I could be writing about how I am 25-7 in the tourney, about how I had Butler and Marshall and Kansas State and Syracuse. (Nobody had Maryland Baltimore County, so I can be forgiven on that one.) But nooooo. . .
Because my frakking dog peed in the house again, not 30 minutes after he was taken outside for the second time in the last hour, and it’s got me in a frenzy. I’m so angry. He was right by me. It’s marking behavior. He doesn’t need to do it. He just wants to declare his ownership of one upholstered leg of a living room chair. It ticks me off.
I hate having to clean up after him. I hate the sight of Nature’s Miracle. I hate that we will never be able to have nice things. I hate the fact that dogs can’t be reasoned with.
I love my dog. I do. But sometimes I understand why such a sweet dog was once a homeless stray.
And why, for the time being, he can’t look me in the eye.
Twenty years ago, I was pregnant. Not as massively pregnant as I would later become (shown here at almost 42 weeks!), but legitimately with child, as confirmed by both a home pregnancy test and my doctor.
I didn’t believe it was true.
I mean, I had been pregnant the year before. We had it all carefully scheduled: we’d have the baby in March, so that — with spring break and summer vacation — I could have the maximum-length maternity leave a teacher could arrange. That’s not what happened, of course. What is the quote? Life is what happens to you while you are busy making other plans. Although I got pregnant on the first try, right on schedule, I did not have a baby at the beginning of March. I had a miscarriage at the end of August, just as I entered the “safe” 13th week.
I was devastated.
I became obsessed with getting pregnant again. As soon as we got the go-ahead to try again three months later, I became like Elizabeth McGovern in She’s Having a Baby, turning the whole process into a job instead of a joy. (I feel for David now, but at the time, I was so single-minded that I doubt I was very considerate.) Luckily, things worked out fairly quickly once again, and I was pregnant by early in 1998.
I just couldn’t accept it.
That spring, at the St. Agatha Auction, we bid on and won the basket my class had put together: everything you could possibly need for an infant. Crib, stroller, high chair, changing table, swing, car seat, clothing, diapers, toys . . . you name it, and we had it for the baby.
I put everything in the attic and refused to get the nursery ready.
The baby was due around the 1st of October. I went into pre-term labor on the 4th of July. I was given terbutaline and put on bed rest. Whereas I had spent the previous summer blissfully pregnant and happily traveling through Europe, I spent the summer of ’98 lying on my right side, watching the World Cup sideways, growing ever larger as I “ate for two” and did not move at all. (With one famous exception, of course.)
By September, I thought perhaps it was possible that I’d have a baby.
At that point, I was allowed to get up from the couch, to go back to work, to do anything I wanted. (A baby born at 38 weeks would be considered perfectly healthy.) I remember going to see Billy Bragg at the end of September, when I was basically at full-term; I think his manager was afraid I’d have the baby then and there.
I still didn’t want to get the nursery ready. I didn’t begin to set anything up until the baby’s due date had come and gone.
I could tell the story of Quinland’s birth here, but I think I’ll save that for another time. I had just come across this picture on my computer today, and I was feeling wistful and pensive, as we used to say back in Ireland. I’m sad for that girl I was, who let herself experience the joy of pregnancy once, briefly, but never again. Part of me wishes she had been braver or stronger or wiser, but I know that’s not fair; we all bring our past hurts and fears to every situation, and she was doing the best she could to protect herself.
If only I’d known, then, that it was real, that there would be a child, one whose very spirit would bring joy, not just to his parents, but to everyone who knows him.
That would have been awesome.
(By the way: I wore that dress every single day for the last couple of weeks I was pregnant. I did not own a single other thing that would fit.)
I’ve been feeling like the most underwhelming blogger lately. There are so many blogs out there that educate or focus on a particular topic or “add value” to their readers’ lives, while this blog is just a glimpse into my life and my thoughts, and lately that’s felt pretty darn boring. Being sick and tired isn’t really glamorous, you know!
But it’s obvious that this blog is about me, and I can only assume that anyone reading has at least a passing interest in that topic. So I’m going to keep plugging away.
That said, I should let you know: My past is catching up with me.
Not some nefarious past, just the past couple of weeks of travel and illness and stress. It’s funny, really, the way you don’t realize how tired you have actually become until you just collapse.
I came up to Camas to spend the day at Danny and Heidi’s, but after a couple of hours, I started feeling unwell and decided to lie down for twenty minutes or so. HA! I woke up hours later, totally disoriented. When I asked why no one woke me up, Kaitlin told me that she’d tried, but after talking to me and shaking me hadn’t worked, it seemed better just to let me sleep.
Luckily, I got up in time to call Central Bark, where Bonesy was spending the day, to arrange for him to spend the night, as well. I managed to stay awake long enough to eat some dinner, but then promptly fell back to sleep once again.
It’s 4:00 AM now. I’m awake, but just barely, and mostly because I fell asleep while typing this and the phone fell out of my hands and hit the floor with a loud BOOM that scared the bejesus out of me. I still feel like I could sleep all day and not feel any more rested.
There was an error retrieving images from Instagram. An attempt will be remade in a few minutes.