Busted

I like to pee on a stick. For those of you not up on your trying to conceive (ttc) lingo, that is "poas."

I can't help it. I want to start peeing on that stick as early as possible. My smart Sil says that I should wait until 12 days dpo (days past ovulation), but hey. I have little room for joy, and I take it.

So, when Guy says, "Why did we win 50 million pregnancy tests on eBay?", all I can do is run into the other room and giggle.

They were so freaking cheap.

Pregnancy tests and ovulation detectors. I get to pee on lots of sticks.

Pee party at my house. Let's go.

One step forward . . .

I did go to therapy. I'm hesitant to write about it, because I still think the most time efficient thing to happen is to just send her here, have her read, and then wave a magic wand to cure me.

Maybe I should just have business cards made:

"Think you want to listen to me? Go to "Don't Take the Repeats" and have a sample first. Judge for yourself, and then get back to me."

I will say that she is the skinniest woman I have ever seen in person. The kind of skinny you don't envy and wonder if she is alright. I mean, I would hate to get attached to a therapist who might kick off next week from some illness or malnutrition.

See, that is the wine typing. I shouldn't say that. But I have a dedication to the "non-edit." Leave the words where they fall. Propriety be damned. If I do give her this link, I reserve the right to delete these two paragraphs immediately.

Tonight I emailed Babes in Blogland and asked them to add me to the TTC list. I didn't want to be on the TTC list. I wanted to be on the Expecting in November list. However, in all honesty, I'm on the TTC list. I have had a "normal" period. Now I have had my round of "BFN's." So I'm officially TTC.

Trying to conceive.

For those of you that don't have to look me in the eye, that means:

Guy and I do it like rabbits. We chart my temps. We look at my cervical fluid. We try to time the vast number of moments when we want to jump each other into the "fertile window."

Can I just say that calling it the "fertile window" in itself throws a damper on things???

Bowm, chicka mawh mawh, wanna jump through the fertile window? I'll suck in my gut for you!

Trying to conceive.

Yippee.

But, since I have not sent a proper note, I have to take the time to thank the Babes in Blogland folks. Most of you happened over this way because they let you know about my miscarriage. They let you knowI needed you at a time when I still didn't even understand much about the blogosphere. I was just typing my raw pain into the computer and hitting "publish".

The people they sent this way completely saved me. You know who you are. And just in case you don't, Jen, you are the first to come "out of the blue" and throw me a line. I love you for that, and I will never forget it. Thank you. TTC. That's us. Let's ride it out together.

Measuring pain

Today has been an odd cyberspace day. Someone I really liked bowed out of a BabyCenter board that I was dipping my toe back into. I took a chance and emailed, and I'm glad I did. She and I have such similar timelines with a first pregnancy and then miscarriage. I just felt like I knew what she was thinking before she spoke. Do you know?

So I send her the link to Amy's blog. Because you know it helps to read. It helps to know you are not alone.

When I pulled up Amy's blog, I found this entry. Then I followed it to this entry that refers to this entry. Which then totally screwed up my Bloglines love for the day. Anyway, it turns out that two of my favorite bloggers have been having a little dialogue about something that I have been thinking about without even realizing it.

To totally trivialize it: Is my pain greater than your pain, and if so, does that mean I win?

Where the miscarriage is concerned, I have been on both sides of this self-destructive game. I didn't miscarry until 12 weeks, so I have had the passing thought that I was more attached to my baby than women who miscarried at5 weeks. Then again, one of my dearest friends' first child was stillborn on the day he was due, so she should be more sad than me. These thoughts are completely disruptive and I found myself realizing that we are all women who are facing enormous amounts of grief. Enormous. All of us.

What is this, measuring grief against each other?

I hurt. I hurt like hell. Every damn day I wake up and wonder how I'm going to go through the details without breaking down. I wonder if I'm going to make it through a shower. Am I going to put on real clothes? What about makeup? It hurts to even go through the motions.

And am I going to measure that against someone else's grief?

Not anymore.

I did though. I did measure my grief. But not only where my miscarriage was concerned. Everytime I heard about another lost child, I cried. It didn't matter to me how far along the woman was, or if they had kids already, I bawled. Because I knew how I felt, and I didn't want anyone else to ever feel that kind of pain.

Plus, and I hope it is okay to say this finally, my Sil, my sweet wonderful Sil, lost her baby right before mine. We were to be due right about the same time. The only difference is that she has four children already. Does that mean that I miss this little niece or nephew any less? Not on your life. I cry for the little one that I will never meet. I cry for the pregnancies that we won't share together. I cry for the cousins that won't grow up at the same time. No kids. Four kids. We hurt the same. Sil and I.

I am more guilty about measuring pain where my parents are concerned.

I have a friend who is in her early 50's. Her parents are old and sick. Her father is in his late 80's or early 90's and has Alzheimer's. She will frequently lament over his health and how awful the disease is. She is dramatic. I complain about her.

My friend. I complain. Because I am in my mid 30's and my father has Alzheimer's. Doesn't she realize how unfair that is? Doesn't she realize that she has had so much more time with her father than I have? Doesn't she realize that she doesn't have the right to tell me how sad she is?

Whoa.

That is just wrong.

And I have thought it over and over.

She has every right to miss her daddy just as much as I miss mine. I am a selfish bitch for ever thinking otherwise.

The thing is this: PAIN IS PAIN. We all feel pain. Every reason that we feel it is unique. We feel what we feel due to our own life's circumstances. Start comparing them to other people and you just end up kicking yourself.

Bless Amy's heart. She typed out what I have thought in my head. And bless KD's heart, she also typed what I have thought in my head. I love them both. I have cried for them both.

We all hurt.

Isn't that why most of you are reading?

It is certainly why I'm still writing. The pain doesn't go away. It just works itself into my life as I find ways to adjust to it.

It's funny. I sometimes wonder when the pain will drive you all away. Today, I realize that it is the pain that draws most of us together.

We all hurt.

It feels better to hurt together though. For whatever reasons that we hurt. Whatever reasons.

Happy buttday to me

Today is an up day. I wasn't ready for this day, so in the shower this morning it was definitely not an up day, but I think it is turning into one. There were things I wanted to have done before this birthday. I am learning a lot about control, and the lack thereof.

My kiddos had their first competition of the season, and they kicked butt. I love it when they do that.

It is so incredibly cool to watch a student go from "I can't play this," to "Well, maybe I can play this part," to "Oh my gosh I love to play this piece." It is tons of fun.

Then, to have them go to a competition and be validated for all the work they have done - it is a great feeling. I can tell them how awesome they are all day long, but hearing it from a judge, well that is so very different.

On another note (no pun intended) . .

So 34 years ago on this day, my poor mother gave birth to me. I was butt first and folded in half. It was a vaginal delivery. Oh.my.god.

When she met Guy, she told him that I came out butt first and that is the way I have faced the world ever since.

I think she was kidding.

And then there's today

Welcome to the place where I feel extremely sorry for myself. You don't have to stay long. Just go on without me, because I'm thinking I'm going to sit here for quite some time.

Yesterday I would have been 20 weeks pregnant.

Today I am going to therapy.

Today I also started my period. A day early. No need to pee on that stick tomorrow morning. At least now I can get totally hammered for my birthday if I see fit.

Do my blog buddies know me well enough yet to see the veil of masking things with inappropriate humor? It's a treasured trait of mine. People love it. It's endearing.

Now I have to go dry my hair and try to squeeze my fat ass into some article of clothing so that I can go meet some of Guy's friends from his old job. For the first time. And have them wonder why on earth he married a fat chick. It's a good thing I did nothing to lose the weight I've gained. Lord knows I need one more thing to whine about.

Pity party at my house. Tonight. Anyone want to come?

Extraordinarily grateful

I am really about to blog about a TV show. I can't believe it.

Thank God they didn't kill her off. I mean the show is named after her, so I knew she wasn't going completely away, but I could totally see them making her a permanent narrator. And if it meant that he and his heart would be back on as a regular character, then I could be happy with that. Besides, Mr. Lifetime-TV-Movie is so good at the grief filled lover, that could work. It would definitely be gutsy TV.

I am so very glad they didn't do that. I don't watch that show for gutsy TV. I watch shows about firefighters who see dead people for gutsy TV. When they killed his son, I almost vowed never to watch again. And you can kill a title character if your show is supernatural and she is a vampire slayer. That is alright. Painful, but alright. Tonight, I really didn't want them killing off my favorite dark & twisty.

Thank you. Thank you for being ordinary. I love this ordinary ending.

Yesterday

7:00 AM Wake up. Take temp. Memorize temp. Roll back over and cuddle.

7:20 AM Pee on a stick.

7:30 AM Give up on staring at the stick.

7:35 AM Return to bathroom and hold stick up to the light.

7:45 AM Toss stupid stick into the trashcan where it belongs. Get on computer and pout.

8:20 AM Remember that I have yoga class. Get up and get dressed. Go to class.

9:00 AM Start class.

9:10 AM Leave class because crying in down dog is embarassing and uncomfortable.

9:15 AM Return to class with tears under control.

10:30 AM Leave very ineffective yoga class. Yoga is hard when you are busy being tough.

10:45 AM Go to my old house. Check mail. Empty fridge. Gag at old chicken broth.

11:00 AM Return home.

11:15 AM Report to Guy that the stick is still negative.

11:16 AM Be disappointed in the fact that I can't even get an evaporation line.

11:17 AM Get butt slapped by Guy for being a ridiculous ninny.

Need I go on?

Rach and Roll

I'm not so rock 'n' roll anymore. My days are filled with this:




That is certainly not a complaint. This is just a smidgen of Rachmaninoff from one of my seniors. I'm going to miss him next year. This is the version where he isn't swearing after a mistake. That did crack me up though. You know they're cozy when the pottymouth slips out in a lesson.

Teaching is something I never thought I would do. Getting to know people like this student make me so thankful I was wrong.

Forty years

This past Sunday was my parents' 40th wedding anniversary.

Forty years ago, on a Monday, my father asked my mother to marry him. She said yes, and that Saturday they tied the knot. He was on his way to Vietnam.

Their wedding album does not betray the rush job of the ceremony. It looks like the event had been planned for months. My mother's mother, Honey, was a brilliant seamstress. In five days, she made my mother's wedding dress and three bridesmaids' dresses. For a wedding in Mississippi. She was in Arkansas.

There were flowers. Cake. Guests. A preacher. There were wedding announcements instead of invitations, but the church was full nonetheless.

After the wedding, they loaded all of their belongings and went to Oklahoma for my dad's brief bit of training before leaving for Vietnam. When he left for the war, my mother moved in with her new in-laws.

Every night, she and my grandfather would stay up and watch the nightly news. Every night they would pray together that there was no news.

Then there was the one night where there was news.

Momma only knew bits of information about Daddy when he was in Vietnam. Never where he was, but always the name of the operation. That night, on the news, they reported that the unit on operation-one-my-dad-was-on had been ambushed and there were no survivors. She and Granddaddy sat in silence until he took her hand, looked at her, and said, "You wouldn't hear it on the news first. The Army would have sent someone. They always send someone first."

No one slept.

At 3:00 AM, the phone rang. It was Daddy. He had been left behind in the camp to make whatever plans an artillery captain makes and man the radio. He was alive and the only survivor in his unit.

Shortly thereafter, my daddy took the LSAT in Saigon with a pistol strapped to his hip. He entered law school and got the hell out of Vietnam and the hell out of the army. He and Momma moved to Oxford, Mississippi, and my Bro was born about a year later.

For forty years, Momma and Daddy have loved each other enough to weather all kinds of storms. They loved each other through raising two oh so wonderful, but yet incredibly trying children (that would be moi and Bro). He has loved her through three battles with cancer. She has loved him even as she watches pieces of him slip away into Alzheimer's.

They make me want to have a successful marriage. They want me to have a successful marriage. They love Guy and love how good we are together. They see some of themselves I hope. Because if they do, we are going to a-ok.

Happy Anniversary, y'all. I love you.

Obsession

Since this seems to be the place where I tell all, complete honesty, warts and all, here goes. I peed on a stick this morning. I was supposed to wait until Saturday, but the box came with a free one, so I thought, "What the hell?"

It was negative.

I have been charting and temping and graphing and all the things I'm supposed to, so I knew it was too early. However, my moods have been totally like they were in October. Snarky. I couldn't find that on the list of options on Fertility Friend though. So I just entered "bad."

So here is the chart. And those of you who have to see me face to face, I apologize for this being entirely too much information.

We are still above the coverline, so that is good. I had to take my temp about 90 minutes early though because Lovely was here. She has to leave for school way early and there are breakfasts and lunches to be made.

There are several "symptoms" that make me hopeful for a positive test, but then there is the nagging, "you are just working yourself up for a fall," too.

Last night I had incredibly weird dreams that were really vivid. That hasn't happened since pregnancy.

I'm tired. But that could just be from my lovely mood.

We'll see. Saturday will come soon enough. (HA!)

Saturday I will be 34.

Saturday I hope to have another chance.

One of those

It's one of those days. The days where you feel like pretty much everyone is against you. The days when you feel like nothing you do matters in the grand scheme of things. The days when you just keep doing because you can't figure out a plan B.

I went to bed early last night because I couldn't figure out a plan B. On my nightstand was the book that my OB gave me when I went in for my follow up visit. It is called Miscarriage: A Shattered Promise. When I look at the title, all I can do is hear it in my head as read by the movie man's voice followed by the big don don don of the brass. I mean, who named that book? Really?

Not feeling like starting another novel, I decided to read Miscarriage miscarriage miscarriage don don don. Why not, I thought. I might learn something.

I learned plenty. Plenty that I wish I had known the day before I had a miscarriage. I learned that you can request the remains and have them buried. I learned that you can view them. I learned that you have all of these choices that I didn't get. Then I thought, "Would that have changed anything?"

Do I really think that we would have kept the remains of our unborn child and had a memorial service? Do I really think that my mother would have passed that opportunity to tell me that I really had lost my mind?

The thing is, when do you learn these things? Should your doctor give you this book when you first get pregnant and say, "There is a 20% chance you might lose this baby in the first trimester. Here is a book to prepare you for that possibility"? Can you imagine the fear that would invoke in expectant mothers?

I can't.

Although I wish my doctor had.

I wish that I had known there was that high of a risk that our baby might die for absolutely no known reason.

I wish I had known that I should have requested genetic testing and whatever other tests were possible and that the insurance would have covered it. Instead we are left with questions instead of even ruling out answers.

I wish I had known that I could have asked to see him.

That is my only regret, and I have hesitated posting it because I had the sense that it was completely weird of me to have wanted to see him. He wasn't any bigger than a lime, and I know that to some people, hell, maybe a lot of people, it is weird and even gross to think about. But I don't really care. It would have been really nice to have seen our child, hold him, and been able to say goodbye.

Snarky snark snark

I've been snarky all weekend.

We went to the mountains for a gig in the Dude's hometown. It was nice. The venue was nice. The soundpeople (yes, it was a coed sound crew!) were nice. The dinner afterwards was really nice. The only thing that wasn't nice was me.

I wasn't necessarily mean, I was just snarky.

The sound guy had the monitor popping in my ear repeatedly. So I snarked.

snark: v. To snap at someone for something that is possibly justifiable but then immediately make a joke out of the snapping thereby avoiding actual bitchiness by a mere eighth of an inch.

The gigs are about to slow down, so I should enjoy them while I can. And I do. I was just tired I think.

The construction in the house is starting to get to me. It is pointless to clean because as I clean, the boys are right behind me covering things in sawdust and sheetrock dust. If I try to cook, I have to clean every counter space right before I use it and shield anything on the stove from the dust that occasionally falls down from the holes in the floors upstairs. Because there is no ceiling. So last week, I start working on the half-bath because I can't really help them with their project. It is a cosmetic job mostly, but still Guy gets irritated with me for "creating more work."

What else am I going to do? Sit around all day and blog?

You might be seeing a lot of me, people.

From the sneaky blogger

"You haven't posted anything today?"

This is not a question I expected to hear from my sweet Schoompie. I thought the blogging was foreign and somewhat odd in his eyes. And yet, here he sits, disappointed that I hadn't posted today.

"When?" I asked. "When was I going to post?"

"You sneak posts all the time."

That's me. The sneaky blogger. Mwahahahaha.

So all we get today are pictures from the camera that I never use on my little viao.

Yum.

Feel free to tell us we are annoying and disgusting. And if you know Jenny, tell her that FutureMe says, "The honeymoon still isn't over, but thanks for the oh so friendly warning."

V-Day, D-Day

From the folks over at TheGoodBlogs, comes the inspiration to tell you all the story of Valentine's Day, 2005. If you can top this, or even come close, please let me know. It would be nice to share a bit of horrid Valentine's memories with you all.

February 14, 2005

I was not married to Guy. I didn't even really like Guy that much at the time. He was alright, but I found him to be a little pushy and he liked to hear himself talk. Oooo, how wrong I was. Those are traits I misjudged and love now. That is so not the story for today though.

On Valentine's Day, 2005, I gave my first husband the boot. Pack your bags and hit the road, buddy. I have had enough and I can't take no more.

To a lot of our friends, who remain his friends for this reason, this decision seemed rash and out of the blue. To the ones who remain my friends, let's just say they could see the bigger picture. I use the plural of friends quite liberally there, by the way.

People change. Normal healthy people change. It's usually called growth. Every year, we both got older, and every year, I kept waiting for him to grow. He is a smart guy and a dreamer, but there was absolutely no motivation. No growth. All the therapy and self help books in the world will probably never change that.

Without getting into the boring details and completely defacing my Kind Blog button, I will say this. There was promise after promise made. Plan after plan. Goal after goal. And every time, I ran for the goals, watching as the finish line crept further and further away in the distance. Even after he had a Master's degree and the student loans to show for it, there was no job. Even after the 2 years of taking prerequisites for nursing school, there was no nursing school. Even after the 4 years of trying to start a family, there was no family.

Finally, on Valentine's Day, I broke.

It was harder than I let people know about. I didn't hate him. In fact, I still laugh at things he said or did, and have many more pleasant stories of him than not. What I did hate was my life with him. My father described it as having an anvil tied around my neck while I was trying to swim.

It was harder than people wanted to know about too. My ex is everybody's favorite guy. He is always there when they need him. He is thoughtful and quirky. He remembers your kid's birthday. He remembers your birthday. He listens to your advice and pretends he is going to take it, making you feel smart and worthwhile. He makes a fanfreakingtastic victim.

Which leaves me on the other side.

Anyway, I'm venturing off topic here. Valentine's Day. I'm talking about Valentine's Day.

I had finally decided, (and it was just me, even though I thought it was we) that instead of adopting, we should look at getting a sperm donor. Appointments were made, research was done, and his role was to make sure that I had maternity coverage on our insurance.

One phone call. That was all he had to do.

On Valentine's Day, 2005, I called the insurance company for them to fax over the specifics of our infertility coverage for my appointment later that week. She said she would, but was I aware that I had no maternity coverage?

No. I wasn't.

Can I please add it?

No. You can't. Not until next January.

It was like someone finally turned on the light in the room and I looked around, just noticing that I had been trying to work in the dark all those years. Just one flick of a switch.

The ex had made us dinner reservations at my favorite restaurant for that evening. Which is funny to me since he had no way to pay for it other than a credit card. Which is essentially having no way to pay for it.

First I calmly the restaurant and cancelled our reservations.

Then I got up, shut the door to my office, and dialed my ex. He was his usual bubbly self. He asked about dinner that evening and I told him I cancelled the reservations. He wanted to know why.

Because I don't want to be with you anymore.

That was it. Period. The end of a marriage.

We met for dinner in a week to see if he could move back in, and we could work on things. Unfortunately, that week was the best week of my adult life that far. My mind was made up.

It was time to close that chapter and hope that life had more to offer than disappointment.

Two short years later, I am sitting here typing this entry while Guy is singing "Roxanne" in the style of some Cuban Muppet from the shower upstairs. Disappointments come in the form of illness, miscarriage, and lay off's. Things that just happen in life, not things that you can avoid. And I have Guy to weather them with. A partner and friend. And since it's Valentine's Day, I should throw in that he's a damn good lover.

So was 2005 the worst Valentine's Day ever? Maybe. But I wouldn't change it for the world.

my worst valentine date

Random Tuesday

My thoughts are disjointed today, so that is what comes out of the keyboard. A few random moments from the past week.


This past week, I mentioned to Guy that Fertility Friend said we should try some baby making. He asked if that meant we were having a threesome. Him, me, and that friend of mine.


While using my wallpaper steamer in the half-bath, I leaned over and slammed my head into the corner of the lavatory. It left a dent right in the center of my forehead at the hairline. Later that day, Guy and I went to the store. He asked if I had a list, and I tapped my head.

"It's all in here."

"Isn't that where the dent is too?"


We are so used to each other now. So awkwardly comfortable. I went to turn on the laptop one morning to record my temp. He reached over from his side of the bed, grabbed me, and said,

"Can I hold your titties while I type?"

I just said, "Um-hum. That's fine."

I ask you, what is that? Bizarre, really.


And finally, did you know that if you have a miscarriage, it could quite possibly cost you somewhere in the realm of $6000? If, however, I had given birth, it would have been half that. Does that seem strange to anyone but me?

OMG, what should I wear?

So I've been tagged. Bless my Guess jeans and Tretorns. I'm so excited. I hope Izzy doesn't find out that I'm really the biggest dork in the blogosphere.

Of course, after this meme, I guess they will.


Five (slightly odd) facts about me:

1. I am terrified of the dentist. Irrationally so. I'm not admitting how long it has been since I have seen a dentist.

2. I sucked my thumb for years. Into adult life even. I did finally stop. Like last year.

3. My first career aspiration was to be the first female Major League Baseball player. I have no idea how I thought I would stop all the other women before me, but I wanted to be the first.

4. Although I was not technically allowed to watch MTV, when I was home alone in the 7th grade, I would turn it on, wait for the video for Van Halen's "Jump," and dance around our den, seeing how high I could jump and how long I could remain airborne. Go ahead.

5. I love leggings. I wish they had never gone out of style. They are most favorite item of clothing ever. Unless we are counting shoes, in which case, my favorite thing to wear are boots. Just to bolster that, here is a gratuitous shot of my newest pair of fabulous boots:

mmmmmmDestroy Boots

So there you have it. Your life is now complete. No, wait. It's not complete. Because the tagging continues. I calling out Fertile Mertile, Amy, Momma, and of course Whymommy. Don't hold back, ladies.

Dear FutureMe

This morning I received an email from me. One that I wrote one year ago today. It was delivered by FutureMe, and I had totally forgotten about sending it to myself. One year ago today.

Here is what it said (with only the names changed, well the ones who care anyway):

(The following is an e-mail from the past, composed on Friday, February 10, 2006, and sent via FutureMe.org)

Dear FutureMe,

Today you are sitting on the brink of divorce. Next Tuesday will be one year of separation, so the filing can occur. You spent the past year blowing up your life and putting it back together again.

Today, you are on the outs with Jenny, ins with all your other friends. Whymommy has invited you for a visit with Guy, did you go?

Today, you are in love. You have met the person you think is your soulmate. Guy has melted into your life like the piece that has been missing all along.

By the time you are reading this, I expect for you to:
1. Be married again
2. Be pregnant
3. Be living in Guy's house
4. Be happier than you could ever had imagined.

Please tell me I did a good job in getting you there. I'm trying really hard to make you happy.

Sincerely,
Me Today
2/10/06


Receiving an email from yourself that you wrote a year ago is actually pretty powerful. I think that it shows that I'm frighteningly driven because all but one of those things happened, although I'm not pregnant anymore. The one that hasn't happened is that visit to Whymommy, and I have no excuse for that. I'm a lazy bad friend.

What I took away from it though was that on 2/10/2006, I finally knew what I wanted. I finally knew who I was and what to do with that information. If I had written to myself on 2/10/2005 and read it on 2/10/2006 it would have been incredibly shocking. I had no idea who I was and what would become of my life. But that is a story for another post. A special Valentine's Day post coming your way this week.

By the way, Me Today, you did a damn good job of making Future Me happy. Thanks.

Time must heal

It's been 6 weeks since the miscarriage. No one really talks about it anymore, except me and Guy. Even we don't mention it everyday. Most people never mention it anymore.

Granted, it's not the best conversation topic, and you do sort of run out of things to say about it. But yesterday, I remembered something from that day that I hadn't thought of yet. And it made me realize that to me, it's not a tired subject. In my brain, the dialogue continues and probably will.

It was a minor thing that I remembered. A student was telling me about giving blood at school yesterday. He was talking about the needles and how he hates them and how it didn't help that they had to try both arms. I laughed and said that I hated them too, and that when I had the IV in my hand in December, it was so weirdly uncomfortable. Just like that. All natural and smooth. Of course, he is a student with whom I am very comfortable. The only non adult student to ask me in January, "Are you okay?"

It's just that I had forgotten about the IV and how it dug into my hand when I tried to sit up in the bed. Rather, I had never thought about it after leaving the hospital.

So I sit this morning, replaying it all in my head again. Trying to remember every little piece of my last day with Cleatus.

We would have been 18 weeks today. We should be going in for another ultrasound. Instead, I'm going for a mammogram. Ah, the lovely squishing of the boobs. How I love to put it up there on the cold plate and make the nice booblagna sandwich.

Time must heal though. Because I have typed all these words without a tear. Just the the hole in my heart that I can feel when I think about our baby - when I breathe in, it feels like that breath is escaping through that hole, and I have to stop - and breathe again. That is what I feel now. Just the hole.

Because little girls love their granddaddies

Updated below

J over at Oh the Joys lost her grandfather yesterday. What do you do for someone who you have never officially met and lives too far away to take a casserole?

I was hoping that we could let her know we understand.

Being still relatively new to the blogosphere, I'm sort of making this up as I go along. I thought though, that whoever has a mind to do so, could write about their grandfather in honor of J's Ady. What a great name, by the way, Ady. If you will, leave a comment here linking to your post about your grandfather, and we'll get them over to J.

My granddaddy was my best friend. That is not the first time I have typed that on this blog. This is us on his birthday. I was 18 and he was turning 80.


I hope there are at least a couple of you who can join in and leave a word or two about your grandfather(s). Then when J joins back in the blogging, she will know we have been thinking about her and her family.

Thanks.

AcadeMama left her story in the comments. That is also a great idea. If you haven't already, please say a little something about your grandfather. Or you could just pop over and read what J wrote to her grandfather and leave her a comment directly.

Why I hate American Idol

I have tried to like it. It is America's feel good show. Giving people a chance to realize their talent and let the world hear their voice. It's a nice concept, and I did enjoy some of the final 12 last year.

After watching some of the beginning this season though, I have a problem with it. The majority of these people have no business even humming in the shower. And yet, they walk in that room, honestly believing that they deserve to be heard. That they are musicians.

Fertile Mertile talked about having complements of her photographs being backhanded with, "What kind of camera do you use?"

Gee, if I could just get my hands on the camera you used, I could take pictures just as purdy as you do.

Gee, if I could just get on American Idol, I could sing songs and get famous and make some of those vinyl records to put on the spinning thing.

My beef is that no matter how talented an artist is, there is work to be done. There is the honing of the craft. Techniques must be learned. A skilled artist knows what will work and what won't. Fertile Mertile didn't just buy a camera and become a photographer. I didn't just know how to play the piano just because I had one. Even Taylor Hicks paid his dues playing clubs, or so I hear.

Shows like American Idol make me feel as though everyone is just entitled to be an artist. Maybe everyone is, but not just because they want to be. It would be nice to acknowledge the years of practice, work, and study that make the great artists just that. The talent plus the work is what has made them great.

"Against our better judgement, we begin to have hope."

Just sigh. This is going to be a long post about my parents. If you leave now, I won't be offended.

The parents. It's time for an update. For those of you just catching up on the parents, please remember that these are not old people we are talking about. My mother is 66, my father is 65. They are young by grandparents' standards.

Daddy has a new doctor. Thank God. The one he had in California was useless as far as I'm concerned. His name is Dr. Bomback and if you ever have a family member in need of neurological care in northern CA, I highly recommend that you go to a voodoo specialist before you go to Dr. Bomback. So much for my kind blog button.

Anyway, Daddy's new doctor is actually interested in the cognitive loss. Last week, Daddy went in for an extensive test to see exactly what was going on with his mind and his memory. Bro and I knew he wasn't going to pass with flying colors, but apparently, my mom and the doctor had hope that he would.

There is this thing with my daddy. He is so incredibly charming. If you were to meet him right now, he would make you laugh. He would make you feel better about yourself. He would make you think that he is a witty, intelligent man. That is the old Daddy. What you wouldn't see are his recurring hallucinations. You wouldn't see him not being able to find the bathroom in the middle of the night, and therefore just peeing on the carpet. You wouldn't see him talk about the Puerto Rican boys who are up to no good (and don't run over them with your car!!!). He is somehow able to still hide that from the vast majority of the public.

He did so poorly on the exam. Bro, Sil, and I knew that he would. We have seen him in his decline. We have had to care for him. We have had to dodge the Puerto Rican boys in the road and leave his imaginary cat in the car while we took him into the grocery store. We know he is gone.

Here is the thing. Bro tells me all about the test last night on the phone. I won't tell you his reaction because I haven't asked permission to talk about it here. My reaction though is this:

Right on. Daddy has Parkinson's with Alzheimer's. Not Lewy Body Dementia. Great. Now treat it.

I'm glad it's not Lewy Body. Lewy Body sucks ass, and I hope you never know anyone with it. It is, however, quicker than Parkinson's with Alzheimer's. We will have to continue watching pieces of our father disappear over a longer period of time.

Last night on Grey's Anatomy, Meredith's mother woke up. She came to from her Alzheimer's fog for one day. And Meredith hid from her. I so completely understand.

There is this point that you have to reach where you accept the people you love for where they are. My mother sits and waits for the remnants of my father as he was to show up. She waits for logic and rational to show themselves and then clings to those moments.

I choose to love my daddy just as he is. He is sick. He needs help. He forgets things. I love him anyway, and I want to love him in the present, not in the past.

My mother doesn't understand that. She thinks that I should act differently towards him. She thinks I should treat him as he used to be. She thinks that I should still ask him for advice, opinions, and help.

It makes him so nervous though. When he thinks that I still need him to be my daddy, he completely shuts down with anxiety. He wants to do it. He wants to be there for me.

He is not even there for himself though.

If my father was to "wake up" today, I wouldn't want to see him. Having him back for 10-12 hours would only make it harder to deal with the loss when he was gone again. I would fear the truth in what Meredith Grey said,

"Against our better judgement, we begin to have hope."

Not me. I don't have hope. That doesn't mean I love my daddy any less though. I wish my mother could understand that.

Move along now

To the Google searcher who typed in, "i don't want to be pregnant now," you can move along. I guarantee you that you won't find answers to that issue here.

That is certain.

Snow Day

It's a snow day here. Matters not really. Guy is taking a floating holiday anyway.

The dogs like the snow. Pupstar blends in, only to be seen by her Valentine's bandana and her big black eyes.

The setter goat likes to romp. And roo. And generally be a spaz. Here's a video. I couldn't make the editor work, so feel free to only watch the first 30 seconds or so.