what's wrong with this picture

Me: "I'm about to get dressed. I want to find something that makes me look REALLY pregnant. Like more then I am..."
Him: "ok"
Me: "...because I don't want to look fat..."
Him: "I see"
Me: "...so when I come out of the bedroom you have to tell me if I look fat, or pregnant..."
Him: "Got it"
Me...walking off: "...because I'm NOT going to a bar on a Friday night looking like the fat girl."

unrelated

i just had another dirty dream.

i woke up thinking about sex and peanut brittle.

Ham-lette

Can I carry your books for you?

Someone stumbled across me today and commented. And I replied that I was unsure as to the etiquette around it. I know when I read my favorite blogger Ginny, she always replies. The comment section is often as rich as the post. But by the same token I'm not clear on what's narcissism on my part and what's simply discussion. Are people waiting for a reply? Because I always want to gush "Oh my god, you are SO cool I can't believe you came over to visit." There's Lori at fever who is...surreal. I mean brilliant. She writes like, well, someone who WRITES, but better. And just ...says shit. I mean, I read. I read prolifically but I have never read, well, real live writers...writing.

Can you hear me? I sound like John Meyer talking about Jessica Simpsion right now. These woman write unbelievably.

Which is so funny beacuse you always here about "mommy blogs". Chick Lit. But seriously, where are the sucky weriters? Because these two, and Cheek, and a host of others. They WRITE.

I'm such a groupie.

It's not just a job, it's an outfit

I found myself missing work this morning. I was rinsing the cups into the dishwasher and I bent down to move a fork and BAM it hit me. Today was the kind of day I'd be walking downstairs to get an afternoon treat at 3 oclock. It's raining out, my favorite. I loved rainy days at the office. Raincoats and boots on the commute. People answering the phone, being productive, nothing to distract anyone. Gray enough outside so you didn't feel like you were missing anything. No harsh sunlight, no hot day, no frippery skirts. Just tights and a pencil skirt with a long sleeve turtleneck... God I loved it.

And today I thought "My god, to be able to sit at a desk and produce work. To go down at 11:45 and spend 45 minutes on the eliptical, take a quick rinse off,throw my clothes in the gym laundry and get back up before 1. To just accomplish some task and then breeze on down with two other girls for a cup of joe. To wear something nice, to be 20.lbs lighter, to go out for a drink after, or read a book on the train."

I thought about walking down to Starbucks. Where I hated the service, the products, but that's where you went because Dunkins was for the mornings. I thought about ordering a large steamed fat free vanilla soy milk, no foam, with 1 shot of caramel. I thought "Oh my god, I miss work... It happened. I miss going to WORK"

Then I realized.
I just miss going for coffee.

The Value of A Dollar

Six years ago, eight years ago, ten years ago, both my husband and I, we both were broke. I had a good job, he had a good job. But we lived in expensive cities - and life cost more then we made. Car insurance, train pass, rent, telephone. I didn't have cable, a cell phone. I ate microwave popcorn for lunch. I made "ok" money but not capital M money. For my husband it was different. He did make, at the time, for his age, good m money...and he left his job, assuming that money and opportunities would follow. He went to Chicago to marry his now former spouse (who by the way, I meant to thank because they got a rather nice (garish) crystal wedding vase as a gift that JUST last week held my Valentine's flowers...THANKS SUSAN!)and the money didn't follow. The job market dried up, and he was piss poor broke. And the marriage broke too. Chicken? Egg? Point being, we both, at times, have had...no...money.

And then, it changed.
Not with luck but with both of us taking jobs that were not exactly to our standards, because we knew, we needed to get it done. We parlayed opportunities and worked hard. I bought this house on my salary, we met shortly thereafter, he moved in, and now he pays the mortgage not I. It's a small house, a tiny house actually, not 1200 sq ft, but we live here.

And work, and he at his work, got better. and we don't take all the exemptions, and this year, this year, we are getting a refund. By my estimation a huge one. But it's not really. It's just...not $800. I think I've told this story before but...I hostessed a meeting with a group of extremely high paid, extremely connected executives. And as they were bantering, telling tales of the careers, trials and travails, and one woman regaled the group with how she was questioned coming from Canada to the US. "As if" she joked "my taking someones $130,000 job was going to hurt anyone." All laughed. Tee hee. A $130,000 job couldn't POSSIBLY be a threat. I remember thinking "What a lack of perspective." To reveal your lowest salary as the punchline to a joke, and have it be $130K? Honestly, when I tell that joke the punchline is that I made $21000 from the $19000 they were offering. And I think it was the same year she was talking about.

My point is, right now, we are doing ok. Good. We don't really worry about money, we don't really stress about it. We have bills, we pay them. And we have extra money too. Enough so we can pay for things.

I said to my husband recently "Do you have any cash, I don't think I have any money?" and he put a stack of twenties on the dresser. "Why do you have so much?" I asked, to which he replied that he didn't like going to the ATM. But moreso, that I hadn't asked for money in a while and he figured my "house jar" was low. (btw - I HAVE a bankcard. I CAN get my own money. It's not an allowance. I just dislike the inconvenient location of the particular atm that our bank has.)

"I don't understand how you LIVE" he said. "You never take money out, I never see withdrawals. How do you live?"

And in my own mind I'm like. You just gave me $100. That's going to last me a month, longer probably.
I don't buy coffee, I don't go out, I don't shop, I don't smoke. Ellie doesn't need an allowance. School and gymnastics are prepaid, and the library is free. I don't rent movies, buy bottles of water. I pack snacks. Gas and the grocery store you charge. The only thing you use cash for is booze and takeaway food. How much do I spend? Some days? Most days? Nothing.

But then. When i look at the overall...
I spend.
A lot.

My crazy lady, Crazy Anna, my HIV disabled shut-in that I'm not sure if I discuss but I talk to daily?? Bring meals to? ring a bell? My HIV shut-in, we took all her papers Wednesday, her papers for her housing voucher and my husband brought them to Staples and copied them. I lied and told her he was doing it at work. Why? Because she can't afford to make photocopies and I don't have the time or ability to drive her to her therapist off hours to use the broken hall copier. So we paid for it.

I paid the neighbor $5 yesterday because he was willing to let me drive him across town and clear her car for me. Not that we went mind you, I just knew that Crazy Anna had no way to dig out. She called me crying about being snowed in, I hired the neighbor, then i called to drive over - and she cleared it herself. "I took a percoset first". So I paid him $5 for being a good kid. Why? Because his family has 3 restraining orders against them. On my block alone. They aren't allowed to walk on our side of the street because the houses on either side of us have restraining orders against their mother, and father respectively. I paid him $5 because I didn't want to be another adult who broke a promise to him.

Wednesday I tipped the hairdresser $10 on a $35 cut. $10 because she has two preschool age sons, she works on her feet all day, her husband has serious back issues and money is tight. I overtipped because I found free parking and my girlfriend watched my daughter for free. So $4 extra dollars went to the hairdresser because it felt right.

I paid a sitter $35 today to go to a Dr's appt. Maybe I could have asked friends, but a few work, they all have kids of their own, one lives way across two towns away, the other I haven't talked to as much lately that I want to reach out and request help. So I paid my sister's former sitter, $35 for 3.5 hours because I know she lives at home, I know she only works 2 days a week, and I know she needs the money.

I bought $40 worth of gifts for my neighbor last week. $40 because she got her period and it was her first time. $40 because I wanted her to have a little bag to carry to the bathroom discreet enough to slide under her shirt, but pretty enough that if it fell out of her bag, no one would know what it contained. I brought pads to The Paper Store and Vera Bradley and I worked out a deal that my little neighbor girl can now carry pads, sanitizer and someday, tampons, to school. Why? Why $40, why? Because someday, when she is 40 sitting on her couch blogging, and she remembers her first period, I want her to remember that she had a woman neighbor that loved her, and that she was celebrated for becoming a woman, not that her mothers coke snorting temporary boyfriend announced it over spaghetti to her three siblings. I want her to have a gift that she wouldn't otherwise have.

I spent $100 two days ago. On a highchair, and a diaper genie. For my sisters oldest friends eldest daughter. Who has a mild disability. Who got a job at a supermarket, and was shortly impregnated by what can only be described as the nasty Jerry Springer stereotype of a smooth talking black nineteen year old with two babies from two woman, girls...children really. He had a three month old and again, to perpetuate a stereotype, slept with the heavy blond girl, knocked her up, left her, and now she's living in the apartment complex that used to be gorgeous, teetering on ghetto, with her 3 sisters, her parents, and soon a baby. In a small 3 bedroom. So I bought her the Graco highchair, and because it was usually $110, and on clearance for $55, I bought her the diaper genie to make up the difference.

Why am I talking about this?
About money?

Because I'm angry lately.
I'm angry all the time.
I hand money out. I hand it out, over, under, sideways given every opportunity. I see someone struggling, someone working hard, someone who wants a break., I feel like, yeh, it's incumbent on all of us to chip in.

But then.
But then it works the other way with me too.

I went out for five hours last week and tipped the bartender exactly $10 on a $53 bill. Regardless of the fact that we warmed those chairs for 5 hours. I tipped him the standard yet minimum, because he sucked. And even if he had two kids in preschool and a wife with a bad back, his JOB is to be good at service, and he wasn't.

I had a $10 "good customer thank you card" for the Gap. No limits, just $10. So I went in and bought Ellie tiny socks. 5 for $10. Free. And as I stood there I saw a tiny romper for $20. Way beyond what I ever spend on her for clothes but I thought to myself "She's my CHILD. I never buy her clothes, I never buy her retail, I never get her anything "good". So I bought it, for $20. Took it home. Left it sitting for 2 days, tried it on her, she cried because it wasn't a dress and I said "Fuck it, it's fate, it's too much, it's going back". Back at the store the woman wanted to give me $13. Why? Because the "averaged" the $10 card across all the items that day, and my return negated the full value of the card. I stood there for a minute looking thoughtfully at the woman then reached over and gently took the receipt from in front of her. "I'm sorry, it's $13 if I return it with the receipt?" I asked. "Yes" she said. "Ok" I nodded. "Perfect. Well, I'm sorry to say but I must have lost the receipt. I'd like a store credit for the full selling price of $20 please." "You have the receipt right there" she said. Pointing. Me: "Yeh, actually, you are right. But I'm not giving it to you. I want $20. I want my $7 free dollars."

I shit you not. $7. And I could give a shit who heard me.

Later that night we went to my nephews high school basketball game. His final game of his senior year. My mother had gone ahead. We went to see the remainder and pick up Ellie. At the door I asked for the student rate. $2 less. "It's halftime" I reasoned, and asked as much.

"Hey, so, since it's half over can we get a discount to the student rate." Joking. Smiling. Half serious, but ready wallet poised regardless for the no.
"No" Tersely. Rudely. Bitchily. If that's even a word.
"Okayyyy." I ground out. Pissed. Annoyed. Not for the $4, but for the fucking ATTITUDE. How about "Oh I'm so sorry, I wish I could but this is how we pay for the sports." or "Oh I'm sorry, I just can't" However the "No" from a fifty year old guidance counselor, with it's accompanying dirty look and singular OTHER comment that I can't remember because I was so peeved, but along the lines of "and if you don't like it, don't come in".
The overall tone made me...livid.
"Um, yeh, well, I think that's a bit much so I'm going to pass but thanks" I chirped. Cheerily. Breezily. And turned.
Where he says to my back
'Yeh, you're choice lady.'
And I turned back and said "Actually, you're right. It IS my choice and I'm going to choose not to support your school today."

What's my point?
As Ginny would say "Tighten this shit up" but I can't, my point is I'm angry.

I'm angry because last Tuesday I drove home in a fucking snowstorm.

Backstory: I drove UP the highway in what appeared to be rain, 30 minutes, to a ridiculously overpriced yuppie design store to get a paint chip. Daughter in tow, I trekked across what felt like The Mall of America, up the escalator, down the hall, over the hill and dale...to the furthest corner were we walked in, perused the aisles then approached the EMPTY counter for assistance. The empty, it's 11am on a Tuesday in a high end design store and three of you are standing there counter. "Hi, I'm sorry, I'm looking for your paint samples..." I gestured to the wall behind me. Where the paint used to be. The blond Ann Tayloresque salesgirl pointed directly in front of herself, about a yard away. Aha. I laughed at myself. "Oh I'm so sorry. So right in front of me..." I laughed again. She looked at Ellie. Then semishrugged. And then I got it. I came in with a CHILD. Aha aha. I forgot that spawn is not allowed in pretentious $200 lantern stores. How are your $80 house numbers selling these days? But fine. So over to the samples I go, pouring pouring. There are 4 fucking cans of paint this store sells in four color categories mind you. Yellow, Blue, Green and White. That's it. 4 colors, 4 cans each. For a MAXIMUM of 16 possible samples. On four separate walls. Picture it because this is important. I'm in front of YELLOW. Ellie is standing directly to my right, leaning against my leg, talking to me. We are...no trouble. I look. And look. And look. Every fucking card is Saffron. Buttercream. Cream. I'm looking for Butter. Here's the can. Where's the card? I look behind swatches. I pull out the stack. I thumb through them. Is the card mixed in? It's, for real now, about 5 minutes. I am PAINSTAKINGLY standing in front of YELLOW turning over every fucking sample card and the lighting is shit. Is it this one? This one? Ellie has started fussing to sit on the upholstered chair. I let her. I look up. To the blond girl, staring at me. "Oh hi" I say. "Would you know if you have any sample cards for Butter?" "No, we're out of them." And in my head I'm thinking to myself "Thanks you fucking cooze I've been here 5 minutes in front of four potential swatches and it hasn't crossed your tiny pea brain to deduce that the delay might be because you are OUT of the fucking card so you put others in the slot so it wouldn't LOOK empty and I had to sort through all this shit because I assumed you had rude customers and not rude associates? Thanks snatcharoo." Instead I said. "Oh rats. I live ridiculously far away and made the trip special. Do you guys have a system that you can mail them?" To which she replied "No. We might have some next week. You can come back. Or you can buy the sample can. That's why they're there." Oh is THAT why? I'm sorry. I totally was confused with the $4 4 oz can. I thought it was perfume. I bought the can and was pretty much done with it. Trust me lady, Benjamin Moore can sample this shit and blend it just fine.

Left
Annoyed.

Flash forward meanwhile, like a reverse Dan Fogelberg song, the rain had turned to snow. Heavy. Wet. And it's treacherous. It takes forever to get home. Where I pull UP to my house and our driveway is covered in slushy snow. Covered at 4pm on a snowday, during school vacation, when BOTH Of my neighbors teenage boys are home, when we SHARE a driveway and it's everyone's responsibility to shovel. I pull UP to the house, pregnant, stressed, headache, tired, and pissed. Because WHY is there fucking snow on the goddamn driveway? Why in gods name haven't the 17 year old and the 13 year old hauled their xbox asses out side and moved this shit around? Because when it snows and they are IN school, I'm out there moving shit. I parked in the middle of the street, SWUNG my door open. LEFT my door open, walked UP my neighbors house steps and rang the bell. Older boy opens and I look him in the face. "Hey, listen, I'm sorry but it's icy and snowy and it's dangerous out here. And I need you to shovel. I'll PAY you to shovel, I just can't do it myself and it needs to be done." And WHAT the fuck is wrong with your mother that you aren't outside for Christs sake. Never MIND that it's 1/2 your driveway, I'm fucking PREGNANT. With twins. Get OUT SIDE. he comes out, maybe 5 minutes worth. And clears the pathway and maybe, maybe a swath of driveway. A tracks worth. Really? Really? I am honestly offering to PAY you really? So about 10 minutes later the mom comes home. In her work clothes. And I see her outside, shoveling. Just her. And I feel bad, I really do. I lean out and say to her "Listen, this is killing me. I don't want you to have to do our work. I offered to pay your son. You shouldn't have to do our share." And she looks at me, and waves her hand into the swirling snow gesturing to what her son didn't do, and says "Yeh well, money doesn't really motivate him."

Really.
Really?
REALLY????

Because it should. Because you have the worst condition house on the street. Because honestly, your house is bringing down the property values of every house around it. Because someone in your house DOES need the money and if not him, then who?

I have another friend who offered to help "through my pregnancy". I called her last Wednesday looking for a Friday sitter. She's mentioned - on many occasions - that they are struggling financially, that she's looking for work - any work - to help them get by. The kids need "so many things" and money in a word, is tight.
I called her Wednesday late morning, looking to see if her daughter could sit Friday. At 10am. 'Oh she's not home tonight, she's sleeping at a friends. She'll be home tomorrow, I'll ask her and call you tomorrow night." Um, huh? Tomorrow night? So you'll call me Thursday after what time to tell me if she can sit Friday? Okay then. Flash forward Thursday night, 8pm. No call. So I FB her a message. "So sorry, needed to go with a backup plan, I know you were going to call but if C said no, I'd be screwed! Next time we'll connect earlier." Her reply "Oh, I forgot to call. C is going to be pissed"

And here's whats wrong with this story:
1. Did your daughter not have access to a phone where she was? How about, "let me give her a call tonight and I'll buzz you back"
2. She's 14. You were going to ask her if she was avaialble? At 10am? Why? What else did she have going on?
3. I called you leading with I have an appt with the perinatologist, my husband has to go with me, my two friends can't, my other two sitters are engaged, and I'm desperate. You on the other hand ARE home. You could have offered to take my daughter under the auspices ogf 'Oh right I offered to help" but regardless, you could have looked at your daughter and said "I need you to go do this because someone else is in need"
4. No "I'm sorry?"
5. And finally. You are broke. Your family is struggling. And $20 is $20. It's lunches, a movie, downloads, a shirt, a gift. $20 to a $14 is a lot of money. You "forgot" someone offered you $20?

I'm not angry about wanting the neighbor to shovel, I'm not angry about the daughter not sitting. What I am angry about is since when is money not worth working for? Or protecting?

So maybe to the guidance counselor at the door it's "Only $2" So what. It's $4. And $4 is a greeting card. Stamps. A gallon plus of gas. A drink out.

Since when is $34 for a gallon of paint not worth a sales associates courtesy?

Since when is $20 for watching tv on a Friday morning and doing puzzles with a two year old not worth "remembering"?

I don't know about anyone else but when I reach into my wallet and see a $20, I'm rich. I'm loaded. There is nothing I can't buy.

Yesterday I went to Target for diapers and bought a box on clearance. Not my brand but $17 for 132. Versus $35 for 92. Because $18 means something to me. $18 is my husbands first hour of work. It's why he leaves the house at 6am, to drive an hour, to sit at a desk, and to make decisions. $18 represents LABOR. And I respect that.

What I can't respect is people who purport to be broke, struggling, anxious to get ahead, who have time to build a facebook farm but don't have the time to help a neighbor? To shovel? To babysit? To think - actively - about looking into the world and seeing where, even broke, that they can still contribute?

I stand in line and occasionally, rarely, but occasionally, buy the guy behind me a cup of coffee. Just because. I'll sit for 10 minutes in my car parked behind a friend so she can run into the store and not have to unbuckle her kids. I'll put a bag together for goodwill, for Salvation Army, for a friend. I'll see something at a yardsale and remember you were looking for it. It's EASY. It's easy to give.

But ask me about health care right now. Ask me about social programs, ask me about college aid, about loan forgiveness...and I'll point to people who won't take a job because "it's not worth it" or "That's not what I want to do" or "I won't get paid enough for my time." Then ask me about their kids. Kids with no work ethic because parents sit in their houses and say "Oh but there's no jobs" So WHAT? So WHAT that there are no jobs, there's always WORK. If I had two sons jobless all summer, I'd be loaning them out. "My boys are home today, Mrs Sullivan, do you have any garden work you need done." "Need your windows washed Mrs Johnson?" If I had two daughters it would be "Mrs Reilly has three kids, I want you to go over today and ask her if you can go with her to the grocery store." Clean a basement. Clean an attic. Offer to help a friend organize a closet. For fucks sake, do something.

Fucking PEOPLE.
We are such a goddamn culture of people who forgot how to work for a living.
And whine because work is too hard.

And all the shit at the beginning about who I hand money to? It's not "Im so great." It's about seeing a NEED. It's about looking outside yourself and GIVING. Sharing. Helping. Offering up.

And I'm sorry, but honestly, some people fucking deserve to be broke.
To have a shitty life.
Sitting there, lamenting why no one ever gives them a break? Uh huh. I want to say "What have you done to deserve one?"

You want to talk about equality? About everyone deserving the same care? The same human rights? Then live within the same social norms. It's not just taking you assholes, it's giving.

I'm over socialism.
I'm rooting for Darwinism.

photo credit

The Treatment Plan

A cerclage placed at 13 weeks.
Injections of progesterone.

Things to note:

Progesterone
Progesterone, often given in the form of 17-hydroxyprogesterone caproate, relaxes the uterine musculature, maintains cervical length, and has anti-inflammatory properties, and thus exerts activities expected to be beneficial in reducing preterm birth. Two meta-analyses demonstrated a deduction in the risk of preterm birth in women with recurrent preterm birth by 40–55%. However, progesterone is not effective in all populations, as a study involving twin gestations failed to see any benefit.

Cervical cerclage
In preparation for childbirth, the woman's cervix shortens. Preterm cervical shortening is linked to preterm birth and can be detected by ultrasonography. Cervical cerclage is a surgical intervention that places a suture around the cervix to prevent its shortening and widening. Numerous studies have been performed to assess the value of cervical cerclage and the procedure appears helpful primarily for women with a short cervix and a history of preterm birth. Instead of a prophylactic cerclage, women at risk can be monitored during pregnancy by sonography, and when shortening of the cervix is observed, the cerclage can be performed. Women with a short cervix but no history of preterm birth, and women with twin gestation, do not benefit from a cerclage.

Lent

Lest you think I'm about to write something profound about Catholicism, I'm not.

Yesterday, sans Ashes, I considered what to give up for Lent. Not something self serving, and not something silly, but truly, was there a sacrifice I wanted to make, for myself, in pursuit of being a better person.

I considered giving up my negativity towards other people.
Which is ironic because, in fact, I'm pretty universally buoyant and chipper. It's only in my bitchblog that I vent, thus to you, gentle reader, I am certain I appear... a snatch if you will. For the most part, I like people. I get along with people. People...well, they seem to like me. So all in all if asked which end of the Anne Frank spectrum I fall on, you'll hear me say "Despite all, I think people are good."

Anyway, I thought about it giving up talking about my... disappointments? ...with people. As in "Im giving up gossip." Not good natured "Did you hear" but hardcore " I can't believe she said..." Because frankly, I'm not exempt from it. I talk to too many people daily to actively monitor my tongue. Eventually we all slip up. For the most part, even when frustrated I try to see all sides. So the idea to NOT put forth any negativity had some appeal. If I can think positive, can I perpetuate positive?

I offered it up to a friend.
"I think I'm giving up talking shit for lent...'

To which she replied
"Fine, I'll see you after Easter then."

Because after all, her point was, why should you punish the rest of us.

This is you
4 of Swords
Rest and retreat after activity, convalescence.

Stagnation, forestalled activities, and a forced rest meet you. The obstacles and difficulties proclaimed here may be indicated by an illness, or something that tears you away from your activities and forces you to rest. This forced standstill may be an unwelcome inconvenience or an opportunity to come to terms with yourself as in a meditative break.

How To Be Polite

Changing The World, Part Two...
A One Question Etiquette Quiz

QUESTION ONE
Initial Action:
You receive an invitation. Could be verbal, printed or just via email. You are invited to attend something. Anything. Be it coffee, a playdate, a social visit. Someone specifically requests your presence and puts forth a date, time and requests you respond.

Reaction:
multiple choice, please pick one:
a) ignore request. Email person after with vague references. Apologize. Know that you are friends on Facebook and the invitee has seen you reply to other messages and watched your farmland chickens cluck.
b) have the simple courtesy to hit reply (it's the button at the top of your email) and say "Love the idea, sorry I can't make it." Do it with notice so the person isn't preparing food, arranging furniture or preparing a craft for your child. Do it with enough notice that you appear gracious vs rude.

Scoring your Quiz
If you picked A, likely this post is directed at you.
If you picked B, well, good for you. You haven't pissed me off today.

I'd Love To Change The World....

When I am old, I'll be that asshole old lady starting sentences with "When I was a kid." Whih is why daily I stage little protests. No one cares but someone has to say it...

Nanny & Childcare Posters | Text Speak, Lower Case Type & Spelling
Date: 2010-02-13, 2:50PM EST

Hi. I am seeking a nanny and have seen many wonderful ads here. I just want to offer the gentle advice to some that the first impression an employer is going to have of you is your ad. And your response to emails. Typing in text speak, using all lower case letters, obvious misspellings (meaning no spellcheck not honest mistakes), no punctuation and the like can put you at a disadvantage. Please consider that if you aren't taking the time to represent yourself professionally in a 5 minute ad posting or in a 3 minute reply, it's not as likely that someone is going to feel as confident in you as a caretaker. Fair or not, it reads as lazy. Or more specifically, it gives the impression that you don't care.

I have seen so many ads of college age girls who are clearly articulate and love children but laziness in communication translates to laziness in other matters. Simply said there's been a few of you who likely are terrific but if you want to make $12 to $15 an hour cash, at a minimum, reply legibly. Use a period, a comma. Capitalize those "i"s. Go crazy and hit return once an a while. Do it big. Because watching children IS a career. There are many wonderful, educated qualified nannys out there. Please don't devalue yourselves by not taking the time to craft communication that shows you are of that caliber.

Coffee and Calamari

I woke up yesterday and gave up the ghost.

I get two mornings a week without Ellie, and both I go to the gym. It pretty much kills the whole 3 hours. It's 9:30 yoga, followed by a one mile walk then the grocery store, and back to pick her up.

Neither relaxing nor especially rewarding.
I dislike yoga, although with practice, I do enjoy it more - and likely will continue to do it after the maybe babies are born.

Having said all this yesterday I stopped.
It's silly really. I have two weeks left until the cerclage, then it's nothing, no exercise at all, none, until after the birth.
No sex, no swimming, no exercise at all.
And likely two quick weeks of bedrest before I can get up again.

So why am I going to spend the next 4 free days, the last four free days, pursuing something that I'm not going to do for 6 to 8 more months?

I quit.

I'm nesting it seems. Trying to get things put in the house, out of the house.
Making dentist and hair appointments, finalizing gifts, buying shower presents.
I'm trying to finish everything I can, at 10 weeks, because in 3, I'll be told to stop moving.

Yesterday I wore jeans rather then sweats, a sweater vs a yoga top, and set forth, determined to go to the mall, to buy my husband a card, to buy the babysitter her "Period Present" (my little girl is growing up...)., to find out the number to the consignment shop.

And the phone rang.
My friend Cindy called.
She's in my town, just for an hour, less actually but will stretch it as far as she can, and can we meet for coffee.

"Why yes. YES we can" Because I am quitting going to the gym.

I'm big. I'm at 10 weeks larger then I was at 20 with Ellie. I'm heavier, slower, more tired. I'm not even out of the first trimester, if I even make it, and I'm showing like it's month 4. I feel like if maybe I was fitter when I started, my abs tighter, I'd be smaller today. I'm embarrassed to be so obvious when it all could disappear. "Oh goodness, you're pregnant. How far along are you???"
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm

But I went.
For coffee.
And my 6th coffee roll in 4 weeks.

And it was lovely.
And we talked, quickly, and we talked, thoroughly, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like myself. My old self, not my mommy self.

Not to say we didn't talk about kids, or husbands, or home and hearth. But we had a lively, engaging conversation.

I left and ran errands. I called another friend. An email blog friend, not a phone buddy. And we chatted.
For an hour.

And then we made plans to meet.
That night.
With a third friend.

For 5 hours.

I went out last night and sat at a bar, with two of the most stimulating, conversant, passionate and opinionated woman. WE dished, we discussed, we analyzed, we laughed, and we dissected. For 5 hours. FIVE hours we sat in the same three chairs.

And it was the fucking shit.

I woke up today hungover.
Not with booze but with serotonin. Because yesterday three friends awakened life in me. They reminded me of everything else that was interesting, good, bad, powerful, stimulating in this world.

Three friends came along, in one day, and with the power of their own self confidence and strength and curiosity about their lives, gave me back a passion for mine.

Yoga? Good for the mind.
Three friends? Good for the soul.

As Mr. Darcy said to Elizabeth...

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before"

What I said to the technician was this:

"If you see something, if you see something bad, you need to tell me. Please don't do that thing where you tell me you forgot your pen and you walk out of the room, because I'll know. I've done this before, so please just tell me first and then get the doctor."
"I will. I'll need to get a Dr. but I'll tell you. If I don't see the heartbeats, I'll tell you."

All before I took my pants off.

"I'm going to let you do the guiding and we are going to look" she said. Not somberly, not seriously, but equitably. As if we were equals. As if I was completely sane. She allowed me to dictate the direction - of the probe, and the tone of the appointment.

"Yep. I see one."
"You see WHAT?" A shell? Where a baby once was? A blob? A mass? WHAT??!!! "You see one there, or you seee ...what? What is it you see??"
"I see one heartbeat....and there is the other. I see them. I see them both."

"Shut up. No you don't."
Seriously, that's verbatim.
"I do. I can see them both. Their heartrates are 158 and..." and I couldn't hear the other because I started to shake. Then yelp.

She was expert.
"Get under control, honey, and I'll get pictures."

"Do you know" she asked me "if they are fraternal or identical? Has anyone told you?"
I didn't.
"It's late, if I had seen you earlier, 6 weeks, I could have told you for sure but now, well, I can only guess. But it's an educated guess. I've been doing this for a long time."
and then she paused
"It looks like their dizygotic...that means.."
"Fraternal" I interrupted. "That means fraternal." That means better odds.
"Two eggs" she said. "So it's not your husband, you did this yourself."

Which is like...amazing. Two seperate eggs BOTH got fertilized? Really? I wonder if it was at the same time? Not that I want you to speculate or anything, I'm just saying. Wow. Two.

I called my sister from the car "I mean it's just so weird. Two kids from you know, the same..."
"The same what?" she said. "The same father? I hope so."

The technician said we look good.
Really good.
Measuring at 9 and 1/2 weeks, with heartbeats. Two seperate sacs. No subchorionic hematomas, no visual issues.
In her words "I've been doing this a long time and these look...good. I think, I think these are going to stick around."

So here we are. All that drama, all the sleepless nights, to be...fine.
Or as my friend Cindy said aptly "Past the first hurdle."

9 and 1/2 weeks.
Not Kim Bassinger 9.1/2 weeks but still.
Imagine.

Maybe this time I'll be lucky
Maybe this time they'll stay
Maybe this time, for the last time,
they won't hurry away.
I will hold them fast,
they'll be home at last.
Not a loser anymore,
like the last time and
the time before.

Ev'ry body loves a winner
these two are loved by me.
Lady Peaceful, Lady Happy.
That's what I long to be.

While the odds aren't in my favor
Something's bound to begin
It's got to happen, happen sometime
Maybe this time I'll win.*
















photo: s&c,dec 2009, family friends
* lyrics, with respect to Caberet, Kander and Ebb

Lest You Think All Is Rotten in The State of Dougmark

I should mention that my husband is...wonderful.
Amazingly so.

Sleepless

We've never been good sleepers.
And by we, I mean the maiden name "we's". My dad, my brother, my cousins, my grandmother, myself. It's a family trait, this crazy insomnia, and it runs like a wide river through us.

Both my nephew and niece have it, a legacy from their dad. I'm fairly sure his middle child escaped it. It keeps you up at night, watching bad television.

I've sat through She Spies, Gazelle machines, the Juicer. I'm getting wise to not buying things but the Bobbi Brown Lifetime profile makes me long for a new brown lipstick.

I found my way downstairs last night. When leaving my bed for Ellie's room didn't work. I had two pillows, a snuggie, a fleece, leftover Orange Chicken and a poptart. Low fat.

On some level I thought "You know if you eat after 12, they can't do a D&C" and then I rationed that the poptart would make me feel better in the here and now, and that even if the news is bad, I'll likely leave and pick up Ellie from school then arrange better care. So I'm going to leave regardless.

Sometime around 1:35 a.m. my husband came down. Stood over me. He sleeps naked, and wanders thusly so eye level with your nude husband, meh, penis's are funny looking. Be that as it may I was two episodes into that 70's Show, and my eyes were slitted at the start of the third.

"Sleep. Sleep at last. Thank god almighty, sleep at last."

Then CLICK. Naked husband. With remote.
Clicks OFF tv.
And wakes me up.

And like Nancy Kerrigan I wailed internally
"Why? Why??? WHY????"

Two rules, if the baby is sleeping - you leave the baby alone. If it's not broken, don't fix it.

Why in the world do people constantly do things like cover insomniacs, turn off the lights, move pillows, adjust heat, TURN OFF TVs and wake them up.

I sleep, at best, in two hour increments. Must you - MUST you - try to help.
I've said it before, I'll say it again.

"Honey. Don't add value. You're only going to fuck it up."

Moody Blues

Tuesday afternoon.
I'm just beginning to see,
Now I'm on my way.
It doesn't matter to me,
Chasing the clouds away.

Tomorrow is Tuesday.
The day I go to the doctor again.
The day we find out ...well...whatever we are going to find out.
Are we in the game or are we out?

Rhyming completely unitentional...
but at least I know I could potentially have a career in infertility greeting cards.

When Toddlers Dress Like The Homeless

One is The Lonliest Number

I don't want to blog about this...thing.
"The Situation" as it were.
Because it makes for terrible reading.
And it's self serving.

I reread through these notes, and I think, the world could have burned to the ground, my daughter sprouted wings, and yet, here, nothing but me.
All nude, all the time.
Live. Live. Live.

Nothing to make you think, to make you laugh.
Nothing to make you sigh, or reminisce.
Just words, on paper, on screen, about me.

So I guess for the time being I'll be dull.
I'll plod - on paper, on screen, and in person.
Because my offerings are scant.
Because my mind is numb.

I'm not consumed with depression, or death, or fear.
I'm consumed with being ill
and the passage of time.

Because each day I wake up and I wonder
"Are we are day closer to growth, or did these hearts stop yesterday?" "Am I sick with morning sickness or sick with what is decaying."

I told a friend on the phone that the reason we are telling people, you, the universe, everyone really, is that should this end, for a moment, I wanted to feel...pregnant. Like real people. I wanted to tell someone, and talk about it.
Because if I hide it until I'm 13 weeks, well, likely I'll just be telling people what happened over the two months were we thought we were busy after the holidays but in fact my life changed. Again.

I have a friend who could give a fuck.
I've known her for years, we talk almost daily. I didn't bother telling her I was pregnant again because it's not on her radar. It never has been. My miscarriages, my one birth, my life is not something she comprehends. Her with her three now, and her own illnesses. So our friendship is based on love, and a shared history. And caring. But she isn't who I'm talking to about this now. Because she really, and I mean really, doesn't get it. So it's weird to be so isolated. I can tell a million people, I can start the conversation with anyone...but there isn't anyone to finish it with. Even an old friend.

Because empathy for this is a funny funny thing.

Here's the thing. There are bigger fish to fry in this world.
Logically I know I have a house, a husband, bills that are paid. A healthy daughter, the love of friends. Externally I can be charming, internally I try to do the real work of being a better person. I know that compared to other countries, other issues, compared to almost every single real issue in this world, being pregnant, having a child is...NOT a big issue. Because life moves on. It's not breast cancer, it's not a house fire, it's not death. There's no rape, no murder, no child crossing the street at Sunday 6am on his way to work and being mowed down by a Saturday night drunk driver. This is - LOGICALLY - so small.

I am either pregnant, or I am not.

But again, I find myself wishing for, longing for, an understanding arm. Someone that I could say daily to "I got up today, my back hurts, I took a hot shower and managed breakfast. The fact that I didn't throw it up likely means they stopped growing."

No matter what I do, where I place my mind, what other distraction involves me, somewhere daily lingers the thought "Did they die yet? Are they dead yet?" Because given the amount of hormones twins produce, even when they die, I won't bleed them out. My levels will stay too high. So every minute of every day, shwoop, they could be gone but how will I know?

I have tried talking to friends. One said "But EVERYONE feels that way. No pregnancy is a guarantee. Everyone worries the whole time"

Oh.
Ok then.
So I'm a narcissist and an asshole.

So I hide it.
I am up, at the gym, at playdates, on the phone. Answering only lightly as to how I feel. Touching on it briefly to gauge the response.
"I'm a little worried " I'll venture.
To be dismissed. Or to have a platitudes. The other person relieved to have asked.
"Oh you'll be fine"
"This time it will be different"

Just say it, I want to say to people.
Really, you honestly haven't ONCE looked at your husband and said "It's her second twin pregnancy in a year and I really don't think it's going to work out"?

By all means DON'T tell me what you think.
Say to me it's all going to work out.
So I can feel even more alone.

Because there's nothing like being worried all alone. There's nothing like having friends but not having a single one that will tell you the truth, or allow you to speak your own. Because god forbid we talk about it because otherwise, what, I wasn't thinking about it? You might REMIND me of it?

"Oh yeh, I AM scared. I totally forgot."

And if I sound angry, I am not. I'm alone. So it makes me prickly.

This is isolating, and terrible, and depressing. And no matter how logical and strong I am, I can't help but wish for someone else to say what I need to hear.

So I'll write the script.
And I'll pretend it's someone who understands.

"Yes, omg, this IS terrible. You must be terrified. Devastated. Shocked. Yes, twins are dangerous. Both with your history and your incompetent cervix. One, one child was going to be difficult, but to have two, it's likely you'll be on bedrest. It's actually guaranteed. And your cervix? Well, the cerclage can sometimes trigger spontaneous labor. Especially since all the bleeding with Ellie happened after cervical trauma. So let's go through this again. You have twins, the hardly ever separate and survive the first trimester, that you are hoping to bring to 14 weeks, where you will have your cervix sewn shut, automatically go on bedrest for two weeks, you'll be up by 16 weeks and by 22 likely will be down again. Your twins WILL be premature, because all twins are, but by how much remains to be seen given you'll be getting the progesterone shots weekly. Perhaps this time it won't shorten as much. Add to all that, you are over 40 so you'll need the genetic screening and the amnio. It looks like you have a fuckload of heartbreak and danger in front of you. I don't see a single window where you'll be able to rest easy or a single appointment that will give you comfort. I'm sure you are terrified, and saddened. Add to all this, you and your husband are pretty much done right? This was the last year didn't you say? So it's not just this pregnancy but it's the direction of the remainder of your life that's being decided. Where you'll live, if you'll return to work, how large your family will be. Then after, oh, all those questions for years...You'll have to find a way to comfortably discuss infertility, losses, that the choice wasn't yours, without crying of course. Or making someone else uncomfortable. I know - and if you DO lose this one, and it is your last, you are going to be pretty mad at yourself for not pursuing the progesterone thing. Your levels ARE pretty low. All and all, I think you're fucked my friend."