My soon to be mother-in-not-law has flown me up to the north for a visit. I was all freaked out about somebody paying for my travel (oh, let’s be honest, I get freaked out by anyone paying for anything), but I got lectured by several people about smiling and saying thank you when one is offered something. So. Here I am.
Since arriving, I have :
- eaten Korean food about a million times
- sat on the screened porch and had delicious scotch from the gf’s uncle who died, which made me think fondly of my uncle who died.
- watched a movie with the gf’s brother
- slept in and then had coffee in bed
- ate more Korean food!
- watched the gf try on and look great in a million fancy shirts from her aforementioned uncle
- prepped for a trip the the beach. Yes, you read that right, I’m going to the beach. Woo!
It has been one of the harder, more broken weeks of my life, for more reasons than I care to lay out here. But. It is getting better.
And we just had the first real summer-type rainstorm. Fast and windy and hard. And timed perfectly with the placement of the sun so as to make one of those rainbows Starrhill is so good at.
More soon, y’all.
Came home to a message from the appraisal guy that he wants to come tomorrow at noon. Fuck me.
Call him back after consults with Friend Ex-Wife of Nice Appraiser, Neighbor From Jersey Who Can Make Up Good Lies, Husband of T of Tuesday Fame. Leave message saying I can’t make tomorrow because there is no one to watch the children at school. It is all about the children.
- fence broken by Snow Of the Century torn down
- porch railing fixed, sanded and primed
- sofits patched where starlings have moved in
- weird, un-dry-walled spots mudded
- curtain to cover up open closet in north bedroom
- lots of yard shit (edging,
- wood moving
Yikes. LB is on her way over. With wine and willing hands and heart. Thank you, baby Jesus, for the gift of my people.
- wake up
- skype date with Clem (yeah, you’re jealous)
- make coffee
- drink coffee
- talk to the gf (she’s away)
- make yogurt
- freak out about amount of houses stuff to do
- dust stairs
- make list of to-buys for refi upfit
- move wood outside (ugh)
- make salsa
- sort and prioritize alterna-fertility supplements
- freak out about amount of house stuff to do *and* proximity of IVF
- drop purged books at recycling center
- pick up LB
- go to T’s for Sunday not Tuesday goodness, get talked down from freak outs
- go to – ugh – Lowes (gift card found! woo and mfing hoo!)
- paint closet doors with T
- add to to-do list
- dust and tidy “sideboard”
- purge hanging vases and dust
- dust corner hutch
- make some lunch type thing
- remember yogurt in oven (!)
- mow grass before rain!
- dust hanging lamp in dining room
- chat with nieghbors
- make curtain for under sink
- go to bed
Yes, I put somethings on here that I had already done. It’s making me feel better.
And yes, I am adding as the day goes on. Refresh early and often to stay current!
From my whiny post about infertility. From the ‘possum I had killed yesterday before it killed my chickens. From my favorite pot that I scorched making rather delicious sweet potatoes.
Let’s go to the diner. OO! OO! Maybe I’ll see LB there.
Interestingly, I’ve never written a Mother’s Day Post. It seems sort of the sine qua non for infertility blogs. Ah, maybe *now* I’ve arrived!
I must say, prior to anything else, that my own mother wins – supportive and loving and willing to let me make my own way through things. My current struggle with Mother’s Day has nothing to do with her. Nothing.
Back in the day, when I thought I was just ttc, not actually infertile, I would read about how some people found Mother’s Day too hard to deal with, how they hated it. And I was all, “Aw. Poor them. I’m *so* okay with all this.” Totally cavalier and shit. At the same time I was nurturing fantasies of at home insems, no medical intervention, rainbows and unicorns and chocolate bacon and all that sort of shit.
Oh, how far we fall….
Last May, it hit me. Oh, yes, I should have seen it coming. I’d already become one of Those Infertiles – you know the ones: the ones I used to sigh and shake my head for. Poor them. Only it became poor me. Somewhere along the line, it became poor me. And the crowning moment was that Mother’s Day. It bit.
Was it because had the miscarriage not happened, I would have been a mother then? Or was it simply the slow erosion of my sense of self? Or just that 5 years is too long to do the same thing over and over with no success? Whatever it was, I think it marked the moment when I began to think of myself as infertile. Not just lacking in sperm, not just unlucky or impatient. But infertile with a capital IF.
The kind who has friends they don’t really talk to any more. The kind who hides behind newspapers so as to not see acquaintances with babies and feels small and stupid for not being big enough to deal. The kind who uses a medical diagnosis as an identity. The kind who can’t speak with hope anymore because that line’s been disconnected.
We’re still here, though. Us infertiles. It almost feels like coming out. You get to put a name to how you feel. You get a community of people. You get to swap stories and use acronyms nobody else gets. You get to hope that by telling your story, somebody somewhere will feel a little less alone. But the difference between being infertile and being gay is there’s no joy in infertility. I’d not wish it on anybody.
Since the miscarriage, I’ve taken to referring to “when I was pregnant,” with increasing ease. If I were to pick it apart, and clearly that’s just what I am going to to do, there are several things going on. Oh, let’s make a list. Just for fun.
- civic/social duty. Lots of women have miscarriages. Fewer talk about it. Even fewer will talk about how it went. So I should step into the breech, yes?
- it happened. So it’s worth mentioning. I could glance down and look away, or I could say, “yeah, when I was pregnant, I…..” Or “… right, that was when I was pregnant, so….”
- healing. The more times I talk about it, the easier it gets to talk about. Also, see #1 above as the corollary to this.
- shock value. Self explanatory, also relates to #1 above.
- truth. I was pregnant once. I might never be again. I want to remember.
Maybe that was the closest I’ll ever get to motherhood. Yeah, yeah, I know it’s not. I know that’s a very narrow definition of motherhood and not one I really subscribe to, but, for real, y’all. Maybe that’s as good as it gets for me. Maybe those 7 weeks and a handful of days are it. I don’t even count it as a baby – it was too early and too hard to believe for that. But I was a mama, just for those couple few weeks.
And I’m still here. Scarred and scared and very, very low on hope, but still here. No stronger, no smarter, no better – worse, I think, in a lot of ways. But still here. Struggling with my motherfucking baggage as I climb back on the train one more time.
Happy Mother’s Day.
Or, Rolly Polly Fishheads. Bionic has put out the call for dinners. I’m usually a lunch girl, myself, but since dinner usually ends up being lunch, well, it seems like I can swing this. Sad to say, there will be no pictures. I have no camera that works. Poo, as we say around here.
Anyway, I’m newly in love with Korean Food. I think the real reason I was willing to get over muttering anathemas about marriage being a tool of the heteronormative patriarchy and tell the gf that I would marry her is that she introduced me to Korean food. I don’t really buy that “The One” bullshit about finding a “Soul Mate” but if I did, my soul mate would be Korean food. That shit is good.
So tonight Tuesday night, I had….. Oh, let’s do a list, ‘k?
- kale from Waterpenny sauteed in coconut oil with garlic
- shrimp (from the freezer) sauteed in butter with garlic and chili flakes
- spicey myulchibokkeum
You will want to watch the video that goes with that last link. Yes, you will.
If you’ve been as slack about logging your lunch as I have about blogging, go ahead and do that now. Good job.