Come on, Spring. Let’s do this.
I guess I could have told you how the baby was throwing more fist pumps than Pauly D at the 12 week ultrasound.
I could have told you about the time I had a wacky first trimester craving for broccoli, ate almost an entire head and spent half the night throwing up green. That was fun.
I could have told you how Lotte is determined to name this kid Angus, after Merida’s horse in Brave, with Puss in Boots in a close second.
I could have told you how I knew something was up when I woke up one morning absolutely repulsed by my Starbucks soy latte, and gagged at the thought of wine later that night.
I could have told you that I peed on no less than four tests in one day because I just couldn’t believe my eyes and had been convinced my uterus was a wicked bitch.
I could have told you about the emotion I heard in Pete’s usually calm demeanor when I told him he was having a boy.
I could have told you how the cat and dog have been glued to my side since conception because of their insane animal spidey-sense. They knew before I knew.
I could have had Lotte holding up a cute picture of a sonogram, or put up a belly shot at 12 weeks, or Instagramed the four positive tests, or released blue balloons, or set off fireworks, or paid for sky writing or something
but I didn’t.
I didn’t because at seven weeks I found out I had another subchorionic hematoma, just like the one that caused my miscarriage last spring.
I didn’t because at ten weeks, the day after the tragedy at Sandy Hook, I started hemorrhaging and was rushed to the emergency room…again.
I didn’t because I was immediately placed on bed rest and have done nothing more stimulating than discuss Mob Wives with the cat for months.
I didn’t because after my 12 week peek at the little fist-pumping chicklet, my doctor told me the hematoma had grown to 9 centimeters and she wouldn’t even give me 50/50 odds. At 12 weeks. With a perfectly healthy baby.
I didn’t because I spent a few months crying, staring out the window, calling my uterus a wench, crying harder, getting angry and feeling sorry for myself.
I didn’t because I was gripped by terror every time I peed, stood up, changed position, walked, coughed, sneezed, laughed or breathed too heavily, as if my heart could get snatched from my chest at any moment and I was sure I wouldn’t recover this time.
I didn’t…but then at 18 weeks both of my doctors started smiling rather than mumbling, scowling and scratching their heads.
For the very first time I heard the beautiful words, “Everything looks great. It’s going to be okay.”.
The bastard blood clot was shrinking and healing and leaving my body, and for the first time everyone was allowed to be happy. I was allowed to be happy. This was going to happen.
At 21 weeks the clot is barely noticeable on the ultrasound: a small sliver of gray lurking underneath the little boy who can often be seen jamming his fingers in his mouth and gleefully chugging his own urine. While the doctors all expect the hematoma to be completely dissolved by the next office visit, I am still at risk for pre-term labor so I will most likely be spending the remainder of this pregnancy watching more Mob Wives with the cat. (I think she likes Ramona, but I’m Team Drita all the way.)
Now, rather than seeing my couch-ridden days as the precursor of doom and heartache, I’m starting to enjoy the quiet moments when I can feel the little man thump around in my belly after pancakes and blood oranges. I can chat with him, tell him all about his big sister with baby blues as big as saucers and a penchant for acting like a bobcat for days at a time.
I can tell him how he’s going to keep cooking in my belly for quite a while, how it makes me laugh that I’m growing a tiny penis, and how I have never before changed a boy’s diaper so we’re both up shit’s creek.
I can tell him how he has some grandparents who are chomping at the bit to buy things for the first boy in the family for miles, and I can also tell you.
This was one hell of a secret.
Television during the eighties was filled with Public Service Announcements, also called PSA’s. These are some of my all-time faves, plus a few commercials that make me die laughing and feel like I’m sitting on the hideous brown shag carpet in our old family room drinking a Tab and eating a Devil Dog.
This one made pills seem kind of cute and fun, which definitely wasn’t the message they were going for.
THIS GAVE ME NIGHTMARES FOREVER.
God, these “One to Grow On” shorts are as comforting and familiar as my Benetton rugby and Capezios.
Our freezer was always filled with those ice cream sandwiches and Brown Bonnets. Wait, were those frozen cones with the hard chocolate shell called Brown Bonnets, or did I just make that up?
I have broken free from my November slump! HUZZAH! Guess who I have to thank for lifting my spirits out of the doldrums?
I freaking love Christmas, like whoa. Johnny Mathis Christmas album on repeat + peppermint everything + more opportunities to use my glue gun and glitter = I can never have the sads during this time of year. I’ll save that for January 1st when the dark, gloomy New England winter has set in and I’m clamoring for light therapy and straight bourbon.
Something about this time of year makes me feel nostalgic for my youth. I could be wrong, but it probably has to do with the whole awesome concept of the fat bearded man who used to bring me Atari games, Simon, The Little Professor and new stickerbooks. I can’t think of Christmas without thinking about Christmases past, and when I think of Christmases past I naturally think of the 80s.
Bear with me while I revisit the 80s for a few posts (or forEVER). I’ve got Wham’s “Last Christmas” on my mind and it makes me long for my white legwarmers that said my name down the side and my braided ribbon hair clips with the long strands that would dangle down into my (frizzy) locks.
So, in preparation for an upcoming move that will probably take place in the year 2050 from her afterlife, my mother has been cleaning out the basement of my childhood home. She occasionally sends me little bits of this and that in the mail or shoves mementos into her overnight bag when she comes to visit. This past Thanksgiving she brought one of my well-worn, mostly broken but absolute favorite things from my youth:
Within seconds Lotte had slipped this beauty around her neck and was galloping around the dining room table. Most of the charms were broken off and missing, and some were relatively harmless, like these:
Sailing! FUN! Skis! A stupid abacus! So wholesome. Although upon closer inspection, I noticed some charms that were…well, less than normal.
I can picture a small me accompanying my dad on an errand to L.H. Martin and pleading with him, “Can I PUHLEEEZE get a new charm for my charm necklace?” while he searched for much-needed batteries or lintrollers or whatever brought us on that trip to the store. I’m sure he absent-mindedly said “Sure!” as I placed the SEXY charm on the counter and he didn’t have time to notice how ridiculously inappropriate it would be for a 9-year-old to have the word “SEXY” hanging from her neck, but whatever. Welcome to the 80s!
With this one, my mom probably ran to Lincoln Stationary to get some scotch tape and was all, “Sure! You can totally wear a tiny fake bottle of booze around your neck!”. Maybe she was distracted by my Madonna shirt that said “Like a Virgin” on the front. (I can’t even.)
I probably got this one after watching Less Than Zero. See what happens when you grow up with a sister that is 6 years older than you? I feel like I saw the movie Porky’s when I was still being swaddled.
TOTALLY INAPPROPRIATE EIGHTIES.
I’ve been a little melancholy lately. There have been so many Facebook statuses about homes completely destroyed by Hurricane Sandy, while it seems to be business as usual on the national news. Massive parts of my hometown on Long Island are lying in ruin, the beaches where I built my first sandcastles are destroyed, and friends are struggling after returning to homes deemed unlivable. Neighborhoods in Brooklyn where I spent oodles of time with Lotte during her first 4 years of life have been reduced to vacant storefronts and piles of rubbish while people are desperately trying to survive with no power through the cold November winds.
Gabbing on Twitter about Parenthood and blogging about My Little Pony seems dumb. I’m sad. I feel frustrated with everything and everyone, and until I’m better able to harness my scrambled mind, here are some pretty pictures. We went to Vermont. There was nature. It was dreamy.
There was certainly one shimmering moment of hope to be had last week.