Notes from the Underbelly

Today my dear friend Mindy sent me her thoughts on how everything has changed. I thought about how, four years ago, we stood on her yard crowded with wooden pink flamingos I had sent for her birthday. I handed her a black strapless backup dress and she ran into her house and changed into it in the foyer before our three-hour dinner at the Melting Pot. A month later, she painted her toes purple in the passenger seat of my car on our way to Virginia Beach where we crashed in sleeping bags on her friend's couches, ate tuna salad sandwiches every day for lunch, to save money, and flirted with ill-chosen boys, to kill time. I watched the series finale of Friends in my jogging clothes on her couch because I was locked out of my house. She taught me how to climb indoor walls. We drank Sam Adams Cherry Wheat beer and watched movies and talked about the past and how it might come back in the future. She was one of the first people to meet The Boy. She said his spiky hair made him look "youthful" before we knew he looked youthful because he actually was. She's hundreds of miles north of here now, in her snowy Vermont with the love of her past who turns out to be the love of her life. So yes, everything has changed. Here is my response:

I can't get over how much things have changed either. I've been watching a ton of t.v. since I've been home with the baby and there is this match.com commercial that starts with this couple in the hospital with their newborn and says, "How did it all start?" and goes backwards through the pregnancy and wedding and dating and every single time I see it it makes me cry (and I'm getting choked up now just thinking about it).

Sometimes I remember that I'm still the same girl, but sometimes it's hard because, so far, everything is so freaking different than it was. And that doesn't mean it's bad-- I love this little screaming, pooping person more than I can get my head around-- but everyone always says the first six weeks or so is the hardest and I have to believe that's right. The sleep is so spotty and I'm breastfeeding so I'm kind of chained to her until I get her to take a bottle (hopefully next week) and Dan and I aren't really sleeping together because I'm not really sleeping, and she's crying now and has been for about ten minutes so I can't even call you like I'd really rather do, so this is what you get.

I'm typing with one hand while I hold her with the other because, apparently, it was far too lonely in her bassinet. And having said all of this, my real fear-- aside from that, despite my 22-pound weight loss in 3 weeks, I will never get back into my jeans-- is that I won't live in this moment enough to appreciate it before it's gone. She's already grown so much. As much as I complain about going stir crazy, I know I will miss this time when my whole responsibility is resting and caring for her. Even when I'm deliriously tired at 3 AM, there is nothing in this world that compares to my little daughter falling asleep on my chest. Which is what she's doing now.

And despite all these whiplash changes, or perhaps because of them, I do desperately miss my friends. I feel like I have nothing to share, as my world has at once become quite big and very small. But please don't hesitate to call me. Most of the time I don't know where my phone is and I might not pick up, but I'm finally emerging from a three-week haze and would love to talk. And the monkey will eventually fall asleep, which means I will eventually call you back.

Thank you for checking in with me; your friendship is very important to me, no matter how jealous I am of your vacations and continued ability to type with both hands.

Love,
c

Isn't She Lovely?

After two visits I preferred to call "early" alarms because they weren't really false, Friday, December 21st we went to my little sister Sarah's JV basketball game. The Boy helped me climb to the top row of bleachers, much to the amusement of onlookers. I got entirely too heated coaching and chiding from up there, and the girls lost a heartbreaker in the last seconds. Sarah was supposed to stay through halftime of the varsity game that was to follow, but she told her coach she had to go. "My sister has to go to the hospital to have her baby." To our knowledge, this was not true. I scolded her for lying, but we were ready to go, so we went to dinner and Sarah got her things to spend the night at our house. "One more time before the baby gets here," I had said.

We couldn't agree on a movie and ended up watching Notting Hill, a movie I have never liked, on the couch before heading up to bed. At 1:30 from the bathroom, I called The Boy. "Yeah?" he answered from our room. Later he admitted it should have occurred to him, under the circumstances, that if I was calling him from inside the bathroom, he should probably come to me.

"My water just broke," I told him calmly, hovering over the toilet.

"Are you sure?" he asked. I enumerated the characteristics that made me sure and asked him to wake Sarah who, minutes later, came into the bathroom and watched as I stacked 4 maxi pads on top of each other, trying to figure out how I'd make it to the hospital without leaving puddles behind me. The Boy wandered in and out of rooms muttering, "Okay," repeatedly and under his breath. But we had done this twice before that week. I had not been to work since the previous Friday-- we were heavy into waiting mode-- logistically, at least, we were ready. He got the car and I brought a beach towel and my suitcase and we were off. I looked around at our quiet house as we left, cognizant even then that when we came home everything would be different.

At the hospital they knew my name before I said it and led me to my room. I knew the protocol at this point. We waited for the contractions to get worse. They did, but I didn't make any progress. I encouraged The Boy and Sarah to sleep while I writhed, the pain intensifying. Against my better judgment and my plans, I asked for pain medicine. I was in the middle of telling The Boy a story when the nurse injected my bum and my IV with the meds. I stopped mid-sentence. "I feel...I really feel...you know, I feel kind of..." I mumbled.

"Drunk?" the nurse offered.

"Yes. I feel kind of drunk," I said.

"Well, it's really good medicine." Still I was disappointed because I had vowed not to take any except for the epidural. I didn't want to be stoned for the birth of my child; I felt responsible for the drop in her heart rate that occurred almost instantly. Still, we waited. They started Pitocin. Everything got worse. The OB who was not my own expressed concern that I would not be able to dilate on my own, thanks to potentially unnecessary surgery I had undergone years before.

"Unless I can do it manually," she said, "you may need a C-section." I teared up. That was not in the plan either. She offered an epidural and said she would try once it kick in.

"Hi," the anesthesiologist said, "I'm Dr. Payne." I am not making this up. He decided I did not need a high dose, despite my admonition not to be fooled by my lack of dilation. The Boy was asked to leave the room, and I threw up on the nurse. I would later view this as a turning point. The OB was able to begin dilation, while I prayed, all nonsense and pleading. We waited. My family sat in the waiting room, wringing their hands.

Three hours later (13 hours into this ordeal), I told the nurse who had just started her shift that I was feeling lots of pressure and would like another dose of the epidural. "Your OB is in surgery and so is Dr. Payne. Let me just check though," she said, as if on a whim. "Well, you're feeling that way because you're fully dilated and ready to push. I'll get your doctor." Needless to say, I did not see Dr. Payne again. I get a little indignant now when someone says, "But you had an epidural, right? So you didn't feel anything?" I thought that's how it would have gone. No such luck. But I did not scream or swear or tell The Boy it was all his fault. I did, however, push for over two hours.

I thought the baby would never come. I turned down offers to look at the progress in mirrors, maintaining that the whole thing was gross. The Boy, regardless of his intentions, did not get that option. The nurse told him to hold my leg and count. He was awesome, and if he was queasy, he didn't show it. I have never felt such pain. But watching my little purple daughter emerge was, so far, the highlight of my life. Tears streamed down my face and I immediately forgave her and loved her like I have never loved anyone. I used to wonder why mothers weren't bothered that their new babies weren't clean when they are placed on their chests. I didn't care.

In the waiting room, my mother nearly lost it. She had visions of an emergency C-section no one had bothered to tell her about. When it was over, she stopped the OB in the hallway. "My job was to deliver the baby," she said when Mom asked for an update, "And I'm done now."

They finally let my family in and everyone cried. It took what felt like ten minutes before anyone even asked her name. Mirabella Bly. 7 lbs, 1 oz; 21 inches, born on December 22nd. And she's crying now, and so I'm off.

A Long December

At 7AM I gasped, then moaned and rolled to my side. For the first time ever, a contraction had woken me up. I wanted to feel hopeful, but I couldn't find the ability. I went back to sleep and ignored them again when I woke up for real and showered and got ready for church. I thought about how perfect it would be.

Though I'm not due until December 30th (January 4th if you ask my OB), last month I arbitrarily chose December 17th as the desired birthdate of my daughter. And I had just spent two-thirds of a lovely weekend catching up with my husband. We went on a date Friday night, back to the old standby, the location of our first date. As I struggled to find something to wear, I complained to Tara over the phone. "Let me tell you how difficult it is to look cute when you're 9 months pregnant. My main goal now is to keep the belly covered." She laughed sympathetically. A few minutes later I found a low cut top that made use of my pregnancy-enhanced assets. "I stand corrected," I told Tara, "cleavage still works." So I laughed at dinner when The Boy said, "I love that you're 9 months pregnant and I still can't take my eyes off of you." And I loved it too. We'd had company in the form of my mother-in-law for the last week and hadn't been able to catch up. So Friday was sublime.

Days earlier, he had given me a gift certificate for breakfast in bed and three TiVo shows of my choice (also in bed), that he made good on Saturday morning. We spent the whole day and evening together, so I was feeling pretty good about feeling bad this morning. But not good enough to trust it.

In church I wasn't always able to sing some of my favorite Christmas carols; I sat down and breathed deeply. "You need to be tracking them, baby," The Boy whispered, handing me a slip of paper. I discreetly took note of the contractions, still not trusting them. After church we met friends at a sports bar, having changed into Saints jerseys in the car. By halftime, Jenn squealed and my list of contractions spanned nearly four hours and listed times no more than 6 minutes apart. We decided to call the doctor. At home we calmly loaded everything up, divided and conquered last minute issues.

At the hospital, I was disappointed by my lack of progress. Once I was lying down, the contractions felt much less severe. "Early labor," they shrugged. They said it was normal. Did not make me feel stupid. Hours later, as I lay on my couch with more contractions, my OB called to check in.

"It's not unusual for early labor for first babies to take 14-16 hours," she said. I sighed. So I'm drinking lots of water and resting on the couch, contemplating whether I'll work tomorrow, grateful for the last couple days of quiet time together before everything changes-- for the better, for good.

Just Nod if You Can Hear Me

"Your crickets are talking," The Boy said the other day over the phone. Despite being my biggest cheerleader, he's also one of the biggest slackers among those who have read anything I've written. So if he's complaining, you know it's bad.

How I've missed you! So much to update. Since last I was here, I've been everywhere. I am nearly 38 weeks along in the incubation of my child, whom I have come to believe may actually be doing Pilates in the womb. In layman's terms: She's kicking the crap out of me. I am getting anxious for her birth, the least romantic reason being I'm sick and tired of being pregnant! "How do you feel," is the most common question I'm asked, and I feel bad answering it. Honestly? My back is killing me; I pee several times in the middle of the night; I have contractions all the time, consistently and progressively closer together all day long, and then they just stop. No progress. And don't even ask about my last appointment. After a few rough days and rougher nights, I dragged myself to the OB, hopeful for news that included the word "centimeters." She said, at 37 weeks, there was no need to check.

"Most babies are born between 38 and 41 weeks," she explained. I was unsure why this mattered; I just needed a little something for the effort. Needed to be reminded I would not be pregnant forever-- that progress, however slowly, was being made. But it was not in the cards. I cried and called Amber and told her I'm never having a baby or wearing jeans that have a button on them ever again. I've been a little emotional.

All of this is true, yes, but I'm also working hard to relish the good things about the now. We spent a long weekend in November in Charleston for a friend's gorgeous wedding; spent lots of time with Edes and Tara, which was awesome. One last visit before I'm officially a mother, and one last plane ride and exploratory mini-vacation with The Boy before we add another title to our list. I teared up one night over a giggly pizza dinner for two. "I love that we're buddies and lovers," I told him. "But I'm nervous that once we add parents to the list, we won't be lovers anymore."

"No," he replied, "We will make sure we are all three. But no more. We can't be anymore than three."

A couple weeks later, we ventured to Connecticut for another last-- the last visit without the baby. I worried about raucous nights under the rationalization that it was the "last" time, but was pleasantly surprised with movies on the couch, an extravagant wedding we were all invited to that was a blast, a roasted chicken dinner and Christmas songs and early presents with the siblings. They threw us a lovely shower which netted us so many gifts The Boy could barely fit them (and the dog and me) in the car.

And back to now. The Christmas tree and lights are finally up, and the last of the gifts have been ordered and shipped. All of the baby clothes are washed and folded, organized and put away according to tiny size. The bassinet has taken the place of the dog's bed in our room; there's a Graco "Cherry Blossom" car seat on my black leather back seat. My suitcase has been triple checked and stands at attention, ready to go, whenever the moment arrives. I'm excited and terrified; impatient and acutely aware that it will happen when I least expect it and then we can never go back. I try to relish sleeping, even if it's oft-interrupted. I touch the belly often, reminding myself to treat this miracle with the awe it deserves. I'm attempting to appreciate every day it's still just me and The Boy, alone in our room, and trying not to think about how much it feels like I'll miss that. I'm praying it's really as fulfilling and wonderful as everyone says, even as I know in my heart that it will be.

This City Life is Dragging us Down

I was getting ready to saute chicken and talking to The Boy about his softball game I didn't stick around for when the doorbell rang. Which it doesn't often do.

"Someone's at the door," I told him.

"Don't answer it," he advised. I looked up at Curtis Stone, the Take Home Chef, who was on TV talking loud enough for me to hear in the kitchen, and down at the dog, who was barking and scratching at the door.

I told him I had to answer it; it was obvious I was home. "Well, look through the mail slot first," The Boy said.

"I'm not doing that; it's ridiculous. Just stay on the phone," I opened the door. "Oh, it's gay Lenny's dad," I said, "I'll call you back." I tossed the phone onto the couch and closed the dog in the house. The man outside, somewhere close to 60 with an ancient and perpetually leashless dog named Lenny, told me he had lost his cat. "She looks like Puss in Boots," he explained, "have you seen her?" By his estimation, his cat had probably leapt from his rooftop deck to ours and may have happened upon a chimney on the way. He seemed to need the conversation, so I indulged him for awhile. "How did you know Lenny was gay?" He asked. I reminded him we had met while I walked my dog one day and that his dog seemed interested in pursuing more than a friendship with mine.

"Well, you're welcome to go down our alley and check for her when it's light out," I offered. He told me he wasn't that worried, that he had rescued her when she was a stray, and that losing a cat wasn't the same as losing a dog.

"If it had been Lenny, I would be looking under every rock. Mostly I'm just curious about what could have happened to her." This story and its implications would change considerably over the next few hours.

When I came back in to call The Boy, I couldn't get through. When he finally called back, he said, "You want to know the reason why you couldn't get me? Because I was on the phone with the Baltimore City Police Department! Why do you have to be so stubborn?" He went on about the mail slot, apparently oblivious to my comment about harmless old gay Lenny's dad.

When he got home, we sat down to steaming plates and a knock at the door. I turned around to see gay Lenny's dad walking through my living room. "I went up on your roof and she's in the chimney," he said, "I can hear her." He followed The Boy into our basement to tap on the chimney that does not end in a fireplace. I sat kind of bemused and irritated that my chicken and apple cider gravy was getting cold.

We finished dinner to another knock at the door and a request from Lenny's dad to allow him to tear apart our chimney. "I'm a mason," he said, "and I'm very good. I'll put it back together better than it was before; it's kind of a mess as it is." I looked at The Boy who agreed that the chimney was a mess but decided to take a trip to the roof with our new acquaintance to make sure that, indeed, ours was the chimney in question.

Turns out, the chimney didn't belong to us but to the house next door, the owner of which has held out on selling it for many years and, in the meantime, it has sat vacant. And spooky. And in desperate need of the kind of rehabbing that can only be accomplished with many sledgehammers and exterminators. "I would think he was even crazier if I didn't see that cat myself," The Boy shrugged. In his next report, I learned that Lenny's dad was breaking into the house next door. I didn't want to know any further details; I could think only of rats and roaches in the walls and no electricity. And the possibility of police involvement. We had interacted with this neighbor on several occasions; he was disgruntled that The Boy had used his alley to store pieces of our rooftop deck in progress. From then on, we tried to stay out of his way, even though several times a summer his weeds took on a Little Shop of Horrors like quality.

"He said he's going to break through the sealed fireplace to save the cat, and then he'll fix it later. Better than it is now, he told me," The Boy said. Helicopters circled the neighborhood, as they often do. The Boy wondered if they were coming for Lenny's dad. "We might have to take Lenny in," he said, "when the law comes for his father. Wouldn't you hope it would seem suspicious that a man is breaking through a chimney on someone's roof?" Yes, one would hope.

Around 11PM we lay in bed laughing as we heard chipping away with a chisel; through our bedroom wall, we heard the distinct movement of bricks. "I'm worried I could be considered an accomplice. But he couldn't let his cat die," The Boy rationalized. I reminded him that breaking and entering and destruction of property are crimes, doesn't matter the intent. "But if it were Mosotos, you know we would do the same." I looked at the puggle snoring in his bed across the room. I couldn't be sure about that.

Around 11:30 the chiseling stopped. We haven't seen Lenny or his dad since, but we've been laying low, in case the authorities come knocking. One thing we were assured of: After this adventure, Puss in Boots would be an indoor cat.

Daylight Fading

Saturday, while buying three-dollar pink suede boots (with fringe) for my yet-unborn daughter, I got another text message from The Boy. This time, a picture of him in front of a horse monument. Later, a video of a band playing on a corner and man dancing with two brooms. "I love this. Wish you were here," he said. At my insistence, he had traveled to the Big Easy with our friend Ryan to explore and see his beloved Saints play. Not excited at the prospect of being alone at home, I headed to Richmond to hang with Amber and the kids.

The Boy did Bourbon Street and alligator sausages at the Superdome; I did the three-year-old's hair (badly) and shared my granola bar with the grunting one-year-old. I watched penne get thrown on the floor at the Olive Garden. Sunday, Amber said, "Sorry friend. Not the weekend away you were looking for." I always love my time with Amber, regardless of the circumstances. We watched a Hugh Grant movie and ate gigantic ("reduced fat") ice cream sundaes. I'm sure my visit there had something to do with the five pounds I've gained in the last two weeks.

But maybe, given my impending motherhood, it was a tad overwhelming. I called The Boy and said I wasn't sure I was cut out to have kids. He reminded me that we're only having one right now. And coming home, the house empty except for the dog, I remembered that even in an exciting time, it's important to cherish what's here now. Last night: me on the couch, eating reheated rice (and later, ice cream) and watching Tim Gunn on TiVo. I can do that now. No one was yelling for help wiping their tushie; no one needed me to give them a bath. There will be many days and years for that, and I am excited about the whole of it. But even the mundane now is special in that it won't be here forever.

We are into autumn now, and I am coming up on my third trimester. I can't believe how short the days are already, and everything is framed in the impending arrival of the girl who is already changing everything. At a follow-up sonogram last week, we learned that my amniotic fluid is still low, and it appears that the baby's right kidney is dilated. Tomorrow morning I'll see a perinatologist and have another sonogram. No one will tell me anything until there's more to say. I'm not excited to see a doctor with "high risk" in the explanation, but I'm glad we're being cautious. And I'll never complain about seeing my little girl.

Looking Forward, Looking Back

At twenty-five weeks pregnant, I think I'm probably less ready to be a mother than ever. On Monday, I fell down at work. In the hallway, during the normal course of walking, for no apparent reason. Minor muscle strains and bruises notwithstanding, my daughter and I seemed to be fine. I mentioned it to my OB, who said, "Well try not to do that again!" Oh, okay. Now I'll be more careful, but just because you say so.

We are embarking upon what, at least so far, seems to be our biggest challenge yet: securing childcare. At work, my child is number 212 on the list of "infants and unborns," up from 229 a few weeks ago, but down from 211 a few days ago. It's not a hopeful process. The Boy had a consultation that netted us countless phone numbers and addresses. And, of course, we couldn't just be on the same page about it; because we both feel like complete morons, in way over our heads, we fight about it. Thursday, in tears, I said, "I'm pissed at her because she's already ruining everything and she's not even here yet!" And this is how I know it will all be okay. Because the father of my child held me and said, "It's okay to be pissed at her." When I told my mother about it, she said, "Well that's a terrible way to look at it." Obviously, she is not father-of-my-child material.

The second number in my weight is higher than it has ever been but, in all probability, not higher than it will ever be. I've gained ten pounds, but my blood pressure is great, the kid's heart rate is on target, and just to be sure everything else is as it should be, we get to see her again in another sonogram on Thursday.

I'm reading a book on setting my baby's sleep and feeding schedule; I'm taking a prenatal Pilates class; I've signed up for childbirth education boot camp, and according to my pastor's wife, I'm "blossoming." But today The Boy's stepbrother asked me if it's weird, getting ready for something so unknown. "I don't see how I could ever prepare for it. And then she'll be here and nothing will ever be the same."

I'm not mad at her today, so I guess that's something.

And now, the looking back: I feel sheepish publishing this now, given my current pre-maternal state. It seems disingenuous, if only a little, to write about "surviving a miscarriage" only now that I'm nearly three quarters of the way along with my next pregnancy. But I've written a story and had it published at maryelise.com, a new, start-up women's magazine online. Check it out, if you please.

Goodnight, You Moonlight Ladies

And so already, my daughter is making herself the center of my life. Once I finally figured out what it felt like when she moved, it felt like she wouldn't stop moving. At home, whenever I felt a particularly strong kick, I'd yell for The Boy. "Baby! Get in here! I saw my hand move!" Slowly, he'd shuffle over, put his hand on my belly and morosely say, "I don't feel anything. You only feel it on the outside because you feel it on the inside." He pouted. I did not necessarily agree with his logic, so I still called him whenever I thought he might be able to feel it.

Then last week at work I realized she hadn't been moving much. At all. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time she moved. I went to The Boy's softball game, and in the car on the way home I blurted out, "She's not moving and I don't know what to do." The Boy convinced me to call the after hours line at my doctor's office.

"Would you classify this as an emergency?" The receptionist said.

"I don't know; that's why I'm calling."

"Well, the only way to get a message through is to call it an emergency. I can also refer you to office hours."

We went through this sequence a few times, before I told her to call it an emergency. It was only 9 PM, but no one ever called me back.

When I laid down to go to bed, the baby gave me a courtesy kick, but just one, and just barely. In the morning, at 8:56, I called the doctor's office. Another receptionist answered the phone. "Should I classify this as an emergency? It's that or else I refer you to office hours. The office doesn't open until 9:00," she said. I figured I could wait the four minutes.

Throughout the morning various receptionists told me to eat sugar or lie down or drink a little soda to get the baby to move. My daughter is way too cool to fall for any of that, though; she could not be manipulated.

Finally my favorite, Jacquetta, called me back. "Would you like to come in, just in case?"

Thank God. The Boy and I raced to the office to wait over an hour to hear the heartbeat, which, of course, we heard immediately. The other doctor, not my usual OB, tried to reassure me, but of course I felt like an idiot. I told her I was feeling something else, like a tightening that seemed too low to be the baby. "Well, pregnancy is uncomfortable," she said. Yeah, I thought, I've been pregnant nearly six months now; I think I've picked up on that. I will try not to freak out again, at least while my child is in utero; it was pretty embarrassing. After the doctor walked out, the kid kicked like she was trying to break free.

"Maybe she was just trying to get some attention," I hypothesized. "She's probably going to be a drama queen."

"Could be," The Boy said, "only once she gets older I doubt she'll try to get attention by sitting quietly."

A couple days later, we decided to play music for the stubborn child. In the absence of headphones, we put the iPod docking station on my belly. We played Counting Crows, and even though I disagree with her, she liked Mr. Jones better than A Murder of One. She liked Jack Johnson okay. But by far, her favorite was James Taylor. We played Sweet Baby James, and she went nuts. "Was that her?" The Boy asked, eyes wide. I nodded. "It wasn't you hiccuping or something?" He couldn't believe it.

"Are you getting verklempt?" I asked him, using our euphemism for being choked up, which we've used frequently since I've been pregnant.

"No," he said, too quickly. "I've probably felt her lots of times before, I just didn't know what I was looking for." He paused and looked down, "Well, maybe a little."

I put my hand on my belly and envisioned rocking our baby in the glider I thought would be much more comfortable and singing, "Deep greens and blues are the colors I choose, won't you let me go down in my dreams, and rockabye sweet baby James." And then I got verklempt, just a little.

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.