auf wiedersehen, adios, adeiu

Good bye, 2007. I've waited for this send off for many dragging months, and now that 2008 is in its final approach for landing (tray tables in the upright and locked position), I'm inexplicably pensive. And afraid. Afraid that 2008 won't be different. Afraid it will instead bring more hurt, more pain, more longing for something that feels all at once unattainable and unimaginable to live without, more friends who grow distant and silent when I most need encouragement and support, more unanswerable question marks, more tears and puffy eyes that never quite lose that sad shadow only I can see in the mirror each morning. I've counted on this new start for some time now, thought of it like a fresh new page in a cluttered and messy book, a large step forward toward what will be.....and now that it has nearly arrived I can only trust, and hope, and believe that through all this bad will come good. That the psychic my friend saw on Montel was right, and 2008 is a year to finish what was started in 2007 (thanks, Kekis, for that). That after all this, hope is not lost, our time will come.

I refused to leave the house tonight. Celebration seemed somehow awkward, something foreign. More fitting, I felt, to curl up with my five loving companions. J's eyes are heavy at the other end of the couch, remote still possessively in his grip, and sandwiched between us are three sleeping pets (the other on the floor- we've only got so much couch space), all blissfully oblivious to the revelry all around save for the occasional firecracker outside. We're cozy, we're calm, we're damn near geriatric for being in our sweats before 10 on New Years Eve. But this fits, this seems a proper expiration. In a way drinking and laughing and socializing just did not.

I hate to come off sounding ungrateful for all that did go right in 2007. There's much that I cherish, and no amount of self indulgent blogging changes my thankfulness for those things. My mom's health and the unwavering support my parents offer each and every day. J's total lack of epileptic symptoms. Our beautiful new home looking more and more "us" all the time. Our precious new addition to the petting zoo, and the health of his cohorts. Those friends (old ones like Michelle and Jenny, new ones like Lisa) who were there, who held me tight and brought optimism and love to the toughest times. My amazing, amazing sister and brother, supportive through things they can't and shouldn't understand and wonderfully distracting with their texts and irreverent facebook pokes. My PL support group, those girls who KNOW, who care which cycle day it is, how my boobs feel or don't feel, and who ask whether I'll pee on something soon. And of course- the most simple of things that we do have- food, clothing, warmth, love. I know I'm blessed. I know I've got much to be thankful for. It's just that, in a way I can't describe to someone who hasn't experienced this...there's someone missing now. Two beautiful, beloved someones. They're missed so dearly and as I leave 2007, a part of me feels they're being left behind as well, when they should be here, or well on their way here. Not locked up in my heart, all evidence of their existance tucked in a green memory box beside my bed. They're so loved, and my only hope is that this love we feel, this undirected huge aimless amount of love we have, will soon be poured upon one very spoiled little babe.

Anyway, Happy New Year to you, from our couch to yours. Here's to 2008.

cuteness overload

Whether you like cats or not, there's simply no denying the adorability of my kittens. See? Told ya. No particular reason I'm sharing this, other than to point out the obvious.....Ralph Engelstad and George W are basically the definition of cute. I'm sure many of you have cats of your own, and I really do hate to be the one to inform you....but my cats are the cutest.

UsWeekly really needs to get a damn grip. Refocus on celebrities, their sexcapades, and determining "who wore it best". Because the new issue is all baby, all the time. Jamie Lynn (don't even get me started). Shiloh. Suri. A special 18 page bonus of babies. I don't even KNOW half of the celebrities featured in these pages holding up their offspring, nor do I care what Melissa Joan Hart has to say about the unique challenges of a 2nd pregnancy. Ugh. Melissa Joan Hart? Really? Can't we please talk some more about Lindsay or Paris, or shit, even those Hills girls?

52 hours to go.........

80 hours to go

In 3.33 days, 2007 will be GONE! The worst year of my whole entire life, history. Mom's cancer scare, my miscarriages, and all the rest of the sad drama that unfolded will have happened "last year". And 2008, I'm convinced, will be a good one for us. Historically, election years have been fortunate ones. In 2000, I met J. Love at first sight. Not in the husband/wife way, in the best friends forever, coolest dorm neighbor of all time way. Only over that next year would we come to see there was more there than friendship. In 2004, we married. We moved to the northwoods, bought our first home, got our first puppy, started life together. And in 2008, we'll have our baby. Or at least, create it. But let's shoot for having it. We've got a low key New Years Eve planned with friends. No big parties, no drunken revelry, no hats or horns. Just my dear sweet husband beside me as we watch the clock tick away and usher in a new era. I can already feel the sigh of relief coming on.



Christmas, despite the heavy heart reminding me of what coulda shoulda woulda been, was wonderful. I dare to say, one of the better ones I've had. My family was funny and warm and generous as always. Board games, (ugly) football games, delicious food, amazingly thoughtful gifts. I'm partial to my gorgeous sparkling Tiffany diamond earrings, my cozy fleece coat, some wonderful wardrobe updates, and the yearlong Us Weekly subscription from baby brother. Truly, the gift that keeps on giving. Much like, say, the Jelly of the Month Club. And the weather, it was Christmasy. Snow is much more enjoyable when one knows they'll soon be back in the south, under the sun, not needing mittens again until the next trip north.



Traveling home was less than fantastic. I dare say, the worst travel experience of all time. There was lost luggage, both trips. Jonathan's didn't even arrive in Wisconsin until the day before our departure. Curiously, it arrived wearing a luggage strap and tag written in Asian, so it appears Northwest Airlines confused "Wisconsin" with "China". Easy mistake. Then lost luggage again on the trip home, our overstuffed bags ditched in Minneapolis amid the Christmas travel chaos made more chaotic by a snowstorm. The night also featured screaming babies for seatmates, bitchy flight crew, major delays, misprinted boarding passes, a can of Pringles for dinner, and the longest sprint of all time across the Minneapolis airport. I cried tears of relief when we descended through the clouds and the lights of Austin welcomed us home. As rocky as life here has started off, it truly is home.



Well, this was rather pointless. The suitcases (they finally arrived) are calling to be unpacked, the dogs itching for attention, my Christmas cookied ass is needing a walk. Or lipo.

awkward meter = 10

I'm not a happy little elf. Why? I've got a cold, thanks to a week of rainy weather with temps fluctuating from 80 to 40 every 12 hours. I'm not pregnant, so say the 3 bitchy, lilly white tests in my bathroom garbage (1 of which, and I don't know who did this, is smashed to bits.) I'm obviously PMSing. I'm horribly unprepared for the holidays. I'm still not packed for tomorrow's flight. I've clearly flopped as hostess to the in laws, seeing as how my holiday cheer is dampened by above mentioned cold and well, every dreadful event of this year has me relating more to the Grinch than Buddy the Elf. AAnd last, but certainly not least, I was forced into the worst conversation of my life this afternoon.

Behold, the conversation. The caller (here known as "He") is an old (not little old man old, way back when old) friend of the in laws. He and Father In Law were chatting, and apparently He requested to speak with me. Then He kicked me in the gut like a verbal ninja......

He: All excited and congratulatory...
"So, how far along are you now?"

Me: Awkward silence for a beat too long, wondering if my hearing is bad...
"Um....I'm not"

He: Not sensing my horrified tone...
"No! I SAID, how far along are you now?"

Me: Vomit rising...
"Yeah....um....I'm not"

He: Not getting it...
"OH! I thought you were pregnant?!"

Me: Wondering if he'd like me to draw a picture, a very gory, sad picture...
"Um...I was, now I'm not"

He: Finally sensing my awkwardness...
"Oh, uh, okay"

Me: Hands phone to Father In Law, goes into bathroom, sobs hysterically

Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. He. Hope you can wash down that foot in your mouth with some tasty egg nog. I understand it's not exactly He's fault. He was obviously on the "tell" list but left off the "untell" list. He just didn't get the memo. But you'd think (wouldn't you?) that after "I'm not" number uno, he may have dropped it? Stammered out a quick apology and allowed the conversation to end a bit more gracefully.

*&^%$#@! How many more days left in this year? The Nyquil isn't helping my math skills, but we're getting closer to single digits with every dragging minute......

layover

The holidays are almost here, and with that comes travel. (Yay! To Wisconsin!) Yesterday, in the spirit of holiday travel, I was thinking about how annoying layovers and flight delays are. You left someplace to get to another place and you're stuck in some middle place. The middle place isn't bad- there are enough cool things to see and do and eat to keep you occupied. But in your heart, the airport layover isn't where you want to be- you want to be where you were going, damnit! How inconvenient! How unfair that other flights are taking off, packed full of smug passengers, while your stupid flight just SITS there at the gate, going nowhere.

2007 has totally been a layover. We left where we were- happy and content in Couple-with-spoiled-pets-land. Sure, our departure was technically an accident, but we departed nonetheless, final destination- Parentland. We boarded the baby bound plane, buckled up for the ride, and said adios to newlywed, childless life. The drink carts rolled out and the destination seemed clear. But instead of comfortably coasting to our destination, we hit a snag. Call it a "mechanical failure"- it just didn't go off as planned. So we landed. And waited. And became more irritated by the hour. And there weren't even moving walkways to speed us along!

So now, we're "trying" again. (I hate that term, I hate others having the knowlege that for a few days a month, my husband and I are engaging in "unprotected adult activities". In fact, it kind of makes me gag to hear other people talk about such things. But this blog is private now, and those who are still allowed to read are those I feel comfortable with having that knowlege. Read or don't, your choice.) Anyway, with this "trying" I picture us sitting at our gate, boarding passes in our grubby little hands, waiting for the polyester clad airline employee to announce our flight status. Will they start boarding? Will we get on the plane and reach our destination hassle free, arrive tired and worn, but entirely satisfied to finally be "there"? Or be handed more layover, given another wait, told to come back in 4 weeks and see what they can do? That's not the end of the world, obviously. Together and relatively carefree isn't so bad, after all. Much like an airport layover, we'll find some way to entertain ourselves in the meantime. We'll find a bar and get some wine and glare at people with strollers and make fun of the midwesterners wearing bright white tennies with tapered leg jeans. But God, I'd love for our flight to take off. And for this flight to be the ONE that gets us there. The one that lands us at our destination- Babies R Us. Well, Babies R Us, L&D, then Home....mini-us in arms, content at long last.

Here's hoping.......

one foxy feline

If you weren't sure before whether I was halfway to Crazy Cat Lady Land....now you know. I've found the website of feline wonderment known as http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/. These pictures of little Ralphie are very entertaining, if I do say so myself. My little supermodel. The other pets, as loved as they are, just don't know how to vogue like PeanutFace does.

(I'm not sure why that last one is cutting off....it's supposed to say No More Piksherz)

In other news....well, there's not much in other news. I'm moving through the in between land known in TTC circles as the Two Week Wait. I'll be back at the Fat Farm (aka, my OB's office) on Monday for a blood draw. This will either confirm my ovulation, filling me with renewed hope and faith in my reproductive organs......or send me back into (a likely drunken) depression over once again falling for its' trickery. I'm really thinking it will be choice #1 this time around. I hate to be naively optimistic, or to set myself up for a devastation train wreck once again, but I really think all signs point to O-town, and ovulating has definitely never been a problem for me in the past. It's very likely I'm worrying myself because, well, I've got nothing else to worry about at the moment. And if not....we'll deal with that when we have to. But we won't have to.

up your butt, becky

I've been so normal lately. I don't cry at random, I don't scream at people from the driver's seat of my car, I don't even mind watching Jon & Kate Plus 8 on DHC. But today, I was tested. And I flunked (yes, mom, like Home Ec). Said examination ended with yours truly in the Pottery Barn bathroom, crying and gasping and transported back to the Icky Place. And it's all stupid Becky's fault.

I was at work. It was a good day. My shirt was freshly pressed, my hair turned out okay, and I felt merry. I'm excited because I'm ovulating again, I'm happy because there's hope, I'm feeling at long last like I'm not entirely fragile. Then came Becky. As I'm ringing up an older lady, I see her waddle in. Cutely pregnant, huge Pottery Barn Kids bag, and smiling away like someone who just doesn't have a clue. As she's waiting her turn (and I'm wondering whether I could fake a seizure convicingly enough to get out of having to interact with her) she recognizes another girl shopping the Barn. "Megan??" Megan turns around and obviously hasn't seen Becks for some time because there's immediate squealing. Squealing as women only do when there's a) an engagement ring on the finger or b) a baby in the uterus. Or maybe if there's puppies. Whatever. Anyway: "BECKYYYYYY! OH MY GOD YOU ARE THE CUTEST PREGNANT LADY EVER!!!! YOU MUST BE SO EXCITED!" Oh, My, God. Perfect. I already know what's coming, and I already feel my strong facade cracking down the middle. They start in, talking about Becky's latest ultrasound, about Becky's nursery purchases, about Becky's hope that it's a girl, about how Becky is just so excited to be a mom, about how CRAZY it is how fast it happened but that's just Becky's family, all Fertile Myrtles who have big huge babies one after another. Then Bitch-ecky says "I'm SICK of being pregnant! I was so sick before and now my belly has just gotten so big and I want it over. I keep outgrowing my shirts!" Oh, isn't that a shame. Poor you, Becky. My heart really goes out to you, idiot. See, I didn't want MY pregnancy over. I wanted more of it, 30 more long, tiring weeks. Even during pregnancy #1, when I barfed and ached and felt like all around shit, I was quick to say every single bit of it was A-okay as long as the little one was healthy in there. So I'm not buying the whole "you'll see when you're pregnant" bit. Because I was pretty damn miserable when leaving the couch was on most days an insurmountable feat, but thankful every minute to have that little life growing inside of me.

Well anyway, that shoved me over the edge. I'd heard about enough out of Big Becks about her big, stupid, perfect pregnancy. I finished packaging the old lady's reindeer ornaments and just walked away. Told my manager I needed to go to the ladies room, ignored his dumbfounded look (one doesn't normally leave a line at the register to tinkle), and hid out in the bathroom. Looking at my tear streaked face in the mirror, I just felt so ....... sad. Sad that I have to be this person now, this person whose happiness for others is overruled by her own heartache. Sad that I couldn't have been out there on the sales floor chatting nurseries with the likes of Becky. Just sad that I'm different, broken, sadder than I was before. Someone who cries in mall bathrooms.

Thanks for that, Big Butt Becky. And by the way, pink is not your color.

welcome, december

It's been awhile. I needed time away from myself, the grief, being sad. And it was freeing. December, at long last, is here. November is gone. Our tree is up, our lights are twinkly, and best of all things- 2007 is on its' last legs, weeks from disappearing into the past. The past weeks have brought new peace, new hope, and fewer tears.

November 27 came and went. And I was okay. I cried a bit, I shopped a lot, I drank just enough to blur the lines as the evening fell, surrounded by good friends both old and new, each aware of the sadness of that day but each there to carry on as if this was a run of the mill Tuesday night gathering. And I woke up the next morning feeling a bit lighter knowing "THE DATE" wasn't still looming ahead. I'm not saying I'm all better, I'm not saying the "old Mandie", whoever she is, is back. The only way I can think to describe it is my grief no longer fits like it did before. It's like a piece of clothing that once slipped on comfortably every day, it's still familiar and mine, but just not quite right for me any more. Our babies, obviously, are as missed today as they were in May and September and all the crappy days in between. But they're loved in a way that allows me to step forward. Cautiously, optimistically, eons older and wiser and kinder than the girl who accidentaly started this journey 9 months back.

In honor of December, a shot of our tree and Ralphie waiting patiently for Santa:

a much needed break

I took a "life hiatus", so to speak. In those times where the world seems to pile on the trouble, and bad news rains down relentlessly, there's nothing like mom's love to pull one through. I've been in Madison for 9 days now, on what has been a wonderful opportunity to clear my head, reclaim my life, and remember joy. Nothing like a daylong Michigan Avenue shopping excursion or a 34/0 Packer win over the Vikings to bring a smile to my face.

It's been fun, and it will also be wonderful to see J's smiling face again. And of course, the kiddos. I hear Henry, Griffin, Ralph, and George are getting lonely, and knowing I'll be greeted at home by four happy fuzzy faces will make it easier to board the southbound plane back home on Monday.

Here's me, mom, and mom's very good friend enjoying our day at Lambeau Field....

i like tv

Last night was the first time I've seen an accurate, heartfelt portrayal of miscarriage on television. Usually, when the unthinkable happens, the victim takes a spill down the stairs, or some other very obvious unrealistic thing happens to cause the loss. (Remember Gabby on Desperate Housewives? Stairs = falling = miscarriage. Ask any soap viewer or my grandmother.) Anyway, then the mother-not-to-be mourns for 2.5 seconds and is back to normal. Last night, on Brothers & Sisters, they showed a loss that hit all too close to home. One of the main characters, Kitty, found out last week that she was pregnant. She was excited, she immediately started planning, and her whole family knew in minutes. Silently I cursed her, rolling my eyes at yet another overly simplistic pregnancy plot in the making and making a mental note to remove B&S from the DVR recording list. I'll pass on another super-authentic TV pregnancy - positive test, bulging belly, and a newborn in time for finale season. Bing bang boom! It's that easy! The more realistic-minded TV writers add in a puking scene or two, and that's it. Everything else must be sunshine, happiness, and tacky shower games. Last night, I watched Kitty go through exactly what I (and so many of my newfound friends) did back in May. Laid back on that table, big old smile, with high hopes her ultrasound begins......and suddenly the doctor is shutting off the machine and looking sadly at her patient as she prepares to smash her happy little world to pieces. Her baby had no heartbeat. She was devastated, her family was devastated. As I wailed on the couch, hurting for this lady in pretend-land, I felt very thankful to whoever came up with this storyline. I really feel like people don't realize how common this is, and how achingly tragic it is, until they or someone they love experiences a miscarriage. I think so many women take pregnancy for granted. They think miscarriage is something that happens to other people. Good example- a work aquaintance who told me how happy she is that she doesn't have "those problems". Mind you, the aquaintance in question has had one healthy pregnancy and apparently has a crystal ball stashed in her closet (right next to the bottle full of ignorance) to make her oh so sure that she'll never experience this. And before this happend to ME, before it became MY reality...I probably didn't get it, either. I didn't go so far as to exlude myself from the realm of possibility, but it wasn't something I sincerely worried about or spent more than a moment considering. And don't get me wrong- never in a zillion years would I wish this upon anyone. Not even Britney Feed-The-Baby-Coca Cola Spears or Nicole-Smoke-While-Pregnant Richie. Not for a minute. All I'm trying to say here is that I applaud whoever came up with the "Kitty has a miscarriage" story and brought a very common occurance to light in a very public way. As tough as it was to watch, it made me feel less like a circus sideshow to watch someone on primetime TV go through nearly exactly what I did. No stairs involved.

Off to work. Here's hoping it's a stroller-free kind of day.

it's here

Well, it's here. November. The focus of much dread, it has arrived. And so far, it's not been as bad as I anticipated. ((Disclaimer: it's only day 3. I reserve the right to hate November at a later date if I do so choose. Stay tuned.)) It certainly helps that my doctor's appointment went better than I could have imagined and left me feeling much more hopeful about life in general, and seeing with my own two eyes that I have things called follicles and they are fantastic ones, indeed. These people know what they're doing, and I have no doubts that it will be the place to change our fortune. It also helps that I've decided to keep my eyes on the prize- 2008. (Well, and Christmas, but mainly 2008.) 2007, in a word, sucked. Sure, it brought our house, our ever-expanding kitty George, and a little piece of television genious called Kid Nation. But moreso, it brought misery, doubt, and sorrow. And medical bills. (Have I mentioned those? Have I mentioned how entirely awesome it is to pay the equivalent of a new couch and roughly 7 pairs of fantastic shoes plus a great handbag or two to lose your babies?) BUT- back to the point at hand- 2007 is almost finito! 57 days until we're on to better times. 57 days until the 2007 is officially the past, aka, "so last year". Here's hoping my hunch is right, and 2008 is happy happy happy. There's already so much I'm looking forward to in '08. Both of the siblings have graduation, my most favorite cousin marries in June, a trip to California is in the works for February, J's new position has been promised to him at the start of the year, and I'll be 27. For some reason, 27 sounds like an awfully good age to me. It sounds officially grown up, but not so close to 30 that I need to fret about an impending mid life crisis. Anyway, long story short, I've chosen to focus on getting through November and on to happier times. God knows we deserve them.

I'm giving TV-stardom a second chance, despite the rocky start. I got a call yesterday from the FNL casting people. (That's Friday Night Lights for those of you with so little taste in television that you're not watching this awesomely addictive show.) Actually, I missed the call and got the message. They offered me what's called a "Lead Extra" role. Had I actually been by the phone and received this call OR called back quickly enough, I would have had the superfun opportunity to play the wife of a guy car shopping. I guess the couple is on a car lot buying a car from one of the lead actors on the show, so I would have been face to face with one of the stars AND nearly guaranteed a chance to see my face on prime time NBC. And actual hair and makeup and wardrobe! Alas, I was too slow in returning the call, and they'd filled the role. Damn! Instead, my big break will be the role of.....drumroll...."Applebees Customer". Not quite "lead extra" status, but surely it will be better than freezing my buns off with 200 other extras in a football stadium. And I might even get a free meal out of the deal. I was promised a better role soon, and you better believe I'll be keeping the cell phone closer from now on.

And on a totally unrelated and absolutely meaningless topic: I heard yesterday that Lance Armstrong has been spotted making out with....Ashley Olson. Yes, that's right, Michelle Tanner and the bike guy. Is that even legal? Even if it is, it seems a bit pedophilic to me to date the little girl who coined the phrase "you got it, dude" and started the ongoing playground debate over whether she was one person with an obscenely long name (Mary Kate Ashley Olson) or twins. This has nothing to do with anything, but I'm so flabbergasted at the thought of it that I figured it deserved a mention. Ew. And as the fabulous L said last night over wine "but...but...he only has one nut!" Touche.

Thankful for: a chat with Jenny yesterday, who I swear reads my mind and from whom I know I'll never have to suffer through the sight of a mini van or anything Pooh related, fall weather in Texas, Dr. S & company making me feel all better, my puppies despite their lackluster behavior of late, a sweet card from Auntie K, Bee Movie this afternoon with J & J & G.

i never liked turkeys anyway

In lieu of diving right into my usual self-indulgent nonsensery, I want to share a few clips that make me giggle. J saw these at a dealership training seminar. Dad also seems to get a kick out of them, since every time we talk I hear a badger impression.









Okay, back to all things me-related. (That's what blogs are for, right?) This morning was not among my finer risings. I woke up and as usual, spent a minute figuring out what day it was, what the date was, and what I had to do today. Then tried with all my might to sink down into the mattress and disappear for 33 days or so when I realized this is the week November begins. November, the month that was supposed to bring with it our first baby. Instead, it is likely to bring a whole lot of sad emotions. Not only am I not having our Turkey baby, not only am I not finding out the sex of our April baby, but I'm still waiting for my body to decide to function normally. Two MONTHS since miscarriage #2 began, and I'm still not "normal". (I'll omit any detailed explanations in the rare chance that this is being read by my husband, my father, my brother, or any member of the male species.) This is getting o-l-d. Or, I should say, it got o-l-d about 3 weeks ago. Now, it's verging on ridiculousness, as I prepare to head back to the doctor's office tomorrow to investigate this newest reproductive system malfunction. Yep, back to the OBGYN. Perfect. I'm sure the sight of 100 or so bulging bellies in the waiting room will affect me positively. But back to the point, I wish that I could rip out the November page from my calander and crumple it up and have that be that. I'd like to go Rip Van Winkle awhile, wake up on December 1, past the dreaded date, past the turkeys, past the risk of a mental breakdown. Or, you know, just wake up with a uterus that aims to please rather than infuriate. I just want it to be '08 already. I know there are no guarantees, but I'd bet my lucky scrunchie that it will be better than '07. (No, I don't have a lucky scrunchie. If you didn't catch the Legally Blonde reference I'm embarassed for you.)

Here's what saves the day: tonight, The Bachelor is partaking in the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever". Well, probably not, but he is making the home date rounds. AKA, the best episode of the whole season. We're DVRing so I can half-watch the Packer game, and because it's much more enjoyable to watch a recorded commercial-free version.

That's all for now. Here's hoping for good news tomorrow.

there's been a mistake

Sitting here on the couch tonight, listening to J snore softly as I half watched TV and half perused the internet looking at things I'd buy if that backyard money tree would start sprouting (a Pottery Barn couch and leather side chair, a Coach bangle, a home on Lake Austin next to Sandra Bullock's) my father's voice was suddenly in my head. I know, creepy. I flashed back to something he said many moons ago. Specifically, the summer of 2005. It was July. He and my mom had gone to Minneapolis early that week to be with my Grandma Rita as the doctors performed surgery to remove her cancer. Needless to say, that didn't work out so well. The cancer had spread, the surgery would not save her, there was nothing more they could do for her. Seconds after getting the call from my dad, tears choking his every word, my brother and sister and I threw bags into the car and drove to Minneapolis. To do what, I don't know. To hold up our daddy, to hold our grandma's wonderfully strong hand, to see in person that this was real and really happening, I suppose. The specific moment I flashed to tonight took place very late in the evening of our arrival. Dad, mom, brother, sister, and I, along with my very favorite cousin M, left the hospital and wandered wearily along a busy Minneapolis street. We found a restaurant with tables scattered about on the outdoor patio, twinkly white lights strung in the treetops above. We ordered drinks- the stronger the better- Long Island Teas for all, keep 'em coming. My heart broke looking down that table at my usually strong and stoic dad. The lines by his eyes, the endearing ones that mirrored Grandma's more with each hearty laugh, were deeper that night. I'd only seen this sadness in my dad once before, the first time Grandma had cancer, when I was all of 8 or 9 and was mercifully spared the details of why her hair was gone. We were all so very sad that night in Minneapolis, Teas in hand, so out of place on this festive avenue, revelry all around, our six-some a dark cloud in the midst. And dad says to us that he doesn't believe for one minute that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. How he thought that people who said that were wrong, that it simply wasn't true because this, losing his mother, was clearly more than he could handle. And something about how every single day, people went through incomprehensible agony that was most definitely more than was handle-able. Back then, just two years ago, I didn't think too much about what he said. Just tucked that thought away to think about another day.

But you know, now, I get it, and I agree. I do feel that God got this wrong, and he's given us more than we can handle, there's been a mistake on heaven's part. I hear so often these days how strong I am for handling this mix up of God's. How strong we are. I don't understand this. I'm not strong! Do I appear to be because I'm among the living, because I'm not crying at that moment, because I pretend to laugh and smile when inside I'm sad and mad? Is that what makes people believe I'm strong? But what is my alternative, what would make me not strong? If I crawled into bed, between my cool cotton sheets, and hid? If I didn't fake that smile or pretend I'm enjoying myself from time to time? If I spoke my mind and responded to the gas station attendant's "how are you, ma'am" with "well, I was a whole hell of a lot better before we had two dead babies and a new soul and wallet depleting medical bill in our mailbox each morning, and now I feel like an empty ugly broken shell of my old self, with nothing but 10 extra pounds to show for all this physical and emotional assault, but thanks for asking, and I'll take $40 of regular unleaded on pump 12, thanks". ::exhale:: I wonder if people tell us we're 'strong' and that 'God wouldn't give us more than we can handle' because they don't know what else to say. Because "I'm sorry" gets old. Because they don't want to deal with the ugliness of grief and Hallmark doesn't sell a card that says "you lost a baby or two, it sucks, it's okay to be pissed at the world" that they can stick in the mail and feel they've successfully played and completed the role of supportive loved one. Because they want to believe that God is carefully dosing out the misery, deliberate in his attempt to not make anyone's load too heavy, protecting them from such sadness. I don't know. I don't even know that this all makes sense to anyone residing outside of my mind. I just know that suddenly tonight, it hit me that I understood why my dad thought that sentiment was bullshit. I get it. I'm 1500 miles away from that table and that moment with my nearest and dearest Auses....but for a moment, I was back there, nodding along with dad, now burdened by an all too heavy load of my own. Now if only the waiter would just appear with that wonderfully mind numbing Tea.....

I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice,

and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside,

show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything,

more than anything,

My wish,

for you,

is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big,

your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you,

and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

fast forward

I'm pretty sure by now, with all my talk of TV shows, it's clear that I enjoy a love affair with my DVR. Last night, while watching an old recorded episode of Sex and the City, ever-powerful DVR remote in hand....it hit me. What I need is DVR for my life. Yeah, yeah, I know our days here are numbered anyway and it's foolish to wish even a second away and blabitty bla bla bla and just watch that Click movie if you want proof that this is a tricky plan...but too bad, after the past 7 months- I want it. Or specifically, I want the fast forward button (and the mute would be good, too). As Miranda and Steve bickered about their baby, the perfect healthy one they became pregnant with and weren't sure they wanted so Miranda spent that entire pregnancy whining and bitching about being fat and uncomfortable....I was able to speed right through it! Right on to the fun bits! I NEED this. I could go to the mall and fast forward through any belly and/or stroller encounters! Hit pause on those days where the sun is shining, the dog-kids behaving, I don't think of the m-word, and my hair looks pretty. Then speed on through any moments inducing pain or frustration (which are aplenty). Hell, I could just fast forward right on through this entire life turbulance event and hit play again when I see myself weighing 25 extra pounds (in the right place- if it's in my butt, I'll just keep fast forwarding), smiling placidly like the lady on the cover of WTEWYE and painting a wall in pastel baby-friendly shades. Then *voila* rejoin my previously scheduled life!

And after that disgustingly cold Monday (which I did, indeed, survive) I guess fall is here. I'm so confused by seasons at this point. It was 90 and summery, then it was 40 and dark by 7. No gradual, pretty, flowing transition into the hell that is winter up north. Down here, you're on the boat workin' your tan one day, and frantically searching for your "cold weather clothes" box in the garage the next. But boy, am I loving this fall thing. I was able to walk Henry yesterday without even a trickle of back sweat! How special is that?

c-c-c-cold

Brrrrr. I've become one of "them". A big midwestern-grown sell out. One of the southern folks whose blood threatens to freeze at 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, the girl who grew up doing THIS for fun....... ....deemed this mornings' chilly, wet, windy 50-degree conditions "too cold to go outside" and urged dear J to take his big coat with him to work. Immediately disappointed in my feebleness, I tried to redeem myself by taking Henry out for a walk. Let's just say his "walk" consisted of three layers of clothing, a jaunt to the end of the block and back, and a smelly wet dog. A week back home in Wisconsin over Christmas should cure this insanity. Because, as all northeners know, you're not cold until at least one extremity is numb. Until then, I'll be the one in the Uggs searching fervently for that FUPA-inducing pink snowsuit of mine.

The weekend passed with a fairly low amount of our "new normal" chaos and drama. J's still frustrated with work, I'm still frustrated with my recovery, I had an emotional Saturday afternoon that I just prefer not to get into in an attempt to avoid an emotional Monday...but all in all, we managed a decent (if lazy) weekend. I did wreak havoc on the condiment aisle at the grocery store, so there's that. While reaching for a bottle of horseradish, I took down a few containers of ketchup with my elbow. Since they're plastic, one would assume they would bounce to the ground and land safely, right? HA! Not at the hands of Mandie! One smashed into the concrete floor with so much force that it exploded. An explosion aimed, naturally, at yours truly. My shorts-clad legs were splattered with enough ketchup for at least 5 burgers- enough to make me look as if I'd been shot right there in the grocery store aisle or was experiencing some sort of explosive period. And I wasn't the only target. The merchandise on the opposite side of the aisle received an even coating of ketchup, too. So there I stood on a busy Sunday afternoon, an obese old woman rolling up beside me in her motor-scooter gawking, a lady with (of course) a baby glaring at me as if I'd set out to attack her precious bambino. Move along people, nothing to see here. I flagged down a pimply teenage employee, made a lame attempt to help, and finally just took his paper towel offering and bolted.

I need to go find socks. My toes are numbing.

tv star dropouts

The TV career of J and Mandie was short lived and entirely disappointing. We signed up to be extras on the set of Friday Night Lights, one of our very favorite TV shows. I had been called to do this once before, but when I found out it was a pool scene in need of "young college types in bikinis" I decided against taking the job. I don't want to be seen in my bikini in my backyard, much less on national television. Yikes. But when my next invite came, to take part in the fully clothed taping of a football game scene, I was all over it. I convinced J we'd have fun doing this together. Well, fun wasn't had. Let's just say the show looks a whole lot more entertaining on TV. In person, it's a lot of "rolling" and "cut" and sitting around staring at our shoes in between. No glamour, no craft services, no paparazzi. And let's just say the knocked up high schooler sitting behind me with her 14 year old looking boyfriend forced me to consciously focus on not poking her in the eyeball with my pom pom. Then we overheard someone say the taping would probably last until 3am. What?! 3am?! When the next potty break was called, we gathered our stuff and ran for the hills. We'll see when the show airs (Laribee Lions v. Dylan Panthers) whether our adorable mugs made the cut or not. Here are a couple pictures from our time on set. They look as boring as it was, but if you watch the show regularly, and smush your face up real close to the screen and squint- you'll recognize Riggins, Sarreson, and Smash in the top photo.

changing topography

Group is over. I was so sad driving there tonight. Partly because my car smells inexplicably like vitamins (?) but mainly because the six weekly group meetings went by much, much too quickly. I know I've gained so much from the group. J and I have been able to talk openly about subjects we'd never touched on before, our grief has been validated as real and hurtful and our babies as worth our grief, and we've learned a lot about one another and ourselves and how we deal with sadness and loss. But creeping along in traffic towards our group meeting, I wondered whether I was "better" yet or not. I remember when we started I thought that by the end of the six weeks, I'd be fixed or on my way to fixed- I'd be somehow "better". Since I'm still often some combination of sad, mad, and confused....I wasn't sure that I had changed.

Then came our final discussion at group tonight. See, at the very first meeting, we were asked to describe our pain as an object or physical thing. My pain was easy to describe- it was a mountain. A big, rigid, scratchy, black mountain. (I may have talked about this in an earlier post, I don't remember, and I'm too tired to go back and investigate.) Anyway, back to me and my feelings (me, me, meeee). There was that mountain. I was on top of the mountan during my pregnancy. Excited, proud, happy. Nervous about it, but more comfortable every day. The miscarriage shoved me off the mountain, plunged me down to my worst fear. And there I was, 6 weeks ago, laying at the bottom of this intimidating, frightening mountain. It stood in the way of everything- I couldn't focus on anything but that damn mountain or see any light behind it. Afraid to look up at it, no choice but to climb back up it if I wanted to have a baby. But totally terrified of what it would take to get there and how much it would hurt to get back on it.

Tonight, our counselor (W) asked us what our pain was now, whether it had changed since the beginning. Without having to think about it, I immediately pictured my pain as a hill. Specifically, a hill beside the road leading to my grandpa's farm. It's a bigass hill. But it's rolling, it's soft, it's more green and grassy than black and rough. It's do-able. It's one I can picture us walking up steadily. Not so intimidating like that mountain, just a challenge I know we can overcome. Wow! Somehow, the mighty W had led us through our darkest weeks and brought us to this new place. A place where the next steps are ones I know we can take, instead of ones that appear so harrowing that I'd prefer to just lay on the ground and cry with helplessness (or eat cookie dough and go back to bed). I could just hug W for shaving down that mountain a bit for us. And I did.

At the end of our group, W played the song of a very talented Austin musician, Sarah Hickman (you've heard her voice- the "dollop of daisy" sour cream commercials?) Sarah was kind enough to sing for our remembrance ceremony a few weeks ago, and her song about angels will forever make me cry, but in that good and cleansing way. While listening to it tonight, I was comforted by the thought that Grover and Baby F are our little angels. And as Sarah says, we will meet when it is time.

Sometimes you'll stumble
Sometimes you'll just lie down
Sometimes you will get lonely
With all these people around
Ohh Oh
You might shiver when the wind blows
Yea, you might get blown away
Ohh Oh
You might lose a little colours
You... you might lose a little faith...
Ohh Oh
But we are each other's angels
Ohh Oh
And we meet when it is time
Ohh Oh
We keep each other going
And we show each other signs...
Well, I reached my destination
Yea, I finally made it home
God sent ten thousand angels
To make me one of his own...

Here's a link to Sarah Hickman's album if you want to hear a preview of this song:
http://www.sarahickman.com/music/spiritualappliances/#angels

things not to say to me

Or to anyone suffering the loss of their baby. It's amazing to me the things people say when they think they are being helpful. Since this is a continual topic on a message board I frequent and often comes up in chats with friends who have also miscarried, I figured it was worth putting this totally non-comprehensive list out there. My hope is that it will help you (whoever y'all are who are taking the time to read this) from inadvertently saying something hurtful to someone when they most need support. Off the top of my head:

1. You're young! Hmm. That's great to know, and I get the intent behind this one (you've got plenty of time). Unless you are my doctor (and I doubt you are because he's far to busy with his three gazillion patients to read my blog, but from him it meant a lot because he assured me we have approximately 12 years before he's even mildly concerned) I don't want to hear this. Our age is entirely unrelated to the grief we are feeling right now.

2. Relax! It will happen! So-and-so adopted and then she was so relaxed that they got pregnant! Relax! Right. YOU go through losing two beloved little babies, two surgeries, and countless sleepless nights of worry and wonder and then YOU freakin' relax. Relaxation does not = pregnancy. Ovulation predictor tests and timed boinking and voodoo chants while standing on one's head does. Duh.

3. At least you know you can get pregnant! Here's another "unless you are my doctor" rule. It's not super comforting to know you can get pregnant when your babies aren't making it for whatever reason. Plus, I doubt infertile women appreciate the insinuation that they are everyone's worst case scenario ("hey, at least you're not INFERTILE like THAT LADY!")

4. It's God's will. Okay, are you TRYING to make me angry at God? Or make God the bad guy here? Because I'd rather not sit here thinking that God is the bad guy in this situation (He isn't). I've never questioned my own faith more than I have through these miscarriages. When you become pregnant, everyone is quick to tell you how "blessed" you are. Then when you lose that pregnancy, you're left to wonder what you did to "unbless" yourself. After hearing the "God's will" line over and over again, I started to truly believe our first miscarriage had happened because I hadn't gone to church enough and my 20+ daily prayers for our babies health wasn't quite enough to get His attention. I doubt that's the truth, and it's not good for my spirit to have to wonder about that.

5. It's natures way or the biggest whopper I've heard- you wouldn't want a retarded baby. I don't know that a lot of explanation is necessary here. Just don't go here. It's offensive (to us and to anyone raising a handicapped child), it's beside the point, and it's most certainly not comforting.

6. You can have another one. Fantastic, really, that is fantastic (no sarcasm- I mean that). BUT- right now it's not another one we want. We want that one. The one we lost and miss. Another one won't fill the hole in our heart, that will always be there to some extent. This is tantamount to telling a woman who has just lost her husband that she can have another husband. See?

7. I know how you feel. Unless you've been through this, you don't. You're better off saying "I'm sad for you, and I'm here for you". Now, if you HAVE been through this, preach on, sister!

8. Time heals. One of the best lessons we've learned through our support group is that time alone has basically nada to do with healing. Since my first miscarriage, I've spoken to many women who have suffered similar losses. Whether it happened last week or 30 years ago, they still hurt, they still cry when they talk about it, they still remember what color shoes they had on the day they got the news or what the moments of their miscarriages entailed. Time doesn't heal. It makes hurts easier to accept, it brings distractions and happiness and peace that lessen the pain, but the loss of a baby is always there in a parent's heart.

9. Nothing at all. The most hurt J and I felt were from people we thought we were close to who chose to ignore our miscarriages entirely. Needless to say, these aren't people we are close to any more, nor are they people who will know about our future pregnancy(s) until little Habib is on his way to kindergarten. To ignore a loss like this is to say it doesn't matter, to us or to you. I get that it's an uncomfortable topic and some people are afraid of the raw emotion accompanying this kind of loss. I get that some people feel it will hurt me or us to talk about it. But ignoring the loss does not make it less of a reality for us.

10. I drank the last Diet Coke. Just ask J or RoomieG. This one's got nothing to do with miscarriage, but it has everything to do with whether I want to kick you in the shins or not.

Lest this newest posting come off as entirely negative, I don't mean it to be so! I just realized today how often this topic is discussed among those of us who have miscarried. I'd love to make another list of all the great things people have said to us or done for us since our losses, but that would take too long and get too all too mushy for my liking. And I've got dogs to feed and clothes to wash and a final support group meeting to attend. For now, I'll leave this at that.

memory lane

I'm in a retro kind of mood today. This morning, with the pretense of cleaning out my closet, I ended up on the closet floor looking through a big rubbermaid container that has moved from house to apartment to house again without examination. Faced with the choice between sorting the clean clothes from the dirty and rehanging all the articles George pulled off their hangers OR digging through this container- reminiscing seemed the much better option. Aaah...procrastination. My second middle name. Opening it up, I was amazed at how many neat things it contained that I'd totally forgotten I ever had. The last letter I received from Grandma Rita was especially touching- it contained a photo of my dad and his grandpa Leon, a note about their busy weekend, and an afterthought mention of her chemo starting the 21st. There were piles of cards and pictures collected in college, assorted memorabilia from the hockey cheer team, love letters from J during his time in Quantico, and the most time consuming- a stack of photos from my childhood. The following picture is a testament to my inherent classiness:

My shopping problem started very early on. That shopping cart was a key part of my child play. I'd use it to play grocery store, to play Pamida (yes, Pamida), and to push an assorted collection of baby farm animals (kittens, bunnies, chicks, you name it) around in. I look wasted, or perhaps the FruitLoop buzz was just wearing off. I swear I made that same face just a few weeks ago when faced with the challenge of figuring the tip on our bar tab. And, may I add- that is some funky ass linoleum. No wonder I looked so tripped out.

Today was also National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Last year the House of Representatives passed a resolution to declare October 15 a designated day to remember those lives lost far too soon. There's something comforting about the official, governmental acknowledgement that our losses are real, and that at least some of our nation remembers that.

(an excerpt from the passing of the resolution)

Mr. Speaker, I think the importance of this resolution is to let people know that when couples have a miscarriage, it is a child. It might be for some people, well, it is just a miscarriage. They were only 6 weeks or they were only 9 weeks, and they did not even know whether it was a boy or girl. But in the minds of that couple in many instances it is their very first pregnancy, and they are already thinking about that little boy or the little girl and what the name is going to be and the clothes that they are going to pick out and the joys they are going to have sending that child to school and raising it and seeing it play sports and become an adult some day and contribute to our great society. We tend to forget that. And this was brought home to me pretty vividly recently when my daughter-in-law, pregnant with their first child, found out at 10 weeks that the baby did not have a heartbeat. And so that baby was lost. And she went on, of course, and miscarried. And that loss will be with them forever. And so I think it is just so important for us all to realize that when somebody, when you hear about somebody having a miscarriage, do not think, well, it was just a miscarriage, it is not like losing a child or an older child, which of course I do not know that anything compares to that. But this is a significant loss. And that is why this resolution today is so important. I thank the gentleman for yielding. I thank Congressman LATHAM for bringing it forward and Congressman DAVIS as well.

I hope that G and Baby F, wherever they are, knew that this day was theirs, and that as always, they are loved.

I'll close with something that makes me wonder if I ever stood a chance at being normal, with parents (or possiblity an auntie) who allowed me to be photographed like this. I look like I'm just bored to death with my own fantasticness. "Yeah, so, I'm wearing these majorly awesome shades. And I'm up past my bedtime, yo. I'm just cool like that. Take a picture, grandma, it will last longer."

awake, again

Night time. As recently as 4 years ago, it was where the action took place. Bar hopping, frat parties, hockey games, late night chats with questionably sober girlfriends. Now, it's when the sadness sets in. It's when I feel most alone. It's when I most want the comfort of my pregnancy(ies) back, three nightly pee trips and all. It's when I count the weeks to figure out how far along I'd be (34 , 14). It's when I replay the scariest moments of my life over and over in my head. It's when I just wish this wasn't my life. Wasn't us dealing with this. Wasn't us who have to suffer so much to get what we want. A wise woman (aka Madonna) once said: if it's bitter at the start, then it's sweeter in the end. I sure hope Madge is right.

I'm homesick, too, on this Sunday night. (Wendy Whiner in the hizz-ouse!) I love Austin. If given the choice, I absolutely wouldn't leave. It feels like home, we're making great friends, J (mostly) enjoys his work and his potential there, I adore our humble abode, we have yet to run out of exciting places to go or things to do, I never have to worry about my nostrils freezing together or seeing another Polaris jacket as long as I live. But. In that wearing rose-colored-glasses way, I sometimes miss things about our past life. Mainly the obvious- proximity to ma, pa, M2, and M3. But random things, too. That ominous gloom in the air threatening the first snowfall, rushing home from work to get cozy and crank the heat before it hit. My old job that mostly entertained me, often exhilerated me, and kept me buzzing long after the Red Bull wore off. The silence in our old backyard- it was the kind of silence like when the electricity goes out and the hummmmm of a working house shuts off and you're startled to realize how much noise there really was when you thought it was quiet. And did I mention being close to the 4 people (other than my dear J, obviously) that make me the happiest, if only because they understand why fox hats are funny and who Cow Patty is and where she's gone? Hell, it doesn't take a psych-trained individual to recognize I'm probably just missing a time when life wasn't so steadily defined by sadness and loss and raw emotion. Probably pining for the girl I was before my innocence took a beating. In fact, I KNOW that's true. I know how much I love our life here and that I wouldn't trade it for anything or anyplace (uh...unless said place offered a significant raise and big boss status for the J-man and a Lexus GX470 for yours truly and no less than 1 Nordstrom in a 20 mile radius...then maybe we'd talk). I just want old Mandie back. The girl cruising in her green Trailblazer, listening to Madonna, doing her part to bring some fabulousness to the northwoods. The girl who had no idea of the shitstorm coming her way in 07. The girl who slept on a regular basis.

Things that made me smile today: G's amazing brisket and J's bbq-sauce chin, breaking out my rollerblades (how retro am I?) for an inaugural spin around the 'hood, pumpkins on our porch, another Packer win, reading our HOA rules over and discovering it actually IS legal to have 4 pets (we thought we were one over- breathe easy Hor-hay, you're safe!)

saturdaying

Back to the real world. Mom's visit was the BEST. She has a way of giving me strength and courage as only a mama can, and we never have any trouble finding fun ways to kill a day. I'm so glad she was here and so sad she had to go, her visits are always too short. We also had a fun visit from the in laws and a great birthday celebration for Jodi. Until Garrett had enough of our end of dinner chit chat- "hey ladies, are you done? Cause I'm done." Gotta love 9 year olds and their lack of tact. Lots of shopping (mom's now infected by the PB Outlet addiction), lots of chatting, and just a few tears at the airport this morning.

The constant drama flow seems to have slowed to a trickle. No near death experiences, no actual death experiences, actually, the only death-related-moment of the week involved a spider and my shoe. The only additional drama of last week was an engine blowing up at a gas station and spewing scalding something or other all up and down my bare arms and legs. (No, I wasn't pumping gas naked again. Just dressing appropriately for your run of the mill 92 degree October day.) In comparison to the chaos earlier in the week, a little mystery fluid burn is nothing. Phew. Please let last week be the end of the craziness. Please let everything from here on out be puppy dogs and rainbows and strong margaritas sipped in peace. We've got a completely unventful married life weekend going on. We're Saturdaying, if you will. Leisurely morning, a bit of housework, a trip to the unbelievably exciting new neighborhood Super Target, some lawn work, and a lazy afternoon in the yard and on the couch. It's funny how "uneventful" has become the best thing ever in comparison to "all hell breaking loose all the time".

What makes me sad right now is that this miscarriage madness has tempered my formerly insatiable taste for the glossies. Fridays used to be a day of special excitement because it was "new UsWeekly and People Day!" Now, I find myself having to skip over half the damn magazines. The ridiculous coverage of celebrity pregnancies, celebrity baby showers, celebrity babies, celebrity bump watches, celebrity maternity fashion, celebrity baby names, celebrity stroller choices....augh. I'd really prefer more details on Brit's latest crotch shot or for Paris to go back to jail or something. Nicole. JLo. Christina. Halle. What IS it with Hollywood and reproducing lately? And Nicole? Really, God? You do realize she is totally unfit, right? Where's the justice in this world? Can't a girl just enjoy her junk reading without a reminder that the whole world is pregnant?

I'll close with a quote I found on the fantastic blog of a woman dealing with her own TTC issues. Perfectly put and a reminder that the present is passing and the future promises better days.

"Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are."
-Augustine of Hippo

drama

We've got to be at our drama quota for the quarter or even the year by now. The past few days have just been so draining. Last night was another of those sleepless, sad, lonely nights and I couldn't be more relieved that as I type, mom is boarding a southbound plane to come stay for the week. I need my mommy.

First, we were nearly wiped off the face of the earth on I35 on Sunday. Leaving the remembrance ceremony, southbound, we watched in slow-mo horror as a northbound jacked up SUV swerved out of control and straight at us. We were screaming and and braced for collision, sure the cement center divider wouldn't hold the monster truck and we were about to be smushed, and unable to move out of the way because of characteristic parking lot traffic conditions on 35. The truck smashed into about 5 cars as he swung all over the road, then directly into the divider just 4-5 feet from our car, and thank the good Lord.....didn't break through. Scared the hell out of both of us, how easily a Sunday afternoon could have turned into tragedy.

Yesterday brought some very sad news from Dr. S's office. Nurse K, who has to be the sweetest, most empathetic nurse I've ever met, called late in the afternoon with the results of the chromosomal testing on our baby. Grover was a boy. A sweet little boy for J, just as he has always wanted, although we would have loved ANY baby that could have been healthy and joined us here on earth. It breaks my damn heart that I couldn't give that little boy to him, although we now know without a shadow of a doubt that this miscarriage was NOT my body's doing. Grover had Trisomy 22, which is a chromosomal problem incompatible with life. Survival beyond the first trimester is very rare. I've done some reading on this in the past 24 hours and while it's horrifying to know our little boy wasn't healthy, I feel a sense of peace knowing our baby boy was spared a lot of pain and suffering...he never had a chance at being strong and healthy and able to live with us in this world. K explained this happens at conception, and is very unlikely to repeat itself. Comforting, but still not any easier to handle his death. I'm conflicted, and we're more heartsick today than we were yesterday, as this news sinks in and we begin to mourn a specific baby...not just an "it" or "fetus". I will never forget the look on my sweet husband's face when I told him the news. As J does, he showed very little, but I'm coming to know that flicker of sadness in his eyes all too well. It's been a very hard, very emotional time. I sit here looking at the notes I took during my call with K yesterday. Abnormal chrom.....tri 22....incomp w/ life....conception....Boy. I wonder why I wrote that last word down. Did I think I might forget? And how crushing that THIS is our "big" moment of finding out the sex of our child. I had been so very excited for the day we got our "big ultrasound" and found out whether our first born child would be a boy or a girl. I imagined having the ultrasound tech write it down and seal it in an envelope, so J and I could take it with us to open at home or at the park or in some place where we could savor the most exciting news and celebrate the impending arrival of our son or daughter. Quite a different experience to get the news by phone, from a nurse who sounds on the verge of tears, home alone, adding more grief to this whole experience. Don't get me wrong- I'm glad we know. It's just much more personal now. I miss my little man.

There was another discovery in my bloodwork, but one that, according to K and Dr. S, was unlikely to have caused this miscarriage. It's doubtful to have caused the first one, but we can't say for sure. In doctor speak, the test showed "Antinuclear Antibody- positive low tider". I'm still not 100% sure of what this means, but the prescribed antidote from Dr. S is a simple baby aspirin once a day. According to one of my 85 books on pregnancy and miscarriage, the success rate of a subsequent pregnancy after such a diagnosis is as high as 90% with the correct treatment- usually baby aspirin or a prescription drug. From what K said, it's very common and they aren't concerned. This is where I need to trust in the fact that I have a great doctor and not let my worries or paranoia overtake my already cluttered head. If they say it's not concerning, I can't let it concern me. I just can't handle more worry.

Last night brought one more dose of drama (and trauma). We met up with L and her very sweet husband G for margaritas. A great way to salvage a very sad day- newfound friends who understand our pain and tell us funny stories, a calming marg or two, and a gorgeous warm night to sit out on the patio. As the night came to a close, suddenly there was shrieking from the table behind us, and the horrifying scene as an elderly woman....I don't know....died? I'll spare the details and say we don't exactly know what was happening, just that it looked very, very grim and that the 911 operator apparently decided J had his MD and went on and on asking him 100 questions about the poor woman's condition and medical history which he calmly handled in a way only J can. We left the restaurant amidst resuscitation, sirens, flashing lights, and a bunch of chaos as diners and waiters scrambled off the patio and out of the way. Just another reminder that one minute life is manageable....the next, it's gone terribly awry. I can't get the pained, shocked look of the woman's daughter out of my head. Or the cries of the poor little boy out front who just witnessed this at his table. The same pained, shocked look we've had ourselves all too much lately, the same hysterical cries of despair. Ugh.

ENOUGH ALREADY. No mas.

remembering

Today J, my friend L, and I attended a memorial service hosted by the Ronald McDonald house. It was very touching, definitely emotional, and I'm too tired to say much more about it than that. We were surrounded by people who know our grief all too well. We were presented with these remembrance stones, inteded to be placed in the remembrance pond. Tellingly, I was unable to let go of ours, so they're at home for now (and likely for always) in the hydrangea garden we planted after the first loss. I miss our babies today more than ever.











And sometimes I don't have the energy
To prove everybody wrong
And I try my best to be strong
But you know it's so hard
It's so hard
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard when it doesn't come fast
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard
It felt like a given
Something a woman's born to do
A natural ambition
To see a reflection of me and you
And I'd feel so guilty
If that was a gift I couldn't give
And could you be happy
If life wasn't how we pictured it
And sometimes I just want to wait it out
To prove everybody wrong
And I need your help to move on
Cause you know it's so hard
It's so hard
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard when it doesn't come fast
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
So hard
I can live for the moment
When all these clouds open up for me to see
And show me a vision
Of you and me swimming peacefully

-Dixie Chicks

sabado

You know what's blissful? Saturday mornings. As a kid, what could be cooler than a day where you don't have to get out of bed until you want to (meaning: you sleep in allll the way until 6:45 instead of the weekday wakeup of 6:30). Parents sleep in (or attempt to) on Saturdays, so it was one long morning of sugary cereal eaten on a blanket raft in the living room wearing pajamas and watching Inspector Gadget, Smurfs, or later, Saved By the Bell. Coolness. Now that we're over cartoons, Saturday should equal a couple extra hours of lazy sleep, right? Hah.

You know what's NOT blissful? Saturday mornings with two bright eyed bushy tailed cats, ringing phones, and an inconvenient shortage of Diet Coke. 6:50am. I awake to curious noises coming from my nightstand. Then furious clawing. Then a satisfied little meow and the telltale sound of something hitting the floor- I know it's George, the household ChapStick fiend, striking again. I can't ignore that, I need my ChapStick. I peel my eyes open, drag myself from bed, and sure enough- there's George in the corner doing his best to look totally kittenish and innocent (ho, hum, nothing to see here, certainly nothing hiding under your dresser, definitely not, go back to bed!) I fish my ChapStick out from under the dresser and crawl back into bed, hiding it under my pillow. Minutes later I'm awaken again (literally- 6:54am)- more meowing. A few paw nudges to my chest. A fuzzy little head butt. This means one thing- Ralph's awake, and he wants his Sheba. I open one eye and he's there, 4 inches from my face, looking at me expectantly. IT'S SATURDAY, fools! I scoop up both of them and lock them in the laundry room to steal another couple hours of sleep. One hour later the phone is ringing. I ignore it. No one who calls at 8am on a Saturday is worth getting out of bed for. It rings again moments later. FINE, world, I'm AWAKE. Happy? I'll get up. If I don't get to sleep in, what I really need to rescue my Saturday morning is a Diet Coke. As any self-respecting Aus knows, you're not actually awake until there's an aluminum can of caffienated something in your hand. I stumble downstairs, open the fridge, and you guessed it........vast nothingness where the DC should be. I even did the movie thing where you shut the fridge and open it up again real quick to see if something has changed- nada. J and Roomie G are going to GET IT tonight. We've got an unspoken rule in this house that mama always gets the last DC (yeah, I'm spoiled, so what). Thieves.

yeah, about that

Bitter insomniac Mandie is baaaaaack! Raise your hand if you missed me.....anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Lest y'all think I'm cured and on with my life and back to HappyLand, just FYI, this evening shall be filed under "relapse".

Things were okay until the TV came on. I don't even watch My Name is Earl, since I don't find trailer parks or jail all that fascinating, but it was on as I started dinner. The blonde floozy with a belly out to there. Cool, but whatever, I'm HAPPY, remember? Gray's. I love Grays! While the storyline was blessedly free of anything involving pregnancy, there was that whole meth-baby issue. Cool! People like THAT become parents every day. But not two hard working fun loving good hearted mostly sober married people, noooooo. Next, we finally got around to watching last week's Desperate Housewives. You KNOW you're losing it when you're jealous of a fake pregnancy. Yes, I have no shame, I'll admit it- I was jealous of Bree's strap on baby bump. And just moments later.....it gets better! Susan's pregnant! Total shocker! Isn't that just perfect? I can't wait for next week. I'm sure she'll be painting the nursery in designer maternity. And last but most certainly not least- our beloved Friday Night Lights premiers tomorrow. Somehow I found a link to a "sneak preview" of the first episode. What could be safer than a show about small town Texas and football and high schoolers, right? Until Minute 2 when we get to watch the coach's wife go into labor. Then the miracle of birth and the proud new daddy with the misty eyes....and....well, that's as far as I got before shutting that crap down and proclaiming how much I HATE that stupid Friday Night Lights show and really always have because it just sucks and they're a bunch of stupid asshats and who the hell wants to live in stupid farking hot old TEXAS anyway and I hope those STUPID DYLAN PANTHERS LOSE EVERY SINGLE GAME because that show is just CRUEL!!

Insanity. I own it.

So, TV is looking off limits unless I can manage to find something 100% NBR (aka Not Baby Related). Or at least, it's off limits when the bitter mood sets in. We better find a hobby.

getting off my own ass

Over and over again I've been admonished- "get off your ass!" (not as in get up from the sitting position, as in you're too hard on yourself) or "cut yourself a break". Mostly from my mom, sometimes from my dad, and more than a few times from my former manager/business partner B. I'm an oldest child, I'm an Aries, I'm type A....meaning, I was basically born strong willed and innately fearful of any failure on my part or causing disappointment to others. It usually pertained to work situations (causing myself a whole lot of stress where none was needed) but also to life in general (expecting too much of myself or if not too much, more than I would expect out of anybody else). Last night at group, we were asked what we've learned so far from this miscarriage madness. Without even thinking, I informed the group that I've learned to get off my own ass. Lighten up on myself. Cut myself a break. Meaning- if I didn't feel up to talking to a friend who had just had a baby, I didn't. If I wasn't sure I could handle a certain social interaction, I didn't. If I just wanted to pull the sheets to my chin and call it a day, I did. If the idea of going back to work at a certain point seemed insurmountable, I just didn't do it. As I finished talking, our counselor was sitting back in his chair nodding and looking mighty impressed with me. He informed me that that very lesson of being kind to oneself is often a lesson only learned after many, many months of sessions and discussion. And here I was, 1 month and 1 day out from loss #2, growing as a person and learning that lesson (without the gigantor therapy bill). Does it sound like I'm patting myself on the back? I am. Get off my ass.

I had another breakthrough on the flight home from the wedding. At the wedding, I ran into someone I knew in college who somehow knew about both miscarriages (odd since only #1 was public knowledge, but these things happen in small circles, I suppose). She went on and on and on about how miserable I must be and how awful life must be and how I "just shouldn't worry because SOON I would find some happiness in my life again". At the time, she pissed me off. There was a definite overtone of "poor, poor Mandie" that grated my nerves. And 35,000 feet over the central US wedged up against the plastic window doing my best to escape any skin to skin contact with my seatmate who looked suspiciously like Milton from Office Space (where's my sthapler?)....it hit me why that bothered me so. Because I AM happy! Because our life ISN'T miserable! Because there's no room for "poor Mandie" in my life. Sure, there's been misfortune, and sometimes "sad Mandie" or "confused Mandie" or "bitter b*tch Mandie" comes to visit for an afternoon. But she goes just as quickly as she came, or is chased off by a good margarita, and leaves me remembering that we have SO much!! Our life really and truly is fantastic in so many ways. Our marriage. Our families. Our house. Our friends. Our boat, our ambitions, our relative health, our keen ability for causing outbursts of hysterical laughter in one another, our future. Our future that is bright and big and 100% likely to include children. Children without 4 legs who don't chew the furniture, I mean.

Thankful for: Malinn (so, so thankful for her right now), Megan's strength even if she can't appreciate it, J's lessons on stress free living, that scary motorcyclist changing his mind and deciding not to break my face in at the stoplight when I accidentaly honked at him, Thursday night television, Facebook, mom's visit in 5 days

54 hours of fantasticness

Well, I never. Turns out I haven't become a total bore, and I TOTALLY still know how to have and be fun! What a lot of fun packed into lesser than 2.5 days. The plane landed at 11:30pm Thursday, and 30 minutes later, Sarah and I were at the bar. The packed, fun, alumni filled bar (homecoming weekend) where the schooners were flowing. And the fun truly didn't stop until my crack of dawn wake up yesterday morning to get to the airport. That....not so fun. But totally worth it.

Where to start? We got pedis, had a hilarious girly lunch that reminded me just how amazingly funny my girlfriends are and just how much crazy shit we packed into 4 years at UND, did some shopping at the world famous Columbia Mall, and later, Jenny and I visited Alpha Phi. That made me feel older than dirt, but brought back some fantastic memories. The girls are still grouching about the Big Green Couch, Euna-bomber is still the most cantankerous house mom on University Ave, and the rooms are still cute and crammed and cable-free. But more importantly- it still looked like the same cozy casa that hosted the very best of my college years. Same foyer where I played Recruitment Nazi and perfected "window popping", same kitchen where I shirked my kitchen duty night after night, racking up some pretty impressive duty fines, same formal where Monday night meetings were attended and world peace (er...Greek Week and frat prefs) were discussed, same Closet and Haunted Triple and Lookout. So, so many happy memories. Thanks, Martha Foote Crow!

We had the rehearsal and dinner that night, and kept on going until the $4 cab ride home much later on. (A $4 cab ride! Only in ND! I couldn't get to my MAILBOX for 4 bucks!) The wedding was great and the bride was Gorgeous. No doubts about that happy couple, not a one. Lots of old friends and catching up to do. The weekend flew by and I'm already missing it. Sara was the final in our six-some to marry, so it was the last marital hurrah. Now on to planning a get together cruise for the next round of reminiscing and debauchery.

Back in real life, I had my follow up appointment with Dr. S today. Good God, I love that man (and J knows and doesn't mind). The waiting room was cruel as ever (only 1 of 100 examples: the thrilled couple sitting beside me after their sonogram as the wife admired and examined and grinned over their perfect little sonogram showing their perfect little end of 1st trimester fetus) but the doctor is worth the wait. He pronounced me entirely healthy and healed, and talked me through the blood tests they planned to run if I wanted to. Dr. S truly feels it was a freak chromosomal mix up (meaning- not our fault, nothing wrong with me, just truly terrible luck times 2) but understands my desire for testing to, as he said, ease my mind with the great results. He says he's no more concerned about me after miscarriage #2 than he would have been (had he been my doctor) after miscarriage #1. We'll know more the end of this week or so as the test results come back, but I'm certainly encouraged by his confidence.

Off to ease my about-to-burst DVR. I literally can't decide what I want to watch first. The cheerleaders are waiting, Addison's new show still unwatched, and I'm totally slacking on LC and JustinBobby. And I need to hurry, because it's Bachelor night. I'm exhausted already.

A few shots from the weekend.

Jenny and Mandie self-portrait outside Alpha Phi:

Me with the beautiful bride-to-be at the rehearsal dinner:

Three Fantastica Bridesmaids

i'm off

Grand Forks, watch yo'self! Despite Ralph's best attempts to keep me home, I leave for the airport for my trip to GF in a few minutes. After many hours of laundry and packing yesterday (packing, by the way, my most favorite new carry-on sized suitcase) Ralph relieved himself atop of my clothing and suitcase late last night. Not a happy time at our house right about then. So, I got to stay up until the wee hours laundering and scrubbing and trying to get my weekend wardrobe clean and free of the stench of cat pee. Thankfully, the bridesmaid dress was NOT packed yet. Yikes.

I'm probably more excited to go to Grand Forks than anyone has ever been to go to Grand Forks. Trees with colors! Alpha Phi! The Ralph (not Ralph the pee-er, Ralph the stadium)! Canadian accents! I'm sure the wedding will be fabulous, and I could just cry thinking of how happy it will make me to be in the company of my very best friends.

Boring entry, but there should be much more to say by next week.

cleanup, aisle 4

Oh, I'm just so thrilled that Knocked Up is now out on DVD. You know, because it's superfun to watch Katherine Heigl's dumbfounded shock at her accidental pregnancy on the commercials playing over and over and over. "Oops, got pregnant on accident with some schlubby pot smoking loser, and of course it's going to stick and be healthy and end in a baby! What the hell is a miscarriage anyway?" J and I went to see this about a month after miscarriage #1. I thought I was ready and I just really wanted some greasy, salty, tongue-numbing popcorn. I was wrong about the whole "being ready" thing. As the credits rolled (awesome- pictures of the cast members/crew as teeny tiny babies with their moms) I sat there sobbing and gasping and wheezing and J just sat there all helpless because he kind of knew all along that going to this movie was a baaaad idea but had quickly caught on that you don't fight with the hormones, you do as they say, so we went and it ended badly. So you can imagine my joy walking through WalMart today and spying the big huge rack of Knocked Up DVDs. Remember the movie Mean Girls, how Lindsay Lohan's character would have those crazy visions of herself doing inappropriate things? That was me in WalMart. I pictured myself grabbing ahold of the rack, knocking it over with gusto, and jumping up and down and all around stomping the crap out of those stupid DVDs. Then running over the whole awesome mess over and over and over again with my creaky wheeled cart. (How do I ALWAYS get the creaky wheeled cart?) Anyway, I literally had to shake off that daydream and remind myself to keep walking towards the grocery aisle.

I have the same Lindsay Lohan crazy visions thinking about Thansgiving (casserole tossing, wine chugging, platter breaking). Due date #1 was November 27, and I remember not so long ago thinking I would just absolutely positively die if I wasn't pregnant again by then. In my mind, that would be the worst possible thing that could happen. Pffft. Way to go, dummy. See how much worse it could be? I remember imagining our families coming in for the long weekend, watching football and shoving our faces, all the while on alert for possible contractions or sudden rushes to the hospital. I wish life had a rewind/redo button. I want that Thanksgiving back. This Thanksgiving capital-S-sucks.

So I posted on the nest (my beloved and very supportive message board specifically for those going through a pregnancy loss) about feeling a bit down and angry about things today. I've got one fantastic friend on there, a sweet and witty east coaster in the midst of all kinds of adoption craziness who suffered multiple losses of her own. She's upbeat and encouraging and very good at making me feel more normal. I confessed that I'd made the mistake of venturing over to the pregnancy board where I tortured myself by viewing a post from a girl due right smack dab in the middle of April (aka, EDD #2) celebrating the news of her latest and greatest ultrasound and as a result, I had a total damn meltdown (happy for her, devastated for me). In my emotional freak-out I mentioned that while for the most part I'm getting by okay, sometimes there are these wild moments where I feel like I'm thisclose to retreating into a cozy bathrobe and spending my days talking to my cats. This lovely friend offered the following advice, which I deemed so humorous and comforting that it had to be rebroadcasted here for me to read over when I need a giggle (Jill, I hope that's okay): Mandie, You are right. It is not fair. I hate that you are going through this. I have fooled around looking at other boards and usually come away sobbing and mumbling to my stuffed animal (Dudley) the duck who wants to throw himself off the roof to escape my ramblings, but deep down he knows he can't fly. So talking to your cats really is not that crazy. Now, if you lose the bathrobe, and run down the street talking to say, shrubbery, we'll revisit crazy. You are just rightfully upset, grieving, and madder than hell.

Note to self: keep on the robe, don't talk to shrubbery. I think I can handle that. Sometimes just knowing there's a kindred soul out there murmering to her duck makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

Thankful for: my recipe not flopping tonight, J's excitement over his new finance position, my wreath (yes- still), helping G with his e-harmony/future wife finder, time spent in the yard today with the fancy felines, 47 short hours until GFK touchdown

crafts+margs=monday

Why didn't anyone ever tell me there was a Pottery Barn alternative that would save me about a bajillion dollars AND make J believe that his lovely homemaking wife actually passed Home Ec? Check out my freakin' work of art:

A WREATH! And I MADE it! That masterpiece would have cost me $70+ at P'Barn. 15 minutes at Hobby Lobby, $7, and 10 minutes of assembly.... and presto! A fantastic fall wreath at 90% savings! Forget that it's 92 degrees outside and the neighbor kids are running through the sprinklers, at my house, it's FALL. Look at the calendar, folks. I'm a bit proud of myself, so much so that when I left the house after hanging The Wreath, I swung back around the block once more to check out that house with the bitchin' wreath, as I'm sure we'll soon be known as. I bet before long I've got neighbors lined up asking wherever did I get that beauty and where can they get their own. Just watch. (Or, back in the real world....someone steals it. Probably more likely over here a smidgit to the east of 35.) See, I'm on to the part of my grief where I channel all my misery into doing things. This afternoon, it came down to decorating or eating. As I'd really like to fit into this weekend's bridesmaid dress without investing in Spanx or going into anna mode, decorating seemed the better selection. And so cheap it's almost free decorating? Sheesh. I'm good. And totally not unaware of the fact that I'm attempting to forget that we should be finishing up an adorable primary colored airplane mural or some flowery pink border in what would have been the nursery by maniacally decking out the house for autumnal harvest. Blah. As much as I tried to stomp out that taunting little voice in the back of my head....it's there. And it's not chased away by any amount of shopping, decorating, eating, OR margarita drinking. Which leads me to......

Happier news: tonight, I had my very first friend-blind-date. L and I have been emailing back and forth for months about our respective crappola ripoff totally unfair miscarriages. Tonight, we met for margaritas (and a bit of food to soak up the margaritas). The boys were amused last night when I told them of my plans, smugly convinced my internet friend would either stand me up or be a bore, a loony, or a serial killer.....but little did they know, L is fabulous and lots of fun and very unlikely to kill me unless I try to take off with her fantastic (and verrry real) LV. Although the instigating factor of this new friendship pretty much sucks, I am happy to report she's right up there on the "coolest people I've met so far in Austin" list.

Thankful for: my wreath, if you've been paying any attention at all. A new friend. The Bachelor in all its' tasteless glory. The margarita in my belly. Mom's visit in two weeks. David Letterman.

el television

I'm embarassed on my own behalf. If a stranger were given the opportunity to examine my DVR settings, they'd conclude the user is about 14 years old, lacking anything resembling a social life, and tacky as hell. Exhibit A: The new Josh Schwartz (aka the genious who bettered the earth with my all time favorite.... The OC) show, Gossip Girl. One episode in, and I'm in lurve. There's the Seth Cohen-esque Dan, the Marissa-ish Serena, and her KiKi-clone mother, Serena's mom. It's like Josh realized how he'd broken my heart by allowing The OC to crash and burn in season 4 and bestowed this gift upon me. I feel at ease again, for one hour a week on CW, at least. Then there's The Hills. I can't get enough! Will Elodie tell off Heidi? Why are LC's brows so dark? What is UP with Audrina and that JustinBobby guy? And the lamest of the lame- Kid Nation. YES, the one with the kids. The 8-15 year old kids. Ugh, I'm so ashamed. But it's heartwarming! And my troubles don't stop there. Premier week has also rotted/will rot my brain with the following: The Bachelor (he's from Austin! it would be nearly illegal not to watch), Beauty and the Geek, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team (for some odd reason J is totally okay with this one), the Sunday night double punch of Desperate Housewives AND Brothers & Sisters, the obligatory Gray's obsession, the new spin off with Addison, Friday Night Lights (excused- supporting the local economy), and finally, I'm holding out hope that the Trumpster will be back with another type-A packed dramafest Apprentice competition. It's like the tougher my life gets, the lower-brow my TV selections become. Escapism, people!

J's back from the neighbors' and speaking Spanglish. Someone's had a bit too much fun with Carlos and/or a few too many drinks. Buenos noches.