Jumbo Shrimp

Feel You Better?

As is typical amongst the almost-three set, my son has a bit of Jekyll & Hyde syndrome. The same kid that barrels into me from behind and bites my ass so hard it makes a mark right through my jeans can also be decidedly lovable. As quickly as his assault comes on, he follows me into the bathroom, cocks his head to the side and says sweetly, "I so sorry, mommy. I so sorry." His ultimate gesture of goodwill is the offering of his beloved blanket, which is his comfort-equivalent of my bowl of ice cream. The effectiveness of the blankie is gauged by his query of, "Feel you better?"

Of course I feel better, you mommy-abusing brown-eyed angel, you! Give mommy a kiss, my sweet boy! It's not healthy, I know. He treats me so bad, and yet I stay...but what's a girl to do when she's so in love?

Speaking of that vast, illogical sentiment that is parental love and pride, I recently attended the parent/teacher conference at my daughter's school. While waiting outside the classroom, I perused the binders put together to display the first graders' work. I couldn't help but compare my daughter's writing and drawing to that of her classmates. I knew it was wrong when I silently lamented Trevor's awkward depiction of a day at the beach. Was it just me, or were my daughter's answers to questions about favorites foods and summer vacations much more witty and articulate than that of her peers? I swear I never thought I'd be that mother.

When it was my turn, I sat across the little table from the first grade teacher and listened attentively to Mrs. W's assessment of Maddie's reading and 'riting and 'rithmetic. All good. Okay, I swear I'm not being obnoxious about this and have really only shared with the grandparents. And aunts and uncles, and maybe possibly a few close friends. But I just have to say it here. She's reading at a fifth grade level. There. My kid is smart and that makes me happy. So sue me. And if you must, take comfort in the fact that in the behavioral department we did not fare so well. Evidently, my daughter is also aware that she is smart and has informed the teacher that she is not learning anything and she already knows everything. And don't mind if I just work off my own little agenda here while you go ahead with that teaching stuff up there in the front of the room...

So there was, of course, some discussion about these things: both her behavior and the question of her being academically challenged. And things were going well with the first grade teacher and me.

And then I farted. Right there in the little first grade chair, in the silence of the brightly decorated first grade room, filled with only me. And the first grade teacher.

I share this only because I know...I am among friends. And I know...that your first instinct will, of course, be to share in my unimaginable horror. We both ignored the fart, Mrs. W. and me. I shifted a bit in the chair, attempting to make some squeak or scrape that could explain the sound. But as she went on explaining the intricacies of the accelerated learner software, we both knew what had happpened.

Okay, I was kidding about sharing my horror. You may now laugh uncontrollably. Because I will forever be to Mrs. W. "that mom that farted at the parent/teacher conference."

Did you need a laugh? Were you feeling down? Feel you better?

Empty Arms and Empty Hearts

Greetings Earthlings. I would have dropped you a line sooner but when I tried, there seemed to be some problem at the Typepad Mothership. Did you experience that too? As you can see, I'm a bit spacey these days.

My sister and brother-in-law seem to be doing well under the circumstances. I've been contemplating trying to share the feelings that the funeral brought up. It's difficult because I fear coming off like a big old asswipe for thinking of myself instead of them, when their loss is so raw.

I must admit, I think of my miscarriages little these days. I have two wonderfully time-consuming children to fill my days and for that I am very grateful. But when I do think back to those days, to the moment during each of those pregnancies when I knew that the baby I wanted with every fiber of my being would never be, the pain... it hurt so deep inside me. When I first talked to my mother-in-law after Ella died, her tears made me sad. But then a little thought crept in. Had she ever cried for my lost babies? And I knew the answer was no.

For the first time in a long time I thought about my own losses- of each of the children I loved from the moment I knew they were growing inside of me, however minuscule they might be. Interestingly enough, my sister-in-law's pregnancy was such a surprise that she did not realize she was pregnant until she was five months along, meaning that she knew she was pregnant almost exactly the same amount of time that I did the first time I miscarried.

A stillbirth baby is different from a miscarriage. I cannot begin to imagine going through labor for a baby you know will be born dead. I cannot fathom holding my perfectly formed baby, willing its tiny chest to rise. Oh, god...the heartbreak of those moments. Our entire family was ready to welcome this baby- we knew she was a girl and she already had a name. When word spread about what had happened, family and friends pulled together in support. Arrangements were made for the other children, food was brought, flowers were sent. Close to two hundred people came to the funeral service. A tiny white casket was the poignant reminder that this was indeed a real person, intended to become a part of this community that had gathered together...but it was not to be.

What's different about a miscarriage is that you are alone. Medical staff can be callous. Sometimes you're sent to the lab to have blood drawn with a form reading "pregnancy" prompting the nurse to ask when your baby is due. Sometimes, when you're losing your third child, you're not even asked to come in to see the doctor. You are alone, your undignified surroundings being a bathroom, when your body messily expels what was supposed to be your baby. There is nothing to hold or memorialize.  Family and friends don't know what to say, so generally they say nothing. There is no break in the normal activity of life. There is no formal acknowledgment of what should have been a son or a daughter. You struggle with your feelings, wondering why when your heart feels so empty, the world just plods along and even those close to you seem unaffected.

The circumstances surrounding the losses are different and even though no one gets to choose, if given the choice I would take a miscarriage over a stillbirth any day of the week. Even so, the aftermath of both are the same. Empty arms. Empty hearts. Saying goodbye to an entire lifetime of memories you never got to make.

I never did anything to memorialize the babies I lost to miscarriage. Maybe I should have. I think my way of dealing with the pain was to funnel all of my energies into continuing the quest for another baby. And while having my son didn't erase the memories of two very difficult years, he has eased the pain. A lot.

I'm not sure what my point is. That the pain of miscarriage is heightened because it's sometimes not viewed as a real loss? If that's the case, I have no solution. I'm not suggesting funerals for every miscarriage, although the funeral homes would love the extra income. And I honestly don't expect those who haven't gone through it to understand how miscarriage feels. It is what it is, and so I'll just send out my heartfelt condolences to anyone who may have suffered alone.   

 

Name Brand Sex at Discount Prices!

As expected, the funeral was so very, very sad. What wasn't expected was the emotions it brought up from my miscarriages almost three years ago. I plan on sharing more of that soon, but for now I'll share a conversation from dinner last night. My little monster two year old was with Grandma, so we had a rare dinner out with just our daughter. It was quite nice. Right after reiterating why we will never buy her Bratz dolls, we had this conversation:

Maddie- Megan is 8 so when she turns 12 she can babysit me.

Me- Well, when Megan is 12 you'll be 11. So maybe instead of her babysitting for you, you can babysit your little brother.

Maddie- Will you pay me?

Me- I don't know. How much will you charge?

Maddie- How long will you be gone?

Me- Um...how about 4 hours?

Maddie- Okay, four dollars.

Me- SOLD! (and then after further consideration) Well, I suppose we won't be able to leave you with Muck-Monster for four hours when you're 11...

Maddie- How about I watch him but you don't leave? You know, you and dad can just go in your room and have alone time.

My husband the realist/bargain hunter- Well, we won't need four hours. How about 15 minutes for a quarter?

Ella 11-9-07

I am angry. I am sad. But mostly angry. I'm sure the anger will dissipate in time but I'm sure I'll be sad for a very long time.

We've lost a family member. Her name was Ella and she was my niece. She wasn't supposed to be born until mid-December. She was going to round out the cousins in the family, bringing us to 3 girls and 3 boys. Her Christmas present is in my closet. I don't know what I'll do with the little pink outfits I  bought for her because Ella died several days ago, in her mother's womb, where it's supposed to be safe and secure. The cord that was supplying her with life-supporting nutrients somehow became knotted. Ella's mom didn't know. I can't imagine having to face the knowledge that while you went about your daily activities, your baby was dying inside you. But of course, there was no way for her to know. Nothing she could have done. My heart aches when I think of my sister-in-law enduring over 12 hours of labor throughout the night to deliver their precious daughter, who was already dead.

Tonight they had to tell their other children- their oldest daughter, who is nine and their son who is five. The five year old had decided that this baby was "his" because his big sister had his little brother (who is 1 1/2 and will not remember that he was supposed to have a sister named Ella).

I'm angry because it doesn't seem fair. Of course, the rational me knows that life isn't always fair. But I'm not past the wistful what-ifs...What-if her doctor's appointment had been a couple of days earlier? What if they had detected the baby's heart rate slowing and could have done a C-section? Then we would all be wringing our hands over the preemie Ella, never really comprehending that there was a possibility she would never be here with us.

I'm angry at my mom, who upon hearing this news could only think to ask, "This baby wasn't planned, was it?" People say such asinine things (I'm hoping) because they don't know any better. I live in fear that I would say something to my sister-in-law that would add even an ounce to the devastating pain she must be feeling. My own experience in child loss is, of course, three miscarriages. The latest was at 16 weeks, before we knew if our child was a boy or a girl. But even then the pain was great. The emptiness was vast. Still, I can't imagine what it must be like to hold your baby's silent, unmoving body and try to let go of an entire future you had anticipated. If you have firsthand knowledge and care to share pointers for me, please do. There will be some sort of service early next week. For all of us, it will get harder before it gets better.

Rest in peace, little Ella. I wish I could have gotten to know you. There will always be a place in our family for you. Love, Aunt Kristine

Waste Not, Want Not

My husband has Selective Frugality. I suppose this is fairly common as I know many people who drive 5 miles out of their way to save 2 cents per gallon on gas then buy a $4 coffee. In my husband's case, he is Mr. Reuses-aluminum- foil-but-pays-$35-for-a-Harley-t-shirt. I'm sure he would say the same thing about me, although he would be wrong as I am a savvy consumer, always choosing the best price for the value (cough, cough).

I've also mentioned here that my husband is a good cook. It should be noted that he normally cooks with quality ingredients and does not favor the recipes calling for cream of mushroom soup and crushed potato chips. But he has created a rather...interesting dish called "Leftover Sauce Chicken." You know those little sauce packets you get with take-out or fast food? We toss what we don't use in a canister. And at a certain point (think years) we have a lot of little sauce packets. Duck Sauce from the China One. BBQ from the Bono's. Sweet & Sour and Honey Mustard from McDonalds. You get the idea. So he opens them all up, dumps them into a pan and cooks them with chicken. Here's the weird part: it's really delicious. Everything the dude touches turns to yummy. I like that in a man.

Two Mike Night

Halloween in the 'burbs: much more palatable with adult beverages. But then, what isn't? The costume plan for my son was to be Sporticus from LazyTown, the irony of which is not lost on me. Just in case you don't tune in to LazyTown, Sporticus and Stephanie evangelize the city with their messages of healthy foods and exercise while Robbie Rotten tries to get the kids to eat candy and play video games. So yes, it's a bit out of character for Sporticus to troll the streets scoring M&M's and Reese's peanut butter cups. But they didn't have a Robbie Rotten costume. On a side note, I never understood why Robbie Rotten isn't a big fat guy...maybe riding a Rascal scooter while hooked to an oxygen tank to really drive home the devastating effects of an unhealthy lifestyle. Kids today are so coddled. I say a bit of reality is what they need.

Anyways, back to my son. Without the need for any costume at all, he awoke this morning as a middle-age two-pack-a-day smoker with a runny nose. He'd had a little cold yesterday but today he sounded horrible as he hacked and rasped, "Want medicine mommy."

We got right in to the doctor and I while I was expecting the condescending pat on the head with the, "Your kid has a cold lady- go home and give him some Robitussen and leave us the hell alone" I instead was told we came ever so close to being sent to the hospital. After two breathing treatments he was doing a bit better and we were sent home with the "spacer" and this time we got a fish mask rather than the duck we got back when he was just five months old. I've never wrestled an alligator but I have to think there are some similarities between that and trying to get a two year old to lie still and take five inhales from a plastic mask. At least the alligators are quiet- Muckster yelled the whole time, "I don't want to feel better!"

So he was feeling shitty and the weather was shitty (I jinxed it at dinner by saying, "Hey! I think it looks better than last year!" which was very, very cold). And so it started raining. Muck never even put his costume on. Maddie was Hannah Montana. She had a long (crazy) blond wig and we put my husband's X-Box headset on her to be her mic for belting out Best of Both Worlds (shhh! don't tell him...he'll be mad...but he was working tonight). She looked really cute but I felt compelled to tell her to announce to anyone who might not be sure that she was Hannah Montana, not Britney Spears.

Listen- I know that just because she's an easy target doesn't mean I have to join in the Britney-Bashing. The truth is, I really do feel sorry for her. She's obviously in way over her head trying to reconcile being made a sexual object at age sixteen with being a bona fide grown up and mother (while still remaining a sexy singer on the side, because hey...you gotta pay the bills). It's tragic really, and the pictures of her little boys break my heart. But even so, I can't let my daughter shave her head and and go under-pants free just because its Halloween.

I chased my Mike's with 2 fun-size Snickers, a couple of KitKat's, a Butterfingers and some Whoppers. I'm gonna be so hung over tomorrow.

New Yawck, New Yawck

I'm not sure how to phonetically spell the pronunciation I'm looking for, but it of course sounds like "cawfee" (the brewed beverage). My coworker from Lawng Island, New Yawck thinks I have a Canadian accent.

Other tidbits from my visit to Lawng Island:

• LIE stands for Long Island Expressway and it's pronounced "L" "I" "E"...not lie. Don't you love how the locals throw around their accepted vernacular for routes and destinations, leaving you wondering why the hell it sounds nothing like what MapQuest said?
• HOV stands for High Occupancy Vehicle (We have those in Grand Rapids but we have not created a lane just for them on the expressway.)
• Huge is pronounced with a "y"-- yuge or yuuuuuge.
• I do hate to stereotype, but I encountered a fair number of fifty-ish women very tanned and made-up, wearing track suits and long red fingernails at the Chinese take-out place, ala Carmela Soprano.
• Car horns probaby wear out much quicker than they do in Grand Rapids.

Stay tuned- in December I take Manhattan!

Bad Days Make For Good Stories

Watch. I'll show you.

The airport in Grand Rapids is small and offers direct flights to hardly anywhere- at least nowhere I ever need to go. So I was thrilled to find a direct flight into LaGuardia this week (even though technically Islip would've gotten me closer to my destination on Long Island...the idea of not switching planes was just too appealing to pass up!) So I enjoyed my direct flight on Tuesday morning, rented a car and took a little drive on the LIE, spent a couple of nice days in a quiet suite with my own television remote and many fluffy pillows, got all kinds of work done with my coworker there and returned on Thursday afternoon to LaGuardia for my quick (direct) flight home. But it had been canceled.

Allegedly the reason for the cancellation was "bad weather" but beyond that it was quite vague. There was no rain or snow or anything in between, leaving only wind. So I guess it was windy. Or maybe the person who schedules the pilots is in the midst of a personal crisis involving an abusive, drug addicted spouse and she accidentally forgot to schedule a pilot and when the person who cancels flights found out, he wanted to cover for her because he feels bad about her situation and her bastard of a husband and also he's secretly in love with her. So he blamed the wind. And I was stuck in New York.

I never understand how the airline industry can get away with such lousy service: "Hey, we know you paid $400 for a cramped, threadbare seat on a smelly plane so you could be in Grand Rapids on Thursday night in time to say goodnight to your kids, but we canceled the flight. We might be able to get you there sometime tonight. But possibly not until tomorrow and if that's the case then you're going to be out another couple of hundred dollars for a hotel room because we're not paying for it. Thank you for flying Northwest! We appreciate your business!"

There were two other flights going out last night to Detroit (which is, for those of you not familiar with the mitten state, about 2 1/2 hours east of Grand Rapids). The first was an hour and 15 minutes later than my original flight into Grand Rapids so evidently the wind was isolated to Grand Rapids. Since I was going to stand by and play the odds of getting a seat on a flight to Detroit in time to catch the last connection to Grand Rapids, I was advised not to check luggage. I'm generally a checker. I have hairspray and mousse and root lifter and moisturizer...all liquids in quantities greater than 3 ounces. But I had spoken on the phone with my little Mickster the night before and he asked if I was coming home to watch Yo Gabba Gabba with him and he sounded especially squishy and huggable and I really needed to kiss his cheek. So I agreed to dump all my toiletries, including my large size can of Sebastian hairspray and a brand new bottle of liquid make-up (damn those squishy toddlers!).

I waited optimistically for the next flight to Detroit. No dice. The flight was full. I wandered around the Northwest/Delta terminal. It was crowded. Especially the bar. Damn. I could use a drink.

I returned to Gate 9 for the next flight to Detroit. I smiled my sweetest smile to the man at the counter and asked when they would be doing the standby list. It wasn't sweet enough, because that flight was also full. I dragged my hair-care-free luggage sadly along behind me away from the gate. That had been my last chance at flying into Grand Rapids before Friday morning. I called home and sadly told my husband that I wouldn't get into Detroit until midnight and the next flight to GR wasn't until 8 a.m.

"Can you rent a car and drive home?" he asked.

Rent a car! Drive home! What a fabulous idea! Home! Tonight!

"Alright," I told him. "I will resist the urge to get sloshed at the bar and save my energies! I'll evaluate once I land in Detroit and make sure I'm awake enough to drive, but I like the idea of getting home tonight. I'll call you to let you know what I decide."

My other option, to get a hotel in Detroit and catch the 8 o'clock flight to GR, was not very appealing. Shuttle to the hotel. Early morning alarm. Shuttle back to airport. Back through security. I just wanted to be home.

At last it was time for the flight upon which I had been confirmed to get me back to Grand Rapids, via Detroit. But when I got to the front of the line and turned in my boarding pass the machine beeped an unhappy beep.

"Stand over here," instructed the airline employee.

Everyone boarded. I stood. I waited. She tapped furiously on the computer.

"You weren't confirmed," she said.

I was too exhausted to be outraged.

Finally she directed me on to the plane- "Seat 3A," she said.

3A was already occupied. The flight attendant sighed and looked at my laptop bag.

"Try to find somewhere to stow that and you can sit here in the front," she said. But all the overhead storage was stuffed full.

"I have a seat in the back.."

"Yes! Fine!" I happily made my way to the back. To the seat directly across from the bathroom. Which was fine, until we were cleared to move about the aircraft and people began to move about towards the bathroom. The smell was horrendous. Disgusting. Nauseating.

It was midnight when I arrived in Detroit. My quest was HOME...to my cozy, ugly gray sweatpants (ugly, but warm!)...to my own welcoming bed and my sweet, squishy kids who were expecting me and the presents I bring. I hopped on the first shuttle out the door to rental cars.

"One way to Grand Rapids, please!"

After I was comfortably ensconced in my rental car I called my husband and told him I should be home by 2 or 2:30. I stopped to get a drink and some yummy-yummy-yummy White Castle hamburgers (do you have them? have you tried them? oh so un-like anything you should be eating and yet so wonderfully delicious!!!). I finished my (yummy!) snack, cranked up the radio and continued on my way.

Until...my Toyota Matrix (NOT CONDONED BY MY HUSBAND WHO WILL NOT DRIVE, RENTAL OR OTHERWISE, ANYTHING BUT AN AMERICAN MADE VEHICLE ) made contact with a very big, very bounding deer.

Airbags smell amost, but not quite, as bad as airplane bathrooms.

"Is it drive-able?" asked my husband when I called.

"Um...no." I answered, looking at the crinkled up hood and the bumper dragging on the pavement.

Police were called, tow truck was called. Kids were roused from sleep by my husband and stuck in carseats so he could come to rescue me. Unfortunate news was broke to the rental company.

I arrived home at 4:30 a.m. Just 12 1/2 hours after entering LaGuardia for  my direct flight home to Grand Rapids. Because I've made the drive from East Michigan to West Michigan about a million times, I refused all the extra insurance from the rental car company, meaning we'll be stuck with a big fat deductible on the smashed-to-smithereens rental car.  Okay- I still have a lot to be thankful for but I've had better days.

MARACAS By Kristine H.

Maracas are percussion instruments. They may be made of leather, wood or plastic. Historically, they were part of traditional Mexican Mariachi bands. Today they exist as the perfect souvenir for millions of American parents who exchange their child-rearing responsibilities for a week or two of sun-drenched tequila drinking. Many a pair of maracas have been wedged into a suitcase next to sandy bottle of sunblock for the journey back to suburbia, where they are presented to a disgruntled toddler whose memory of mommy and daddy leaving quickly fades amidst the merry shaking.

One day they may be struck against a wooden hall tree, releasing the minuscule round metal balls of the sh-sh-shaking sound. It should be noted that these tiny orbs are repelled rather than attracted to the standard vacuum cleaner. They will linger for many, many months merrily rolling about the vinyl flooring.

"Dumb People Just Seem Happier" -HH

I couldn't agree more. And I know some really dumb people. I don't envy them because I think I would really miss stimulating conversation. I enjoy talking about current events and dumb people don't read the newspaper. Or know who the vice-president is. Did I tell you about the Thanksgiving when my brother in law called us to ask if he could buy an all dark meat turkey? But he's happy, see? It's true what they say, you can't have it all.

___________________________________

You did know it was still me, didn't you? In all fairness I warned you that I was needing a change. I went 'round and 'round about what to do and I came to the conclusion that I couldn't just leave Perpetually Pregnant behind- I have almost three years of my life recorded. And despite some worries I recently read at Anne Nahm that I may look back at old posts with the same chagrin with which I recall my 80's hairdo, it is a risk I am willing to take. (That's just silly- we all looked great in the 80's.)

So. Here we are. New look...new name (sort of...the folder/link is still the same). Coming soon: much waxing poetic about things that are important to me such as Chicken & Dumplings, the New York subway system, potty training, Mike's hard lemonade and why I might enjoy becoming an alcoholic.