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: