.kittens trump allergies.

I don't like cats very much.  Their evil dander creeps its way into my nostrils and lungs and after awhile I feel like if I don't suffocate to death because of the asthma or relentless sneezing first then my eyes will pop out of my head because of the sinus pressure and I will die a slow and tremendously messy death worthy of a scene in a George Romero movie. 

Despite this fact, Leif and I offered to cat-sit for my parents last weekend so they could visit a friend out of state.  They do/have done so much for us that we offered to spend the weekend in a part of California where the temperature often hovers around the 105 degree mark this time of year in order watch my dad's incredibly ill-tempered third child cat .  But we were happy to help my parents out, in spite of the cat and his bad temper, so they could take a mini vacation.

But in all honesty my dad's cat is a mean little booger, at least to everyone who isn't part of his "family."  By family I mean my dad, my mom, and to a much lesser extent me and my sister.  Leif, on the other hand is lucky if Simon goes a couple of hours without making an overt effort to demonstrate how much he doesn't like him.  He is also as old as the hills which basically means you can't really expect him to change his ways now.  So spending time with Simon means that you have to be on your toes because at any moment he can decide that he has had enough of you and God help you if you don't get out of his way quickly enough because he will bite you.  Or scratch you.  Or both.  Or he will just give you the evil eye (the one starting to cloud over because of a cataract), which will make you certain that he probably just put a curse on you in whatever way outrageously old and evil cats can do those sorts of things. 

And then he will want to come in the bedroom and sleep with you and when you don't let him he will cry and scratch at the bedroom door all night.
And then you will want to let him because you desperately want to be liked by everyone, even an old crotchety cat and you feel badly when he makes the lonely cat mews.

My dad absolutely falls to pieces over this cat because he is my dad and he is just that way with his cat.  He always has been and it is part of the reason why I think my dad is such a great person.  To be completely honest his cat does have a sort of charm that is hard to resist.  Of course it is the kind of charm that is hard to resist because you are afraid that if you do you will wake up one morning to find that the phone lines have been severed and you can't use your car because the tires have been slashed.  He may be old but he still has claws and (most of) his sharp teeth.

So yeah, I don't like cats much and Simon is just barely tolerable (sorry Dad).  But I do like kittens.  I can put up with allergies if the allergy-inducing agent is cute enough.  There are three such tiny little entities in my parent's backyard; adorable spawn from a semi-stray cat that my dad has grown fond of over the years (On a side note they are taking her to be neutered after her kittens are gone, assuming they can catch her).  Luckily they are not quite big enough to be taken away from their mom yet and my dad has done an excellent job of taming them so I got to play with them all weekend.  I occupied myself with them so much that I barely noticed the 100 degree weather or the snot running from my nose.

But two of them still need homes or my parents are going to have to take them to the SPCA.  So if anyone lives in Southern California and is looking to adopt a kitten I happen to know two very adorable, very friendly candidates. 

.a hard day.

Sometimes I can feel it starting to creep in and sometimes it just comes out of nowhere.  It sweeps down, knocks the air out of my lungs and I am right back where I was on March 31st. 

Today I wasn't expecting to feel so horrible. 

This weekend my mom gave me the sweater that she was making for him around the time that he was born and died.  It is tiny and adorable and he'll never get to wear it.

Yesterday I saw Gretchen, who I have known since I was eleven but haven't seen in over two years.  Her family is absolutely lovely.  She made George the most beautiful quilt.  On it is embroidered an image of a little stuffie fox that was going to go into his nursery.  It's perfect. 

This afternoon I am having lunch with a friend who I haven't seen in months.  The last time I saw her I was a slobbering mess.  The only difference between me all those weeks ago and the current me is that I can put on a smiling face and pretend that I am not as sad as I really am.

I just want to wait for this day to pass into the next while laying in bed with the covers pulled over my head. 

My heart hurts.

Life is unfair.

I want my son back.

.with the naked eye.

The unseen matrix that makes us solid enough to hug, to touch, to kiss....

cytosine

 guanine

thymine

 uracil

That which makes us unique...

 dna

 The blood in our veins...

hemoglobin

The stuff that fuels our life in all of its achievements and losses...

atp

The part of us that prompts us to search out knowledge and pushes us to create...

brain

The stuff that makes each of us an enigma to others and to ourselves...

testosterone

estradiol

Cheers.

 

mint julep

*All these images are photomicrographs.  They came from The Molecular Expressions Photo Gallery.  Go and see for yourself and be amazed at what beer, antibiotics, flavors, dinosaur bones, and religious items look like under magnification.

.not myself.

At one of our first visits to the OB after I became pregnant I found something in one of their numerous baby magazines that made me really uncomfortable.  Mommy calling cards. 

Janie Jones.
Mommy to Carolyn and John.
123-456-7890
myemail@here.com

This concept struck me as terrible for a couple of reasons.  The first was that it made me think of parenthood and socializing with children as nothing more than a business transaction.  A trading of commodities and services.  Incredibly impersonal, although very practical.  Whatever happened to just chatting with someone and writing down their contact information?  I don't know maybe I am missing the point of them entirely and this is something I have to have children to understand.

But the thing about them that really made me feel uncomfortable was that they seemed to imply, to my narrow mind at least, that Janie Jones' entire identity was wrapped up in being Carolyn's and Jack's mom.  I don't like that concept.  It was something I struggled with even before Leif and I decided to start our family.  I never want to be solely appreciated for one, albeit huge and amazing, part of my life.  I am not just a mother (or a mother at all but I guess that is a debate for another time), or just a wife, or just a daughter...sister...PA...artist...scientist...friend.  I'm all of those things (but I'm thinking that they probably all wouldn't fit on a business card).  Although being a mother is certainly something to be proud of and worthy of praise I have never wanted to be defined solely on the basis of my motherhood or lack thereof.

For the most part I started writing this blog to make sure that Leif's parents felt part of this pregnancy, seeing as George was going to be their first grandchild and they were on another continent.  But I didn't want this space to become one pregnancy/baby post after another.  A baby blog, or whatever you want to call it, didn't seem to fit for me for reasons I've partially explained above.  I liked to read them and I appreciated the people who authored them but I didn't want one of my own.

But, looking around this space I've come to the conclusion that a baby blog is pretty much exactly what this has become.  Only it is the antithesis of what most baby blogs are about.  There are no posts about nursery decor (anymore) or posts about what funny things the baby is doing.  No cute photographs of toothless grins or red screaming faces.  Nope, there are just sad and depressing posts about my dead son and how badly I want him back. 

My father told me while I was in the hospital trying to get George's heart rate down that I shouldn't let this terrible, horrible event define the rest of my life.  I shouldn't let it define the entirety of who I am.

He's right.  I shouldn't.  But it has and it is and I don't know how to stop it from happening.

Three and a half months ago I ran away and I have no idea where to start looking in order to find myself again.

Which makes me question what it is I am doing with this blog or if it should even be here at all.

.that went well.

I failed.  I couldn't handle being at my niece's birthday party for more than an hour and a half. 

I really thought I was doing better these days....

It wasn't the multitudes of children or babies, although I think had there been a three-week old baby boy there I might have gone insane.

I failed because I couldn't handle being around my sister's very pregnant friend.  I should have expected that she would be there.  But I was surprised when I saw her.  I hadn't thought about her in months even though I knew she was only a few weeks behind me in dates. 

I failed and so I hid in my niece's bedroom and cried. 

I cried and scolded myself for feeling envious and angry. 

Angry with myself because maybe I was making other people uncomfortable and that is the last thing that I want to do.  Maybe she could tell by my lack of eye contact or by my inability to be anywhere near her that I was really uncomfortable with her presence there.  I feel like such an asshole. 

So we left after only an hour and a half.  I didn't even stay to eat any chocolate birthday cake (which is really unheard of for those of you reading who don't know me in real life).  We decided that the only healthy thing to do would be to go watch a movie about the positivity of life.  Naturally we saw Predators.

I struggle with talking about this part of my grief.  The part where seeing pregnant women with due dates anywhere near my own makes me feel paralyzed with grief and envy.  What good does it do?  I don't want to be a source of sadness or anxiety to other women, especially those in my life who are pregnant.  I want them to be able to enjoy being pregnant without worrying about me and how I am doing.  I want them to feel confident that I am excited and happy for them and that I want nothing but the best for them.  Because, really that is all true. 

I don't know where the line is anymore.  What things should I be honest about and what things should I shield people from? 

I really have not a clue.  So I flip-flop, like a politician during an election year. 

.three years already.

(Somehow this got published last week.  Not sure how that happened.)

Today is my niece M's third birthday.

It trips me out how much she looks like my sister.

Here is picture of us circa Christmas 1980.  My sister is the on the right.  Isn't she cute?  Just like her daughter.  They even have the same haircut.

I, on the other hand, am quite possibly the goofiest looking kid ever to take a family photo in front of a fake fireplace (and I know there are a lot of fake fireplace photos from the 80s out there).   Had there been a better picture to demonstrate how much my niece looks like her mom I would never have used this one.

M is really such a sweet little girl.  I adore her.  She likes me well enough but she loves her Uncle Leif.  When we visit I always get a quick hug but I know she is already looking over my shoulder to see if Leif came with me. 

Yep, she loves Leif.  I'm assuming my other niece L, who is nine months old right now, will also grow up to prefer my husband over me.  But, in the end I will win them back (Yes, Leif, it is a competition) because I will paint their nails and buy them clothes when they are old enough to appreciate those sorts of things. 

I am not above buying their affection.

.ashes and dust.

It's engravable.  The man at the funeral home never told us that, but it is.  Had we known I'm not sure we would have opted to have anything engraved anyway.  What was there to be written?  His name?  A single date?  Beloved son?  Beloved idealized version of the future?  Besides, the anonymity of the small bronze box seems to be a more accurate representation of who he was and who he still is to us.  We didn't know him, not really.  Not the way we had thought we were going to have the chance to know him.

I look at that unimaginably small bronze box and it feels like it has always been a part of my life.  I have to keep reminding myself that it has only been three and a half months.  Three and a half months is nothing, yet it is almost half as long as he was here.

...and I can't help but wonder if people read this and think I should be over him by now...

I kept it for too long in my nightstand- I was too afraid to catch a glimpse of my own private Pandora's Box.  Two nights ago, in the early morning I pulled it out along with one of his baby blankets and cried myself to sleep on the couch.  That hasn't happened for awhile. 

Leif woke up to find me asleep in the living room holding the blanket, used tissues scattered around me.  So he made me pancakes.  He is so wonderful.

I knew once it came out I couldn't put it away again.  But where does it belong now?  I stared at it for a long time on the mantel before I ended up moving it.  While there it sat between the flea market bronze candlesticks, a postcard from Melissa, and a gift from Natalie from where in the world I can't remember- Three Wise Monkeys. 

Now it is on a shelf that I inherited from my grandmother.  It is on the same one as a framed engagement photograph and one of Leif's surround-sound speakers.  Those shelves get so dusty.  I'll have to dust the bronze box too, if I decide to leave it there.