Maxing Out

It is no secret that I have been taking my miscarriage hard. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about Max. I guess I never really thought it would happen to me. I made one healthy baby with almost no effort on my part, why should another be in any way difficult?

I have been sleeping a lot. I have been yelling a lot. Mostly at Jason, because Violet is my beautiful baby, what if she is the only one I ever have, I cannot stand to see her sad, don’t make me discipline her! In fact, about the only time during the day I come close to happiness is the time between getting home from work and putting her to bed. She is the only thing that can make me laugh.

Everything is hard. I have put on make-up once this week, which is unheard of in my world. The last 10 years, I have not left the house without at least eyeliner. There is a pile of clean clothes on my bedroom floor that I lackadaisically sort through to find something, anything to wear as I drag myself through the day.

But I didn’t notice. Maybe I chose not to notice. A lot of women have miscarriages, and they can totally handle it, right? They can manage to get through their life without falling apart and bawling twice a day and having panic seize your chest because, look, there is a pirate and I wanted to decorate Max’s room with pirates, or, hey, this sounds like JLo and didn’t she just have a son named Max, and hey, it is Thursday, and I would be 13 weeks along now, and here come the tears.

But my lovely Jason pointed out that, hey, dude, I already had a chemical imbalance. I am still a victim of Post Partum Depression, and y’know what? This JUST MIGHT be affecting that.

And, gracious, lady, my body just went through a pregnancy. Albeit a short and unsatisfying pregnancy, but one nonetheless. And there are all these hormones flying around my system that need some help to get back to normal. That there are some physical side effects that go along with this grief of losing a child that I never even got to kiss.

I spoke to my doctor and upped my dosage of antidepressants. Sure, this is not the direction I hoped to be going a year after starting them, but by golly, I sure can focus a lot better.

It still hurts. I am still crying as I write this. But it is getting a little easier.

A Violet Celebration

Tada! I am 2.

Banana Chocolate Cake with Peanut Butter Frosting.

She only ate the frosting.

Hayden devoured it, though.

Clean-up time. This was definitely one of her favourite presents; even though she greatly enjoyed tossing every item of clothing she got all over grandma's living room. She also got a box full of princess costumes from Aunt Mandie and Uncle Kendall, which she later put on. EVERY PIECE. all at once.

(In our defense, she loves to vacuum. She helps when her father does it. I rarely clean. She also has toy trucks. I swear, we are not sexist.)

I cannot believe my little girl is 2. The last 2 years have flown by, angel child. I love you utterly and cannot imagine a life without you. You really are my sunshine, you make every day special for me. I am so proud to be your mama.

The only thing I have to say about this.

I just found out about this story. (She actually faked the whole thing.)

But what I have to say is this. Taking herbs to force your body to eliminate a pregnancy is not a miscarriage. Not even close.

A miscarriage is what happens when you discovered you were pregnant, thought about your future child, bonded with it even, and then had that stripped away. It is what happens to you afterwards, the guilt and the pain and the mourning.

By even calling what she pretended to do a miscarraige is insulting.

So much more than pink.

An extremely talented blogger whose posts I am addicted to wrote today about her friend having a baby girl. As she expressed her own desire to have a baby boy, I was struck by how different people are meant to have different genders.

Jenny Jenny Jen Jen, my best friend, has a wonderful son. He is bright and energetic and smiley, and all covered in boyness. She adores and dotes on him, and when I see how close they are as mother and son, I get a tiny craving for one of my own.

But my daughter…she is the craziest adventure I have ever been on.

When you find out you are having a girl, the first thought that comes to mind is the dresses…ALL THE PRETTY DRESSES!!!...and the hairbows and the ballet slippers, and omigoodnessgracious did you see those polka dot tights and I want to paint big flowers on her walls and call her princess and the pink HOLY CRAP I WANT TO DROWN IN PINK!!!!

There is so much more than that, though.

There is the first moment you realize she can stand up for herself, and you have a surge of pride, and a quell of hopefulness that maybe, just maybe, she will keep that through her life, and never have to deal with the abuse so many women do.

There is that moment when she grabs your make-up brush and uses it correctly and you realize she has been watching you, every minute, and wanting to be just like her mama.

And the moment when she exhibits that streak of independence, and you know that when the time comes, she will be able to take care of herself.

And the dancing. I love LOVE the dancing…

This girl…she is the light of my life. I have no doubt that I was meant to mother a daughter. The intricacies of womanhood, the adventures and power that come from your sheer femaleness…there are so many things I can’t wait to teach her.

My girl…she is amazing.

Apparently, Alaska didn't get the "Spring is here" memo.

http://www.adn.com/news/alaska/story/370261.html

yup. snow. a LOT of it. and no school or business closures.

i mean, c'mon, if you are going to dump crazy snow all over my April, at least make sure it is enough to get me a day off.

A Black Tuesday.

A very nice man in my office had a son a little over a week ago. They brought him into the office today to meet everyone. He is sweet and tiny.

And he is not mine.

I try to keep a brave face on the outside, I coo and tickle with the best of ‘em. But I also mourn. I mourn my baby boy that I will never hold.

I mourn the ultrasound I was supposed to have last week. I mourn the double stroller we had picked out. I mourn the maternity jeans I had already bought.

I mourn all the milestones I was supposed to have with my Max. His first smile, his first giggle, his first poo, even. Would he have been a ham from the start like Violet was, or would he have been more subdued? Would he have wanted to snuggle constantly, or would he have demanded his own space? Were his eyes blue like mine, or hazel like Jason’s? Was his hair gypsy dark like his mama’s, or was he meant to be another blonde baby?

I know all things happen for a reason. I know there is a reason Max couldn’t stay with us. There has to be. I have to believe that.

But sometimes that doesn’t cushion the hurt. Sometimes I have to feel the pain. I miss my baby boy that I never got to hold.

Just Cuz.

Sorry, Mr. Kitty Fantastico. She just loves you SO much...

I know Easter dinner requires ham, but this is a little much...

This is March? This is ridiculous.

These last 3 are from a trip to the park on an unusually warm spring day.

As in 45 Degrees.

We thought it was downright balmy.

Fever...in the morning, Fever all through the night.

Violet started rasping sometime early last week. She normally has a roughish sort of voice (roughish for a toddler; we are not talking Kathleen Turner), but this was reaching Janis Joplin-like proportions. We went to the doctor, but they said there were no antibiotics we could give her; the virus was there, but it had to run its course on its own.

Her first year, Vi was on antibiotics about once a month. She was prone to painful ear infections, as well as respitory colds. Largely, this is because she was in daycare from the time she was 6 weeks old. [I interject here to say: No, I did not dump my baby in a child care center so I could play career-woman. Keep your judgements away from me. We were poor and struggling and rather than let my daughter starve or let her live on the street, we opted for food, shelter, and daycare.] [yes, I have had to defend my decision, why do you ask?]

When she was about 5 months old, her regular doctor was unavailable, so we saw one of her associates. This associate was apparently not prepared for the wiggling, and scratched her eardrum while checking it out. She didn’t tell us, she just let us find out when Vi turned her head and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHE IS BLEEDING FROM HER EAR. This closely rivaled the time when she took a medicine that, when combined with the iron in her formula, turned her poo blood red and smelling of iron so we thought FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SHE IS BLEEDING INTERNALLY for Scariest Moment In My Life So Far.

So, she is quite used to feeling sick. She normally powers through it with barely a change in her routine, maybe a slight fever that keeps her out of daycare, but usually nothing contagious. She still eats and plays and laughs and mischief-makes.

On Sunday, though, when her fever reached pinnacle, she was a different girl. She lay on me, watching HGTV, for hours; she even drifted off a bit. Vi hasn’t taken a nap with me in 8 months. She never let Purple Care Bear go, and barely said a word all afternoon. She only wanted to get some love-radiation from her mama.

I have written before about a recaptured memory of my mother, of sitting on the couch in my pajamas, watching tv and smelling of fabric softener. I wonder if Vi will recapture this weekend when she gets older. Will she remember feeling safe with Mama? Will she recall the scent of coconut in my hair, or the comfort of my arms around her? Will she recall the truth that she is My Daughter, the bonding we have as it is driven home that she is my responsibility, my life, my offspring, and I am willing to do anything for her?

She is better now, by the way. Back to school, demanding Blue’s Clues, and emptying every drawer in her dresser. I love it.