no one can mention God's will. Because if I am expected to run to him for the comfort I have sought desperately anywhere I could get it, I have to believe he is grieving with me; I cannot see him as the source of my grief. Maybe that's bad theology, but it's carrying me through.

Irie, Mon

"Who goes to Jamaica for the weekend?" I heard a woman ask her friend. I was sprawled on a lounge chair on a little man-made island in the Caribbean sea, so I didn't really care. I sipped Red Stripe out of a tiny plastic cup that reminded me of my college cafeteria.

"Did you hear that?" I asked The Boy.

"Yeah, I'll tell you who goes to Jamaica for the weekend," he said, "people who can't afford to go for a whole week!"

Our Jamaican vacation was fabulous. When we left for the airport on Friday morning at 6:30, the temperature gauge on my car read 9 degrees. When we arrived in Montego Bay, it was 80. We were sweaty on the way to the resort, but figured a 71-degree temperature differential isn't really a bad problem to have. After a buffet dinner on the beach where The Boy said, "I'm eating too much, right? I should stop. I'll stop," before going for a second plate, we bet on hermit crab races and laughed as we competed with the Canadian couple at our table who refused to bet on the "Canadian" crab. We went to bed before 10 that night and watched CourtTV until we fell asleep. The Boy seemed to have reservations about ending a night on vacation this way, but it felt pretty perfect to me.

We spent all of Saturday and Sunday on the beach. Saturday, I laughed as The Boy ran away from something in the water. Thinking it was a fish or crab he had stepped on, I made fun of him. Turns out he had stepped on a sea urchin that had left its mark all over the sole of his foot. I performed surgery on what looked like tiny porcupine quills. That night we listened to a Jamaican band play American covers and we walked on the beach. We sat at the end of a pier kicking our feet over the dark water and talking about Freakonomics, the book that had somehow been compelling enough to make The Boy read it.

Sunday, we swam in a lagoon between the beach and the island. I was floating over some sea grass, when pain blinded me. I started screaming and flailing wildly, "Oh my God it hurts!" I said, then, "Get it off me! Is it still on me? OH MY GOD!" The Boy looked at me and moved mechanically, helpless while I flailed. I couldn't hear anything but my screaming, but I noticed that everyone on the beach was staring at me. No one made any moves toward us. The Boy helped me limp out of the water. We assumed I had been stung by a jellyfish. "I'm sorry for embarrassing you," I said, trembling on my beach chair while tears stung my eyes, "but I can't tell you how much it hurts." My knee turned deep red and strange marks that looked like lacerations sliced across it. We decided to go to the nurse. As we walked down the beach a little boy approached me.

"What stung you?" he asked. I told him I thought it was a jellyfish. He made a face. He was the nicest stranger I had encountered that day.

"I just know all those parents are saying, 'Don't worry, honey, that lady is crazy. The ocean and all of its creatures are our friends,'" I sniffled, "But you know what? They are wrong."

The nurse asked me what had happened. I told her I thought it was a jellyfish, but I wasn't sure. "It really hurts," I added. "Does this look like a jellyfish sting?"

"I don't know what stung you," she snapped, " I didn't see it."

"Well, is this typically what jellyfish stings look like?" I asked, gesturing to my knee that now appeared to read CE in garish, red raised print. The Boy later tried to interpret what God could be so desperate to tell me that He had to write it on my body.

"I've never seen anything that looked like this," she said, "But I don't work here very often." I could not understand how a nurse in Jamaica had never seen a jellyfish sting. We concluded something far more sinister had attacked me, but we couldn't be sure. I wanted to consult Wilbur, the ancient Jamaican who wandered around the island with a paddleboat full of handmade souvenirs. If he had spent 35 years working in the water, surely he had encountered a sting like this. But talking to Wilbur would mean reentering the water, and I wasn't quite ready to do that. "I bet he's never been stung by a jellyfish," The Boy joked. He made a similar joke about no less than fifty people, including many guests we encountered at the resort and Bob Marley.

Despite our injuries and my stubborn skin that was determined to burn despite my frantic reapplication of SPF 15, we had a great time and 4 days/3 nights felt much longer. I finally devoured Zadie Smith's On Beauty (every time I opened the book around The Boy, he began to pontificate pointlessly about the merits of beauty in his best Sean Connery voice ). The only real tragedy befell The Boy when he finished his book. "I'll never read another book again," he said quietly as he finished the epilogue. I looked at him quizzically. "There has never been another book like this, and I'm sure there won't ever be again." He pouted for a couple of days, even once we returned home and I took him to Barnes and Noble to prove him wrong. No luck so far.

I talked to my brother on the phone last night. "You guys must be really rich," he scoffed, "who goes to Jamaica for the weekend?"

I laughed and explained that he had it all wrong.

Mimicking Didion

In my current class on my tortoise road to an M.A. in Writing, I am studying, analyzing and imitating other, more successful and famous voices in an attempt to eventually pinpoint my own. Several years ago I had begun to feel mostly confident and comfortable in my voice, but taking this class makes me wonder if those feelings were premature and naïve. Regardless, each week we choose one of the voices we've read to imitate in a short piece that can be about anything. This week, I chose to mimick Joan Didion in "Goodbye to All That," an essay I had read before-- it is now underlined in my book in several shades from several moods and times. I ended up sort of liking the outcome, and since I don't yet have pictures from the Jamaican vacation, here it is:

Some days at recess I stood in the shade of the oak tree by the balance beam where Melissa Rose impersonated Madonna. We were six, and I wasn’t yet sure which kind of girl I wanted to be. Melissa sang “Like a Prayer” and jumped into side splits on the gravel. Even now, my groin muscles hurt just thinking about a move like that, but at the time I wished I could be that cool. Melissa wore a permed side ponytail and deliberately torn lace. Sometimes she wore fingerless gloves. I had the side ponytail, but that was about it. My mother told me, in an act I would later see as benevolent and sage, that if I still wanted a perm when I was nine we would talk about it then. I felt left out, with long, straight blonde hair. Fortunately, my tastes matured by the time I turned nine.

Other days I stood with Carrie (whose last name now escapes me) under the same tree, arms crossed in front of my chest. We watched Aaron McKinsey play soccer. Everyone watched Aaron McKinsey. In kindergarten, the year before, my mother had made me blush by pointing him out at the playground. “He’d be a good boy for you to marry,” she said, casually, “but he’s Jewish and his mother isn’t very nice.” I had never met his mother and did not have any understanding of what being Jewish had to do with any of it. Our next-door neighbors were Jewish and, at the time, all that meant to me was that they did not go to Backyard Bible Club with my brother and me or celebrate Christmas, but we got to go over to their house for latkes and to help light the menorah at Hanukkah. My mother bought a roll of blue and white wrapping paper that was just for their presents. To me, none of these seemed like hindrances to a marriage. For one week in kindergarten, I told everyone Aaron was my boyfriend. He sat criss-cross-applesauce beside me at story time every day, and when we played house he asked me to be the mom to his dad. Sometimes he held my hand. My friends told me they were jealous. But by the next week Leah Berenstein was the one who sat beside him at story time, and Aaron ignored me. Leah was the kind of girl who dressed up as a teenager for Halloween every year until she actually was one. I never became friends with Leah, and I convinced my friends that Aaron had betrayed me.

So in first grade, when Carrie and I watched Aaron at recess, it was with mixed feelings we didn’t fully understand—feelings that had little to do with him at all. He tried to play soccer, but Lia kept chasing him. Soon it wasn’t just Leah. Melissa Rose chased Leah, and twenty-one other girls tailed Melissa—we counted. Even at six, I remember thinking this didn’t seem right. Girls chasing boys like that? “No way,” I told Carrie. She agreed. We watched in shock, then disgust, as Leah tackled Aaron and stole his shoe. He got up and ran away with one shoe on. It was a strange mix of jealousy and anger I felt then. Even if some part of me knew Leah was acting crazy, I remember feeling irritated that she was still getting his attention and I was not—after that week in kindergarten, I never did again. It was the beginning of a long process in which I eventually learned that indignation never won a boy’s glance in anyone’s direction.

Compilations and Complications

We were listening to my latest compilation, another collection of songs too self-conscious to be as dark or indie or bluesy as they might be if they were only for me, but downtrodden enough to be entitled, "C's Moody Winter Mix."

When Citizen Cope's "Back Together Again" began, I started bouncing and nodding and singing along. "I think I may have a thing for songs with 'hoo-hoo's' in them. You know, not that kind of 'hoo-hoo,'" I remarked to The Boy. He laughed.

"You definitely do," he said naming "Black Horse and the Cherry Tree," one of my favorites from last year, Sheryl Crow's "Steve McQueen," and, of course, "Take the Money and Run." I nodded as this seemed a quirk funny enough to own.

When "Home," by Marc Broussard started, The Boy sighed. "Here's another one of your songs."

"Why don't you like it?" I asked, defensive. He mimicked Broussard's gravelly voice repeating the word 'home.' The Boy, apparently, dislikes repetition. His complaint about The Damnwells' "Louisville" sounded similar. ("I really like this song until he starts repeating 'Louisville,'" he said, as if the word reminded him of something foul-smelling.) Maybe he just dislikes repeated title lines. Regardless, we disagree, and another song on the new cd, which I've been playing many times in succession, proves it.

Jars of Clay's, "Work," caught my attention with an aggressive, incessant staccato drum beat countered by the slightly off-beat repeated line, "Do you know what I mean when I say I don' t want to be alone?" It might be because the melodic line shifts with the repetition, causing the harmony to cross over it instead of stack on top of it. But I think I like it more for its urgency and for the line I wish I had written: "I have no fear of drowning; it's the breathing that's taking all this work."

Now, I may not be known for my brevity, but that's where I've been. The breathing has been taking the life out of me, not in a bad way, but in a big way.

The mysterious zephyr I once referred to teased me twice but was not to be. We did not so much as flirt with the idea of moving to Texas, it was more like an at-the-expense-of-everything-else whirlwind romance. Alas, we broke up with it. After a nervous lunch to announce our intentions to my parents and three interviews on my part for the job that seemed perfect, apparently, I did not seem perfect. Half of our hearts gave up then. Or rather, maybe just mine did.

A month and a half later, The Boy had three interviews of his own, the third of which took him on an expenses-paid trip to San Antonio. It was warmer here than it was there the day he flew down. He met with 20 people over nearly eight hours. My friend Kelly took him to a Mexican restaurant and gave him a crash-course orientation. He came home the next day and we waited a little over the two weeks they said it would take to learn that he was close, but not close enough. The Boy moped a little, but mostly the ensuing weekend was a series of sighs and plans. The night after we found out, we went out for Mexican here and plotted the future. To sell the house? To start new job(s)? To procreate sooner than the later we planned long ago? To go back to school?

I enrolled in a class on the last day of late registration; we will put our house on the market in the spring, when the windchill is no longer a factor, but we don't expect to sell it for another year or so; my former contract ended last week-- with a party of awkward body language and phrases and really good baked ziti-- and now I'm mulling a new offer it seems I may not be able to refuse, and as for the procreation, well, I feel that will happen when it's supposed to. Most importantly that weekend, The Boy installed his surround sound system and we bought new rugs. We felt comfortable being in our house again. It felt like home, even though it always was. I've stopped being so afraid of calendars, for the most part, and any thoughts of Stetson acquisition have been tabled indefinitely. We can talk freely with family and friends when they inquire about jobs and locales. The Boy joined my gym and we have been working out at least 4 days per week. I could see results for him right away. I'm babystepping and doing the work, but I've yet to become impressed with my progress, or really to notice it at all. Of course, that could have more to do with my aversion to scales than anything else.

Basically, everything is better now. Friday morning we are headed to Jamaica for a long weekend. I can't really believe it, and when people ask the occasion I don't know what to tell them. We're hoping to do all the things we didn't do on our honeymoon. Swim. Lay out in the sun. Snorkel. Not worry that my father is on his deathbed as we return. Breathe deeply and with less work.

Closer Than They Appear

Back to life, back to reality-- better as an En Vogue hook than it is as a mantra. Despite The Boy's insistence that I would need many coats in New England for Christmas, I did not. It was balmy, for December, and another rainy Christmas. It was also bittersweet. Due to the various home improvement, life reshuffling and Christmas preparations crowding our house and marriage, I realized on the quiet ride up the turnpike that we had been less than connected, or at least less than we'd like. So, that got fixed in Connecticut.

We slept on an aerobed in my brother-in-law's unfurnished condo. When we woke up Christmas morning, he with a hangover and I with severe sleep deprivation that might as well have been a hangover, he laughed. "This is probably how a lot of couples start out on their first Christmas." My allergies and I were glad we do not sleep in such close proximity to the floor in our natural habitat. Christmas felt weird being away from my family and their home. It's also not typical for me to stay up into such wee hours the night before Christmas without carols or wrapping or candles. It made me sad, and we promised it would be different next time, no matter where we were.

We celebrated the twin brothers in laws' 30th birthdays, which was a blast. I wore the KILLER shoes The Boy got me (which, apparently, are now on sale). I spent some time with my sister in law and got to know the boys' girlfriends a little more. We didn't see everyone we wanted to see; we hit more houses than I ever had on a major holiday; and surprisingly, the dog behaved spectacularly for the vast majority of the trip. So it was good, all in all.

New Year's Eve (day) was spent at the Terps game The Boy managed to wrangle tickets to after two years of trying, and he was a very good sport when I insisted he wear a red Maryland shirt. When he complained the borrowed t-shirt was too baggy, I half-heartedly pouted, "Fine. Wear whatever you want." Despite pairing it with dress shoes, he wore the shirt anyway. We returned home for football, homemade fondue, and steak on the couch. Despite condolences from friends and strangers alike and my own silent worries that our first married New Years should be a bit flashier, I thoroughly enjoyed the evening.

And now, our house has been stripped of its Christmas cheer; gold glitter and green branches sit in boxes in the basement along with faux red berries the dog refuses to believe aren't real. It looks naked and seems vaguely sad, but I'm eager to move on.

Here, in the second official week of January, I am officially unsure what happens next. I anticipate being on the receiving end of an Uncomfortable Conversation at work this week, but I continue to lay low. The Boy and I are awaiting news that would change just about everything, and it's taking longer than we had hoped. I'm working on trusting and waiting, seeking and being still. Admittedly, I'm not much good at ignoring logistics. I'm trying hard to stop offering my services to my God who seems to relish taking longer than I planned. Being here now, that advice I laughed at in college and now dole out to just about anyone who will listen, seems to be getting harder.

Here to Stay is a New Bird

I never intended to be part of a family that traveled for Christmas. It is a well-known and certifiable fact that very few of my intentions and visions for the way my life would progress have come to pass. Per se.

Perhaps my expectations stem from the way my mother's life panned out differently than mine. Though they had grown up forty miles from each other in Maryland, she met her husband at her small-town college in North Carolina. Thus, as a child, I saw both families at every holiday without ever having to travel. I woke up in my own bed every Christmas morning. I was vaguely aware that others handled it differently, but it never occurred to me that there was any reason for that other than preference. That the people who travel for Christmas would want it to be different had never entered my mind. It's starting to now.

Despite enrolling in a small-town Carolina school and becoming engaged to a small-town Indiana boy, marriage at 21 was not meant to be my happily ever after. Mom married her college athlete and sweetheart and graduated pregnant with me at 22. I graduated a month shy of 21 with a fiance overseas who everyone knew I was never going to marry. Everyone but me.

The following snowy February left me with a roadmap reevaluation and few answers. What now? So finally, four Christmases after the one that broke my heart, I am starting to see where I am going instead. Which is, apparently, to New England. At 25, my mother had two babies. At 25, I am a newlywed on the pill. I have still not reconciled my expectations to my reality, however happy it is. But, after last night, I have learned something about families who travel at Christmas.

Mainly, they probably do not provide their coworkers with a variety of cookies in cute holiday tins. This is the first year I have not baked and wrapped and sprinkled and given the week before Christmas. Instead, last night, I did laundry like a person possessed, picked up dry cleaning, and sent my gracious husband to Petsmart for a travel sedative and to Walmart for tampons. In preparation for the week of impromptu high school reunions that always manages to constitute our trips to Connecticut, I made time to get my hair highlighted. Finally, my new blonder bangs falling in my eyes, I stared at a bed full of clothing with nothing to wear.

"I'm sorry to be throwing all of this at you at once," The Boy said, reading our commitments to me off a crumpled piece of paper, "but I have never been this overwhelmed."

I reminded him that this night paled in comparison to the ones leading up to our wedding, but remembered that he had spent those nights texting me from bars and hotels with his pals while my overworked bridesmaids and I maniacally tried to scrape together some semblance of a proper wedding. I was happy for him in retrospect, jealous of him at the time.

We discussed the best way to handle family conflicts, anticipated awkward confrontations, and I nervously penned a conflicted and carefully worded e-mail to The Boy's former love regarding our inevitable presence at the same functions.

I bathed our confused Puggle at midnight and slumped on the wet tile while drying him with a hairdryer so that he wouldn't go to bed shivering and wet.

The presents are wrapped and ready to go, but they are not decked out with ribbons or bows the way they have been in previous years. No one is receiving cookies. We will be staying at my brother-in-law's new condo that he has not had time to move into. We are bringing toilet paper and hand soap, an air mattress and towels. We are probably forgetting everything.

We gathered the dog's blankets and toys, treats and medicine, food and bowls, wondering how he would fit in the car. We pictured him perched precariously atop blanket-covered luggage on the backseat.

As we finally prepared to go to bed, The Boy asked, "How do people with kids do this?" I had been wondering the same thing all night. Initially, this question left me longing for more years of careful child prevention.

"We better hurry up and have kids," The Boy said thoughtfully, "So we can make sure we are the first and everyone will visit us for the holidays."

We are still not sure if the dog and the pillows can both make the trip to New England. Suddenly guest room preparations and grocery shopping don't seem like such a terrible fate.

Welcome Christmas, Bring Your Light

The difference between dusk and darkness is only about 15 minutes. I wait for a bus, so I know. What I don't know is the way the sky looks in the Mid Atlantic between the hours of 9 AM and 5 PM on weekdays. But I know that if I sneak out early, at 4:45, I can see the pink-orange light behind the skeletal trees. And I know that if I leave at or after 5:00, I won't need my sunglasses, but I'll immediately need my headlights. Regardless of the presence of light while I wait, all the waiting has given me more time to ponder. Circumstances I am far from sure of, and thus not inclined to disclose, have driven me to my knees and, unfortunately, further into my head. While I ponder, I have been weighing, and while weighing, I have made some conclusions.

I am thankful that:

1. My father was around to celebrate Thanksgiving with our family. More than six months ago, lying in a puddle of hiccups and sobs on the softest bed I had ever felt, in the most gorgeous place I had ever dreamed, I realized Bora Bora was the last place I wanted to be. An interrupted honeymoon the least of my worries, my mind wrestled with the biggest fear I had ever felt-- that I had seen my daddy for the last time from the rear window of a borrowed Audi on my wedding night. I had never known terror or helplessness like that. I'm still not sure if I'm relieved; still holding at least part of the breath I sucked in through clenched teeth on that Wednesday in June. But I know that I hug him tighter and longer every time I see him. I know I don't let myself get frustrated as easily when we butt heads because we are different while so much the same. I know that I am grateful every day for the time that we have.

2. I got to marry a man who continues to thrill and surprise me. I never would have believed that the spiky-haired bartender with the killer chocolate martinis and pocket full of pick-up lines ("Why do you look so familiar?) would be my one and only. But however he convinced me, I'm beyond grateful that he did. Marriage is better than I ever knew to hope it could be, and I have never been more excited to come home every night.

3. I get to take a hot shower every morning. This one is relatively new. About six or seven weeks ago, The Boy embarked on what he thought was a minor repair in our only bathroom. "Just need to replace a few tiles," he told the guy at Home Depot. When he returned to take down the tiles, he realized the wall behind the tiles was rotten. It crumbled at his fingertips, and before I knew it, the shower had no walls and the tub was filled with debris. We returned to Home Depot, to the same guy, who taught The Boy how to install cement board and tiles and grout. No one had to teach me how to pick out the tiles, but there was little joy in that. I had to clean the tub each night and wash my hair in the sink each morning, followed by a shivering bath. The first few days, since the tub faucet lacked...well, a faucet, The Boy got up early and turned on the water for me. And stayed to watch. There was nothing erotic about this activity. Fortunately, for the sake of my marriage and everyone's libido, the novelty of my goosebumped and compromised naked body wore off for my husband, but this production continued for 9 days. Even when the functionality of the shower returned, it carried with it admonitions. "The water can't be hot," or, "this corner can't get wet," or, "the door can't be closed." It should go without saying, but here I go: Due to my poor man having to spend every waking moment in the bathroom, there is no longer any mystery or privacy left in our urinary activities.

Our second level has been covered in a layer of white dust, which is finally mostly gone. I have been congested for weeks, unsure if it was due to sickness or the fact that I should be wearing a mask around my home. Note to the novice homebuyer: Never purchase a home with only one bathroom, especially if you are married. You never know when your spouse will feel the need to tear down the walls.

Having said that, the new tile looks smashing. It makes me want to take it with me when we leave, but I haven't worked up the courage to ask about that yet.


4. I am able to give. Continuing the trend that began with the frozen bird, The Boy and I have turned our little house into the North Pole. Using Craigslist as our impetus, and staring with one family, we have initiated an effort that is ending up providing Christmas for three families, who, together, have 11 kids. At least 10 families from our church have contributed piles of generosity, and our adopted families have been blown away and brought to tears. For the last two weeks, my living and dining rooms have looked like a Toys for Tots collection center, and I've driven around with a high chair and a walker in my trunk. We were able to collect everything the first family requested, and then some, to the point where I needed to actively seek families who were in need of the extra items we acquired. I still have surplus, and the family who provided the most has left me multiple voicemails asking if they can contribute more. It has been an incredible outpouring, and it has overwhelmed me. Not only am I grateful to be in a position where I am not the one in need and I am able to give, I am also grateful to have the opportunity just to be part of something so big and full of love and hope and kindness. I got an angry email forwarded to me from a meek friend the other day, asking if I agreed that my decorated tree was a CHRISTmas tree, and that we should not say Happy Holidays when what we mean is Merry CHRISTmas. I guess those things are true. But why shout about Christ's love when you can just give it away? I haven't said this, but then I guess I shouldn't have to.

Conversely, I am not thankful that:

1. My month-long congestion has manifested itself in the form of a nasty and getting nastier cold, prompting a co-worker to ask me, over the wall of the cubicle, if I was chopping onions. My sniffles projected louder than my muffled apologies. No one could be more irritated than I am, except perhaps The Boy. Which leads me to...

1.a. Because of the Meth "crisis," it is very difficult to find decent cold medicine. Did you know that many nighttime medicines have gotten rid of their decongestants? Whaa? Why don't I just take a shot of Bourbon before bed? Instead of doing that last night, though, I chose to take daytime medicine along with nighttime stuff. Which led to a very surreal night of sirens and wide-awake and switching sides so I could alternate breathing out of either side of my nose, leading to the eventual sleeplessness of my also congested husband. Which leads me to...

1.b. I am unthankful for being sick at the same time as my dear husband. Nothing says happily ever after like, "You're not the only one who's sick, you know!"

2. I am, once again, sitting at work each day, looking over my shoulder, waiting for an anvil to fall on my head. Maybe it'll be the end of December, maybe it'll be the end of January; regardless, we're definitely nearing the end.

Though these lists were meant to be only a sampling, clearly 4-2 means I am doing just fine.

And, despite the dense fog that has lately blanketed my hometown and my mind, it is beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

Poultry Stuffed with Revelations

Admittedly, I am a few days late. But what am I if not perpetually later than I intended to be?

It all started with a frozen turkey. Safeway.com was kind enough to provide us with one free of charge, except for the $150 we spent to qualify. All of this, despite the fact that we had no use for a turkey, as Thanksgiving would be held at my aunt's house where another aunt would tackle nearly all of the cooking.

"What do we need a turkey for again?" The Boy furrowed his already wrinkly brow.

I don't think I ever really had an answer. I told my mom about it, and she also looked perplexed. "You mean you won't use it?" she asked me, her daughter, who cooks nearly every night. "I mean, not for Thanksgiving, but for another time? We'll take it."

I didn't want to give a whole turkey to someone who didn't need it, especially when it arrived and weighed in at a shade heavier than 14 lbs. But how to find someone in need of a large frozen bird? I scoured sites for shelters and food banks, none of which were interested in perishable food. As a last attempt to rid our poorly-designed freezer of the turkey with enough time for it to defrost before the big day, I posted an ad on Craigslist-- FREE Turkey, it read.

I took the ad down about an hour later, my inbox overwhelmed with enthusiastic hopeful takers. A woman who had planned to pick it up at 6 read my mind and thought better of it; "It would make me feel better if it went to someone who really needed it," she said.

Attempting tact, with wording help from The Boy (of all people), I screened the prospective poultry owners. Most were kind-hearted with plans to pay it forward to others who needed it more. Finally, a man named Dave began, "well i am out of work with an injurey and don't have much money and now my ex is having trouble with my two boys..." The Boy christened him winner of the turkey, then met him the next day on the rainy corner holding an umbrella and a sweating bird. Dave was so grateful; we felt more blessed.

"I wish we could help more people like that," The Boy said. And so, we posted another ad on Craigslist, offering last-minute help for Thanksgiving. I felt nervous that night after hitting Publish; I wondered how it would go over and if it would help. In the morning, I parsed e-mails from people telling me their stories; "Thanks for listening," one said. Mostly they were single moms, others out-of-work, all just wanting to provide a day of plenty and warmth and turkey for their families. Wednesday night before Thanksgiving, I only needed gingersnaps, cream cheese, yams and light brown sugar. But I left the grocery store with a buckling cart filled with a 17-lb turkey, a roasting pan, 15 lbs of potatoes, and everything else I could think of that red-blooded, blue state Americans might need on the fourth Thursday in November, including three still-warm pumpkin pies and whipped cream. My winter-white wool coat and I got soaked unloading someone else's supplies, but I couldn't stop smiling. Maybe it was because I knew I didn't have to cook any of it, but I didn't think that was all.

I met Felisha at my front door with bags in hand. I don't know where she lives or how old her kids are or if she had ever cooked a turkey. But I know she had enough for a feast last week.

We were hesitant about the traveling artists/activists. They ventured to see us in the rain for a Safeway gift card and an unexpected pumpkin pie. They cried in our living room, and so did I. Who am I to judge which people need what when? When they left, The Boy and I wished we had given them more.

I wanted to assure them all that we had been in their position, and very well may be again. Strangers have given me exactly what I needed without possibly knowing it was what I needed. A $20 here, a free dinner there. Strangers like that used to show up on The Boy's childhood doorstep with everything his mother needed for their Thanksgiving. "I didn't remember it until just now," he said, after we had given out the last of the groceries. I didn't get to tell anyone. But really, I think we wanted to disappear, thinking that would make it easier to be and provide whatever they needed. I'm not sure if that's what we accomplished, but I know we tried.

But then there was the woman who needed vegetables. I got her every vegetable I could fathom eating on Thanksgiving. I checked my e-mail obsessively and begged her to call, but she never called. Still no email. Now I'm the one who could use a turkey to go with all the fixings.

And, since I am perpetually later than I intended to be, next time we'll tackle "the things I'm thankful for." I'm reminding myself now, to keep from focusing on the zephyr that, for now, wasn't meant to be.

Finding Good in the Lost and Found

When revisiting the past, it seems the elapsed differences do not whisper subtlety like the sameness does.

"That's the swing where Tara and I sat every night after dinner, eating frozen yogurt and watching boys play...the frisbee that's like football. Ultimate frisbee," I pointed for The Boy. The sameness: the swing is still exactly where it was seven years ago when my frizzy hair and skinny legs met Tara's blue dress and husky voice. The differences: I forgot what the game was called that we were "watching" back then; my hair's not so frizzy, and my legs, at least by my standards, would no longer be classified as skinny. Tara still has the husky voice but not, I suspect, the same blue dress.

To reach the swing, I had to pass a difference. "There used to be a bench there where Mike sat to read Rick Reilly's column every Tuesday afternoon when his Sports Illustrated arrived. When I walked by he would say, 'C. Don't go to work,'" I chuckled to The Boy, "and half the time I wouldn't." The Boy smiled at this story, as he had long ago adopted the phrase from stories I'd told. He says it to me often from his pillow, next to mine, with a fake Southern accent, and especially on Mondays.

Of course, these are minor. There are differences that scream, and there are those that don't have to. Starting six years ago on those grounds, I began a process of pining and losing, growing and finding. I have to believe, and I believe I do, that I found much more than I lost there. Saturday I sat in the new football stadium beside Amber, one of the heartbreakingly loyal and fiercely loving friends I had found, lamenting the things we had lost. The Boy watched football on my other side, and I looped my arm through his, basking in how ordinary the moment seemed; how unlikely and beautiful it actually was.

Years earlier in that town I lost years on a Lost Boy who made me, inadvertently, lose myself. But I found myself again soon after and with a vengeance.

I looked at The Boy who followed me to that same one-stoplight town just to see the setting of so many stories. The Boy I, logically, never should have met, let alone married. The unlikely Boy who had become my favorite person and biggest love. We bought coffee at Broad River. We walked through the quad, and somehow it all made him think about what he had lost, or rather, never had the chance to have.

"This just looks like a college, you know?" he said, echoing my seven-year-old sentiment. He said it made him long for an experience he had long ago decided against. He had worked long hours before and after classes he commuted to. He never had a dorm or a roommate or a swing on the quad. I mirrored his wistfulness, realizing that experience had teamed with other hard ones to bring him to me, in his current state. But it still made me sad.

The things I found cannot be separated from the people I found, and differences in them are just as apparent. I met Amber in our first class on the first day of school. We had been paired together to interview each other. She was wearing a sweater even though it was August, and she admitted she had dressed as the mascot at her high school. I knew we would be friends. This weekend I hugged her and her two-year-old and helped bathe her two-month-old. The Boy, though he would not go near him at first, held the baby to his heart before we left.

"So, do you think we can have one of these?" I whispered.

"Not soon or anything," he prefaced, "but definitely."

Edie, on the other hand, had initially descended on my life whether I liked it or not. And at first, I had not. We had been assigned to each other as roommates; I tried to switch rooms before I had even met her. The night before orientation, our unassuming RA interrupted my new roommate's shower to announce my presence. Edie met me, my siblings and both of my parents while wearing a bath robe and a towel turban. She thought I was weird because I hung a poster of a barechested Brady Anderson in close proximity to a photograph of Mother Teresa. I thought she could eat me for breakfast. We remained roommates for the better part of six years. In my wedding program, though I had known her as long as the others who were labeled, "College Friends," she was marked, "College Roommate." And only she understood the distinction. We talked this weekend about her relocation, adjustments and plans, and a gay hairdresser who had become a real friend.

On the way home Sunday, we stopped in Greensboro so I could see my boys. Or rather, the men who used to be my boys. They were joined respectively by Mike's wife, whom we all met in college, and Tripp's new girlfriend-- and I had a hunch she wouldn't be going anywhere for a while. Sameness and differences. I introduced them to The Boy, who loved them as I knew he would. "If for some reason they were ever local," he said later, "I feel like we'd be boys." I was thrilled he felt the way I figured he would; my love of these people justified, despite its defiance of the time/space continuum. When we ordered lunch, Tripp, ever the token thinker and philosopher, ordered his sandwich with green peppers, but not red. The waitress soon returned and informed him that, though she thought it was stupid, he could not order only one kind of pepper. "It's all or nothing," she shrugged.

And this may have been one of the bigger differences I saw. He did not appear to contemplate; he said, "All." Though I may have fabricated the metaphor, I smiled at the pretty blonde beside him, at the irony of progress abundant all weekend, and at the relief that not everything good goes away.

Monotony, Tummy Aches and the Fake Depression

8:55. Chris Berman and The Boy tell me the game I'm about to not watch is a rivalry. The Giants and the Cowboys just kicked off. Hank Williams, Jr., though he was just standing on the fifty-yard line, does not sing about his rowdy friends. The cheerleaders, though they flanked Hank on the line, do not dance or kick on cue in the song Hank does not sing. Instead, we watch a taped performance in which Little Richard screams and allegedly plays piano, but I just inexplicably called him James Brown.

9:01. Plaxico Burress scores a 50-yard touchdown. I have long been of the opinion that some men were destined to be in the NFL, and their mothers knew it, so they named them accordingly. Lawyer Malloy. Peerless Price. Adalius Thomas. Burress fits with these guys.

9:03. The Boy, dressed in white Adidas pants and a brown t-shirt my dad gave him that reads, "I'm probably lying," shakes his hiney vigorously to the tune of Fall Out Boy's off-key insistence.

The 8 minutes you have just relived is meant to depict how my life has fallen into a predictable pattern. I just plopped on the couch beside The Boy, after preparing dinner and lunch and coffee and halfheartedly cleaning the kitchen. I feel sad that it's already almost tomorrow. It might be the darkness that always falls too soon, but somehow all this monotony still strikes me as unpredictable. I can never believe, whether I slept or not, how quickly "7:00" comes. Of course it isn't really 7:00, hence the quotation marks; The Boy and I take turns sneakily setting the clock forward, all the while trying to forget the difference between now and what we think now is. It still doesn't help. Likewise, I can never believe how quickly 7:00 pm comes and goes. My gym bag lives in the trunk of my car. I haven't worn my Sauconys in far too long.

My doctor informed me that I should do more yoga. "The relaxing kind." I insisted, indignantly, that yoga wouldn't help. I neglected to mention the yoga that I do involves a "butt ball" and a woman who reminds me to tense up those muscles I "sit down on." She also encourages me to check in with my hamstrings. "Notice what they are saying back to you." She does not relax me; she makes me contemplate the most efficient means of committing homicide from the downward dog position.

Minutes before this exchange, I slumped in the plastic chair against a particle board desk, having slipped my olive green pumps back on after being dismally disappointed at the scale.

"We haven't seen you in awhile," The tall Brit with the voice from the outgoing message had remarked, glancing at my chart. He motioned to the scale.

"It's hard to get in here," I mumbled, recalling my conversation with him several months prior, when I attempted to make an appointment for a physical. I was told there was an opening in March. I did the mental math, realizing I could be 7 months pregnant by then. Not that I would be, but I needed a way to visualize how much can change in that time. I did not book the appointment.

"You have to schedule your sickness to be seen here," The Brit chuckled. I did not.

Fortunately, as The Boy had become increasingly concerned with my doubling over multiple times daily, he offered to make the appointment for me. I was curled into a series of punctuation marks on our bed; he was worrying via office telephone. I let him call the doctor, and I'm not sure what he said, but it worked and I had an appointment the same day. I tried to blame my sleepless nights on a steady stream of company. But, given the fact that I lacked sleep due to discomfort regardless of who was sleeping upstairs, I acquiesced.

The Boy insisted on leaving work early to pick me up. I resisted, but he won. I dressed nicely in an attempt to feel better.

To my surprise, my red-haired Russian doctor did not examine me. She did not check my blood pressure, temperature or pulse. She didn't touch my stomach or prescribe medicine or tests. We sat at her desk and she asked me how I felt. She interrupted me to tell me I am more stressed than I realize.

"But how can that be?" I countered. "The most stress I've been through recently is over," I reasoned, approaching the five-month anniversary of my windy wedding and my father's (untimely) brush with (far more untimely) death. She said something about how people never get sick during the war. I didn't hear what came next, because I was too busy thinking, "there's no way that's correct."

As I argued, feeling my face and neck flush with splotches, as they are prone to do when I'm impassioned, I realized I was losing.

"You're coming across very anxious," she said.

I swallowed a lump in my throat, wanting to throttle her. She wanted to prescribe an antidepressant; I wanted not to feel sick every day. I wanted not to worry everywhere I go or every time I make plans. What if I don't feel well? What if I'm no fun? What if I can't leave early? Of course I'm anxious; I always feel miserable! She insisted the cycle went the other way around. I quit arguing and accepted the sample, but I haven't taken the pills and I'm working on a second opinion. I made it to the Saab and cried frustration at The Boy. We visited another pharmacy for another herbal remedy I didn't believe would work. I'm not sure if it's working or not, but I really miss my Diet Coke.

I've bought a new Nalgene bottle and lots of Crystal Light on-the-go. I just finished a dinner of grilled chicken breast, brown rice, asparagus and charcoal capsules. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing--definitely don't feel better yet. But then, I'm sure it's all in my worried mind.

Daddy, Let Your Mind Roll On

This weekend marked our third of four consecutive weekends of company. Last weekend we hosted my "actual" mother-in-law and her husband. As my in-laws are both remarried, things get a little complicated. Though the step-mother-in-law insists that having two mothers-in-law would be, for me, like having "three mothers," I maintain that one is more than enough.

On that weekend we visited Our Italian Restaurant; The Boy operated, manned and wrote the rule book for the moonbounce at the Grand Opening of our church building, and for the first time, I had an opportunity to say, "Also, Chinaman is not the proper nomenclature. Asian-American, please." No, really-- at the dinner table in my own house. Welcome to life with visiting step-fathers-in-law.

Conditions are declining at our B&B. This week, we ran out of Pledge. I finally threw out the once fresh flowers, replacing them with silk flowers in the guest room. I'm running out of linen water, and the laundry is piling up. This week, the office didn't get touched. I didn't get the grocery shopping done until Sunday. Fortunately, our friend visiting from Vermont, Mindy, was kind enough to bring buttermilk pancake mix and a killer handthrown batter bowl as a thank you gift. Groceries or not, we had a great breakfast.

Despite Saturday's chilly rain, The Boy joined Mindy and her friends for the festival. I headed to a baby shower where I joined another newlywed shrugging off "Who's next?" questions and lamenting over that dreaded but oft-repeated query, "How's married life?"

"What am I supposed to say?" She rolled her eyes. "That it's an adjustment? That he has trouble remembering to put the seat down?" I laughed and agreed.

I joined my man and his new friends at an Irish pub where everyone had been there long enough to be thrilled to see me. "I'd like you to meet Danielle-- she's very intelligent and seems like a really nice girl. She just relocated here from Boston," The Boy guided me by the shoulder while supplying me with a beer. I noticed he put the emphasis on the third syllable of relocated.

"Danielle, this is my wife." She smiled and lit up as if she had long anticipated our meeting. I squinted at The Boy, wondering what he had told her. "I really think you'd be great friends," he whispered. "You should also meet Jocelyn," he said later. "She doesn't own a car. She seems like a nice girl." I laughed, realizing my husband hasn't stopped picking up girls in bars. It's just that now he's scouting for me.

Sunday morning we dragged before leaving for lunch with friends at PF Changs. Some of us weren't feeling well. "Mindy," The Boy said, "I think you'll be fine once you get a little Mongolian beef in you. Oh wait," he belatedly attempted to self-censor. We joined six others around a large round table. We stared wide-eyed at our friend who, two days prior, had eloped with the smiling blonde beside him. We tried to know her and presented them with a cake from Vaccaro's with a $7 dark-haired bride and groom on top.

"There was a topper with a blonde bride," I explained at this, my second meeting of the girl. "But she was dragging the groom behind her, and I didn't think that was appropriate. And also, it was like thirty dollars." I stopped talking and ate my chocolate cake.

This beautiful afternoon, I sat with Mindy and, over salads in Canton Square, we shared our life dilemmas. I was glad she came, sorry she had to leave. Thankful for an extra day of real life-- good life-- before the weekly depression set in. A day late, but right on time.

Bienvenue, Welcome

Phase I of the inlaw doubleheader concluded this afternoon. It was opening weekend at our B&B, as it was the first of four consecutive weekends our guest room will be in use. In preparation, we cleaned and wondered if the full size bed tucked into the alcove on the blue-collar colored third floor would be comfortable for a couple. I bought Gerbera daisies, Sunflowers and Black-eyed Susans and placed them in mason jars and bud vases throughout the house. We used pillow mist liberally; we turned down sheets and tucked in corners. We cooked together Friday night in anticipation of the arrival of The Boy's father and stepmother. They were visiting just because.

They are mainstream people who get engaged at Disney World and know people who have had double weddings on Valentine's Day. On their frequent visits to New York City, they are regulars at Central Park, the Phantom of the Opera, and Tavern on the Green. When they visit us in Baltimore, a seemingly magnetic pull attracts them to the Harborplace at the Inner Harbor. The Cheesecake Factory and McCormick & Schmick, Vaccaro's, Starbucks and Camden Yards participate in the periodic parade. And, regardless of where we are living at the time of their visit, we walk to all of these places. Because it was recently my birthday, I was asked to choose a restaurant for our belated celebration. I chose a place in our neighborhood, an upscale mom and pop where the owner greets you at the door. It's got miniature lamps on the tables and original oil paintings on the walls. It's got "character," I'm told. And I was pleased that, given their misgivings, they seemed to enjoy the new experience.

We still walked through the harbor on the way to the baseball game. It couldn't be avoided, although it's about two miles farther this year than it was when they visited last summer. I wore non-athletic sneakers and clear Band-Aids on my heels. We talked without competing with other siblings or events. We sat without looking at the clock before racing to our next commitment. Although probably it wasn't, it felt like our first grown-up visit with the parents, perhaps because it was our first married visit. Not that marriage has made us more adult, but certainly it has necessitated a level of calmness that couldn't coexist with our dating or engagement. We no longer complain about familial conflicts that never involved us until we were challenged with drawing up seating charts. We are no longer preoccupied and apologetically, if inadvertently, self-centered. We lounged with ease, sipping coffee and asking about everyone else's life. And, without unrelenting preoccupation, really listened when they responded. It was a nice way to open the season at the B&B.

Next weekend, The Boy's mother and stepfather will lodge with us on their way home from an extended stay with the other kids. We winced at the awkwardness of the guest room's guest list, but perhaps such run-ins can't be avoided and don't matter anyway. We've banished all the ghosts from our bed; we can only hope that others do the same.