Internet Grapes

joy in my heart

Originally posted elsewhere back in April of this year, but I find myself re-reading this and trying to take it to heart especially now, in the holiday season.

Dear me,

Not very often, but sometimes, as you are busy remembering what's gone wrong before or predicting what will go wrong later, it is all you can do to keep going, but you must. Do not stop. Continue: to put one foot in front of the other, to give your loved ones hugs, to help your children get dressed in the morning, to do the grocery shopping and the laundry, to think about what you want to do with your life (to believe that you have a choice about that), to pick up your camera and leave the house, to clean the toilet and the litter box, to stay in contact with your friends, to go to choir rehearsal and sing your heart out.  Keep going through the motions, and fake it until you make it, whether that only takes the next five minutes, or the next hour, or the next day, or the next week. There will come a point when real pleasure and ease return. There will come a day when you feel real joy.

Let this stand as a reminder to yourself. The real pleasure and ease and joy: they will always return. 

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A week or so ago, I had an argument with Geoff (or rather, the argument had us). I was talking to him, thinking that he was listening even though he was sitting in front of his computer, because he was making occasional reassuring type listening noises ("uh huh" and "yeah" and "oh"). There came a point when I discovered that he wasn't listening at all, had possibly not heard a word I'd said, and I felt so stupid for talking to myself, for not being able to tell whether he was actually listening or not. I stopped mid-sentence and walked out of the room and upstairs to bed, but then I wasn't sleepy, and so what followed was one of those fights that's about nothing and everything at the same time. Unlike most of those types of arguments we've had, though, this one ended with both of us calm and comforting each other. Geoff admitted he was worried about the music at church for Easter Sunday, and had been trying to finish with a piece he was working on when I was talking to him. I sympathized and comforted and told him he's a brilliantly talented musician (because he is).  It was better, but still exhausting. Sometimes it still feels like we have a lot to worry about.

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These days, a specter of myself and (of what I see as) my failed career haunts me, telling me that I've brought shame upon myself and my family (all that debt; all that effort; all of this selfishness, wanting to leave that behind). Most of the time, I see right through her. I wave her away, I tell her she has no power over me, I tell her that a life pursuing what I love doing is better and more important than following through on something I don't love just because I started it. (And I remind her that I tried so hard, so unsuccessfully, for so long, to get a legal job despite the fact that I didn't love it.) I tell her she's a jerk and a liar, and sometimes I think that she is really, truly gone. But she is preternaturally patient, and so far she always returns. She waits as long as she needs to wait, until my guard is down, until I am vulnerable, until she can hurt me again. I am determined to outlast her. (I am taking an online class with Brene Brown & Jen Lemen called ordinary courage, on love, shame resilience, and worthiness. I hope for further healing.) 

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Our trip to London, which I will write about in more detail soon, was wonderful. I love London, and I loved being there. The trees were blooming, the weather was pretty much perfect, and the company (my mom and Katie) was excellent. There was this thing, though, that at first I had some trouble identifying. For awhile, in London, I felt one step removed from myself, and wondered whether I might be losing touch with my emotions - whether I had lost the ability to just feel, without worry, without doubt, without a sense of level-headed temperance. No matter how much beauty surrounded us or how intrigued I was by anything, a part of me stayed detached. So I did have a marvelous time. I did love the experience. But because of the circumstances (most notably, my beautiful and sweet but devilish seven year old companion), I was mostly unable to truly relax or to be completely wide open to what I was experiencing. This is ok, I think, but I am glad I have recognized it and named it. It is not a flaw in me.

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A week and a half ago our cat Lucy (the mother of the eight kittens who were born at the end of April 2010) was hit by a car in the middle of a street a few blocks away from our house. She was killed. Geoff and Katie and I have shed many tears over her. We buried her body in the back yard, between the fence and the back alley, and marked the spot with daffodils that we picked from our back yard. Lucy's life, and the birth of those eight kittens, was a joyful blessing to our family at a time when we desperately needed it. Her fur was the softest. Her eyes seemed the wisest. When we'd drive up to our house after having been gone for awhile, if Lucy was outside she'd be on the front porch waiting for us, and she'd stand up and pad over to greet us as we got out of the car. When I sat on the couch and watched tv before going to bed, she'd come over and lay on my legs, purring. I miss her. It's been almost two weeks, and Katie cries about her death almost every night, and apologizes when she cries. "You don't have to be sorry," I say, and most nights, I will stay there in Katie's bed next to her, petting her hair or rubbing her back or just letting one part of my body touch hers so that as she drifts off to sleep she will know that I'm there with her. Lucy is gone, but I'm not. I'm right here, sweetheart. I'm right here.

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A few nights ago, all of us were tired and grumpy, and Annabel kept saying "uh uh" in her whiniest voice, incessantly, over and over (as she does every day lately; a few days ago she said it so many times, and refused to even explain what she was saying it about, that I lost my temper and yelled at her, which made her cry so hard there was no way I could feel anything but regret and shame), and after Annabel was in bed, Katie was whining about everything, too. As Geoff and Katie and I stood in Katie's room, getting ready to tuck her in, I said something about the drawing Katie had done on her whiteboard, and she misinterpreted what I'd said as a criticism, which in turn hurt my feelings. As we stood there, frustrated and full of hurt feelings and disconnect, Geoff reached out to pull us both closer, but instead of feeling comforted, I suddenly had a flash of insight into the future between Katie and me. I was suddenly sure that when she is older, we will not get along, but instead the air will be charged between us, full of miscommunication and missed chances to reach out to each other. (I thought of Angela and her mother on My So Called Life, actually.) I cried about it a little bit then, and I cried about it later, about how much I will miss Katie when we aren't able to get along with each other anymore. Geoff says it won't be like that, but he doesn't know. Of course, I don't, either. But the possibility of losing Katie's friendly, easy companionship during her adolescent years has never felt real to me before, and now it does. 

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Saturday morning, there was coffee and playing in the backyard. We rehearsed beautiful music for the next day's Easter service, and we visited with friends from out of town. Later, the ingredients for lemon curd (for lemon cake, for Easter dessert) simmered on the stovetop, and the smell of lemons wafted all through the house. The very first spring tulip opened that afternoon in our backyard. Annabel & Geoff were napping. Katie & a friend were upstairs laughing. There was sunshine everywhere, after so many days of rain. And this is what sprang into my head: Joy in my heart today.

Despite everything! Despite everything I can think of that is sad and heartbreaking, still. Joy crashes into me, overwhelming me, drowning me, and I'm so grateful and amazed. 

I posted about this joy on Facebook, and then went back to making the lemon cake, and I started having second thoughts about posting about joy right there out in the open, for those 500 plus friends (or "friends," in some cases) to see. Should I delete it? Should I have written it? Am I ridiculous to think that my joy matters to anyone else, or is even real? 

I knew the right response to these doubts, as clearly as if I heard a voice telling me: it would be a waste, a great sadness, a tragedy, a huge loss, to ignore this joy. These moments of overwhelming joy don't come along that often for any of us, or at least not for me. If I had one of these moments a week, I'd say I was living a pretty joyful life. How wrong it would be to let any one of those moments pass by without recognizing that it is here!

Katie and her friend had gone to her friend's backyard to play, and while they were gone, I started working on the cake batter. They burst back into the house when I was almost done, just mixing in the last ingredient, and Katie asked if she could play in Chyanne's house, because Chyanne had Just Dance, and they could play it. I said yes, she could, and then she asked if she could have dinner at Chyanne's house, and I said yes to that, too, as long as she was invited, as long as it was ok with Chyanne's mom.  Chyanne said it was, and so I said it was ok with me, and the two of them shrieked with their own joy, bursting into huge grins, running from the house. I followed them to the door and watched them leaping down the sidewalk happily. "Bye!" I called, feeling bemused, and Katie called back a goodbye. "I love you," I said. She kept running alongside her friend, didn't turn her head, didn't look at me. But I heard her call, loud enough for me to hear, "I love you, too," and I was both comforted and devastated by the easy casualness of her declaration of love, by the way she is growing up and forming her own friendships that have nothing to do with me. Amazingly, joy continued to run through me as I watched them running down the block. I cried a little bit more, and then I went back into the house. A huge shaft of sunlight streamed through the dining room window and lit up the dust motes and pet hairs. Only the sunlight mattered to me.

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Dear you,

You don't remember exactly when it was, the last time you felt this kind of joy. You don't know when it will come again; do we ever? When it comes - when it is here - you owe to it yourself to grab hold of it, to hold it close to you, to let it overwhelm every other emotion that's going on inside you. (I am holding this joy. I am holding it tight.)

When joy comes, let it take your breath away. Let it drive its lightning bolt through the core of your heart (at least as deep as the moments of pain and despair have traveled). Let it make a mark on you that will last for hours, for days, or for weeks. If you are lucky, you will still be reeling in its wake, rocked slightly off balance, the next time that it finds you. If you are lucky, the joy of this moment will be your lifejacket in future times of grief, when the heaviness of loss threatens to drag you so far down that you will be lost forever.

If you are lucky, your joy will shock you, and make you cry real tears, and you will stand there open-mouthed for a second, and then you will laugh. 

You may be tempted to feel embarrassed about feeling your joy so deeply, especially on a day that looks so ordinary on the outside, but ignore that; this is not silly. This is not shameful. This is what life is all about. (Isn't it?  And if not this, then what?)

this is the one for my Belly bee baby

She talks up a storm, and you can't grin at her without getting a smile back.

She's very bossy ("stand up! or I won't sing to you!"), is constantly singing or talking, and will repeat the same things over and over. (Every time she puts on her shoes, she'll say, "Is this the wrong feet?" I'm not sure what the answer is supposed to be, because when I say no, it's the right feet, she'll often switch them, but she also usually switches them if I say yes, it's the wrong feet.)

She lets us (and we do) call her Belly and Bel all the time, but if someone refers to her that way, she'll protest, "No, my name is Annabel."

She has a terrific, always-at-the-ready sense of humor, but is intensely serious if she's focused on something.

She loves going to school, which until recently she called "sook" and then "soolk," because it took her until a few months ago to conquer any dipthongs involving s's (i.e., she used a "foon" to eat her cereal, worried about whether food would be "ficy," and wanted me to push her on the "fing").

When I first started writing this (back in the summer, months ago now), I wrote that I didn't know how we would get her weaned from her beloved binky. I wrote:

Last night she had one in her mouth while she was taking a bath, and later it disappeared. I couldn't find it right away, so I pulled a second one off of our bedroom dresser and gave it to her. Then we brushed her teeth, and suddenly she was binky-less again, so I told her - frustrated - that was it, that was all the binkies, she had had two of them and now there were none, so she was just going to have to sleep without a binky. She sighed sadly, whined that no, she wanted a binky, and when I said that it was too bad, but she was going to have to do without, she started to sob in earnest. I asked her why she was so upset, and she said, "I'm crying because I'm sad because I want to sleep with my binky!"

I have talked to lots of people about how they got rid of the pacifier, and they include: 1) simply saying that they are now too old for a pacifier, and that is that; 2) purposely breaking the pacifier (usually by cutting the end off so it can't really be sucked, at least not enjoyably, I guess) and then explaining that it was broken - this seems to often culminate in throwing the broken binky in the trash; 3) creating an elaborate scenario about sending the old pacifiers to needy babies in other parts of the world and/or about having them taken by some sort of Binky Fairy who leaves a present in exchange. No one has so far admitted that they or their child has had a difficult time giving it up, so maybe it won't be as hard as I think it will. But Annabel is committed to what she wants, has a memory like an elephant, and is very matter-of-fact about what she knows. For instance, I am 100% confident that if her binky is broken, she will simply instruct us to go to the store to buy a replacement, and that will most definitely not be the end of that.

But now I think that one of these days she will just decide to give it up when she is good and ready. Shortly after writing the above, I told her that we had a new rule: the binky was only allowed in the car and in the crib - nowhere else. I expected her to protest, if not initially, then later, but nope. Surprisingly, she has never once challenged that rule, not until last week, when she suddenly announced, "I'm a mom now, so I don't need my binky in the car. Just for sleeping." (She's a mom to her doll Sally, which is actually Katie's doll, and on a regular basis Katie will say, "Ok, Annabel, tomorrow I am going to play with Sally, ok?" And Annabel will say ok, but then when tomorrow comes, she refuses to hand it over, and since Katie gives in, she gets it for another day.) She hasn't asked for a binky for anything but sleeping since then.

Katie is so often my reflection, for good and for ill. She looks a lot like me. She goes through somewhat wild and obvious roller coasters of emotions, all worn on her sleeve - so much like me. She is also eager to please, and would try almost anything if she thought it would make you laugh or would make you like her. She wants everyone in the world to like her, and she is deeply hurt if she knows that someone doesn't. Her speech is rarely matter-of-fact, but is more likely full of hyperbole - again, for good or for bad.  She'll swing from "you never want to play that with me" to "you're the best mommy in the world" within seconds. Katie is so much like me that usually, even when I don't like how she's acting (especially when I don't like how she's acting?), I understand it. This doesn't necessarily mean I'm more patient with her, though; often I think I'm less patient with those flaws of her that I'm already so tired of and frustrated with in myself.

If Katie is my treasured not-exactly-doppelganger, Annabel is my cherished mystery, so often surprising and delighting me.  She is different. She is straightforward, and she will not be manipulated into doing something just because we'd like her to; she'll do it if she wants to, thank you, and not otherwise. I am not too worried about Annabel succumbing to peer pressure when she is older (Katie, on the other hand, I can easily imagine going along with something that she doesn't really want to do if she thinks it might make people like her). Annabel is even keel, especially for a 3 year old: when she's at her most upset, she'll scream and fuss and protest loudly, but two minutes later, she'll be calm again. Well, that didn't work, I imagine her thinking. Might as well move on to the next thing.

She will hardly ever be persuaded to agree with you, though, if she started out disagreeing, or if you believe something that directly oppposes what she wants to do. My mom was here for Thanksgiving, and at one point she went into the bathroom and started to shut the door. "I don't want you to shut the door," Annabel said. "I want to see you when you're in there." My mom told her that she'd rather have privacy and be alone in the bathroom, but Annabel insisted on coming in, and my mom relented. "Ok, but at least come in and shut the door," she told Annabel. Annabel went in the (tiny) bathroom and shut the door behind her, and I heard my mom say, "I like to have privacy when I'm in the bathroom." I could picture Annabel nodding in a placating way as she said, "Yeah, sometimes you do." (I laughed out loud when I heard that.)

She can be very sweet when she feels like it, and she has a very definite sense of her own strength and value. The other day she told me that when I am sad and she talks to me that it makes me feel better, and today when I was whining & actually crying in frustration over a stupid computer issue I was unable to solve, she came over to me, said "I love you," and gave me a hug.

Up until she was 10 months old, she was a pretty terrible sleeper, waking up more than 4 or 5 times a night until well after she was 8 months old, and still waking up at least once every night (and often 2 or 3) until April 2009, at which point I was diagnosed with pneumonia and was prescribed antibiotics that were not breastfeeding friendly. After 2 or 3 nights of Geoff being the one who went to her in the night, she apparently decided that it was simply not worth waking up if she was only going to be offered a bottle, and she started sleeping through the night. She has never stopped, and in fact her sleeping habits are still somewhat miraculous to us. Unless she's sick, she sleeps all night, every night, except for an occasional wake up from a nightmare, between 9 and 10 pm. If she stays up late or misses a nap? She makes up for it by sleeping in.  (This is the opposite of Katie, who routinely gets up before 6 if she's been up past 9 or so the night before.)

Have I written this before? About how before Annabel was born, there was a part of me that was afraid that I would not be able to love her as much as I loved Katie, but that instead, from the day she was born, I loved her just as much, just like that (which in a way seemed unfair, since Katie had already had more than 4 years to work her way into my heart; but I know that love doesn't always - ever? - work in a logical, incremental, rational way), just the way people had said it would be: I loved her as much as Katie (inasmuch as my love for either of them can really be measured), but in a different way.

I have not written nearly as much about Annabel as I have about Katie, and I have felt guilty about that (how motherly of me), as if by not documenting her amazingness, her quirks, her whimsy, her incredible vocabulary & her extreme gregariousness, that I am appreciating her less.  And honestly, in some ways, I think that might even be true: I look back now and read old posts about Katie and am reminded of things about earlier phases of her life that I would have forgotten about if I hadn't written it out. I am sorry that I haven't written more about the specifics of life with baby Annabel, but if Annabel ever reads this, I hope she knows that my not writing about her had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me (and a lot to do with how difficult the past few years have been, which have made it hard for me to write the way I'd like to have written).

If you read this someday, Annabel, I want you to know that I love you now, have loved you since before you were born, and will love you always and forever. I love the way you often greet me in the morning with an excited, "The bedbugs didn't bite me!" and I love how when I knock on your bedroom door, you call out, "Are you home?" I love the way you run so fast & so hard, so often, on your own or alongside your sister or cousins on their scooters or bikes. I love how determined you are and how difficult it is to dissuade you from doing something you've decided you want to do (even though your determination sometimes makes some days more difficult). I love the weight of your little body on mine when I rock you in your bedroom rocker at bedtime, and already I miss that tired, relaxed weight, since most of the time these days you are still wide awake enough at bedtime that instead you sit up away from me. I love how much you love school, how much you love drawing and cutting and pasting and folding, and how you can count to 16 in Spanish (and how today when we watched The Muppets you wouldn't stop repeating "Hola!" after one of the muppets said it). I love that your artwork is, first and foremost, for you: so often you bring home little personal art projects that consist of a piece of paper on which you've drawn, colored, or painted, that have then been folded a few times, glued together, folded more, then taped together on the outside. You won't let me open them up; you insist that the taped-up, folded-up version of the paper is exactly how it's supposed to be seen. I love how you go crazy for particular foods - the other day you ate 6 or 7 clementines in a row; some days you will eat 4 bananas one after the other, and you will never turn down a mashed, salted avocado with a few tortilla chips.

Oh, Annabel, I just love you, almost everything about you, so much. It is my hope and my belief that, regardless of what I write now or have previously written here, that you will already know how I feel about you simply from the history of our relationship with each other, but just in case there is any doubt: you are my sunshine, my entertainer, my stubborn & beloved little Belly girl, who impresses and delights me every single day.

Today you are 3 and a half years old exactly, and already I am so proud of the person you are. I feel joyous and blessed that I get to be around to continue to help you grow and mature as best I can, and to see how you change and develop. I am so very, very thankful that you're my daughter.

Nine Lucky Years

Today marks nine years since Geoff and I got married. I know some of you were reading way back then; our wedding reception hall was festooned with over 1,000 origami cranes, handmade by readers. (Thank you for those.) Our first dance was to Ben Folds' "The Luckiest," a song which I had written about after I first heard it. It is our song: "What was my life before you? What if we'd been born at the wrong time? Someday, when you die, I will be so lost without you that I will die, too, and that will be right." (Interesting note: if you google "Ben Folds 'The Luckiest'", that entry is on the first page of results. Huh.)

When you first fall in love with someone, it is hard to think about anything else. When your brand new relationship is moving forward - from long distance to local to sharing a home to being engaged to newlyweds - it is hard to feel too bad about your life. You feel lucky and blessed and beloved, so often. Or at least I did.

I have never regretted marrying Geoff, and I have always loved him, during these 9 years of marriage and 13 years of being a couple. But there have been days (as you have witnessed) when that love was not enough to keep me from despair and depression and sadness. Over time, even an amazing, complicated, reciprocal love relationship loses some of its power to lift up. As much as I've tried not to, and as much as I've remained grateful for what I have, I have also often taken it for granted. I have often failed to marvel at how amazing it is to be part of such a loving relationship, and I've instead grieved over a lack of career, a lack of money, a lack of stability, a lack of direction. (And make no mistake, this is a loving relationship, and I know that, possibly now more than ever. My husband loves me and stands by me and believes in me, no matter what, and these last few years have shown me that. He has not shown a moment of resentment or impatience over my job searching, my sadness, my excitement over dreams which many would call impractical, and even my occasional reluctance to follow any dreams at all.)

Today is our 9th wedding anniversary, and to celebrate I made Geoff a movie. I believe he appreciated my effort and my finished product, but I also realized, as I was making it, that putting the images and words and music together was also a gift for myself. Look at all of those smiles, and all that silliness, not to mention those two people who we created to become part of our family; look at all that time passing. I can't watch it and take my husband for granted. I can't watch it without being overwhelmed with gratitude and joy and tears. I am so, so, lucky.

I don't know what the future holds, but as long as we are still together, still loving and supporting each other, still choosing each other above all others, then I know that I have been blessed beyond measure.

Happy anniversary to my sweet Geoffrey. Here's to many, many more.

In honor of Valentine's Day (which, yes, I know was a couple of days ago now, and which isn't a holiday we really celebrate much), I resurrected my old post about how Geoff and I met. 

I'm touched and amazed at how true the last few paragraphs still are today, 8.5 years after I first posted the entry:

There is so much between then and now, and I can't tell you all of it. I can hardly tell you any of it. I am amazed that it has been three years since we met. It has been forever. It has been a few minutes. I never knew it could be so easy.

I think of myself as strong and independent, and mostly I am. I could get by on my own, if I had to. But what would I do? What would I do without him? Sometimes when I am without him, I become desperate for the sound of his voice. Sometimes when I am without him, I yearn for his presence. I live with him, and I don't get tired of seeing him. He makes me laugh. Sometimes he drives me nuts. But he is my family. When I am with him, I am sure that I belong there.

I am sure that I belong here. I am sure that I am home.

The whole (lengthy) post is here if you'd like to read it. 

how to live like this

I don't know how to live like this. 

I love that 4.5 year old girl in the bathroom, talking to herself while she plays with toys, telling me she wants five more minutes, but already I do not understand her.  Already, I feel like I have failed her in at least one important way. (She will not poop in the toilet.  This sounds simple.  This sounds easy.  If I told you that other than that, she is smart, creative, hilarious, affectionate, and compassionate (and of course also stubborn, often whiny, and weird), you would think, maybe, that the failure to poop in the toilet was minor.  Maybe it is.  And yet most days it is a huge thing, overshadowing all else, bringing an excellent day to a crashing disappointment, making a bad day worse.  I go from calm patience to angry ranting and disgust in a heartbeat.  She is failing us.  We are failing her.  I am failing.) 

I love that almost 5 month old baby in the crib, sleeping quietly at the moment, rolled over onto her stomach in her baby straitjacketed swaddle.  And yet I am already dreading bedtime.  I can not possibly go to bed early enough to get enough sleep, not with the number of times Annabel will wake me up in the night.  Not since I need to go into the office tomorrow.  Already, these days, I tend to only take showers every other day, hoarding the extra 15 minutes that a shower (and waiting for hair to dry) would take, using it for sleep, or for 15 minutes of time all by myself.  I took a shower today.  If tonight is like the other nights, she will wake up at 10 or so, when I go to bed.  She will nurse, and I will, at least that time, enjoy the weight of her little warm chubby body, the feel of her hands, opening and closing on whatever part of me she can reach (doing some weird but not altogether unpleasant massage of my chest), if she can get her hand out of the confines of the swaddling blanket.  Then I will put her back to bed, and lie down (the feeling I have each time I put her back in her crib, the feeling of impending blessed much-needed sleep, is (are!) the best part(s!) of each night), and go almost immediately to sleep.  But she will wake up again around 2 hours (or, if I'm very lucky, 3 hours) after I have gone to sleep, and I will pick her up and bring her to bed with me, lying back against the pillow, eyes closed, dozing, wishing for the time to pass quickly.  Twenty minutes or so after she's woken, she will be done.  I will burp her, kiss her soft fuzzy head, put her back in the crib, and return - ahhhh - to bed, pulling the covers up high over my shoulder, tucking them under my chin.  I will look at the clock, see that it is 12:54 or 1:36, and mentally calculate when she might wake up, and how much sleep that will be.  Most likely, she will wake me up again, 2 (or if I'm lucky 3) hours later.  And again.  And again.  Last night she woke me up at midnight, 2, 4, and 6. 

On Monday of this week I had what I would call a minor breakdown.  In front of two co-workers (luckily, my two closest friends at work), I started to cry.  They closed the door, told me it would be ok, gave me names of therapists to talk to, asked if there was anything they could do.  Mostly, they listened, and they let me cry, and when I apologized, they refused to accept my apology.  Afterward, not only later on that day, but stretching all the way to today, Wednesday, I felt (I feel) better, as if a dam had broken.  The pressure has been relieved.

I started writing this on Sunday, and I have not gotten a chance to continue until today (Wednesday), which I think is probably symptomatic of part of my problem: I have very little time that is not spent trying to sleep, taking care of the children, commuting to and from work, working at a job which pays me less and less (in addition to the pay cut from the beginning of this month, I'll pay more than $100 more a month for insurance in the new year; and of course there was no raise at the beginning of 2008) and which simultaneously requires more and more (not only more time, but more rules, more compliance, more bureaucratic hoops to jump through).  I am worried about my job.  I am worried about money.  I am worried, a little bit, about what we'll do for Christmas this year - it will be fine, I know it will be fine, and yet I want it to also be good; I want to find a way to make sure that I enjoy this first Christmas with Annabel and fifth one with Katie.

Even now, right now, I have had to stop at least five times (since about 3 paragraphs up) to go comfort the baby, nurse the baby, replace the baby's pacifier, wipe up the baby's spit up. 

In phone calls at work, I forget what I'm saying in the mdidle of saying it.  I transpose digits in people's phone numbers.  I am easily distracted from what I'm working on, flitting from one thing to another, rarely finishing anything.  It's hard to follow my own train of thought for more than a few minutes at a time. 

I am in tears at least once a day.  And the real, underlying problem is that I feel like I am trying to do so many things, and that I am succeeding at none of them.  I feel like I'm failing.

And yet right now, on Wednesday, a few days after I started this, on a day when I got to "sleep in" until 8 (after having been woken up 4 times), I feel optimistic.  I feel better than I have felt in days, maybe weeks.  I feel like I can actually make it through another day, and another day after that.  (This lovely poem helped, I am pretty sure.)   

I actually daydream about posting here often. I have an idea that I will start posting regularly again, and that what I write will be work I'm proud of.  I don't know when that will be, or even, I'll admit, whether that will be at all. 

I do plug along taking pictures, at least, posting them to Flickr and captioning them when I can. 

I do stop and smell Annabel's head and rub my cheek against her brand new downy fuzzy hair and put my finger out so that she will grab it in her hand and squeeze tightly.  I accept it as her embrace. 

I do stop to look at Katie's gorgeous perfect face, her bright eyes, her mischievous smile.  I watch her body grow leaner and longer, seemingly on a daily basis.  (Since April she has gained 2 pounds and grown over 2 inches.)  I am amazed at the way she is so much her own person, not my baby, not dependent on me or Geoff for ideas or for her sense of humor or for her likes and dislikes.  

I know that no matter how difficult each day is right now, I will miss this time when it is gone.  I will miss the people that my children are today: the way Annabel lights up when she sees either mine or Geoff's face, and the way she is learning to blow raspberries; the way Katie asks me every night to sing her a new song that she doesn't already know, and also some other songs that she already does (right now our regulars are: Edelweiss, Over the Rainbow, Til There Was You, Goodnight My Someone, Where Is Love?, Some Enchanted Evening, How to Handle a Woman, and the Beatles' "I Will" - I am running out of songs that I have memorized - I actually had to research the verses for "Some Enchanted Evening"), and wants me to tickle her while we sing. 

Today was ok.  Tomorrow might be better.  The only way to do this is day by day by day, I guess.  I think.  That is the only way to live like this.  I'm trying. 

prayers, answered and un

One day, several months ago, as we sat in church listening to the sermon, I found myself looking out at some people in the congregation - a father with his son and daughter.  The father was wearing glasses, and the son was wearing his glasses (although I've also seen him without them), and the daughter didn't have glasses on. I tried to think whether I'd ever seen her in glasses or heard her mention contacts.  The mother of the two kids was not sitting with them - she was sitting with us in the choir - and I know she wears contacts.  We occasionally see her in glasses.  I only thought about this for a second (not nearly as long as it has taken me to type this). 

These thoughts led me to start thinking about genetics, and about how things like poor eyesight make their way from one generation to the next, and I wondered about the baby growing inside me, and whether she would need glasses.  Geoff wears glasses.  I have had glasses during two different periods of my life, but for eyestrain, not for vision.  I guess it remains to be seen whether Katie will need glasses. 

And then I started thinking about other members of mine and Geoff's families, and which of them have glasses, when suddenly, as clear as a photograph held right in front of me - no, as clear as a person sitting right in front of me - I had a vision of Stephanie, wearing her glasses, leaning toward me, beaming at me happily and maybe a little conspiratorially, the way she did so many times.  And as I saw her, I felt an urgent PLEASE rise up inside me, a plea for Stephanie to be alive, for her death to have been a dream (a nightmare), and for me to have a chance to see her smile at me like that again.  And even though I knew, of course, that my plea would not be answered, there was a part of me that kept hoping that somehow I had misunderstood, that even though all these months had passed, that she was really ok, and that her death had never happened.

On a different day, around the end of April, in the last month or so before Annabel was born, I was driving home from work on Lake Shore Drive when I realized that I couldn't remember feeling any major movements from the baby that day.  Usually there was a flurry of activity at some point every morning, and again every afternoon, that was so forceful that I couldn't help but stop whatever I was doing to focus completely on the baby in there, to wonder what she was doing, and to be grateful for her existence (but often also to wish that she wouldn't push quite so hard).  I couldn't remember any such flurry from that day.  There was no such movement right then, either.

I reached down to my belly to feel for her hard shape under my skin.  Just there, to the right of my belly button, I felt an expanse of babyness - maybe a back, or a butt, or a head.  I pushed on it gently.  It didn't push back. 

This was normal.  She slept, often, so the fact that she wasn't pushing back at me didn't mean anything was wrong.  I knew that she was probably just fine.  But still.  I had a nagging sense that maybe, just maybe, something was wrong. 

I pushed again.  Nothing.  "No."  I said.  I was alone in the car.  I said it out loud anyway.  "No.  No, no, no, no, no."  After a few minutes, I started to cry.  "No."

I kept driving, and I kept waiting for movement, and every so often I would push on my belly, and there would be no response (even though each time I could feel some part of her little body in there, under my skin).  Even though there was no real reason for it, I felt panic rising inside me.  I thought of the day, almost a year before, when we'd gone to the doctor and discovered that I was having a miscarriage; I thought of how the day had been sunny and clear and warm.  I thought of how up until that afternoon, there had been nothing to distinguish that day from any other day, no way to know about the grief that I was going to experience before the end of the day.  Nothing to warn me that I was going to spend the afternoon sobbing and the next few days despairing.  No clues. 

"Please," I said.  "Please," again, out loud.  "Please.  Please.  Please."   

I thought how easily this day could be another day like that day last May, how suddenly, with no warning, this day could turn from ordinary to unforgettable. I thought about how bad things so often do happen that way, coming out of nowhere, slamming you to the ground and knocking the wind out of you. I thought about how so many bad things happen not because we deserve them, but in spite of the fact that probably nobody deserves them.  I imagined getting home, telling Geoff, driving to the hospital, discovering that the baby had died, deciding where to go from there (I was eight months pregnant; there would have to be labor and delivery; there would be no miscarriage in the privacy of my own bathtub), and wondering whether I would ever find the strength to try again. 

And then, as I drove along, crying and praying and pleading, as I was preparing myself for disaster and despair (it couldn't really have been very long - maybe it was fifteen minutes, or maybe it was only five), she moved, gently, inside me.  And then she moved again.  And then again, more deliberately, and stronger. 

I gasped a huge sigh of relief.  "Oh, thank you," I said, still crying (maybe crying harder).  "Thank you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you." 

A little over a week ago, at the end of July, we were in Halifax, Nova Scotia, visiting Geoff's family while I was on maternity leave.  While we were there, we all drove out to Lawrencetown Beach, to scatter Stephanie's ashes in the ocean, from a beach she loved to visit.  There was fog everywhere, and the air was much colder than I'd realized it would be, so before we could walk over to the water, we had to spend a few minutes dressing Annabel more warmly, and putting a jacket on Katie.  Geoff strapped on the Baby Bjorn, and we put Annabel into it, and we all walked over to the rocky beach together.  As we stood there in the fog and wind, watching what was left of Stephanie's body fall into the water and blow through the air, I did not say "please."  I tried, really hard, to think about how glad I was to have known her, to be grateful to have had her as my sister in law and friend, and to feel lucky to have known her.  I tried, really hard, to pray "thank you," even though there will always be a part of me, I think, that can't help but say "no." 

In the car, driving back into Halifax after we left the beach, Katie (who had sobbed nearly hysterically at the beach) kept asking us to tell her about Stephanie and about how she had died.  We did the best we could to explain, again, what had happened, and why, and made sure to let her know that we didn't completely understand it ourselves.  Katie started to cry again.  "I don't remember her," she said, and cried as if she understood just how much of a loss that was. 

Annabel is two months old now, and except for a mild rash on her cheeks, she is completely healthy.  For the most part, she is a happy, alert, easily soothed baby, who makes me smile every day.  There is a woman at the church who wants to hold Annabel every time we see her. "A healthy baby," she says, "is like winning the lottery."  She smiles at us, and tells us how lucky we are.  We smile back, and nod, and say that she's right.

Hope

I don't know where to start.  I didn't mean for so much time to pass before I posted again, but from the last time I posted until just recently, it has been a whirlwind of busyness, celebration, grief, recovery, exhaustion. 

On September 18th, the same day as my last post, I took a home pregnancy test that had a second line so faint I thought I might be imagining it.  On September 19th, I got a darker line.  A couple of days later, one that was even darker.  Since then, I've had bloodwork and an ultrasound and exam at the doctor's office.  I'm pregnant again.  About 10.5 weeks right now, with an estimated due date of May 29, 2008. 

On September 26th, we celebrated Geoff's 31st birthday.  The weekend before his birthday Katie and I visited my Mom.  The weekend after his birthday, Katie and I visited my dad & stepmom, and also my brother and his girlfriend and my niece. 

On October 4th, Geoff's parents arrived to visit, and to be here for his doctoral recital on the 7th.  His sister Kimberley arrived on the 5th.  My dad & stepmom and Josh & Frankie arrived on the 6th.  The recital was a big success, with lots of our friends attending, and with everyone impressed by and/or proud of Geoff and his talent and skill.  On October 9th, his father and girlfriend and Kimberley went home.  On October 10th, his mom went home. 

On October 10th, Geoff's brother Matthew, who was worried about his sister Stephanie, went to her condo and found her.  Stephanie had died that day of an accidental overdose (I hope it is not a violation of her family's trust to say that; I know much of her story is not mine to tell, and I won't try).  She was 28 years old.  It makes me cry to sit here and type that.

I went to work on the 11th and prepared to be gone the next week.  On Friday the 12th we spent most of the day downtown at the passport agency, getting Katie an emergency passport so that we could fly up to Halifax the next day.  After waiting in many lines, we got the passport.  On the 13th, we flew to Halifax, to be with the family, to grieve, to attend the visitation and the service.  The outpouring of love for Stephanie was overwhelming and wonderful and heartbreaking.

On the 18th, we flew back home very early in the morning and visited my obstetrician in the afternoon.  Everything looked good, she said.  There was a heartbeat, just like last time.  So far, so good.

On the 19th, Katie and I flew to Boston for a trip we'd had planned for months, to visit with a huge group of women and their families; we have been an amazing support group for each other since I joined the PSV online forum in January (and many of them have been an amazing support group for each other for years now).  We had a wonderful time.  On the 22nd, we flew home.

On the 23rd, I went back to work.  The rest of the week, I tried to catch up. 

Geoff found and bought Katie a Snow White costume at the church rummage sale for $2.  On Halloween, we went trick or treating. 

And now it's November.  Saturday was my mom's birthday, and she came up to visit.  We had a good visit with her.

I will write more about the most important events here, but right now this is what I can manage. 

I miss Stephanie.  Already.  She was not just my sister-in-law, she was also my friend, and I thought we'd have until we were old women to get closer to each other, to be part of each other's lives, to watch our children (when she had them) grow up.  She was going to be Katie's special aunt, she said, the one who took her travelling and took her out for a drink when she turned 21 (or maybe even before).  When she saw me or talked to me, she would shout out, "Sister!" as if that was the best thing in the world to be.  I am mad at her for letting this happen, for leaving us.  But most importantly, I loved her.  I love her still.

I have not really allowed myself to be thrilled about being pregnant.  I am happy.  I am cautiously optimistic.  There is no real reason to think that things won't be ok, except that sometimes, things aren't ok.  I am nauseous a lot, eating pretty healthily, sleeping a lot.  I have had at least three separate nightmares of having a miscarriage with this pregnancy.  I am scheduled to have an ultrasound on 11/15, at 12 weeks, and in my mind that is a benchmark, a time past which I can relax and not worry quite so much. 

I am sorry that I never got to tell Stephanie that I was pregnant.  And I am sorry that Katie will not have any real, solid memories of her Aunt Stephanie.

We are ok.  Or we will be.  It's been a pretty hard year, in a lot of ways, but I am hoping that the near future holds some wonderful things, and that we are able to let go of some parts of the past.  I hope that wherever Stephanie is, that she is at peace.  I don't know what else I can hope.

Grateful (November 21st)

mischief maker
Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

Linda posted an entry today and asked us to tell her what we were grateful for.  I posted this:

I’m grateful for my daughter, and so many of her attributes, especially the way she gives hugs & kisses (like this: hug, kiss, grab the hair on top of your head to pull you in for an Eskimo kiss, “noggin” (which is bumping the tops of your heads together), another hug, another kiss - and sometimes if you’re really lucky, she sort of forgets what she’s doing and she grabs your hair again and starts over), and also the way she puts words together. I’m grateful for my husband, who is my very favorite person, tied with Katie. I’m grateful for having enough money this year that we can buy some Christmas gifts without freaking about it. I’m grateful you mentioned Aimee Mann’s holiday album, because I will have to check it out, and also that you linked to the pumpkin cheesecake recipe, because I am SO going to make it! I’m grateful, still, on a near daily basis, that we didn’t die in our car crash in July. I’m grateful for my parents, and Geoff’s parents, and our siblings. I’m grateful for my camera and my computer and for all of the internets, and for all of my beloved friends, and for Cosi’s signature salad with grapes and apples and pistachio nuts, because it is delicious. 

And then I thought, you know, those are some gratefuls worth remembering. So I posted them here, too.

And hey, I'd love to hear what you're grateful for, too, if you're willing to share.  Tell me.

4 years (November 16th)

4 years (November 16th)
Originally uploaded by jessamynnorth.

We got married 4 years ago today. I remain as happy about that as ever. (The baby diamond earrings, barely seen, are an anniversary present.)

There wasn't much fanfare today.  I am preparing for an audit at work, and haven't even had time to go out and buy a card.  Geoff has choir practice tonight.  We saw each other for about a half an hour this morning, and for about 15 minutes this evening.  He'll be home in about an hour, and about an hour after that, I'll go to bed.  Tomorrow, though, Katie has a sleepover at Rebecca & Chris' house, and Geoff and I are going to dinner, and a movie, and afterwards back to the home we share. 

The other day Geoff was telling me something, I don't remember what.  I guess I must not have been paying enough attention, or I must not have responded with enough enthusiasm, because he started teasing me.  "Oh, excuse me," he said.  "I just thought you might like to know.  I was just trying to share with you.  You know, like we said we would do, almost four years ago, when we agreed to share our lives together.  I was just sharing with you."

I smiled at him and laughed.  "Thank you," I said.  "There is no one I would rather share my life with." 

We were in the car.  He smiled back at me.  "Right back atcha," he said.  "Me, neither."   And I kissed him.

There is something to be said for being extra thankful, at least once a year, for having made this choice, for recognizing that I would make this same choice again and again.  He is my very favorite person, and I am his, and we have been married for four years.  I see no end in sight. 

And every day I am thankful for this small (or maybe not so small) miracle, for the continued sharing of our lives, for sharing love and hopes, for being each other's family. 

Happy anniversary to us.

Then it does.

Maybe the best decision I ever made was deciding to marry this guy.

Happy 3rd anniversary, sweetheart.  I feel about us the same way I feel about that amazing daughter of ours.  As time passes, I keep thinking, "This is wonderful.  This is so great.  It's hard to believe this could get better."   

And then it does.