Poupourri

There you go again. Thank you so much. I felt like you were all right here in my family room, patting me on the back and saying, "It's going to be okay. Come on, let's go eat cheesecake and french fries."

I go to the doctor tomorrow and I'm excited and dreading it at the same time. Maybe excited isn't the right word. I don't know. I'm dreading it for the obvious reasons. I don't know why OB offices don't have a special waiting room for women who have lost babies. No little kids, no parenting magazines and if there are any pregnant women in there at all, they know exactly how I feel.

I'm just very interested in knowing what my doctor has to say about this miscarriage. I also am very interested in knowing when we can try again. And I am very interested in learning the names of some psychiatrists. I don't know why I've waited this long to do this. Maybe part of it is because Tom and I started relationship counseling almost immediately after we heard that a huge percentage of marriages end after the death of a child. We only go now when we need a "tune up". I think that I didn't want to talk about it with someone all by myself. A lot of times, Tom will talk for me.I just didn't want to think about it that hard. Even most of my posts are all hearts and flowers.

But these are the changes that I've noticed in myself:

• I don't read books anymore.
• I don't want to see "smart" movies anymore. I thought yesterday that the new Jackass movie might be funny.
• I'm not keeping up with politics. I hate the man, I just can't tell you why, okay? He's a doody-head, how's that?
• I don't listen to Classical music anymore because it makes me sad. Which means:
• I haven't properly practiced my flute in months. I just don't pick it up anymore, except to play with my students. Now I officially suck.
• I'm obsessed with keeping a perfect house and I get entirely bent out of shape when dinner turns out crap or Tom doesn't like the way I've put away his boxer shorts. The old me would have just said "fold your own fucking underpants" and served hot dogs cut up in Kraft Mac & Cheese for dinner.
• I'm a perma-bitch. Julian's Mom called it a "constant cranky bitchy neurosis" and I think, "Ah-ha!!" That is me! I'm afraid of becoming the mean old lady on my block that smells of cat piss and screams at little kids to get out of her yard. Or even worse, the mean 31 year old lady who smells of cat piss and screams at little kids. Either way, it's no good.

I'm sure that there's more--I'm just tired of thinking about it. I'm not doing anything that requires a lot of thought. I can drive to work, feed the dog, shower and shave my legs (shave my legs? Ha!), not burn down the house. If you want to have an intelligent conversation about, well, anything, I'm not your girl. Let's go see Jackass.

Maybe for the past seven months, I've felt that I have to be sad all the time. If I'm not miserable and wallowing, then I'm not missing my son enough. It's not an act--I really am so, so sad. It's like I've just resigned to the fact that I'm the mother of a dead child and that's all I am. I should change my name. "Hi, I'm Mrs. Deadkid. Would you like to see pictures of my dead kid? Do you have a dead kid? No? Then you can't be in my club. Go away." That is no way to live. I'll go tomorrow and see what I can do about this. I just miss Nate so much and I'm so mad at Chip the Zygote for leaving. I'm so angry, I feel like I need to kick the shit out of everything. And I'm sick of this quiet house.