I'm One Homesick Nut

Thank you to my Twitter friend and fellow California native @TwentyFour for giving me yet another reason to miss my home state and all of my fellow "fruits & nuts." My friends, I give you her post on the annual Amtrak Mooning ritual. Enjoy.

Trying a Bullet Post

Everyone seems to apologize for bullet posts, yet I enjoy reading them, so why not give it a try? I’m not sure how the formatting works, so I’m trying a cut & paste from a Word document.

* I have a cold.
* It’s not that bad, but I still whine a lot about it.
* Only on my blog and Twitter though. I don’t whine much at home.
* The Little One is interrupting me about every 20 minutes this afternoon.
* It’s making me crazy. I’m not a jack-in-the-box. I’m a mommy.
* It’s 3:00 again. How did this happen? Another day ran away from me.
* Bullet lists are easier than writing a real post.
* Maybe bullet lists are responsible for Twitter?
* It makes sense. Short bursts of thoughts and all.
* Little One is playing “computer” w/ an old keyboard and a Build-A-Bear box.
* She’s acting like me, getting impatient with her stuffed animal “child.”
* I'm so busted.
* Nothing like your kid imitating you to make you feel like a crap mom.
* But seriously, no one can do anything if interrupted every 20 minutes.
* Except maybe a bullet post.

Dreaming of a Lazy Saturday

It's Murphy's Law: on the days that you feel antsy and want to get out of the house and be social, you will have no plans and there will be nothing going on. But then it's the 4th of July and you have to go to a barbecue party but of course you want nothing more than to lounge around watching movies. I wish my moods and my schedule would get on the same page.

What makes today's plans more annoying is that it's a work function (hubs' colleagues) and my former partner in crime (our "crime" being drinking wine and gossiping in the house while we let the husbands watch the kids try to injure themselves outside) won't be there this year because they moved away. This also means that my daughter's old playmate, their child, won't be there either. Add to the equation the fact that the thing starts in the early afternoon, SEVEN HOURS BEFORE FIREWORKS, and you have a recipe for a bored, annoyed Kaza. It's called planning, people! If you want folks to stick around to attend the fireworks show together, start your party around six, not shortly after lunchtime. Simple math. (And no, we cannot wait to attend later, because our colleagues tend to be those people who tell you to come "around 3" but if you don't show up until 4 they're annoyed because they timed the food for exactly three. Of course those who do this either don't have small children or have grown children and can't recall what it was like to corral them.)

Moving on. The glasses? Were totally wrong! Something about the coating making the one lens "slip." Whatever. At least it wasn't my imagination or inability to adjust. I'm awaiting the re-do now, and hoping they get it right this time. My work? Going great. Loving the summer without teaching so I can focus on writing my articles. The kidlet? Enjoying summer like crazy.

I Hate My New Glasses

You may remember a year ago, when I wrote in a panic that I had broken my eyes? I had worked on the computer too long (okay, you got me, I was actually blogging and reading blogs) and was experiencing significant eyestrain (as in so bad that I couldn't even watch t.v., for crap's sake!). I knew I needed new glasses, but fear of a dreadful diagnosis of some rare degenerative eye disease kept me away from the eye doc all year long.

Well, another recent bout of strain inspired me to face my fear and make an immediate appointment. I am delighted to report that I (of course) do not have a rare degenerative eye disease. I am less than delighted though, with my new glasses. I opted for progressive lenses. I had heard it can take time to adjust to them, so I expected that they would be a little strange at first. But this? This will just not do. The distance vision is okay, though I am annoyed by the distortion on the sides. But I can barely read, as I can only read two or three words and I'm then turning my head back and forth trying to focus again for the end of the sentence. IT IS TORTURE. And I cannot use them on the computer at all. USELESS.

I realize they may not have done a thorough fitting. I realize that perhaps they were even done incorrectly (the right lens is highly suspect). But in the end it could take two weeks to adjust, IF I even CAN adjust to them. Because one little tidbit of information that I have since discovered is that some people never do. THAT WOULD HAVE BEEN USEFUL INFORMATION TO HAVE BEFORE DECIDING WHETHER TO GET THEM IN THE FIRST PLACE. Did the eye doc not understand me when I explained that I read and work on the computer for many hours each day? Did he not realize that I need an optimal solution here? These glasses must work flawlessly for all focal lengths (or whatever the hell they call them) or this just isn't right for me. I asked for them only because I thought they would make my life easier, not worse. I was okay with two pairs of glasses. Sure, I had a dream of reading and watching t.v. at the same time like I used to, switching effortlessly between the two activities with the same pair of glasses. But I'm okay with two pairs as long as they each do their job perfectly well.

I know I'll get the situation fixed, either way. But I can't fix the underlying truth here: my body is aging. I will never have the eyesight I once had, and that just sucks. I don't mind the few extra pounds, or even the wrinkles that are just starting to accumulate around my eyes and mouth (hell, a couple of them are even giving me a false dimple, something I always wished I had!). Most of the signs of middle age are no big deal. But because I am a compulsive, obsessive reader whose livelihood and enjoyment are dependent upon my ability to read and write, I'm not dealing with the aging of my eyes very well. I'm grumpy about it. Grrrr.

Not That You Asked...

But I feel compelled to explain, nonetheless, why I have not posted much, in spite of my assurances that I was "back" now that the university teaching year is over. I have thought about posting many times. I even started a post yesterday, a long one, but managed to bore myself so thoroughly that I stopped and deleted every word (saving the blank post so that even the draft was gone for good).

I'm having a bit of a "blogdentity crisis," or at least that's the (non-)word that comes to mind. My life has changed in some simple yet profound ways in the last year, and I am uncertain as to the purpose of this blog (or even if I want to write in this way just now). When I started I thought of myself as a "mommyblogger," though my (mis)adventures as a mama of a small child were certainly the focus of many posts. I needed a virtual space that was all mine, where I could vent and rant and let it all hang out. I had a few things to say and a place in which to say them.

But now? I don't seem to have much to say here these days. Part of it is the easygoing nature of our days this summer: we do our writing in the mornings in our offices, leave by noon to pick up the Little One from her summer preschool program, come home to eat lunch together, and then we each spend the afternoon enjoying the pursuit of our own choice. Obviously this leaves a lot of room for blogging. And yet I can't seem to blog. What on earth would I write about? What we ate for lunch? Which book I might read that afternoon? What we might eat & drink for dinner? There are many of you out there who can make such small details come alive on the page, but I am not like you. When I try to write about something like that? Zzzzzzz...

So. I don't know if I will write that much this summer after all. And I'm going to release myself from the obligation. I'm going to read all of your blogs for awhile. Maybe I'll find inspiration. Or maybe I'll just enjoy the reading but still have nothing I want to write here. Maybe I'll just link you all to the good stuff I find. Maybe I'll actually try writing the mundane details of our summer. Maybe I'll just write about the food and wine we're enjoying. The possibilities are like these summer days, so many still stretched out before me, making me smile with the luxury of doing just as I please for much of every day. I haven't been this relaxed for years.

SO Glad I Don't Have Eight Kids! (But Wish I Already Had Two.)

Or seven, or six, or five, or four, or three. And quite honestly, I'm deeply ambivalent about whether I even want two. I'm truly happy with my one amazing daughter. I used to want two or three. I even thought maybe four. But then I became a mother, and parenting was no longer theoretical, it was my life, and it was SO much harder than I had expected. I quickly revised my ideal number to two.

About a year after the Little One was born, I very suddenly and desperately wanted another one. This is apparently very common. Something about surviving that first year with your firstborn and becoming incredibly nostalgic and wanting to do it all over again. And I thought it would be good if my kids were close in age. Good for us, to get through the tough stages faster, and good for them, to improve the chances that they could be friends as well as siblings.

When she was about 20 months old, we had an "oops" moment and conceived. It was a welcome "oops" pregnancy, as we were planning to try for another child soon thereafter. We were excited, and I was determined not to be as anxious this time around. Our first pregnancy had ended quickly in an early miscarriage, and though this is very common (not to mention something we might not have even known about in the days before the early home pregnancy tests), it was devastating for us. From the moment we knew we had conceived the Little One we became exceedingly anxious. And though I enjoyed the pregnancy overall, the anxiety definitely put a damper on the whole experience. So this time, I wasn't going to give in.

As the first weeks went on, the Hubster was doing pretty well in keeping the anxiety at bay as well. He was calm and supportive and reassuring that all would be well. As for me, my only concession to worry was to occasionally say "I only want to see that little heartbeat and then I'll be fine." We were out of town around week 8, so our second appointment was pushed ahead to somewhere between weeks 9 and 10. My wonderfully understanding OB had promised an ultrasound at this appointment, to help reassure us, so we knew we would be able to see our little peanut. I was excited about the appointment, eager to receive that reassurance.

In a way, though intellectually I knew it didn't work like this, I felt that if I didn't worry, everything would be fine. Magical thinking, I guess. So I worked hard at keeping the anxiety at bay, and I was certain that everything would be fine. When the OB couldn't find the heartbeat with the Doppler, something he said he could usually do with someone as slender as I was at the time, I didn't feel any panic or dread. I completely believed him when he said everything was probably just fine. And he had promised an ultrasound to check things out anyway, and I didn't want to miss out on that. So in a way I was absurdly relieved that he couldn't find it, because I was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't order the ultrasound. Can you believe that? I was RELIEVED. I didn't WANT him to find it. I wanted to see the peanut. It didn't even occur to me to begin to get nervous.

We went down the hall to the room where they do the ultrasounds, and the tech soon had me ready to go. She soon found the peanut, and began pointing out the features of the "sac" and "fetal pole," all familiar to us as second-time expectant parents. I still didn't see anything wrong. I was just waiting for her to find the little pulsing light that would signify the peanut's heartbeat. I knew it would be there somewhere. It had to be. But then she suddenly said, "I'm sorry, I don't see a heartbeat," and began to shut off the equipment. Just. like. that.

I stared at her, stunned, as the Hubster squeezed my hand. My eyes sprouted tears before I even knew I would cry. I wanted to yell at her, to shout, "KEEP LOOKING! It has to be there! Keep looking, please!!!" She had to be wrong. The moment had become surreal.

(Ultrasound techs out there? Do us a favor. Take the moments to KEEP LOOKING. You know it's over, you know you're not going to find it. But the patient is not the image, the patient is a woman on the table, with her partner or other loved one by her side, and she needs you to at least pretend to keep looking. Let her see that it isn't there. Don't stop so abruptly. Because it will take us a few moments to catch up with you, and we need to see it for ourselves.)

We went back to the exam room, where the OB expressed condolences for the loss and talked to us about how to proceed. The evidence showed that the peanut had probably died around seven and a half to eight weeks, which meant that my body wasn't miscarrying as it should have. I didn't even know how to process that information. I was sort of relieved that I hadn't begun to bleed at home, for I knew how awful that was, but I felt sick to think that I had been walking around for possibly as long as two weeks without knowing what had happened inside of me. How did I not know? The OB offered two options: wait a bit to see if my the miscarriage would happen naturally, or have a D&C. I chose the latter.

Before they wheeled me in for the procedure I asked my OB one more time if he was sure it was over. We wanted to believe that they had been wrong. He took a moment to sit and explain everything, detailing the evidence from the ultrasound. He also told me that he was a man of faith and that there was no way he would be doing this if he had any doubt. I'm not a religious person, so my physician's faith had never been of concern to me in my medical care (and to tell you the truth, I don't really want my physician relying too much on God's will, just in case it makes him/her not fight as fiercely for my life in a critical moment!), but I did find this reassuring in this moment.

Physically, I recovered quickly (the whole D&C was a breeze actually), but emotionally it took me some time to feel better, as it does for everyone. Some days were tougher than expected. My birthday was bad (the baby's due date), Christmas was slightly melancholy (we "should" have had two kids), and when my birthday came around again I felt a little blue realizing that the baby would have been a year old already.

We had put pregnancy plans on hold for awhile after the D&C, but tried again last summer, trying to time it for early this summer. We're now debating whether to try this summer. The Hubster wants another child, the Little One keeps talking about a baby sister, but I'm feeling more ambivalent than ever. Things are finally falling into place. My career is about to be properly launched. The Little One is entering her final year of preschool. We're out of diapers, pull-ups, and even those nighttime underpants. The sippy cups are gone. We sold the stroller, high chair, and pack-n-play months ago. I'm turning 42. I'm feeling beyond this stage of having babies and taking care of an infant, a toddler, a three-year-old. I had a ROUGH postpartum period, for months, and really don't want to experience that kind of thing ever again. It took two years to really feel like myself again, and three years to completely recover my mental sharpness. And above all, we are a happy little family. Why mess with perfection?

And yet... I'm feeling a little bit of melancholy to realize that this will be the last year of preschool, that a year from now I won't be the mommy of a very small child anymore. I can't yet part with the baby and toddler clothes stored in my garage. I'm old enough that I can't really change my mind in a few years. (Yes, I know that maybe I physically COULD, but I have no interest in pregnancy after a certain point. I barely have interest in it now.)

I didn't really intend to tell this whole story today. I was sitting here trying to think of something to write, staring at an episode of Jon and Kate Plus 8 on the t.v. (big marathon this weekend in preparation for the juicy season premiere tomorrow night ... stop judging me, you KNOW you're gonna watch it), taking in yet another scene of a roomful of screaming children and feeling intensely grateful that my house is never filled with such a cacophony, so I started to write about that. Posts sometimes have a mind of their own.

Serious Laziness

That's what's going on around here... nothin' but laziness. But I'm not very good at it anymore somehow. I puttered around yesterday for hours trying to begin various activities but couldn't get anything started. The office redesign took all of my energy, but also resulted in chaos in nearly every other room because I had piled all of the junk from the office in the dining room and laundry room and tore apart two closets to get all of the books out. On Monday I had so much energy that I figured I would spend the rest of the week doing the closets and other rooms. HA! I seemed to have forgotten that I am nearly 42, not 24, and the old girl tuckers out more quickly now. Particularly at the end of the academic year, when I'm just fried.

Somewhere around 4:00 I finally settled into my favorite chair and opened a book (Appetite for Life, a fantastic biography of Julia Child, which is a dense but delicious book that I started reading about three summers ago and am finally about to finish). And I realized that this was precisely what I should have done hours before, when I first felt the utter torpidity take over my being.

We (and when I say "we," I mean my husband) finished the day by grilling thick salmon fillets. (FYI for spelling freaks like me: In the previous sentence I first typed filet, but it looked wrong, and so I googled both words and discovered that filet and fillet are actually interchangeable.) We devoured them with copious amounts of risotto and a bit of salad and bread, and collapsed onto the couch to watch the latest episode of Real Housewives of New Jersey (yo!).

So what will today bring? Will I have the energy to tackle a closet or clean the clutter on my dining room table? Or will I give up and sit my butt down in my reading chair and finish that book? Stay tuned for the exciting developments...