Christmas Wrap Up (a few days late)

So that was Christmas. That was the Christmas that I held so much anticipation and hope for in my heart as I packed up the decorations last year. It, of course, wasn't the holiday that I had imagined last year, but it wasn't completely terrible. And I think that it was because I had absolutely no expectations for it. I didn't try to make it anything that I didn't feel like making it, and I know that is because I had a "heads up" from all of you. I just wanted to smile, get through a couple of days and then take down the damn decorations, putting them back in the boxes with just the simple hope that next year is better.

The big morning at my house was nice. My family came over for breakfast and my sister stopped by without my nephew. As much as it hurts me to think it, I'm glad that I didn't see him that morning. I'm not sure that I could have held it together. That afternoon, we went to Tom's family Christmas and it wasn't baby-free, much to my chagrin. I'm not exactly sure who this girl would be to me...step-cousin-in-law? She and I were pregnant at the same time last year, and she had a little girl in March, I think. Anyway, she was there and she kept giving me these scared sideways looks, like I was completely mental and she didn't know what I was going to do next. Maybe steal her baby and run out the door or something. Oh I'm being dramatic. She probably was feeling the same way I would feel if I was seeing someone who had a dead baby while I held my live one...really fucking bad and uncomfortable. Also maybe a little guilty. The last time that I had seen her was at my mom's house after Nate's burial and I'm still pissed at her for being pregnant at my son's funeral. I wish that she had just sent a card. That sounds nuts and I don't care. I was a total bitch to her after the funeral and I don't care about that either. I was nice to her at Christmas and that's what's important. I even held her kid. How's that? (Actually, if it was a boy I probably would have had to leave. I have a terrible time around baby boys. Duh.) Other than that, the day was absolutely great. As long as I put myself on auto-pilot, didn't think too hard about anything and put lots of Bailey's in my coffee.

Do you know what would have been nice? For people to acknowledge that we had a son and that possibly this Christmas was going to be really difficult. No one wanted to upset me, I guess. I'm so tired of people tiptoeing around me. Like I'm a timebomb. Oooh, don't make her cry. But really, if the last time you saw me I was greatly withchild, don't fucking act like it never happened. Just say...something. Like "I'm so sorry." It 's not like I want to be coddled and I don't want a lot of attention drawn to it, but say something. I don't have much, and the acknowledgement from someone that he exisited means a lot. Because sometimes I think that I made up the whole thing.

As of yesterday, I’m a card carrying member of Catherine’s "Fake it ‘till ya make it" campaign! And it wasn’t so bad!

My sister dragged me out of the house, practically kicking and screaming, and made me go shopping with her. I had yet to do any Christmas shopping. Honestly. The most I had done was to sneak off to the fabric store and come home and sew a few things for people. That’s it. I just could not bring myself to actually shop. Really, I couldn’t bring myself to shower and put on decent clothes before 3 in the afternoon.

We went down to Branson to the outlet malls then had some really good barbeque for lunch. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to just go do girl stuff and laugh. I’ve been walking around like a zombie and really being quite a bitch to everyone. It was really nice.

Three weeks ago, my mom and the same sister put my Christmas tree up with me. I knew that I’d never do it by myself (Tom was in Chicago), and I had kind of decided that I didn’t care if one was up or not. So, we assembled the big, fake, ugly tree that is definitely on its last leg and decorated it with lights and ribbon. It was then up to me to put the ornaments on. Fast forward to three weeks later—still no ornaments. Hmmm. What a Scrooge I am. I did have ornaments on the little, bitty tree that I had bought on a whim for Nate, except most of them had fallen off and it was all smooshed because the damn cat kept knocking the tree off the table. Anyway, yesterday my sister finally got me off my ass and I dragged out the ornament boxes. We finally decorated the tree, and okay, I admit it looks much better now. I don’t know. I’ve gotten so weird about things—I’m always thinking when I run across stuff: I bought this tea when I was pregnant, I’m not going to drink it; last time I was here, I was pregnant, I don’t want to go in there; the last time I wore these socks, I was pregnant, not going to wear them; when I packed up all of these Christmas decorations, I was pregnant and excited and never so happy in my life—these decorations are staying in their fucking boxes. But now my halls are all decked and stuff and it really looks pretty damn nice. When my husband came home from work he said, "Yay! We have a real tree!"

I was feeling so good, I even went and had my hair chopped off and highlighted! Nothing like a new hairdo to lift your spirits, I say. My hair was truly awful—really mousey and dull and flat. I had lost a ton of hair after I had Nate and it was growing back, giving me these weird little punk rock bangs in my formerly all one length hairdo. And then when I would get sweaty, the inch and a half long bangs would curl. Not the cutest thing in the world. So there was that, and then my eyebrows were growing together. Picture me slumping around my house with ugly ass flat hair, curly bangs and a unibrow, wearing jacked up yoga pants and a holey t-shirt. What a sad sack. (I’m also going clothes shopping, by the way.) Now my hair is chin length and I’ve got real bangs and two eyebrows. I like it!

And for today—more shopping and some Christmas baking with my mom where I’m going to attempt Kristin’s mom’s ribbon cookies!! Faking it ‘till you make it works! Thanks Catherine!

ps--I also went to Walmart this morning at 4:30 to buy stocking stuffers. I'm on a roll now!

Cracked Nuts

So, at about 5:30 Thursday night I was making sweet and sour chicken (which turned out kinda yuck, I think) and the phone rings. It was the personnel manager from our city's big symphony. She said, "Laura! Hi! Symphony! Can you play tonight? We're doing the Nutcracker and the Governor is going to be there." Like a big idiot I say, "Sure", threw on my black clothes and ran out the door.

There is never an opening in this symphony, so I auditioned for on-call a couple of years ago. I got it, but hadn't gotten a call until Thursday. My audition was also the last time that I really played piccolo. My picc had half an inch of dust on it (I'm serious) that I brushed off before tossing in my bag, praying that there wouldn't be many piccolo parts. I have never, ever played the Nutcracker before and I was going to be sight reading it at the performance. I am such an idiot. (And it's all piccolo, as it turns out.)

Anyway, I've played at the theater where they were doing it a million times for musicals. It's over one hundred years old and the orchestra pit is really, really small. They had shoved I don't know how many people in the pit for this show. It was the stupidest thing that I had ever seen, not to mention the most uncomfortable I'd ever been (well, playing anyway). I was practically under the director's stand so I could never see his beats, resulting in me getting lost--a lot. I had a viola scroll in my ear and I can't believe that I didn't lose an eye on her bow. I am not kidding. So there was that, coupled with the sheer intimidation of playing with my teacher from grad school and being so close to the director that he could hear every single mistake which made for an evening of magic for me. And then I did it again last night.

I think, for the most part, I did okay. As it turns out, I was much less nervous the night that I was sight reading than the night that I had actually practiced. I think that was because I was putting more pressure on myself last night. But I realized something about myself, I'm afraid. I'm not back to normal and I'm not able to take the pressure that I used to. I didn't fall apart and I only really screwed up one part last night (which in a two hour show isn't bad, I guess), but I wasn't able to focus very well and I was extremely nervous and wasn't able to shake it like I used to. I don't know. It's frustrating, but I'm not sure how much I can do about it right now. So, that's my Nutcracker story. Not that interesting. I do have something more interesting to talk about (I'm not pregnant, that I know of)--I just need to sit down and write it. We have had some major developments here at the K. house and I'm quickly trying to adjust the best I can to the new changes. Which isn't super easy seeing that I'm completely wacka-doo right now, but I'm doing my best. So...more later.

Happy Birthday to Meeeee!!

Yah-hoo, I'm thirty-two!

That's kinda of a dumb age. I can already do everything, except run for president. Or get the reduced movie ticket price.

My step daughter gave me a card this morning that said:

Happy B-Day to you,

you live in a zoo,

You look like a fluterino (?)

and you smell like one too.

Then she drew a picture of a little dog (evidently the "fluterino") with his body made out of a flute. Very silly. A little Italian musical dog, I guess.

Yippee, Hooray!!

Congrats, Clare!

One Down...

At the concert Saturday night, the friendly oboist leaned over and said,

"Hey, didn't we play in [so and so] orchestra together at Christmas last year?"

"Um, hmm. We sure did." (please don't be interested, be totally uninterested.)

"How's the baby?" she asked with a wide smile.

"He died in February," I replied, probably a little too quickly.

The emotions crossed her face that I was so used to seeing--an inquisitive smile, turned to confusion, then embarrassment, then concern.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"

"Well, it was kind of a birth accident. He lived for four days, though." (No one knows what a placental abruption is, so I say "birth accident", which I think is better than "miscarriage"--my former OB's suggestion.)

I babbled some more, like I do when I'm asked this question. I think I ended with, "Yeah, I was really pregnant at Christmas last year, so..."

She said, "I think that I'm going to cry." I've spent the last 10 months making weird smooshy faces to push back tears. Go ahead. I'll probably join you.

Somehow the subject was quickly and mercifully changed and we spent the rest of the time before the concert laughing our asses off at a music professor we both knew who would talk about orgasams in class. A guy that you would never want to picture having sex.

I was laughing, but my heart was pounding and I felt like I was going to puke for the rest of the evening.

5 Things about Moi

Yay! I've been tagged by Artblog! I've never been tagged before, so I'm excited. I feel neato and important, but I also terrible because it took me for-ev-er to do it. I'm so slow on the uptake these days...

Okay, if you are reading this and you know me "in real life", you probably already know most of this stuff.

1.) I think that I've mentioned this before, but my husband and I met on Match.com. We always joke that when our kids asked us how we met, expecting something like "on a train to Paris", I'll just say "Daddy double-clicked on my face." (Which actually sounds filthy as I see it written out.) After a few emails back and forth, we had a couple of dates and I still wasn't really sure about him. I'm so shy and he's so shy that we both kinda sat there. After our second date, he sent me a gorgeous arrangement of a dozen red roses. I was so shocked! (And no, I didn't give it up on the second date, you dirties.) I thought, potential stalker? Potentially the most perfect boyfriend ever? I went with the latter, obviously and it was true. I came to rely on the florist van pulling into my driveway the morning after a date. And if it wasn't huge flower arrangements, it was gourmet cookies. ~sigh~ The Match.com thing was so great because we literally lived less than five minutes apart from each other but there is no way that we ever would have met otherwise. I could go on and on. That could be a whole other post. He's in Chicago right now and I really miss him.

2.) Here's a short one. My nostrils are two different sizes--one long and skinny, one short and fat.

Let's see, what else? This is tough.

3.) When I was a kid, before I started doing crazy color treatments to my hair, I had a big streak of platinum blonde on the underneath portion of my hair. It's naturally dark blonde. I'm not sure if I still have it-- I might be able to see it now that it's been so long since I've highlighted my hair. After Nate had his first ever shampoo, a streak of platinum blonde was revealed in his auburn hair. Right on top of his head. The nurses called it his "skunk stripe". (Not really sure how I feel about that.) I like thinking about that little stripe. I wonder if my future babies will have it. I hope so.

4.) I smoked pot a couple of times and thought it was stupid and didn't work. Then we went to Amsterdam. Tom was fine, but I spent the whole time with a death grip on his hand for fear that I might float away. We walked around and around and around the same block for four hours because I was terrified that we would get lost and miss our bus back to the boat. I've never felt so god-awful in my life. I felt like my face was was melting off. Our pictures from Amsterdam consist of: one windmill, a stoned self portrait of the two of us, a stoned Tom recreating the Mentos commercial and 143 pictures of the Bluebird Cafe.

5.) This one's kind of heavy. When I was 20, my friends and I got hit by a drunk driver. We were coming out of a movie theater and when we turned on to the main road, we got nailed. My friend Rachel was driving and she didn't see the guy coming because he was going over 100 miles an hour. He rear-ended us. I broke my pelvis and had a concussion, Rachel broke her neck and Chris, in the back seat was hurt the worst. We were in a hatchback Civic and he was ejected out the back, flew over three lanes of traffic and landed on his head against a curb. His entire face was crushed and he was in the hospital for a very, very long time. But he recovered really well and I think he's a teacher now. I haven't talked to him since we all graduated. The guy who hit us was 17 years old. Seriously. I met him about a year after the accident. I was asked to speak on a victim panel to a group of convicted drunk drivers and there was an article in the paper about it the day I was supposed to speak. He had read the article and showed up, listened to me speak and then stopped me in parking lot afterwards. He apologized and cried. I told him that I could forgive him, because I figured that it would be easier to forgive than let it eat me up forever. I spoke to groups quite a bit for awhile and I really think that it helped me heal emotionally. Physically, I still get really sore and my left hip gets swollen when the weather changes. But I'm okay. I'm still amazed that all three of us lived through that accident. Somebody's keeping me around for something, I guess!

Ta Da! Five things about me!

A Nutjob in a Pear Tree

Okay, I should probably write something.

I go through these sucky blogger phases, where I don't write anything and I can't think of any good and helpful responses to leave for my bloggy friends. I've even been tagged by a fellow blogger, and I haven't done it yet. I have emails to return. I'm terrible! I'm not being lazy--I honestly have tons to say--but I'm not doing so hot right now. In fact, I'm kind of hanging by a thread. I've been trying to keep busy and not think about anything or I'll have a complete meltdown (which I've already done twice since Thanksgiving).

Speaking of Thanksgiving, mine was great! In an effort to circumvent any emotional disasters on my part, I decided to have it at our place! This is a new thing in our family--to have one of the "kids" do the dinner. I thought that everything went really well and we had the Best Turkey Ever. If you haven't tried Alton Brown's Good Eats roast turkey, do next time. It's awesome, awesome, awesome. So, my evil plan was to keep impossibly busy so that I didn't have time to cry. And it worked. But.

Christmas has hit me like a bus. I expected to be really bummed out, but I didn't expect panic attacks. I wish that I could just not be a joiner this year, but I can't. And not because of my family (because they would understand) or because Nate would have wanted me to have a wonderful, magical Christmas (whatever). It's because I have to because of my job. December is the busiest month for musicians, except for maybe June weddings. I could just say "no", but then no one would want to hire me anymore and then there's that extra thousand dollars I'll be making this month. I'm a musical prostitute. Ha ha. Momma wants a new sofa, what can I say?

Some of the same people are calling me for gigs this year. Last time they saw me, I was greatly withchild, lugging my flute bag and dragging my music stand, shuffling along with swollen feet shoved in ugly shoes. No one has asked me anything when they've called, but I haven't played the gig yet and I'm preparing myself for another round of "ooo, how's the baby?" Yeah. Good times.

We haven't really decorated inside. We've gone a little crazy outside--we have the most Christmas lights on the block, and I have to say that I've enjoyed that. That's fun. My husband is the Rembrandt of Christmas lights and he's also really competitive. We've put up lights, gotten in the car to drive around and look at other crazy husband's light schemes and come home and put up more lights. I imagine that our front yard will be a work in progress for the duration of the Christmas season. I'm cool with that. I'm just not in a huge hurry to deck my indoor halls. I just don't really care, you know? If I was decorating the tree, I'd probably just throw a big ol' ball of tangled lights on it and call it done. Since you didn't know me before, I should say that this is not like me. Most things I do these days are not like me. Whatever. I'm not going to apologize for it--it is what it is. My child is not with me and excuse me for not bedazzling my house with baby Jesuses this year. I'm not in the mood, pass the egg nog. No, the one with whiskey in it. Thanks.

Neeto!!

Congratulations, Kate!!

Congratulations, Kate!!

I just realized that I would have had my big ultrasound around this time. I don't even want to think about it--this is so... awful.

Channeling My Inner 50's Housewife

Last night, after dinner my husband said,

"You know how guys sometimes will talk about how their wives don't cook as good as their mothers?"

"Okay."

"Well, I just want you to know that you cook better than my mom now."

Is is completely wrong that I felt a thrill of excitement with this conversation? His mom is a damn good cook. While we're on this topic, here are some highlights from an article that we have on our fridge. It's a photocopy from the May 1955 edition of Houskeeping Monthly. It's on or fridge because, a) it's hilarious and b) our house was built in 1955 and I imagine that the first lady that lived here read this article and hopefully was appalled. I give you highlights from:

The Good Wife's Guide

• Have dinner ready. Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal ready, on time for his return. This is a way of letting him know that you have been thinking of him and are concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal (especially his favorite dish) is part of the warm welcome.
• Prepare yourself. Take 15 minutes to rest so you'll be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your make up, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh-looking. He has just been with a lot of work weary people! (so the same pj pants four days in a row isn't hot?)
• Over the cooler months of the year you should prepare and light a fire for him to unwind by. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order, and it will give you a lift, too. After all, catering for his comfort will provide you with immense personal satisfaction.
• Greet him with a warm smile and show sincerity in your desire to please.
• Listen to him. You may have a dozen important things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first--remember, his topics of conversation are more important than yours.
• Make the evening his. Never complain if he comes home late or goes out to dinner or other places of entertainment without you. Instead, try to understand his world of strain and pressure and his very real need to be at home and relax.
• Don't complain if he's late home for dinner or even if he stays out all night. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. (Huh?)
• Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soothing and pleasant voice. (Oh, ha ha ha ha ha ha !!!!)
• Don't ask him questions about his actions or question his judgement or integrity. Remember, he is the master of the house and as such will always exercise his will with fairness and truthfulness. You have no right to question him.
• A good wife always knows her place.

Holy Crap. I don't care if this was fifty years ago, I don't believe that a woman actually wrote this. And if she did, she probably went batshit crazy shortly thereafter. Maybe she looked like this:

"oooh, what do you think of my knife collection?"

This is a beautiful birthstone bracelet made by Catherine. (We did a swap--a purse for a bracelet.) It has a strand for Nate and one for Chip, too. Hopefully, I'll get to send it back one day to have another strand added for a happier outcome. Thank you so much, it's gorgeous! 

An Interview with Myself

What do you want?
I'd like a baby, thanks.

Well, aren't you scared?
Sure. Of course I am.

What if you have another miscarriage?
The miscarriage was horrible, awful. But...I need to try.

What if you lose another full-term baby? Could you handle that?
Well, I'd have to, wouldn't I? Shut up, don't talk that way.

You've got your head in the sand.
No I do not. Believe me, I'm keenly aware of what could happen.

Why even try again?
Because I know that there's happy endings out there. Because I know that even people who have had total abruptions like I did, have gone on to have more than one beautiful, healthy pregnancy. And because I think that my biggest regret of my life would be not to try again just out of fear. I'm hoping that someday, I'll look at my children and be thankful that I tried again.

You could adopt.
Yeah, I know that. We've done research, we've talked to people, we've thought of finances. It's something we plan on doing whether or not we're able to have kids of our own. It's just that right now, with the agency that we like, it's almost a two-year wait for a little girl from China. I just can't wait right now. One year, yeah. Two years, not right now.

What if you lose another full-term baby? Could you handle that?


I think so.

The Sucky Post

I received an email yesterday from one of my former flute students from when I was teaching at the University. She was at a different life stage than my other students: she was married, she had a two year old little girl and she was pregnant with a boy and due at the same time I was. She must have taken the spring semester off, just like I did and returned this fall, just like I didn't. She had just heard what had happened and wanted to know when I was coming back. (I'm not.)

I don't know what the point of this post is. There is no point, probably. Just a big, huge cosmic "Huh?!" from me. I'm probably just like tons of people that you know. Your sister. Your friend. But now I'm an example, and not the kind I wanna be. Now I'm "look what happened to her. goddamn." I'm reproductive equivalent of going to the super buffets just to "people watch" to feel better about your own body image. [Insert here what I nice person I am and I didn't ask for this bullshit and I've never hurt anyone and I'm married to a nice man and have a lovely home, blah, blah, fuck-ity blah] If I don't get some good news soon, then I just don't know what.

**edited to add**
I know that I'm preaching to the choir, here. Maybe I just need an "amen".

Veteran's Day

My mom and I went to see Nate yesterday. That makes it a grand total of three times that I've been there for him: the funeral, Easter and now Veteran's Day. My son is buried in the Missouri Veterans Cemetery and I wanted to see how the place looked with American flags everywhere. I hate that it's still so hard for me to go there. Why would it ever be easy to visit your child in a cemetery? Even so, I feel like a sucky mother.

They did have flags raised on the several flagpoles that line the drives, and it was very pretty, but they didn't have flags on each grave like I hoped. Maybe that's Memorial Day. I don't know. I never paid attention to these holidays until my son ended up in a veteran's cemetery. This particular one is brand new, and several rows of graves had been added since Tom and I had been there at Easter. Here, all of the gravemarkers are identical--more military uniformity. It's easy to find Nate's row, though, because his granddad is buried in the very first grave, 16 spaces down.

Tom's dad died on January 15 of this year. He was very sick, but he died very quickly and went much sooner than anyone expected. We all believed that he would be here to welcome Nate into the family and even have some time to enjoy him. After he had died, I had so much hoped that Nate's birth would bring some happiness back to the family and be a welcome diversion for all of us. That day of the funeral, standing in front of Tom's father's flag draped casket, I never imagined that we would be back there in just over two weeks, in the same freezing interment shelter but this time, a tiny white casket in its place. It was surreal to say the least.

It had been so long since I had been there, I was happy to see that grass had finally grown over Nate's grave. Time marches on and nature takes it's course no matter how I'm feeling and how much I feel as if it's standing still. New baby grass growing over my son's grave like new skin that covers a bad wound. It's not as raw anymore, but you can still see where you've been hurt.

My sister-in-law had already been there to place pretty arrangements on both graves. (Tom's mother and sisters always keep flowers on the graves, and I'm so grateful for that. They always make a little arrangement for the baby.) Mom and I arranged our flowers in the militarily uniform vase that we are required to use, and I stood back and took a couple of pictures. The marker reads-

Nathaniel Guy K.

January 31, 2006

Februrary 3, 2006

Son of

SPC Thomas K.

Our Sweet Baby Nate

I always laugh a little when I read "Sweet Baby Nate". It sounds like the name of a barbeque sauce. "Sweet Baby Nate's Lip-Smackin' Sauce". But that's what I called him when I was pregnant, because he was sweet. He was sweet and considerate and polite. He never kept me up all night and he never even had the hiccups. He just gave me wicked heartburn, but I'm sure he didn't mean to. It sucks that this is all I know about him. "Nate was a baby. He liked grape juice. The end."

We walked sixteen spaces down and carefully arranged some purple mums (in honor of the Purple Heart that he received) in another militarily uniform vase for Tom's dad. I stood up and looked over the rows and rows of identical headstones. In my direct line of sight was the grave marker of a 21-year old man that died last November. His stone read: "Rangers Lead the Way". My husband was an Army Ranger, and reading the Ranger motto on a headstone made my hair stand up. I thought about all of these men buried here. This young Ranger and all the others, these veterans--what did they see in their lifetimes? I thought about Nate, surrounded by these tough men and felt a little better. I felt a little proud. Many of these men were buried with their medals pinned to their chest, and my boy is right there--all seven pounds and eleven ounces of him--his hair combed across his forehead, his chin tucked to his chest, looking very stern. My little soldier.

Closer to Fine

I used to sing in my car. I used to be the girl rockin' out at the stoplight, getting embarassed when she realized that someone noticed. Most days now, I cry on my way to work or I cry on my way home. Usually both. I'm definately not a trained singer and honestly, I'd have to get pretty drunk to get up in front of people to sing karaoke. I've always thought that this was a particularly weird thing about me--one of my favorite places to be is on stage with my flute, performing. I love playing to an audience. There is absolutely nothing like a standing ovation, and boy I could sure use one these days. But ask me to sing, and I clam up.

I got into my car tonight, heading home from orchestra, and despite the frustrations of this particular rehearsal, my heart was feeling pretty light. I noticed that I was singing along to Panic at the Disco. That wasn't doing it for me, so I started searching for my Joni Mitchell CD with Big Yellow Taxi, my favorite drunk karaoke song. I try a few bars a capella, but couldn't remember the words. I had to find something--I felt happy! I felt like singing! This was a big deal. At the next stoplight, I dug through my cd wallet and found the holy grail of singin' at the top of your lungs--Indigo Girls.

Ah, the Indigo Girls. I've seen them in concert three times and in college, my girlfriends and I would sit around and just sing, sing, drink and sing with IG in the stereo. To me, their music isn't just great stuff to listen to, it's my college soundtrack. It's friendship, roadtrips, bad break ups and just the plain awesomeness of being a girl. Every track was our anthem.

I haven't listened to a single song since Nate died. I used to sing Indigo Girls songs to my baby. But tonight, I sang. I sang my heart out with Amy and then switched to Emily's parts on the harmonies, like I always did. I sang all the way home, and when I parked in the garage I sat there and sang some more. I sang with a happy heart full of good memories of girlfriends and my sweet baby.

Tomorrow may be different, but tonight I got a glimpse of the old Laura. The singing and dancing and hooray for everything Laura. Tomorrow may be different, but tonight I'm alright. I'm learning not to take these moments for granted, but to celebrate them when they happen.

aaaaaaaand, scene!

Okay, the offending clothes and books are folded neatly in a Zingerman's Deli mail order box, minus dead skunks or dog shit. I had 3 tops, 1 pair of okay pants and 2 pairs of ugly-ass pants that I never wore, and a couple of books. Most of it from Target and none of it haute couture. (Not that there's anything wrong with Target clothes. I love Target and most all of my own maternity clothes are either from there or from second hand mama stores. I'm just being a jerk.) Tom helped me dig out those clothes last night. He was so sweet, he said, "Let's do it now and then we can watch The Office to cheer you up." I was so glad that he acknowleged that it would be hard for me to do that, we think of things differently most of the time. Left brain, right brain couple.

So, Tom's gonna dump those off for me today. I've yet to send any type of communication, she's probably really got her knickers in a twist now. Awesome. I think, in the end, a short version is sweeter. Like, "They'll be on your porch." Just knowing her like I have for 13 years, the short version will piss her off even more and I need to nip this thing in the bud NOW. To answer Jill, yes, she's always been very self absorbed. I could tell you things that would make your hair curl, but spill it all here wouldn't be nice....

Thank you for all of your great advice--both bloggy friends and in real life friends--it was great therapy for me to get all of that out and to know that I wasn't being a big baby about it. I have 13 years of built up garbage about this woman. So, while I would never, ever, ever wish her a dangerous pregnancy with a horrible outcome, I could wish her some discomfort. Like:

• May she have hemorrhoids that swell to the size of dinner plates.
• May she be so constipated that her eyes are bloodshot for the duration.
• May she have acne so bad, her face is like ground beef.
• With every chuckle, may she pee her pants.
• May she pass gas publicly. Often.

Feel free to add.

p.s.--my period started again. 19 day cycle. I wish that my body would just get back to normal, if it even knows what normal is anymore. Also, baby-making sex sucks and we're not doing it anymore. Sex for fun and leisure only. Then we'll see what happens.

and more maternity clothes B.S.

Okay, one more post on this, and then I'll drop it. This is just so yucky, I can't get past it.

I got another message from the maternity clothes nazi. She wanted to know if I've found them yet and that she would also like her Pregnancy Week by Week back. And that she doesn't have the money to go and buy all new stuff. Oh, I'm very sorry. When she said that she needed them this winter, I didn't know that she was in such a hurry. I thought that I could at least have a week or two of wiggle room. Some people have told me not to send them at all and another said I should shit on them and put them in a garbage bag. (Okay, actually I thought that was pretty funny.)

I feel like since I told her that I would return them to her, I need to. But I really think that she should know that this isn't cool. My husband and I have decided that he would just drop them off on her porch (thus saving both postage and my feelings), but I wonder if I should just leave it at that. I am so mad and hurt. I haven't talked to her since right after Nate died, so I don't consider her a friend anymore, but still. I wrote this letter, but haven't sent it:

I was all sunshiny in my first response, but I really need for you to understand how difficult it is for me to even open a box of maternity clothes, much less sort through them. I fully intended to get those things back to you. I planned on doing it as soon as I was comfortably pregnant and emotionally able to go through baby stuff. However, in addition to mourning my son, I just had a really bad miscarriage. Yes, I know that you had no way of knowing that. I'm just not in the best place emotionally to deal with maternity clothes and other people's pregnancy announcements.
So, yes I will return those things to you. But just understand why I'm not in a hurry to do it. To be pushy about it is just cruel.

That may be totally writing a check that my ass can't cash. (She can be mean, and I am notoriously a huge weenie.) It think that it helped just writing that down. I'll probably just say--You'll have them this week. (piss off) Okay, maybe not that last thing. What would you say? Feel free to add to my letter.

On the 31st

Nine Months Old.

What a big boy you'd be today.

Your cousin has taken his first steps.

He's one month older than you, but

I bet you'd be right there with him,

my genius child.

You'd just be fitting into the little

St. Louis Rams uniform. Daddy

and I hate football, but you'd still

look awfully cute in that outfit.

I miss you so much.

I still can't believe that we had such a

beautiful boy. And then you were gone.

I wonder what we would have dressed

up as today? It's so hard knowing that

I'll miss out on your...everything.

I love you sweet boy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two years ago today I got engaged. I had a huge Halloween flute recital with another studio and I was the director of the flute choir. We all dressed up in costumes--I was Hermione and Tom, my stage hand, was a farmer. He wouldn't dress up as Harry Potter despite my pleadings.

The concert was a huge success, and as I was thanking the audience, Tom came on stage. I gave him a puzzled look--I didn't need him to move any more stands, the show was over--but he got down on one knee and proposed to me in front of a big audience and 40-50 flute players, most of them teenage girls. I love him so much for doing that. I was just the perfect engagement. (I said yes, obviously.)

Show & Tell

Stuff that I've been making to keep my mind off of being knocked up:

I just finished the purse yesterday. It's for my mother-in-law's X-Mas gift. I'm really getting hooked on making purses--it's my new thang. And then I had to show you my sushi pillow. I think that everyone needs one of those.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thank you for your support RE: crappy friend/maternity clothes. I really thought that maybe I was just being overly sensitive. The more I think about it, if I had a friend whose baby had died and I had loaned her my mat. clothes, I really don't think that I would even ask for them back. I've still yet to look for them. She's probably only like five minutes pregnant anyway. Whatever.

Oh, and the costumes: I was a major poop-in-the-pants and didn't go to the party. Kaitlyn and I stayed home and ate Chinese and watched kid-friendly You Tube. I didn't even pick anything to be for Halloween, which is totally weird because I usually pick out my costume way in advance. I had fun just making costumes this year. But the good news is--Tom won first prize in the costume contest!