Hint: Not the Alfredo Kind

Breaking my long silence to let you all know that I am six months pasta sauce over here.

It's a girl! Due in February! The daily shots are just as horrifying as anticipated!

Feel free to suggest names for this little bug, but know that I will not be taking any of your advice. I'm growing this little person, I get to name her. That's how this works people!

Also, just so we're clear, a woman's height has nothing to do with the size or shape of her uterus. Even if it did, all of my extra height is in my legs anyway. All this to say that since I am not growing this fetus in my femur, I have every bit as much right to have a pregnant belly as any other woman who is growing another human being inside of her body. I mean, honestly, all of this "But you're so tall, you probably won't show at all" is complete crap. We all know this right? As a female I already have massive unrealistic expectations placed upon my appearance as it is, I do not need the added pressure of not getting a pregnant belly while pregnant. So basically, if you were thinking that or, heaven forbid, one of the people who said that to me? There's a word for that. It starts with a "Bull" and it ends win an "it".

Ok, now that I've let that out (don't we all feel so much better now), let's get back to celebrating the fact that roughly three and half months from now a small human will rip her way out of my body in a bloody, terrifying episode we like to call "the miracle of birth."

Huzzah!

Virtue

I don't want to talk about the miscarriages.

Shall we talk about the miscarriages?

That I lost two chances. Two. How many do we get, do you think? Chances to love like that? Not many, I'm guessing.

Don't let's have the "cast your burdens on the Lord" conversation, though. Okay? I mean, that's all very poetic and Sunday-school teacher's pet of you, but do you know what else it is? Absolute crap.

And on the flip side, somewhere among the hospital beds and cold, hospital floors, the florescent lights and needles, sat my husband, tired and worried, who looked at me then in the darkest moment of my life, and told me I was beautiful. Bone weary, bleeding, hollow-eyed and full of the death of our first child, and still beautiful. It was nothing like the movies.

And well meaning friends who do not know about these little losses, who so good-naturedly try to tell me what pregnancy is like, to give me a few hints for when it's my turn. But I know what pregnancy is "like". It has already been my turn.

It's strange. There were clearly two miscarriages, but they somehow feel like one long, drawn out loss. I lost the first just before Christmas, the second in late March. They were distinct, though. I remember each with the perfect clarity of a mother memorizing her child's freckles. I remember how each felt, and the exact moment I knew I had lost them. That virtue had gone out of me.

Even as a child I had melancholy nailed. (And that Donald Duck, what a creeper.)

Mothers Day will kill us all!

Oh this holiday. This poor, misunderstood holiday. This draggly little thing that just keeps getting pulled into catfights despite its best intentions. Mothers' Day: The Day You Just Can't Win So Stop Trying Before You Offend Someone!

Either you are a mother, and it's hard and you want/deserve more than a consumerized day of hallmark cards and heart-shaped necklaces once a year and could someone PLEASE just take the baby so you can sleep in...

Or you are not a mother, but you have a mother - unless you don't because she died when you were young or left you to pursue a career in basket weaving or she stuck around but was horrible and gave you every imaginable psychosis about your weight and your voice and the way you stand...

Or you aren't a mother and you desperately want to be, but you can't conceive or maintain a pregnancy or jump through the myriad hoops of adoption and every other person keeps telling you how you are still a mother anyway because you smile so nicely at children, as if they believe that lie will somehow fill your empty arms with the squishy lump of baby you so desperately want...

Or you are a mother but you feel inadequate and are so overwhelmed, so frazzled and tired of hearing about how perfect mothers are and how everyone's mother is a saint, because you are not a saint you are a woman who just wants the kids to stop fighting and go to bed on time so you can brush the goldfish crumbs off the couch and watch Game of Thrones in peace but sometimes you lose your temper and you do not fill their lives with a constant stream of approbation and unicorn laughter and so you feel like maybe you alone have failed at this magical holiday...

Or you are a mother but that is NOT all you are and you would for once like to be seen as something more than a womb, more than place to wipe a booger, more than the keeper of the shoes and backpacks and favorite shirts because you do not want to be lost among the detritus of their childhood and watch your personhood fade and everything else you are capable of swept under the rug of motherhood...

Or you are a man, and your mother was perfect/horrid/gone and your wife is perfect/horrid/gone/depressed/in love with the pool boy and no matter what you do it will be too much and not enough at the same time and someone will probably cry and it will be your fault and you will not really understand what you did wrong only you really wish this day were over...

Me too.

There are, of course, people who make the best of this day. They enjoy it while it is here and move on when it is gone. But the rest of us seem so harried by it, as though the day were invented solely to offend us.

What is it about mothering and mothers that upsets us so? Is it because it is so fundamental? So important? Or is it just a facet of our culture, one that we should analyze and reinvent? Or is it the fluoride in the water? I'll bet you were expecting me to finish up with some solution or closure or interesting reflection on this problem. But, I've got nothing. I'm one of those women without children who would rather not be told she is somehow, magically, a mother anyway.  And I've got sisters and friends in each of the other camps and a husband who will do his best no matter what happens.

But it's just a day, right? It's just an arbitrary holiday, between Victory Day and Armed Forces day.

I don't know what you should do to deal with this day. I know that I should probably make the best of it, and stop counting the days since my last miscarriage as though it were the Anno Domini of my life. But I am, like all mothers and non-mothers and women and men and bumbling fools on this planet, only human.

In like a lion, out like a P.O.S.

Eff you, March. Eff you.

First of all, you were supposed to bring me some spring, you little A-hole. Instead, you snowed all over the place and were colder than freaking February. Listen, you little twit, February gets a pass because she's brings me roses and chocolate. You get no such pass, March.

Also, you should know that a trip to the ER does not qualify as a legitimate substitute for spring. Is it exciting? Yes. It is also horrifying and painful. And just so we're clear, you sniveling little worm, I do not need any more miscarriages. Got it, fart face?

Oh, and then there were the cherry blossoms. Except, no. No there weren't because you didn't deliver them, you fungal infection in the big toe of life. Peak bloom was supposed to come during the last week of March. You know what I got during the last week of March, you turd-ball of a month?

A ROOT CANAL! You puppy killing bag of lice and vomit. I hate you to the depths of my soul. What, you thought going four days and five nights without sleep in extreme and unrelenting pain would be...romantic? A real thrill ride? Quaint? Well it wasn't, March. You know what it was, you rotting pile of garbage? Traumatizing.

Shall I list off all of the other little gems you gave me this year, March? Hmm? Shingles for my mother? Painful dental work for one sister and chest pains and an ambulance ride for the other? Not enough sugar to make brownies on Easter Sunday so we could finally break our no-baking lenten fast? I could go on, fat @ss, but I'll stop there.

So, in summary: March was a real b!^$* this year. Happy April, everybody!

Keep walking, March.

The Professor, the Magnum and the Dandy

Hello, and welcome back to my life. I bet you thought I died didn't you? Yes? Well, no such luck people. I haven't been dead at all! I've just been....boring? Yeah, that.

And then it was Easter! Sort of. I mean soon. Anywho, this is one of those times in the year when my nerdy other half and I get together and craft like the dorks we are. In past years we've done silk-dyed eggs, pysanki, and hot-air balloon eggs. This year we went the lazy man's route and decorated our eggs with...duh duh duh duh! Temporary Tatoos!

Actually I did the butterfly eggs on my own. And then I put them in a box from India with some fabric scraps. And it was awesome. But then! Mr. Awesome and I teamed up and this happened:

Moustachioed eggs! According to the package, these 'staches are categorized as follows:
the Crybaby, the Magnum, the Professor, the Dandy, the Swashbuckler, and the Gunslinger.

I think we can all agree that this idea was brilliant.

A Star Wars Marathon Weekend, in Review

On finding a DVD of the original three movies:

"Maybe my sister and her husband have a copy we could borrow. Although, they're not really trekkies. Or whatever you call Star Wars fans. Virgins?"

Princess Leia's Hair:

"It's always so much bigger than I remember."

On the existence of C3PO:

"Was he always this annoying? I don't remember hating him this much. Someone please kill that guy."

Every time a Jawa appeared on screen:

"Martini!"

On Mr. Lucas's additions to the new releases:

"That's CGI"
"Oh, bad CGI alert"
"CGI again"
"That's some CGI magic. Crappy magic."

On Storm Troopers:

"Why are they running away? 'Oh he's got a laser gun! Wait, we've got laser guns too! And there are more of us! Run away, run away!'"

On googling what the stars look like now:

"Woah, Mark Hamill. Dude."

On Vader's torture devices:

"This is a flu shot! I said good day!"

On familial ties:

"Wikipedia says Darth Vader wasn't Luke's father yet. Lucas didn't come up with that until the second movie. Right now, he's just some dude. He's Uncle Vader."

On Leia's metal bikini:

"Do you wish I had a Princess Leia slave costume now?"
"No"
"Why? You don't think I'd look good in a metal bikini? I'm not pretty enough to be Jabba's slave girl?"
"No, you're prettier than everything else."
"Ok, you've covered all the bases."

On Yoda:

"That's the same guy who plays Ms. Piggy."
"He's all 'I'm not standing on top of you anymore Luke, you keep falling over and crap'"

Oh Luke and Darth's final battle:

"Get him! Get him! GO! Go! Get him!! . . . Dude, you just cut off his hand."

On the happy finale music:

"No, it's supposed to be 'Dum Dum Do Do Dum'."
"I think that's a hymn."

On the newly added ghost of Anakin Skywalker:

"The fetch is that guy doing here? No, get out. You don't belong here." 

On the prequels:

"So, should we see if we can borrow the first three episodes and watch those now?"
"No"

On Star Wars in French:

"Yeah, that pretty much sums it up."