Uppercase Woman

A Thousands Balls in the Air, ALL AT ONCE

Right now, I feel a bit... unnerved. I'm in the middle of some discussions with a series of work-type people that are all offering a variety of awesome opportunities, all at once. IF everything falls into place, all at one time, there will be much hard work (but much very interesting work, and some work very different then what I've been doing recently, but would really enjoy) but there will also be substantial financial reward and we will, quite possibly, as a family, achieve financial security for the first time in ages.

I can't talk too much about it. It's making me nuts, but of course as soon as I know more I will share with all of you.

I'm also trying very hard to not put all my eggs in one basket -- or, frankly, any eggs in any baskets at all -- because all too often I've had promising ventures or opportunities dangled in front of me and then whisked away at the last moment. But I've had other things actually come through; I'd say I have about a 50% success rate (but often the things that work out are not the things I want most). So it goes.

But in the meantime, as details are hashed out, and options offered, I'm kind of a wreck, waiting to see how it all plays out in the long run. (This should all be resolved by next week. God willing.)

Egads. Kindly allow me to distract you, and me, with an update on the dog.

Tank (as we've pretty much settled on calling him, although we often call him "Hank" so that could end up his name, dunno) is working out remarkably well. It's been a whopping four days, and things are beginning to feel comfortable with him. Sort of. He's just so... DOG. And so BULLY DOG.

By that I mean, he's stubborn as all hell, he's bossy, and he needs training. Not a terrible shock, of course. It's not like he's a puppy -- not at all -- but he's a rough-cut full grown adult dog that is going to take serious work to make into the right dog for us.

Somehow, whenever we talked about Hammer, The Best Dog Ever we manage to remember that he came to us in perfect condition, with perfect manners, and perfect behavior. The truth is, Hammer was in terrible condition when we found him; emaciated, riddled with worms and other parasites, and he had serious muscle damage because of his starvation that made him weak as a kitten when we first got him.

But he was also a "bully" breed, a strong, tough, stubborn dog that was largely pit bull. As he got healthier, he became challenging. He'd also run off (he tried to leave with other people all the time). He attempted to dominate the other dogs all the time (it was especially bad when he felt somewhat better but was not well enough to actually neuter yet), and we had to teach him leash manners. We also had to do "dominance downs" with him constantly in order to make it clear that he was NOT in charge (dominance downs are a technique where you gently encourage a dog to submit to you, by getting the dog to roll onto his side and expose his belly; this doesn't work with every dog and with every breed but I've had success with it with the strong dominant dogs that pits often are). Hammer also required a massive amount of exercise (a long walk in the morning, mid-day runs around the yard, and evening time at the dog park playing with other dogs) to be mellow.

As he aged, of course this all changed. The pack order in our house was well established, he got older and needed less discipline or exercise, and by the last five years of his life was the absolute perfect dog (although he never, ever, learned to give up toys to us, and if he got more than one toy in his mouth at once he became sullen and stubborn).

I suppose much in the same way that women who have difficult labors go on and have other children anyway (thinking, "eh, it wasn't THAT bad"), we've landed ourselves a full grown dog again that needs work. It's exhausting, in many ways; dealing with a stubborn dog that needs to learn manners is almost exactly as frustrating as taking a toddler to three stores in a row when you simple MUST SHOP for some reason and the toddler hasn't had enough sleep.

But man, this dog is SMART. He's already responding very, very well to the dominance downs with me and Charlie, rolling over for us with little prompting. We have Tori come over and participate in these exercises too so that he knows she is also his boss, and he needs to let her be in charge.

We also got the killer dog collar (no, it is not cruel -- he barely registers it, yes, we could have done a gentle leader but they make people think he's muzzled, and pit bulls don't need that kind of publicity) to teach leash manners, and he's already much better. Not trustworthy enough to let Tori walk him (Tori could walk Hammer, even though Hammer weighed 40lbs more than Tank, and Hammer never, ever pulled her) or anything, but the pain in the middle of my back between my shoulder blades is starting to ease.

We also got a key to a local dog park ($20 for access), and took him there this afternoon when it was pretty quiet so that he could run (it's a double gated, completely fenced in park that allows off the leash time). There were three other dogs there, including a five month old puppy, and Tank was great with all of them. He certainly tried to dominate them (he literally just bowls them over and stands on them; he's so low to the ground that he doesn't even have to lie down to hold them), but he backed off when they wouldn't have it.

There was a moment, though, before we left; another pit mix was unhappy about leaving, and unhappy about giving up his toy, and when Tank came to investigate they all got a bit snappish. No one was hurt (although the other dog's owner got a tad muddy) and I'd smartly suggested putting Tank in his harness before we'd left, thank God, so we were able to grab him easily, and we got him out of there. But we're learning (note to self: when other dogs are preparing to exit the park, hold Tank until they go, as him loose + them on leash = not good).

But last night he slept in our room all night on his dog bed, content. Today Sarah and her husband were nice enough to lend us a crate for him for a few months, so he had a place to hang out in while we were out at Tori's dance class today (yes, Charlie and I both go to each of her classes, for no reason, except it's fun and we can). He's amazingly tolerant with Tori, although we have to constantly remind her of proper dog manners as well (we were pretty slack with Hammer since he was so easy).

I think it's going to take a while, but in the end I think it's going to work out wonderfully.

There, are you distracted now? Cause I was. For a minute.

Sigh.

Aging Gracefully?

Daylight savings time -- or WHATever, the switch back to Standard Time -- is kicking my ass. For some reason -- probably orchestrated by Satan -- Tori now gets up around 5:30am; before the time change, she generally slept until 7:30am or so, which means she is now getting up an hour earlier than she used to. What the hell? She goes to bed at the same time. I don't get it.

I know I'm very lucky; Charlie and I alternate mornings with Tori (as we also alternate bed time duty) so every other day we get to stay in bed for as long as we need to (although, admittedly, Tori's morning volume combined with our rather small house is making that more difficult, plus work schedules are getting us both up pretty early these days). But I'm finding my body heavy and dull during the day, and I can't seem to adjust to the darkness coming so early.

When I was a kid, I don't remember even noticing the time changes. When I was a teenager, I griped about it but didn't really physically feel it. When I was in my twenties, I loved this time of year. I loved working in the city and going home in the dark with all the buildings lit up. I loved how easy it was to walk into the bar and not feel like I was drinking during the day at happy hour. I never got enough sleep during those years; I drank until 2 or 3am nearly every night at arrived at work at 8 or 9am (depending on the job) with no problem, although I had at least one boss hand me a breath spray cause I stunk like beer. I also slept until 3pm on the days I wasn't working, of course. Ah, youth.

Before Tori, I remember it taking a day or two to adjust to the time change, but it was no big deal. But now, damn it, I am feeling my age, and three days into the time change I feel worse than ever. Today I was reminded of my age when I heard that Google is celebrating the 40th Anniversary of Sesame Street; I watched the very first episode when I was about 16 months old with my mom, and you know what? When I got the retro Sesame Street DVDs and watched that first episode again, I fucking remembered it.

I am getting OLD. Frankly, nothing that is now 40 years old should be younger than ME. For fuck's sake.

I've also lost a bit more weight recently; my intuitive eating plan is going along swimmingly (really, it's been just amazing) and while for the first year I lost barely a half a pound a month, something seems to have clicked and I am losing more now. (Please remember that weight loss is not my goal, but an unexpected yet welcome side effect of my getting more fit and having a nice and healthy relationship with food.) I'm hovering around a number that I haven't been under since before I was pregnant with the boys. It feels good.

But the loss of some -- oh, let's call it filler -- shows in my face. I have smile lines now that don't disappear when I stop smiling. My upper lip is showing signs of those sixteen years of sucking on cigarettes, and they too no longer disappear unless I'm smiling.

I don't mind this show of aging, not really. I view it somewhat ruefully, actually, feeling like I am due to finally start showing some of the evidence of the rough shit I put my body through. I mean, think about it: yo-yo dieting and weight loss and gain; drinking, smoking, and drugs; infertility treatments; a twin pregnancy and unexpected loss; a second pregnancy at nearly 40. Of course my poor body has been through the ringer, and is starting to show it. It's not a bad thing, really, it's just... there.

I think the only element of aging I hate, really, is how young people in their twenties look now. I remember liking a new song I heard on the radio, and then I happened to see the music video and the woman singing was just... God, she was a KID. How could she possible sing those lyrics and act like she has any fucking idea about life? It's so... arrogant. And smells like bullshit. I stopped liking the song.

I also stopped watching music videos.*

When I drive through West Philadelphia where two major universities are, I can't believe the children I see walking around are old enough to be attending college. I also find myself surprised by that fact, because I remember how fucking annoying it was to be scoffed at when I was in my twenties and being told I was so young. I did NOT feel young in my twenties. Oddly, I feel fairly young now.

I also remember thinking, twenty years ago, that everyone in their 40s was so. fucking. old. It's... startling to know, now, how stupid it was to think that. It's funny, I don't even think of my mother or my friend's parents as "old." I met a woman the other day that told me she was 70, and I sincerely thought she was my peer in age, or pretty close.

This, I suspect, is the best gift of aging. Other than looking at the really young, I no longer much care about the age difference between me and those older than I am, or those ten years younger. My peer group has enlarged exponentially, and I am able to listen to most people with an open heart, really hearing what they are saying without assigning them any characteristics based on age. I hope this continues (and I'm working on the attitude about folks more than ten years younger).

The other gift -- one I've mentioned here often -- is the absolute comfort I have with myself and my choices, my hopes, and my dreams. I am living comfortably in my skin, I am not apologizing for being me, and I am generally content with my life. Struggles with money (oh yeah, cranky post last week? totally PMS) and other issues no longer truly stand in the way of my general peace with life, and happiness with my day-to-day living. I love my work, I love my husband, I love my daughter, I have great friends and family, and I absolutely enjoy the amount of space I take up in the world.

If the price I pay for this is a few lines on my face, well, it's worth it.

*Of course as soon as I said that, I had to turn on VH1. I love me some Lady Gaga, I must admit.

Presenting Tank

So this morning I opened up the door and the new dog ran outside, down the porch steps, and took off down the street like a shot.

Wait. I didn't tell you about the new dog, did I?

Okay.

So. About a week ago, I started looking at the doggie personals that animal shelters and rescue sites place on places like Craig's List and Petfinder. I wasn't intending to do anything (yeah, I know, I know, shut up) although I placed a couple of calls about possibly being a temporary foster home, and trying to find out if certain dogs were good with kids or cats. Nothing came of those calls, and I kept perusing the sites.

I finally spotted Beau here, and was completely taken by his face and his amazing two-colored eyes. So we arranged to come up and meet him. We took Sarah and her daughter along with us to give us a second opinion and to make sure we don't do anything stupid.

Beau was, indeed, beautiful. But he was totally aloof; he wasn't interested in us at all and hopped up on the little bench in the pen and knocked Tori over twice. (I do think he would be a great dog, particularly for a youngish man that runs, probably; he needs lot of exercise, that was clear. If you know someone, send them over--he deserves a good home!) So we decided to look at the other dogs that were there too. We saw one guy that was a cutie but was a jumper, and would easily hop the fence in our backyard. Charlie had just said, "We need a shorter dog," when I turned around and spotted Ben. He made me laugh out loud.

You've never seen a sillier looking dog, seriously. He's got a pit bull body (95% of the dogs at the shelter are pits or pit mixes), about 60 lbs or so, but his legs? He has basset hound legs. His legs are about six inches long. He's all black (super shiny, super soft coat), with just a touch of white on his chest and one paw. His ears are comical, but his face is very serious. He has a tiny under bite, and his chin is bright pink.

He was sweet and friendly in the meet-and-greet pen, and respected Tori's space while being friendly to her too. He wasn't a puppy; he's three or four years old, and had lived with children and cats before. He'd been adopted from this shelter a couple of years earlier to be the house dog for a halfway house for drug addicts in recovery, but was found again as a stray and his owner couldn't be found (number disconnected and house abandoned, sadly; I suspect someone relapsed into using drugs again). He seemed like the perfect fit.

We met a couple of other dogs too just to be sure, but then had him brought back out to us again. Within a few minutes, we were sure: he was coming home with us. He met all of our criteria, and had been screened by a dog behavior specialist so we knew he was free of the most worrisome issues such as toy aggression, food aggression, and dog/kid issues.

Is it too soon? Probably. Am I likely just using him as a distraction to cope with my grief of losing Bubba and the anniversary of the boys death? Yeah, probably. But did we save a dog from death and give him a home? Yes, yes we did. And that's enough for me right now.

We've named him Tank, because he's a strong, squat dog. He's been great with the cat, and he's very patient with Tori, and doesn't steal her toys or go after her when she has food. We've very carefully supervised their interactions, and will continue to do so for some time (probably for years, actually). But he's a good boy.

And this morning? Yes, he's apparently a runner. He bolted out of the door when I went to check the mail and was two blocks away before I could even blink. He might have the shortest legs in the world, but he's really fucking FAST. Luckily, with the help of our local Animal Control Warden, he was returned to us quickly and is back to cuddling on the couch. Whew. (Tori was napping the whole time, so she won't even know he was missing. Thank GOD.)

Here are a couple of photos of him: Charlie's photo, and Sarah's. Crazy cute, isn't he?

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I know I haven't responded on comments on the last couple of entries. I'm frustrated by the comment system right now; I want to respond to you guys individually again but it take so much time that I keep putting it off until it becomes impossible. I'll try to be better about it this week, so look out for emailed responses again.

Vote! (with bonus Halloween photos)

So many of us have elections coming up this week. It's not a particularly sexy election, but it's still an important one. For instance, everyone is watching Virginia this year. A reader sent this to me because her husband is running:

My husband, Stevens Miller, is running for the Virginia House of Delegates against an anti-choice Republican incumbant. NARAL has endorsed my husband in the race and I am just so proud. [You can donate to his campaign, although now it's a bit late (sorry!) here.]

Stevens' opponent, Delegate Rust (R), along with his slate-mates McDonnell, Bolling, and Cuccinelli are anti-choice and anti-birth-control. We need to get Rust out and keep his slate-mates far away from the writing and enforcing of laws that limit the choices of women in Virginia.

This race is so important on so many fronts: First, if McDonnell (of the Thesis) wins over Deeds and has a Republican majority in the House of Delegates, it's going to be an anti-choice, anti-woman, anti-LGBT
field day in Virginia. Democrats only need to win six seats to win a majority in the House of Delegates. Stevens is running for one of those seats. Rust is very vulnerable.

Second, this past year Virginia sent a majority Dem delegation to Congress. Periello in particular won by a small margin and is making a huge difference in DC. This is the year Virginians are voting for the representatives in the House of Delegates who will redraw the electoral boundaries. We need a Democratic majority in the House of Delegates to keep Periello in office.

Beyond that, though, all the federal folks are watching Virginia to see which way we'll swing this time - and they're going to take it as a referendum on how swing voters feel about Obama and the Dem majority on the federal level. If the Republicans win here, and particularly if Rust wins (he's in a trending Dem area of NoVA that went big for Obama), we can say goodbye to whatever new policies Obama wanted to push through in the next few years.

So, if you live in Virginia, take note. A good guy is running. Vote for him.

(Sorry, Liz, I took so long to post this. No good reason. I'm just an asshole.)

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So it turns out that if I put a little blush and lipstick on Tori to help her look more like Snow White, she literally becomes so beautiful I can't breathe. Yep. Enjoy the photos even though they are all crappy and out of focus!

 

 

 
 

Love how she looks like the Snow White in the Shrek movie that sings that Heart song here. The below is from my computer camera and captures the lipstick/blush thing well.

 
 

And Sarah took this one, which is much better. Enjoy!

Pity Party, Table for one?

I am seriously fighting the blues today. No new reasons; just the chronic money troubles. On Wednesday I went to a (free) party in New York City (riding the very cheap NJ Transit Train with the awesome Corina and Kelly) thrown by the lovely ladies of Aiming Low, but while using the HP printers there to print out some photos I managed to somehow break my beautiful camera. You remember? The lovely camera that you guys bought me as part of my baby shower so that I'd take lots of photos of Tori for you?

Yeah, that one.

I really shouldn't be depressed; my freelance writing career is soaring. No, really: I have big jobs starting up and getting underway. By spring, (God willing) there is an excellent chance that we will not only be financially solvent, but will have savings, and have paid off most of our debt. This is terribly exciting; we've learned so much in recent months about being more frugal and paying bills in a more thoughtful way that I think that once we have a steady cash flow going we will have the skills (and, naturally, the desire) to be much, much smarter about managing our money -- without falling on things like credit cards, etc, to cover the hard times.

But that still doesn't change the current cash flow crisis. The camera is now added to the long list of shit we need to repair (the dryer which doesn't get all that hot anymore, the dishwasher that hasn't worked in three years, the fact that I need new glasses). But there is another list that comes first like, oh, mortgage, groceries, crazy things like that. Plus we're due to get the car inspected and are reeeeeeaaaaaaallllllllly hoping that no one will look too closely at our minivan for the next couple of weeks until we have enough cash to get it checked out (nothing to see here, officer, just a nice, happy family cruising along in a perfectly safe vehicle -- promise!).

In better news, Sarah's daughter performed last night in her school's play, and might I say that she totally kicked major comedic ass? Not only was she absolutely beautiful (like always, natch), she was flawless in her delivery, and remembered all of her lines perfectly. She was smooth and believable, and shoulders above above the other performers. Seriously, and I'm not just saying that because I'm biased. She was the best. No question. SHUT UP. SHE WAS.

In other good news, Charlie was interviewed today by a local news station about his new site Trulogy, which, while slower these days (why haven't you visited lately? why oh why?), but is still there, and still holding its own. I'd really love to see it get the attention it deserves (Charlie deserves!), and this is a great start. Here are a couple of shots of the interview (we still have the little point-and-shoot camera, thank GOD).

Getting his microphone on (that's the back of the awesome Nicole Brewer's head):

 

Close up:

 

There are many good things. I am trying to remember that. Have a great Halloween, everyone! I promise to post photos of Tori in her costume tomorrow. Swear.

The Question of School: Homeschooling, Mean Girls, and Standarized Tests

Yesterday Tori came home from school chanting, "I'm not your friend, I'm not your friend!" I looked at her and asked her why she was saying that. "Hannah said it to me!" She replies cheerfully. Instantly, I was plunged back into third grade when my two awesome best friends, Jennifer and Veronica (Jennifer was TALL! and her father owned a Pet Store! Veronica had lots of Barbies!), came to school one day and simply ignored me. They walked away from me, literally arm in arm, and declared loudly, "Today is ignore Cecily day!"

It totally fucking sucked.

I asked Tori how she felt about Hannah saying that, and she thought for a moment and said, "Hannah said it!" (Tori isn't very good yet at articulating feelings; we're working on it.) I said, "Did you feel sad?" And Tori immediately looked at the ground and sighed, "Yeah." I said, "That's a pretty mean thing to say, don't you think?" Tori said, "Yeah." Just then Charlie came in and asked what we were talking about, and I said (still swimming in 3rd grade bitterness), "Some little bitch at school told Tori she wasn't her friend."

Parenting WIN.

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When I think about educating Tori, and by that I mean the traditional book learnin' kind of education, I've always felt that homeschooling was the best option. I have many reasons. First of all, I was a very early reader; by the time I entered first grade I was willingly reading chapter books on my own, more than one a week, from the library. My teacher was stunned, and had no clue what to do with me. At first she thought I was faking it until she pulled a book out of her purse and gave it to me to read (it was a romance, and there was some heaving, which I asked her to define and she ignored). Eventually they moved me into the second grade classroom, and in that room I found myself in charge of a reading circle. Let me tell you what that did to my school social standing. Yeah. It ROCKED.

Much later in life, I began teaching creative writing to children. I taught one small group regularly. The group was divided like this: 2 home schooled kids, 3 public school kids, 3 ritzy private school kids (Friends Schools), and 1 Catholic school kid. When I gave the kids an assignment, say 'write a poem about a dog', it went like this: the home schooled kids scrunched up their faces for a second then began writing. The public school kids asked me how long the poem should be. The private school kids asked how long it should be, and if it should rhyme. The Catholic school kid asked me how long the poem should be, should it rhyme, what color was the dog, was the dog big or small, was it barking, and was it a good dog?

By the time I finished answering the questions of the Catholic school kid, the home schooled kids had finished their poems and wanted to know what was next. This really impressed me; they were completely unafraid, did not want to "please" me, and did not limit themselves in any way.

When I watch my cheerful, joyful, unafraid daughter, I hate to think about her being in an educational "system" that doesn't take into account her particular interests, desires, and her specific learning style. As a kid, I would have been thrilled to spend all my time simply reading book after book after book. I mean, I had a crazy phase where all I did was read books about Queen Elizabeth the First. I was obsessed. Then I moved on the Catherine the Great, and Mary Queen of Scots -- I learned an amazing amount of history during that phase. If I'd been allowed to self direct my learning, I would have become a well-rounded and well-read kid. Sure, my math might have been weak. But I loved science too, reading all kinds of books about science. A little support guiding me toward areas that weren't my natural focus would have been all I needed to guide my own education.

But see what I did right there? I made Tori's education about ME.

I worry that Tori won't do well in a traditional school system. She's a flitter; she goes from thing to thing to thing, very rarely settling on any one thing for very long. She is an incredibly physical kid, dancing, jumping, bouncing and running much of the time. She does NOT like to be still; she literally is in constant motion. Being forced to sit all day in a desk (with little or no recess, as is common in many public schools now) would be impossible at this point.

Of course, this can all change. Tori isn't even three and a half yet; she could easily become more mellow and settled-down. Perhaps she'll blossom in a standard school setting; it's probably too early to tell.

I do know that Tori is doing far better at her preschool this year. She's learning far more, she's very enthusiastic about her school experience, and the teachers say she is blossoming. Between what she is doing in school and what we do with her at home (and a nice helping of educational TV shows), she can easily identify all letters and numbers, she can mostly write her name (a bit of trouble with the 'r'), and I strongly suspect will be reading some words within a month or two.

She's smart, and she enjoys getting things. She's switched from mostly drawing to mostly practicing writing her letters. She wants to read books all of the time. I love watching this change, and I love helping her and embracing this new thirst for knowledge in her.

However. It's time consuming. Being her primary educational source (other than three hours a day at school) is demanding. My work is taking off; I'm looking down the barrel right now at the most successful phase of my freelancing career, including expanding into some consulting work. Charlie is busy too. It's quite possible that we aren't going to be able to devote the time to educating Tori that she will need. In which case we'll need to outsource her education.

And I'm scared. I don't want to see that joy in learning squelched in Tori by things like standardized testing, rigid lesson plans, and being bored in class because she's ahead of the other students (transference much?), and being distracted by the social elements of school. I want to Tori to be just as thrilled with, and loving, learning as she is now throughout her long life.

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My mother, who is a teacher (as were both of her parents, and my father's mother), worries that Tori won't learn how to function in the real world without a standard education. I've heard this argument before, and I understand it.

But then I think about a little girl that decides to declare that she's no longer Tori's friend, and I wonder: Does what you learn in school when it comes to social interactions actually benefit you in the long run? Does the constant arbitrary nature of children's friendship actually give you any extra ability to get along in the world?

I'm not sure it does. It seems to me that you either learn to not trust others, to take whatever cruel statement is being made as a valid point of view, or to become callus and uncaring and simply ignore everyone around you. Each of those behaviors actually hurts you in life as adult, not helps. I know I learned to work doubly and triply hard to please those in power over me, until I became too bored and those in power found me annoying, in which case I simply shut off and stopped participating. I learned that I didn't need to be loyal in my friendships with women because women were inconsistent and could betray me at any moment; it took me years and years to unlearn that behavior, and much hard work. Ask Sarah.

I also learned that being smart wasn't rewarded, but playing by the rules was. I don't want Tori to play by the rules. I want Tori to plow through the world shaking things up.

Again, transference. It's not really about what I want, is it?

In the end, we'll let Tori choose. If it's clear (like it is now) that Tori will benefit from traditional in-classroom school, we'll do our best to get her into the best possible school we can afford for her (which will involve either winning the lottery or moving to a better school district). If it's clear that Tori needs a different kind of education, we'll make some sacrifices so that is possible too.

Mostly, what I need to do is take ME out of the picture and put Tori IN to the picture. Which takes work. But I will do it; Tori's needs far exceed my wish to recreate a better childhood for myself. Because, sadly, I know full well that recreating your childhood isn't possible.

Death in Angels Guise

It started on this day, five years ago.

Just a few days before that, I wrote this post. When you read it now and see how I was feeling -- the exhaustion, the edema, the return of constant vomiting -- it's clear that the disease had already begun to emerge and started trying to kill all three of us. 

For some reason, I didn't blog between that post and our trip to the doctor for our routine ultrasound. I don't know why, now. Back then I blogged nearly every day. I must have felt more sick than I realized. But I do know, that at exactly this time as I am writing this five years ago, Sarah, Charlie and I -- along with my sons, Nicholas and Zachary (safe, I thought, inside me) -- were sitting in the lobby at Pennsylvania Hospital in center city Philadelphia waiting for my routine growth scan.

We were laughing. We were laughing about names, we were laughing about life.

Then we were in the room, and the ultrasound technician was laughing too, until she got quiet. She switched us from one room to the other, from one machine to another. She stayed quiet. Sarah and Charlie knew something was up; but I, deliriously ill (I now suspect), kept trying to laugh. I was in immediate denial mode.

The doctor came in. He told us one of the boys had died, probably in the last week or so. He tried to hand me a box of kleenex, which annoyed me, because I DO NOT CRY about that sort of thing, I am stoic, I am all business, I NEED TO KNOW THE NEXT STEP.

Immediately at that point a series of random events began that ended up saving my life.

First domino falls: the perinatlogist (the one that tried to give me the tissues) was flummoxed by me, so he decided to call my obstetrician and tell him the news while we waited. Then, my OB, the awesome Dr. Mama (yes that's his real name), told him to please send me to his office so he could talk to me (the perinatologist had previously planned to just send me home).

Second domino: once I got to the office, even though I was only supposed to talk to the doctor and not get an exam, the nurses didn't realize this and had me do the usual peeing in a cup and getting weighed and stuff. The weight revealed a 22 lb gain in less than ten days; a lot, even for a fattie like me. The urine? Showed protein off the charts. My blood pressure? Soaringly high. The nurse did it three times, blinking harder and harder each time.

Third domino: Dr. Mama didn't even glance at my chart when he came in. He came to me, held both of my hands, looked me in the eye and told me how sorry he was. For the first time, my veneer cracked a bit. He spoke with us at length about the nature of twin pregnancies, etc, finally looking down at my chart just cursorily, then doing a literal double take. He slowly sat down. He said, "You need to go to the hospital, the labor and delivery ward, right now. Your protein is high, your blood pressure is high, your weight had jumped up. I think you might have preeclampsia or HELLP syndrome." I asked if we could get lunch first (!!!). He said NO.

With these three minor points, I landed in the hospital just exactly at the point that my disease really got entrenched and probably saved me from far worse damage. If I had gone home that night, if I had not been in a hospital on Magnesium Sulfate... well, I just don't know, do I? If I'd been un-medicated when my blood pressure hit its highest spike -- somewhere around 210 over 165 -- I don't know what would have happened. Would I have seized? Stroked out? Simply died?

I don't know.

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Four years ago on the anniversary, I wrote this. I can see now that I was detached from my grief, keeping it away from me while I celebrated the joy of being pregnant once again. It's highly unlikely that it was merely a coincidence that I was finally "ready" to do a frozen embryo transfer the same month I lost the boys, and not before. But I did. And it protected me.

Three years ago I wrote this. Yep, I didn't acknowledge the anniversary at all. Until a day or two later when I wrote this. Even then I'm still clinical and detached from the grief, I do remember having tremendous guilt that I hadn't remembered the boys on that day. But I had an amazing four-month old baby! And I was working full time! I didn't have time for the grief.

Two years ago, I wrote this. Now it's really surfacing. Now the grief is being acknowledged. I guess there was enough time and distance, and Tori was clearly REALLY HERE AND ALIVE, that I could feel it. Plus I was no longer working, and I was starting down the road of fully, truly living as myself and not hiding who I am with masks. 

Last year, though. Last year was the year. Between the similarities in the outside world -- once again, the nation was undergoing a presidential election, one I felt incredibly passionate about, and emotions were running high all around -- well, last year the grief was there. It was real. It was powerful. I had trouble functioning, and eventually I came to believe that I have some Post Traumatic Stress Disorder around pregnancy and birth (shocking, right?), I sought help, and I got some medication (which, you know, didn't work out so awesome, but is a work in progress). I wrote this, and then, just like four years earlier, I was silent until the actual anniversary (at which point I didn't write about it, but I remember, I was feeling it).

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This year feels different. Part of it, I suspect, is that it's now been five years. Now I have an energetic and adorable kid. No my life is filled with simple pleasures and joys, and I know more about the part of me that is sad than I ever did before. Acknowledging and accepting the PTSD -- not just about losing the boys, but about the trauma of Tori's birth (thanks, placental abruption) -- has helped me tremendously know, sense, feel, and accept my own feelings. I've also shaken off so much crap in the last year; really embraced myself as a resident of the village of social media, become more confident and directed professionally, and feeling more and more like I'm living in my own skin. I no longer feel much in the way of acute grief today; I more feel a need to acknowledge and accept the loss of the boys, but I know now that the grief is ALWAYS there; it is not stronger today, particularly. It's always there, a part of me, just like my blue eyes.

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The fourth domino that saved my life, of course, is that I happened to have as an obstetrician a doctor that was trained and comfortable in performing an intact dilation and extraction procedure, preventing me from being forced to either go through labor and delivery (which most likely would have caused me to have a stroke, and suffer likely permanent brain damage) or through a c-section (more likely, and would have cost me my uterus; it would have been the only way to keep me from bleeding to death during the surgery because of my extremely high blood pressure). This procedure, if you don't remember, is often called a partial birth abortion. I'm not much interested in discussing the procedure today, and I am certainly not at all interested in anyone discussing whether or not these facts are true, and if the procedure was "really warranted" in my particular case because it WAS. End of story. I'm done defending myself or explaining this to anyone that doesn't understand or believe me.

I am terribly, terribly saddened that my sons did not survive. But yesterday Tori and I were hiking and I showed her how the earth on the trail was actually clay and we made a tiny clay heart together and you know what? I am so fucking happy I survived, and that I have my uterus, and that Tori was born.

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In 2005, on Nicholas and Zachary's due date, I wrote the post below. At the time, I was being clever and arty to avoid feeling any grief. But now, after all this time, I think this post is perfect to celebrate the brief time the boys were here, and say goodbye to them once again. I believe it will spend my life saying good-bye to them. I've edited the post a bit to work today. The words come from the libretto in the final scene and duet in the opera Aida by Verdi.

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“Thou who the heavens alone for love created.”
.

Nicholas and Zachary were lost forever five years ago tomorrow.

Of course, one of them had died before then, but I didn't know until five years ago today. And five years ago tomorrow, six doctors surrounded my hospital bed and told me it was over, they had to terminate the pregnancy or I would die along with my sons.
.

"In all thy beauty blooming…"
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After we found out we were having boys, I was terrified. I’d always wanted a girl, and I didn’t know the first thing about raising boys. I struggled mightily with this; I felt (and was told I was indeed) ungrateful. But I was so scared. Finally, finally, in the last month of my pregnancy, I began to really look forward to having sons. We spent hours, Charlie and I, debating names. Charlie was given a book about parenting, and was devouring it every night. We were excited. We were blessed. We were ready.
.

"My heart forboded this dreadful sentence…"
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Throughout the pregnancy I waited for the other shoe to drop. I couldn’t imagine it would be ok, that we would sail into happiness so easily. When they told us that one twin had died, I found myself letting out a breath that I’d been holding for five and a half months. That’s it, I thought, at last, the bad thing, it’s over now, it’s happened. Finally. I can relax.
.

"Brief dream of joy condemned to end…"
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The next morning, when they told us our other son had to die so I could live, was… impossible. Hard. Agonizing. Devastating. Crushing. Misery. Pain. As someone said to me at the time, there aren’t words yet invented to describe a grief so huge, so all encompassing. It was the worst moment of my life.
.

"Unshadowed, there eternally shall glow…"
.

I do believe in a heaven of sorts, and I feel sure that my sons have moved on. My favorite religious interpretation about pregnancy loss and still birth is Buddhist. The Buddhists say miscarried and still-born babies have already learned all the life lessons they needed to in past lives, and now they only have to touch on this earth long enough to be wanted and loved before they get to go to Nirvana. I love this, and it fits my heart well. It feels like truth.
.

"To us now opens, opens the sky, peace everlasting…"
.

Charlie and I are moving on. Grief has become comfortable, just a part of us, like our blue eyes. We will miss Zachary and Nicholas every day of our lives; more so, we know, now that Tori is part of our life.
.

"Farewell thou vale of sorrow…"
.

It’s time to live, look forward, and find, once again, that lost Hope.

Goodbye, my sons. I love you. I miss you. You are in my heart, now and forever.
.

"Seest thou, where death in angels guise,

In heavenly radiance beaming

Would waft us to eternal joys

On golden wings above

See, heaven’s gates are open wide

Where tears are never streaming

Where only joy and bliss abide

And never fading love."

Empty Spaces

Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the empty spaces. The one where my father should have been, the one where my sons should have been (ack, that anniversary is creeping up so fast), and now the empty space that was once filled with one hundred pounds of sweet, mellow dog.

I miss him something awful. Far more than I expected to. Plus I feel, I don't know, a kind of phantom limb syndrome (no offense to those who actually have, you know, missing limbs; sorry) where I'm used to a dog being.

My first dog was a big, sweet German Shepard mix named Hugo. My mother and father picked him out at the shelter when I was a tiny infant. Family legend says that my mom knew he was the one when Hugo stood up on her and gravely licked my face. He was unusually beautiful; instead of the standard tan and black he was silvery white and black; looking back on it, I wonder if he didn't have some wolf in him. Dog-wolf hybrids were common in New Mexico at that time (still are, I'll bet). Hugo was our dog through thick and thin until I was about twelve and a half. One day I was playing pretty roughly with a family friend -- a boy -- and Hugo must have thought I was being attacked. He leaped at my friend, took him to the floor, and bit him in the head. I dragged Hugo off of him, and it was only a couple of days later that my mom took him to be put down (she thinks now she overreacted, but she felt so guilty). I still remember crawling into the back of our VW bug (which he barely fit in) to kiss him goodbye. I cried and cried.

A few years later, I'm 17 years old, and I've just graduated high school and moved in with my boyfriend (yes, it was a BRILLIANT idea, thank you). We begin madly collecting pets, us and our roommates (equally mature just graduated friend and her boyfriend), mostly cats, until one day when my boyfriend comes home with a puppy. He told me that he'd gotten one puppy, our friend Jon got another, and our friends Mara and Dave got another, all from the same litter. I pouted, and we went back to collect the very last puppy; my little Misty-moo. I had Misty from 1985 until 1999; she'd just turned 15 years old when she developed exactly the same thing that Hammer died from: a tumor on her spleen. When Charlie and I fell in love, the first night he was able to come back to my place with me I told him that if Misty didn't like him, he wouldn't be allowed into my house. She was an excellent judge of character and I turned away more than one "date" back in the day because of her discerning temperament. But of course Charlie and Misty got along splendidly and he cried just as hard as I did the day we had to put her to sleep.

I expected to enjoy spending some time without a dog, after having one for so long. But it was just three short months later when I was driving to work and spotted a terribly emaciated, limping brindle pit mix rummaging around a dumpster. By this point I'd made it a rule that I only picked up injured animals (at that moment I had nine cats, even though I was dogless). This dog was so ungodly thin that he qualified. I pulled over, fully expecting him to run away because that's what emaciated, feral dogs usually do. He didn't; he came right to me. He had the sweetest face I'd ever seen on a dog. I carefully lifted him up -- he was all bones, literally: the space between his hips and his ribs was small enough for me to put my fingers around -- and put him in my car. I gave him all the food I had -- 2 ounces of cheese, since I was dieting -- which led to some of the worst farts you've ever smelled.

In two weeks, we knew we would keep him. In five weeks, he'd gained enough weight to be neutered. Within six months, we knew we were lucky enough to own the best dog I'd ever known: great with all other dogs, great with cats, able to tolerate multitudes of small children pulling his ears, only barking when it was time to go outside. The only thing that needed to fear him was tennis balls.

I know you're all probably sick of me talking about my dead dog. But I don't know how to be a person without a dog.

So, I have found myself looking at rescue sites and thinking about another dog already. It's a difficult prospect, when you have a kid, looking for a dog. But if I am still dogless by spring, well, I'll be completely fucking shocked.

I am a dog person. And I'm not myself dogless. :(

Melancholy and Random

It's sort of like there was a beautiful, heart-warming strain of music in the background -- one playing so softly you barely registered it, but nonetheless, you heard it and it made you happy -- that has suddenly shut off. Bubba (aka Hammer, the Best Dog Ever) was such a mellow and quiet dog (unless there was food; then he was rightthere) that his absence is really subtle. He didn't bark, he didn't really seek out lots of cuddles, and of late he'd played a lot less.

But we still really miss him.

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As of this morning, Tori has spent 24 hours in underwear, with only one accident (which was really our fault because we didn't put her on the toilet as soon as she came home from school). She still fights using the toilet at home; each time I remove a diaper or pull-up, she SCREAMS and cries. Eventually, after much threatening of going to bed (including putting her in her crib and walking away), and much dramatic sobbing, she finally sits, finally goes to the bathroom (both kinds!) and is very, very pleased with herself. I know we're not supposed to be "forcing" her, and this innate stubbornness flummoxes me. But my mom instincts told me it was time to push her on this. And it's working.

And FUCK I hate how often I now say things like "tinkle" and "poopy potty."

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In other news, a piece I wrote for the Philly Moms Blog was selected for syndication. So now small local papers across the country are running an article about how I took my kid to a gay pride event in order to challenge her newly formed definitions of gender.

I cannot WAIT to read the comments on those articles.

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Because the comments system here at Typepad is still not working to MY specific preferences and is instead working the way that apparently every single OTHER Typepad customer prefers, I'm going to start responding to comments IN the comment section. I'll miss emailing with you specifically, but the fact is responding to comments by email now is time consuming. If you want to hear from me directly, just email me (cecilyk @ gmail) instead of posting a comment. Also, I'm going to institute threaded comments so you can more easily respond to each other as well.

Change: it's everywhere.

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Speaking of you folks talking to each other... I was at a Social Media Club of Philly meeting last night and our event sponsor (Orbius) offers an interesting product that I'm thinking about using to add some features to this blog. How would you feel about being able to chat with me and with each other here? Or create and join a group? Or maybe post a question? The thing I've loved about this blog from the beginning is the community that has developed here, and I'd love to give that community a chance to grow and become, well, more community-like.

Tell me what you think.

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This morning Tori found a little pink bead that came from a broken bracelet. She exclaimed with the rare joy that only a three-year-old has over things like tiny plastic pink beads, picked it up, and turned to me to say: "This pink bead is for my BIIIIIIIIIIG pink heart." She then held the bead against her chest, and threw herself into a hug with me.

Seriously, does it get any better?

In Which I Make The Entire Internet Cry

A tribute to the best dog ever. Hammer died peacefully in our arms at 11:00am this morning. We will miss our Bubba more than you can possibly imagine.

Saying Goodbye to Hammer, aka Bubba, the Best Dog Ever from Cecily Kellogg on Vimeo.