I have terrible water luck. We knew plumbing in House House would be dodgy when we bought it, and on Sunday it proved out when a flushed wet wipe backed up the whole system and had water running over in our bathroom. This was also the morning I’d finally grabbed our bathmats to throw in the wash. So there was nothing on our floor to stop the output of water. So…that was fun.
My ebike is glorious, though it is experiencing technical difficulties at the moment. Fortunately, it folds up, and we can take it back to where we bought it to have them service it. Though I could have gotten it cheaper online, this is why I settled on a local shop. a) Support local business and b) fix it when it breaks. That makes me happy. Getting to work faster and on my own terms makes me happy. Fresh air and sunshine — guess what — make me happy. If I have to do this commute, I may as well be happy.
Daughterbot loves to wrassle. Mom and Dad like to wrassle with her. When she is in the wrassling mood, she lies down on her belly on the carpet and wiggles around. This is the universal signal for “Wrassle me!” Then you have a choice — ignore her, or grab her and roll around. Ignoring her would be unwise, of course. Wrassling an 11-month-old is much like rubbing a cat’s belly: if she extends the invitation, you must accept.
Personally, I like to pretend I’m a tarrasque and flop around like a big ol’ Chinese New Year Dragon, which is fun, and she loves it, but a bit hard on the knees.
I have nearly planted all the things, and dug up a couple more bushes. I kind of want raspberry canes now that I have realized I don’t have a raspberry cane. And I murdered a bunch of sprouts by neglecting them. So sorry, sprouts.
Here is the thing about miscarriage: it strips away confidence.
All the optimism, all the nonchalance I breezed into my first pregnancy with got completely blown out of the water by that loss. So when the second pregnancy happened, and happened so quickly, I spent nine weeks with a mixture of disbelief and dread. I just didn’t want to go through that heartbreak again.
And even though I knew better, I found myself questioning how “real” this one was. Did I have enough symptoms? I didn’t, I couldn’t, I wasn’t nauseous or tired enough. I didn’t “feel” pregnant. I felt like I was holding my breath, expecting it to go wrong. Mike and I agreed not to tell anyone this time, though we did reveal it to our parents. We pinky-swore them to secrecy. I had a bit of gallows humor about the whole thing, though I did continue to take vitamins and eat “right”, as defined by me.
I slept poorly the night before my nine week appointment. Anxiety had me waking up three times. When we got there, the CNM didn’t spend much time asking questions — she knew I’d had a miscarriage two months before, so we got straight to business.
We started with the fetal doppler to try and listen for a heartbeat. Not the CNM’s idea, but she was interning a woman that day, and the intern wanted to try. Nothing. The head midwife brushed this off — too early, she said. Then the ultrasound gel got applied, and the monitor came up, and —
Our lives are a series of stories, some short, some long, some with epic arcs, but mostly vignettes connected with a common theme: our selves.
Zoe’s first story began with an ending: the miscarriage of my first pregnancy. This will probably be the only time I talk about it because, truth be told, I talked about it enough when it happened and at this point it just feels gratuitous. Also: it’s done.
But I also don’t like pretending it didn’t happen; that doesn’t seem fair to the kid-who-could-have-been, even if it never grew enough to have eyes or a heart or a voice.