The new year can't come soon enough

I was planning to sort of do a year in pictures today. Before miscarrage. Everything is before I lost the baby. Instead, I'm just going to point out some of the good things that happened this year. I've spent enough time and words on what has gone wrong.

Marriage. July 24, Guy and I were married by a stream in Montreat. It was perfect.

Family. My parents moved around the corner from Bro and Sil. Mom has been declared in remission. Nerves are cooling and settling down. Dad is, well, one out of two parents is still good.

Work. I quit one job, leaving my precious school in the capable hands of someone new and a great Board of Directors. I got a new piano and am enjoying growing my career as a performer and teacher.

Self. I learned what it felt like to be pregnant. I learned what it meant to love someone you hadn't even met yet more than you could possibly ever love yourself. At the same time, I learned how to love myself better because I was carrying my baby. He taught me the reason my body worked the way it did, looked the way it did, and how to enjoy every glimpse and every moment of it.

I'm trying so hard to end this year on a positive note. That would be completely dishonest though, now wouldn't it?

No matter what else has happened this year, I'm afraid I have to admit that 2006 will always be the year that I lost my baby. My first baby. The one I have waited on for close to 10 years. Please God, let 2007 be better.

Every moment of forever

It is late. I have slept so much the past two days that I find myself awake at 1:21 AM. Awake laying next to my husband. So as I lie here (totally unsure of the use of lay and lie), I can stare at him while I type this (thanks to high school typing class). And I can tell you that I married the most wonderful man in the world.

He is why I will get through this. Not because I am not strong enough on my own, but because I want to be better for him. I want to get up and be with him. Try again. Get better and move on so that I don't miss a moment of life with him.

Cheesy? Perhaps. True? Most definately.

He said that I can take as long as I need and be as sad as I feel. I will. There is no getting around that. I still feel like they sucked out my heart along with everything else 2 nights ago. I am still empty and lonely. I still cry, and I still feel like I will always miss this baby.

What I am saying though is that I don't want to stay that way. 24 hours ago, I was convinced that I did. Convinced that I wanted to remain in the sorrow and loss of my baby. It felt like the sorrow was all I had left of my baby, so that is where I planned to stay.

The more room that Guy gives me to grieve though, and the more support he shows when I need it just lets me know that it won't last forever. I will be able to move on eventually.

He said today that I will be sad forever at the loss of my baby. I just won't be sad every moment of forever.

Time for a cuddle. Sleepy Guy is calling.

Building steps

This afternoon I realized something. This is the kind of sad that doesn't go away. This is kind of devastation that could keep me in the bed for as long as I let it. That is the key. How long am I going to let it control me?

At least a little bit longer, but not 24/7.

Guy came in this afternoon, and remember, we are still in Tennessee, 11 hours from home, staying at my parents' house, and says, "I really need to get some air."

I had two choices. I could let him go alone, or I could, for him, get out of the bed and attempt to go somewhere. I chose to get out of the bed.

It wasn't easy. He helped me shower. He helped me get dressed. We decided, as the dressing occurred, that we would go to the mall and buy me some non-maternity clothes. I had packed nothing but maternity clothes for our trip, and that was one thing keeping me from getting up and getting dressed. I chose the least maternity looking clothes I had and went with it.

The funny thing is, I loved looking pregnant. I have had incredibly sorry body image for so long, and as soon as that belly popped, I couldn't stop looking in the mirror. It was amazing to me - the changes that were occurring and how beautiful they were. I loved the belly.

Now, I'm obsessed with not looking pregnant anymore. I'm talking about buying a treadmill. Eating plain baked potatoes. Eating nothing. Whatever - I just don't want to be mistaken (there's that prefix again) for a pregnant woman.

There are things that the doctor here did that I think were both medical and for my emotional stability. One of those things was the drug he gave me to shrink my uterus. I understand that it also helped the bleeding and what not, but it was a real gift to stand in front of the mirror this afternoon and not look pregnant anymore. Side note: the doctor who didn't know me from adam took the most amazing and precious care of me. If you find yourself in Jackson and in need of a doctor, you should so email me right now.

The crazy part is, we did buy some new jeans. They are a freaking size 16, but we bought some new jeans. I cannot believe I just admitted that. Back to the crazy part though - I was still happy with the way I looked in the mirror. A gift from my baby. Decent body image. Am I reaching for a positive? Maybe.

It's going to take a hell of a lot of them to climb out of this hole though. One tiny positive at a time.

Totally not moving on

Miscarriage. It is a word that implies that you did something wrong. If you think about it, all the other "mis" words are words that you could avoid. Misspell. Misstep. Mistake. Things that you do that you could have prevented. Miscarriage. What a cruel word.

I am told there is nothing I could have done. While I logically believe that, I have spent today wondering how I could have not known that my baby had died. How did I walk around for 3 weeks, talking to him, playing the piano for him, feeding him at least a milkshake every 2 days, and not have known that he was gone? I believe that there was nothing I could have done to save him, but couldn't I have at least know he was gone?

It is so lonely without him. I had gotten so used to it being, "me and the baby." Now, it is just me again. Guy is here for me, but we have reached that phase though when he is ready to be up and doing things to get his mind off of it, and I am still lying in this bed sucking down the Percoset as often as allowed. He is busy repairing whatever he can find to repair in my parents' home.

I went back to the Babycenter Boards today. I had to go to the site to ask them not to send me anymore emails about my baby. Not surprisingly I suppose, the thread started for women who misscarried babies due in July 2007 is full of women more my own age, more like me. A lot of them were first time moms in their 30's with older husbands. That was strange. I had a pregnancy ticker on my signature. In fact, I had it on my sidebar here too. It is gone. I sobbed when I deleted it.

In fact, I sob a lot. Not just cry. Flat out gasping for air sobbing. I sob when I wake up from a nap and remember all over again that I'm not pregnant anymore. I sob when I can't force the image of little Cleatus just hanging there on the ultrasound screen with no heartbeat. I sob when I go to the bathroom and there is still blood. I have sobbed so much that the Percoset doesn't even touch the headache I've created for myself.

You see, I wish there had been something I had done. If there was, then I could prevent it for the next time. I could fix it and make it not happen again. Instead, I have to just try again and be terrified that whatever I couldn't prevent from happening to my baby this time will happen to the the next one.

The rest of it

I lay strapped down in the OR like I was on a crucifix. Both arms extended, I was left to soak myself in the tears I couldn't reach to wipe away. My terrible vision left everyone looking exactly alike in their green scrubs and caps. They would flutter in front of me, introducing themselves, telling me what their role was. I just wanted someone to dry my face.

Guy walked down to the OR with me so that I could wear my glasses as long as possible. I hate not being able to see. As soon as he left me, the tears came and wouldn't stop.

I knew my baby was dead, but I didn't want them to take him. I didn't want to stop being pregnant with him.

The lights above me were big and looked like flowers through my nearsightedness. They were purple and green and I was trying to focus on them and ignore all else.

The anesthesiologist (I think) leaned over and said something about that I appeared to be healthy except for the smoking. I squinted at him and said, "What?". He was confused I guess and asked if I smoked. I said no and he said, "Then you are in good health." I replied in my best smart ass while practically drowning in my own tears, "Right. Good health except for the baby losing and all. Thanks."

It is probably wise not to smart off to the man in charge of putting you to sleep and waking you up, but I couldn't help being pissed because that same man couldn't seem to read my chart properly and messed up the focusing I was trying to do.

They put me out rather quickly after that, and the next thing I remember is a new voice asking me if I'm alright. The only thing I could say was, "Where is my husband?" Apparently I was pretty adamant about it, because they let him into recovery with me against the rules. I think though, that it was also very late at night.

Guy stood next to me and fed me ice chips. My throat was dry and hurt from the tube that was in it during the surgery. He rubbed my head and talked to me, but I don't remember what he said.

In the room, I slept. Guy slept on the chair that turns into a slab. Kim took care of me all night as though she were an angel. I don't know how nurses are as kind and open as she was and yet are able to work their way through so many different patients every shift. It has to be draining.

I woke up around 3:30 and needed to go home. The tears started again, and I couldn't stop them. After a successful trip to the bathroom, Guy helped me into my maternity clothes and we left. There were prescriptions to fill, and I had to buy pads. I haven't bought pads in years.

We stood in the aisle of Walgreens, staring at pads and wondering which ones to get until a stock girl rolled a cart of pregnancy tests behind us to restock the shelves. Tears again, grab any pads, and head home.

I have never in my life wished so badly for something to not have happened. If there is any possible way to go back and make this not happen, to have my baby back, just please, let it be. I've turned to the typing today. Trying to work this thing out. Trying to find the pain and then find a way for the pain to stop.

I am now open to suggestions because nothing I am doing is working.

Finding out

It was just a precaution. Sil called her OB yesterday to see if they could work me in just to check things out. The spotting had gone on for about 24 hours, but I wasn't concerned. I had spotted after the doctor's visit and a few times after sex. Standing in the kitchen though, I became quickly aware that it was more than just spotting.

Still, I was thinking positively. Guy and I drove to the clinic and talked about how this was just a little nerve rattling scare. I told him, and believed with all my heart, that everything was going to be fine. I was not going to lose our baby.

The tech tried an abdominal ultrasound first. She said that she couldn't see what she needed to see from there. My palms started to sweat and Guy held my hand a little tighter. The vaginal ultrasound was confusing to me at first. Cleatus was bigger, and I thought he was moving, but later realized that it was the tech moving the instrument, not my little guy moving. The tech went to measure him and it came up on the screen as "9 weeks, 2 days."

That is when I turned my head away and started to sob.

She went to get the doctor. I asked him to try again. Please look again. Please try once more to find my baby's heartbeat. We looked again, and there was nothing.

I don't really remember from there. We moved from office to office filling out paperwork for the D&C. I was there and people were talking to me, but I wasn't there.

On the way out of the clinic, we passed by the pregnant woman who had been sitting across from me in the waiting room. She was smiling and saying goodbye. I didn't mean to look at her, and I'm sure she wished she hadn't looked at me. I know that look. It's like seeing the people coming from the back of the vet's office holding just a leash, an empty collar, and a used Kleenex. I pull my own leash in and lean down to whisper in my own pup's ear as they go by.

She looked at me as I walked by clutching Guy's arm and ignoring the tears streaming down my face, and she took a step back. She took a step back into the safety of her own pregnancy and away from the, "Thank God that isn't me."

I would have done the same thing in her shoes. I would have done anything to be in her shoes.

12 weeks

At 12 weeks yesterday, I gave in and bought baby clothes. Sil and I were at Old Navy and she helped me pick out the most precious "Baby's First Christmas" onesie and a pile of other gender neutral clothes. Mostly gender neutral. I threw in a onesie with a bulldog on it because a) I just knew my baby was a boy and b) It was possible to put pink pants with it and thereby qualified as either or to me.

We left Old Navy, picked up 36 Krystal burgers for the crew, and headed back to Sil's house. We had gotten new pj's and matching shirts for Lovely and my little Clone niece, and a pile of 50% Christmas randomness to show off and gloat about their cheapness. However, as I was standing in the kitchen serving drinks to the kids, I felt blood began to run down my leg.

Eighteen hours later, I am in my parents guestroom, being not pregnant.

Cleatus died at 9 weeks, 2 days according to the ultrasound. That was the day of the concert - the first day I needed maternity clothes. The D&C was last night here in Jackson. He was with me exactly 12 weeks. 12 weeks and you are supposed to be so much safer. Less risk. Everything is supposed to be alright.

They gave me plenty of prescriptions for pain, but none of them can touch where it really hurts.

On the subject of miracles

Believing in miracles is something that I don't do. Miracles happened in the Bible to tell stories. Stories were told in the Bible to teach us something and connect us under a common faith. There was a scientific reason the water turned to wine, or it was just a story. I didn't care which, because my faith has never been based on a literal interpretation of the Bible.

Someone recently commented on my spirituality or lack thereof. It is interesting to me that anyone feels they can judge how spiritual another person is or is not. To me, spirituality is a personal thing. Someone can comment on how unreligious I have become, but they have no idea about my spirituality.

It is all in the definitions of the words. I realized that when I started thinking about my momma and the miracle we seem to have been given. What I realized was that I had been defining the word much too narrowly. If I take a step back and look at a miracle as being given something that you didn't expect and didn't deserve, then my life becomes riddled with miracles.

My momma was not supposed to go into remission. Two months ago, she lay in a hospital bed, being sustained by a life support system, ovarian cancer taking over the spaces in her abdomen where she used to have ovaries and a uterus. Today, she is at home, taking care of herself and my father. She has been declared in remission. No cancer. Maybe next time, but right now, there is no cancer.

Maybe there is an explanation. Maybe there was something in their home in California that acted as a toxin. Maybe it took this long for the chemo to work. Maybe she ate some magic beans. I don't really care. I'm accepting that while there is most likely a medical explanation for what has happened, we will never know it, and I should accept that it is a miracle. It is something we didn't expect and didn't deserve. It is a gift.

As I sit in my music room, blogging here, there is another miracle. Lovely is sitting at our piano, playing her little heart out. "Jingle Bells" and other Christmas tunes are ringing out, along with her running commentary on whatever wrong notes she might hit. Having her for a stepdaughter is something I never expected and did nothing to deserve. She is a gift.

Most of the people in my life right now are miracles by my new definition. Guy of course. The timing of our finding each other had to have been a miracle. Loving his family like I do - miracle.

Boo and Pilot, miracles. Having them in our lives has been nothing short of one. She got me the gig with Dude, has been the best friend I've made in this town, and most amazingly, she has stood by me with unfailing loyalty. It's nothing I expected or deserved.

My students, all miracles. I have had so many changes and moves in my life the past couple of years, and they are still with me. It's certainly nothing I expected or deserved, so I deem them miracles as well. Their playing and determination is miraculous too, and I'm not just saying that for the brave one who reads these thoughts although she is definately one of the miracles in my life.

Finally, how on earth could I make it through this pregnancy without believing in miracles? Everytime I read an update on the changes in this baby from week to week, I am in awe of what is going on inside me. I am also completely freaked out by how very little control I have over it. Sure, there are medical explanations, and women have been having babies forever, but this is my miracle. Something I didn't expect. Something I didn't earn. Something I wanted so badly. Something I'm sharing with the other biggest miracle in my life, Guy.

But the biggest miracle of all is that my momma might actually get to know this grandchild after all. There is no better time than Christmas to be reminded of what you believe, why you believe it, and how faith never really dies.

More preggo brain

After my true confessions on how my hormones affected our Thanksgiving dinner and the cooking thereof, I thought that I would get a handle on my flakiness. Au contraire.

Since then, I have continued to do things which deserve admission to absolution from the blogging community.

You know how granola bars come in packs of 2? And sometimes you might only eat 1 and then wrap the other one up for later? That's what I did. I saved one. Then, when I was packing Guy's lunch one day last week, I thought that the 1 granola bar would make a good morning snack. It might have, if he hadn't opened it up to discover that I had already taken a bite out of it. The ensuing phone call of, "Why are you eating parts of my lunch and then packing them? Are we really that poor?" was rather humiliating, and yet I found myself laughing until I almost wet my pants.

You know how sometimes your new clothes come with stickers on them that tell what size they are? And sometimes you are so excited about a piece of new clothing that you want to wear it even before you wash it? That's what I did. I got some new maternity jeans (and no, I'm not having twins) that were so cozy and cute that I brought them right home, cut off the tag, and wore them to Costco. Then, as if I needed to advertise because people couldn't just tell by looking, I left the giant sticker running from my butt down to the middle of my thigh that said:
"Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande Large Grande." Beautiful. I was so proud.

Next I'm going to have my pj bottoms embroidered "Wide Load" across the back and forget to change out of them before leaving the house.

Things everyone should know about my Bro

Since my Bro might joining us around here, I thought there were some things that you all needed to know.

My Bro taught me to fear the toilet monster. If you didn't make it out of the bathroom before the toilet gurgled, the toilet monster would grab you and take you back down. The noise of a toilet flushing haunted me for years. I occasionally still shudder at that gurgle.

My Bro taught me that Talladega was a bad word. As in, "Mommmmmm! He called me a talladega!"

My Bro used me for slumber party entertainment. There was the old putting my hand in warm water to make me wet the bed. There was the filling my hand with toothpaste and then tickling my nose. He taught me to always lock my door at night when he had company.

After all the torture though, if there is one person in my family that I know I can count on, it's Bro. When my parents made what seemed to us to be a absurdly random move to California 7 years ago, Bro and I made a pact to always spend Christmas and Thanksgiving together. That was of course, 2 kids ago for him and it hasn't always worked, but hey, we made a pact, and we've done the best we could at keeping it.

This year, the day after Christmas, we are loading up the car and heading to Tennessee. Guy hates to travel at the holidays. He might think I've forgotten this little piece of information, but I haven't. He didn't bat an eye when I said that I would really like to spend time with my family at Christmas.

Now that he has met my Bro in person, he totally gets it.

Dirty rotten dog

This is a bad bad bad dirty dog. She tries to hide it by being beautiful. She is a princess. She will even try to con sympathy out of you for her bum eye. Don't let her fool you. Besides, that bum eye was a gift from some vet friends of mine. Any other vet would have just sewn the socket shut. Instead, this spoiled dog got a fancy silicon implant so that she would still be a gorgeous setter. She is rotten.

Princess Dirty Dog is a counter surfer. She likes to go in the kitchen, put her paws up on the counter and see what yummy treat I have stupidly left out for her to eat. Sunday night, she really did me in.

We had company coming for dessert. Not just any company, mind you, but the vet friends. The very same vet friends who gave Princess Dirty Dog her new eye. I made a pie. Not just any pie, but Guy's favorite Black Bottom Banana Cream Pie. The very same pie that I messed up at Thanksgiving. This time I didn't mess up. It was perfect and beautiful.

I set the pie out on the counter, and waited a couple of minutes by the front door since our house numbers don't show up in the dark. As I let in our guests, Guy started yelling in the kitchen, "You've got to be kidding me! Bad dog!"

Princess Dirty Dog had eaten the pie.

Had I not been bawling my eyes out, I would have thought to take a picture of that pie. Instead, I had to settle for a picture of her the next day with more crap on her nose that she got there by counter surfing. Damn dog.

Still though, somehow she worms her way back into our good graces. I don't know how, but she does. She ate Guy's favorite pie and still there is this:

Bells, whistles, and other Christmas miracles

Mom didn't call after all. I did talk to my Bro. I told him to tell Momma to just call me tomorrow. The thing is, I knew that she would be giddy with excitement, and I just wasn't there yet. That probably sounds crazy.

Her cat scan showed no evidence of cancer. None. Nada. Not one speck. They had also redone her ca125 just to make sure and it had dropped another 10 points down to 14.

They have declared my mother cancer free again. Remission. Her next appointment isn't until March.

Any normal daughter would be falling all over themselves with delight. I still sit skeptical. So much of the news we have gotten from doctors over the past almost 4 years has been bad. I'm waiting for that proverbial other shoe.

Waiting.

Whymommy pointed out to me last night though that whether I believe in miracles or not, that the information we got yesterday was indeed good news and I just had to accept it at that.

She is so right. As usual.

I will call my momma today and be happy for her. Better yet, I'll call her today and be happy with her.

Text message

From my brother at 1:32 PM:

"Cancer is apparently gone. No details yet. Mom will call."

Curtain call

Saturday was a big day. The group I play with performed with a 200 voice choir in the symphony hall here in the lovely capital city. We have played on that stage before, and we have played on TV before, but never on that stage on TV. Plus, we were playing mostly brand new material. It was a little stressful.

Full dress rehearsal started around 10:00 that morning. Wouldn't you know that as I was drying my hair that morning, I looked in the mirror and saw, oh my word - my bump. Cleatus determined that the very day I was already going to be in front of the 10 pound adding camera, he wants to make an appearance as well. Luckily, my organza pants had an elastic waist. The sweater though - well, the sweater was shorter in the front than in the back. I guess that in itself isn't so new. My boobs are ginormous. However, Guy proclaimed (proudly, I might add) at the end of the night,

"You so looked pregnant up there on stage."

That's so cool. Of course, to some people I might just look chunky. I have no control over that. I did think ahead enough to get a manicure and stop by Kerry Catherine and get my rings cleaned. They always do a close up of the pianist's hands. I wanted those puppies to sparkle. Make Guy proud. He said that the camera was swooping in at me, so I hope that they got that shot.

Overall, I think the evening went pretty well. We held everything together, and Dude has an amazing way with a crowd, no matter what the setting. I don't know if it is his day job that gives him that - he is a morning news anchor - or if it is his personality. He just makes everyone feel at ease. He is a pleasure to play with.

The coolest part of the evening though was having my family in the audience. I could even see the from the stage. You can only see about 10 rows back because of the lights. But there they were, Guy, Guy's dad, and Lovely. There they were, smiling at me, and it was awesome.

That's whatssup, Doc

Today Guy and I went to the doctor. I have a great doctor. She is really cool and rolls with the punches extremely well. Plus, she got Blue Cross Blue Shield to start paying for my mammograms when I turned 30 even though my mother hadn't had the gene test yet. Soft spoken, but carries a big stick I like to think.

When she walked in she said, "Well you've been busy."

I guess in her time, I have. One year I go to see her and tell her that my husband and I are going to adopt. The next year I tell her that I've given up on that and I would like to go to a fertility specialist and talk about sperm donors. The next year I tell her I'm getting a divorce.

Now, I sit before her, gown open to the front, sheet over the legs, smiling, laughing, and holding Guy's hand. She has never seen me smile much.

And I'm pregnant. She is my doctor, and I can tell that she is genuinely happy for me.

That is pretty cool.

She moved my due date back to July 12 again and said that everything looked great.

Oh me of little faith

I'm so ready for answers. There has been limbo in my life for so long now that I should be used to it, but I never get there.

Guy's job is in limbo. He does an amazing job of keeping me calm while keeping me honestly informed. We are not scared that he will be unemployed, we just don't know how and where he will be employed. His company has reorganized his department, and we are waiting to see how the positions shake down. Or, we move to Connecticut. It's cold there and people will think I talk funny. Because I guess to them, I would.

My parents are in limbo. Even though they have made the move to Tennessee, they are still not settled. Daddy doesn't have a neurologist yet, and he gets worse every day. Momma, on the other hand, has seen her new oncologist and went today for her first chemo treatment since she got sick in September and spent 9 days in October on life support.

Here is the kicker. Somehow, from the time she saw her oncologist in California until the blood work done in Tennessee last week, her ca125 levels dropped back into the "no cancer" zone. They didn't give her any chemo today because without more tests, they have to assume that she doesn't have cancer present right now.

Lab error? Probably.

Miracle? Probably what my folks are saying.

Am I a terrible person that I don't believe that it is possible for her cancer to just shrink itself and go away? I want to believe it. Really, I do. The reality is though, that a lab error is much more plausible and the time that they spend celebrating the miracles could be time that she could be being treated.

You would think that I could just give some good news about my folks and be happy about it. Maybe someday, but I doubt it.

Meanwhile, I could tell the stories about my Daddy peeing all over the bed and then peeing all over my sister-in-law as she tried to help him clean up. I could tell the one where he got so confused one night that he tried to throw a punch at my brother and then told him in his best Vietnam War voice, "You're gonna regret this day for the rest of your life."

Or I could tell the story about how my youngest niece has attached herself to him and claimed him as her very own PawPaw. That would be the best story I guess.

In December, they will meet their new granddaughter. Lovely is looking forward to it. She is excited to have more grandparents, which I think speaks volumes for the ones she already has. They are excited to meet her too. Momma has asked for a Christmas list, and Lovely is the kind of child that hasn't really asked for much, so I might have to ask her to think up some more things. I find that funny and refreshing all at the same time.

I don't want for any of the children to get their hopes up. We have had these conversations with Lovely and I know my Bro and Sil have had them with their children as well. MawMaw and PawPaw (I really hate those names) are sick. They are fragile. We have to take care of them. One day, maybe soon, we won't have them anymore. The children have had to adjust to this just like we have. Lovely will not get to know her new grandparents very well before they are gone.

Or who am I to say? It's Christmas time. If we are ever going to get a miracle, shouldn't it be at Christmas time? Oh me of little faith.

I'm laughing now, really

I'm making lists. There are lists of things we will need for the nursery. There are lists of things that I need to do to get my freaking house on the freaking market. There are lists of baby names. Tonight, I give you the list of things that made me cry this week.

1. The ultrasound and tiny heartbeat.
2. Guy carrying my pee through the doctor's office.
3. The news story about abused dogs (that one isn't new though).
4. Pupstar crawling not just into my lap but on top of my computer just to be that much closer.
5. Grey's Anatomy.
6. Another news story about a mom and her two babies found dead in their car in the carport (okay, that one really is quite sad and okay to cry about).
7. The fact that I didn't have the yogurt required to make my smoothie.
8. Lovely leaving Thursday morning and not coming back for another week.
9. Not being able to button my favorite jeans anymore.
10. The Amy Grant Christmas album. I was embarrassed for myself as that happened.
11. Taking a family picture for the Christmas card.
12. Turning on the lights on the Christmas tree.
13. More than one blogger and their insights on motherhood, labor and delivery
(and yes, I read every word), and losing their dog for the night.
14. Pulling into the parking lot of our very own brand spanking new Trader Joe's.
15. The giant hug and smack on the cheek when I told the Dude I play music with that I couldn't gig in July because Cleatus the fetus should be appearing as real live baby then.
16. My mother's voice over the phone. I don't even know what she was saying.
17. The picture of my grandfather from his college days. I was hanging it in my studio.
18. The pet of the day on the noon news.
19. Twiggy singing "In My Life" on the Muppet Show with a background montage of her modeling photos. I'm not even kidding.
20. The card that one of my best friends sent on the day that Guy and I were supposed to have our family wedding. It was this past Saturday. Needless to say, my parents are too sick to come, my brother is stuck taking care of them, and I'm pretty sure I couldn't have squoze into my wedding dress at this point anyway. Thank God we eloped when we did.

On the upside, Guy bought me some new boots tonight from my most favorite shoe store. They are quite fabulous and have no heel. We are getting concerned that I'm going to send my pregnant kapooshy flat on the ground if I continue to wear my standard 3-4 inch heeled boots all the time. I am a girl who must have boots though. Don't you think they are fabulous?