Some Days are Good. Some Days are Bad. This Week has Been Awful.

I wish there was something great to say to the world. ... I guess the greatest thing there is to say is:  I'm still alive.  And so are the kids.  Big D . . . . . barely hanging on, ready to move into his own bachey pad.

I've been having quite a difficult week. So difficult in fact, I don't even have anything sarcastic to say about it.

The awfulness kinda started on Sunday, where the kids thought it would be grand to cry all day.  I liked that so much.  And then Murnice grew a fever.

Monday the kids cried all day.  Except I was home alone, because Big D still has a job.  And I reached an all time low of screaming and yelling, but not being satisfied with the decibel being used.  I wanted the yelps and roars to be louder.  I don't think that's ever happened to me before.  Generally, raising the voice brings some sort of relief.

Normally, I can hold everything together like a regular old adult when Big D comes home at regular time.  The count down begins at 4 pm.  And usually everyone survives.

But Monday night, Big D attended the stupidest event of the year.  Literally.

But, on our shared calender, it said that "relief" would be here at 7pm.  That's what it said.  And I literally believe the calender.  Because I have to put my hope in something.  I need to have some sort of count down.  And 7 is only 1 hour later than normal.  And I thought I might be able to be a normal adult and hang on to life in an orderly fashion for one extra hour that day.

And 7 turned to 7:30, and I had all the crying and screaming I could take for 3 years piled on top of each other.  And then I turned really ugly.  I think black tentacles crawled out of my butt.  And maybe, but I'm not sure - I turned into her.

You're probably wondering what the "stupidest event of the year" is.  And I would be pleased as punch to tell you all.

Stupidest Event of the Year:
Some big wig that probably only practices missionary position, who has way too much money and has the need to flaunt, feel important, flaunt some more and a whole array of other issues that I want to talk about but won't because I want to show Big D how much of a big normal adult I am sometimes. . . . . .decides that there is no other way possible, to show his appreciation to the world that he employs, then to throw a stupid dumb butt clam bake.

Big D finally came home around 8 - just in time to put Blessing 1 and Blessing 2 to bed.  And I was in such a sour mood, I thought it highly appropriate to write more about flushing babies down the toilet.

That put the icing on the cake.  I was in such a wicked mood when I was done.  It marinated all night, and was quite potent on Tuesday morning.

At this point Murnice was feeling better but complaining about a slight sore throat.  Ed, on the other hand could not keep his fingers out of his anus.  He was itching and scratching so bad, to the point where he would wake up in the middle of the night and ask for "man-unders" just so he could scratch his poor anus.  I thought it was a rash at first, but nothing was helping it.  In fact it was getting worse.  And then Mother suggested pin worms.

Glory be.

Our day Tuesday, was just as bad as Monday. So much gnashing of teeth.  Mainly from Ed.  Obnoxiously more so than usual.

By the time Wednesday came around, I was emotionally spent and done.  All of my grace had been used up.  Empty of patience.  Sweet words and kind smiles ran away days ago.  And I had nothing left to give.

I managed a doctor run where I was told Murnice had strep and Ed had a staph infection.

And then I went home and held my head in my hands and waited until 3, when I promptly called Big D and told him that if he cared about the sanctity of human life . . . . now was the time to show me where he stood on that whole debate.

So today is Thursday.  I've had the chance to breath 40% more than the other days.  I managed a trip to Marshalls with a 79% satisfaction rate.  I fed the kids chemicals and dye for lunch aka mac and cheese.  And I'm growing my armpit hair out.  I can almost twisty it.  I have passed out 4 kisses.  And even muttered the words "I love you".  AND I know what we're having for dinner, and it's only 4 o'clock.  Feeling almost like a queen.

Take Aways
1)  Be thankful for sperm donors who have the kindness in their heart to leave their plush, quiet offices to come hold screaming blessings.
2)  Run Away.
3)  Consciously breathe.
4)  Embrace the all time lows, it makes any other day seem glorious.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 5

So I've kinda been ignoring this story.  It's hard to write when I don't feel sad.  I skimp on information, and hurry the story.  And make it sound more lovely than it is.

I left off where I just found out that I was pregnant for the second time.  I felt no bond.  I was excited, but it was an outward excitement.  My heart felt nothing.  Except betrayal.  I couldn't trust my body to grow a baby.

I was desperate to feel pregnant.  Bloated, tired, achy, nauseous, anything.  I wanted confirmation.  I wanted to be pregnant.  I wanted a baby.

I was in an odd emotional state.  Of wanting something, desperate.  But not believing, accepting.

At 5 weeks pregnant, Sister Bear had her wedding.  The wedding party had to wear all white.

5 weeks pregnant was when I lost my first baby.  I was a mess, just thinking about miscarrying and wearing all white.  I don't look at Sister Bear's wedding pictures and think, "Sister Bear's wedding".  I think - "5 weeks pregnant with a baby I never held".

I survived the wedding.

I played head games of:  I think I feel a little nauseous.  I think I feel bloaty.  But I didn't.  I felt nothing.  I called my midwives and told them I just didn't feel pregnant even though I was registering as pregnant according to pee tests.  I had more blood work done - and it confirmed that I was pregnant.  My levels were good.

I named my fetus Ned.  So when he died, I could say:  "Ned is dead."  And that was the way that I was handling my pregnancy.  Just knowing that I wouldn't hold this baby.

I still don't know if it was intuition that this baby wasn't mine.  Or if it was my nonbelief that killed Ned.

In the middle of August one weekend, I went to Pier 1 with Queen Bee.  I told her I was pregnant a few weeks earlier.  I ran into an old neighbor.  She asked if I was pregnant.  I said no.

When I got home, I used the bathroom.  And was bleeding.  I told Queen Bee to go home.  Big D had a friend over.  He got kicked out too.  I like to think about how that conversation went.  Big D:  "So, um - my wife is losing our baby, so you need to go home."  Brandon:  "Um, this is weird.  Good-bye."  (In my head, that's how the conversation went.)

The next day was Murnice's 4th birthday.  I made a tie-dye cake while wearing a big crunchy pad.  Waiting for my baby to fall out.  I cried all day.  We went to the beach.  I made 4 trips to the park bathroom.  Waiting.  Hoping that I wouldn't have to say good-bye to my baby in a dirty, sandy public bathroom.

Big D and I did the best we could celebrating.  Celebrating life. Celebrating Murnice.  Celebrating what we had been given.

We put our new 4-year-old to bed.  And around 9 that night, Ned slipped out.  The finalization is hardest.  Because there is always hope.  The devastation, rampant.  And Big D is in the shadows.  Again.  Unwilling to mourn with me, together.  Unwilling to acknowledge that this was ours.

Ned laid in the bottom of the toilet.  I did not have the heart to flush our baby.  And I did not have the strength to scoop him out.  He was just there.  And I was stuck.  Feeling so guilty for not feeling brave enough to scoop him out.

Jesus was so kind.  I had prayed earlier that it would be a gentle miscarriage.  And it was.  So peaceful, so gentle and complete. 

The end.

Struggles of a Couch Lover

I'm doing this virtual bible study called:  Good Morning Girls.  Admitted - worst, cheesiest, run-away name ever.

But I'm doing it because  . . . . um . . . . lots of reasons.  My current house of worship does not have something that makes my toes sing, I don't feel like paying money to go to community bible study (cbs), I hate packing the kids up and then spending 17 hours to do something that appears and feels holy but only gets my crunchy panties in a twist and makes me feel like drinking before lunchtime.

So this seemed to be the perfect solution.  They provide me with everything I need - minus the bible, binder, and actual paper to be printed on.  And I can participate when I want.  How I want, with no panty twisting.

After you join, you can decide if you want to do the study on your own, or with a group of people.  And you can choose your own group through their forum.  Facebook, email, text, instagram.  Some groups actually get together face to face.  I love how it is so form-able to all different lifestyles.

At first, I had my wall built up 14 cubits tall and 16 cubits wide.  (That was a bible joke)  Because remember, I struggle with women.  But being on week 3, hearts are becoming apparent.  I don't feel the need to be so guarded.  And  I like that a lot.  I also like that I don't have to actually talk.  Because talking is the worst for me.  I can just write.  And writing is good.

What I really wanted to talk about today, is something that I struggle with.  Something that's been on my mind awhile.  Something that maybe other SAHMs struggle with.  Or maybe I just do.  Because I'm such a wench. (Actually I'm not a wench, I just wanted to say "wench".)

So - being in the work world, it's easy to feel like you're doing things for God.  You're generally around people all day long.  Doing things for people all day long.  You have this sense that you're helping and giving and sacrificing.  And the opportunity to share God's love is prevalent.  The opportunity is ALWAYS in your face.

When I was off my couch working in hospitals, going to school, massaging, etc - I was always in prayer.  Seeking direction and blessings.  I was able to do hard, gross things - in the name of "love".  And it felt good.  And rewarding.   And I felt like I was accomplishing things for the kingdom of God.  And earning extra jewels for my crown.  (That's an inside joke - the jewels part)

But now I live on my couch.  Unable to leave it for more than 17 seconds before the world falls apart. I do nothing but break up fights, and hold hands to help poop come out better, and make 8 year olds repeat every word they say like an 8 year old, instead of like a baby, and fight and fight and fight over concepts that were learned 4 years ago, and sing Pippi Longstocking songs that I don't know the words to, except "squish squish".  I wash dishes with food rotted on and drink tea with backwash in it, because Ed needs his daily tea almost as badly as I need my daily tea. And my new chore is cleaning pee off the back of the toilet 34 times a day, because somebody doesn't understand the dire importance of holding their peener down while urinating.

I feel worn out and disgusting most moments of everyday. I do not feel close to God.  Nor do I feel that I'm doing anything for the kingdom.  But I know this feeling is a lie.  This job is just more trying for me than my other jobs.  I can't leave this job.  Not for a second.  I'm tired.  I'm not EVER doing anything new or fresh.  The fights I broke up yesterday, are the same today, the same song, the same dirty dish, the same pee dribble.

But because my life and days feel so monotonous, I wanted to know if there was something else that I was supposed to be doing  Something a little more exciting.  Some other way to be giving, honoring.  I wanted to know if I was missing the boat.  I feel so lazy - just sitting on my couch, holding hands.

He said, "I want you to know me".

As great as it was to hear his voice so fast, that's not the answer I was looking for, or expecting.

You see, "doing" makes us feel worthy.  Because we still hold on to this belief that we have to earn God's love.  And acceptance.

And above all else, he merely wants our heart.  Our attention, to be part of our day.  Not our acts or services.  He wants to be friends.  And he wants to share his love with us.  Because he thinks we're that great.

The end.  Minus the part where I say - I don't need any comments from anyone that says something stupid like:  being a mom is the most giving, hardest job there is.  And other things on that same note.

Take Aways
1)  When we don't feel like we're doing anything, maybe it's a sign that it's a new season.  And relationships need to be renewed.
2)  A book that has been blowing my mind. lately.  It has a wah wah write up that makes it sound like only women with bleached coiffed hair in their 50s should read it.  But not so.  Ladies who wear 3 day old rotten underwear can read it too.  And like it.
3)  While typing up "number 2", Ed took such a big swig of tea, that he erupted into choking coughs, which spewed tea everywhere.  School books.  Couch.  Clothes.  Carpet.  Nay Nay.  Computer.  I drink black tea.  My heart is leaping for joy at the moment.

The Day I Almost Died

I almost died.

I probably almost die all the time, but most of those times I'm completely unaware.  This time, I was very aware.

It started out with a miscommunication problem.  Or, a-not-reading-correctly moment.  Which ever you choose..The main point is, it was not my mistake.

Our plan was to make a trip to visit Iss and her husband.  And watch the horse races.  And gamble away our 3 pennies.  I don't believe in gambling.  But Big D does, and when he gambles, I cross all my toes and fingers and hope for luckiness.

But when we got to Iss's house, and looked up our next day's frivolities - we were crushed to find out that "somebody" had misread the calendar. *ahem ahem*  And there would be no gambling.  Which lead to tears.

And then there was this extra time that needed to be filled. And what better way to enjoy friends and the beautiful end of summer than to go to a state park?

Sounds lovely.  The idea was pitched to me like this:  "So, it looks like it will be a great day to head to the park, if that sounds nice to you guys.  We could pack a picnic.  They have some fun little playgrounds.  Even a zip line.  And then a little hike if you want to."

Oh my, so low key.  And manageable.

(Silly me to think such things.. . . )

We had a beautiful lunch.  Perfect sunny warm and crisp air.  Perfect combination of poo poo and J with plain salty chips and dilly picks - that Ed ate most of.  Which made us sad.

And then the kids and the not kids had a grand time on the zip lines.  And we made theories and hypothesises of which zip line was longer and which zip line was faster.  And all sorts of silly conversations that made us feel smart.

And then the world blurred, while I was kidnapped and wisked away to the hiking location.  I really am not sure what happened.  But then, we were "there". And there were a lot of happy people.  And families.  And picnickers.  And backpacks.  And hiking shoes.  And I felt very nervous, because:  a) I don't hike b) the thought of hiking makes my tummy hurt c) when my tummy hurts, I get diarrhea explosions d) there are no bathrooms on hikes and e) I wasn't wearing a backpack.

I was also led to believe that this particular hike was "short" and "easy".  That we would get to a "certain spot" and then turn around and come back.

And the hike began.  It began with a flight of metal stairs that went straight down.  Straight down the side of a mountain.  Like your old grandmother's stairs that go down into the basement.  Steep and narrow, and practically on top of each other.  Like, you have to walk down with your feet sideways.  Because there's no room for a full foot facing forward.

Welcome to hiking.  And death.

And then it went from bad to worser.  At least with the stairs there was a railing to hold on to.

Not so much with the rest of the hike.

The entire hike was on the ledge of a mountain.  The foot path was a whopping yard wide. To the right was mountain that went straight up.  To the left was mountain that went straight down.

Did I mention we had the beautiful children with us?

Did I also mention that the place (aka footpath) was over crowded with every troll, mountaineer, billy goat gruff, and lunatic that thought it was a good idea to go hiking on the ledge of a mountain that day as well?

Now, I'm not scared of heights.  However, something physically happens to me when I'm up high. (I think it's because my buns are so used to being smooshed on the couch, in a "low" position.)  I get really dizzy and my legs shake in a non-queen like manner.

Being shaky and dizzy is not a good mixture for ledge walking.  Or for any type of walking.

I kept looking and judging the other troll mother's faces.  Trying to get a good read of enjoyment or exhaustion.  Or pure horror.  And every other troll looked as pleased as punch that they chose such a death defying activity for the day.  Which made me even more grumpy.  I could not identify with anyone.  I couldn't make "eyes" or share in knowing, sympathetic head nods. Or even lip crumples.

And then, after I had given up hope for ever finding the "certain spot" to turn around - the trail ended.  It was over.  And I renewed my secret oath of never going on a hike ever again, for real.  And signed it with my own blood.  And thanked Jesus that I didn't dive over the side of the mountain head first.  And also thanked Jesus that neither kid bolted over the side of the mountain.

Take Aways
1)  The Foxtrot belongs on her couch.
2)  I do not like thinking about my scraping by.  Therefore, I shall not think about it.
3)  Big D thought the hike was grand.  That's because he has no sense of parental protection.
4)  Which makes me really excited.
5)  The pickles were nice.

The end.

The Worst Night And Why I Hate Being A Lady

Dear Diary,

Being a woman is very difficult for me.  I'm not completely upset with being a woman, I like having boobs (as stretched and pancaked as they are)  But I have an extra amount of dysfunction when it comes to relating to woman. 

I'll start by listing all the things I love about women.
1)  I love their bodies.  All shapes, all sizes.  How they carry themselves.  How they accentuate.  How they compensate.
2)  I love their comfort.  Through looks.  Through food.  Through snuggles.
3)  I love their ability to be honest, when asked.
4)  I love their vulnerability.
5)  I love their hope.
6)  And  I love that they were created, because life, the world, was incomplete without her.

                            "Given the way creation unfolds, how it builds to ever higher and higher works of art, can there be any doubt that Eve is the crown of creation?  Not an afterthought.  Not a nice addition like an ornament on a tree.  She is God's final touch.....She fills a place in the world nothing and no once else can fill. . . . . . The whole vast world is incomplete without (you) . . . ."

(An excerpt from Captivating.  One of my favorite books)

And now I will list why being a woman is mind numbing and awful for me.
1)  I can not handle all the crying.  Sobbing.  Whimpering.  Snuffling.  That occurs.  And I'm not talking about legitimate crying.  Because there is such a thing.
2)  I can not handle the fakeness, the putting on aires.  The wanting to be liked and accepted by all.  The need to lie in order to not hurt feelings, to keep up reputations, to answer a question the way you think the other person wants the question answered.  Not wanting to appear less than holy.
3)  I can not handle the blatant inseccurities.  The nonacceptance of who women are. Not knowing what type of love they deserve.  And the inability to act like a lady.

I feel I relate better with men.  But as you know, married women don't like their husbands hanging out with a lady girl.  Which has left me to flounder in search of lady girl friends, since that's the appropriate thing to do.  The socially acceptable thing.  (Blah and gag)

 . . . . . . .

Which has led me to try new things.

I walked into a death trap last night.

I would have rather gone to 3 baby showers and 1 mother daughter banquet. (Which is saying a lot - if you know me.)

Now I'm not dissing lady groups.  A lot of lady girls benefit from such events.  But put me in one of those *ahem* situations, and I get a little desperate with A LOT of excited.  Nothing makes me start searching for excuses of some sort, to disappear. Or a weapon of deadly force to end the agony of my poor, nonlady girl self.

I will say, I was lead blindly into the death trap.  And as soon as I walked in - to the intimate sized room with a large conference table, round robined with ladies . . . .I gagged.  And if I were smart enough, I would have just excused myself right then and there announcing my diarrhea condition.

But I had hope.  And I was feeling hopeful.  And I wanted to extend myself in hope.  That maybe.  Maybe there would be something grand.  I do want more connection.  More intimacy with the lady types, since this is my lot in life.  Being a lady, that is.

I will not go into details.  But my night consisted of hearing and watching A LOT of sobbing and wiping of tears.  Doodling on paper with colored pencils.  Praying which included touching.  A lot of touching.  And sighing.  And giggles.  And more giggles.  And more crying.  And more touching.  And tissue grabbing.

I do want to say again, nothing wrong with any of that.  It just happens to be the part of ladyness that I get very nervous about.  (I use the word nervous, lightly.)

Take Aways
1)  If you know yourself well and thoroughly, stay away from things that make you hurl dinner chunks.
2)  God knows the personality you have, be free in who you are.
3)  Don't fit to the form of who you're not.
4)  Because that's what somebody says you're suppose to do.
5)  Ed likes to spit, so it all runs down his tum tum.  And then he smears it into his belly button.

Fight! Fight! Fight!

Big D and I haven't spoken since Sunday.

Ok, honest truth.  I like to fight. I like the honesty that comes from it.  I like the purging of all things emotional.  I like the rawness.  I like the desperation.  I like the grabbing for just the right words to fling.  Words that will either make a great point, or words that hurt, which goes back to honesty.  And I love nothing more than honesty.

Did you know that I love 100% honesty.  And despise deception?  More than one million percent?

Another thing I love about fighting:  I love the elusiveness that comes with fighting.  It's like a break from marriage.  I don't have to try.  I just, can not "care" for however long the fighting lasts.  Like, that's the time to do things that are stupid. Also, it gives me more ammunition to be mad. 

For example:  Big D has this idea that riding his bike to work is a good idea.  Well, in theory it's great.  However, a friend of ours just got hit while riding his bike on the way to work.  That story makes me a nervy wife.  But hey, you want to ride your bike to work when we're fighting?  Great idea.  Don't really care as much.

On the other hand, if we're having this great week.  Lots of naughty boom boom time.  Laughing together on the couch after the kids go to bed.  Snuggling on sunset walks - yeah, I'm going to care a lot more if you choose "risky" behavior.

So, this fighting gives me a break from holding on and caring.  As much.  (Of course I have 2 weeny whiner kids, and the thought of being a single parent makes me hurl - but . . . .)

So, when I say we haven't talked since Sunday, I mean talk like husband and wives talk.  Once we're fighting and our wall of not caring and protection goes up, we jump into these bicky banter sessions.  It's great.  It's like talking to somebody who has no emotional grip on you at all.

"Today, I'm wearing the underwear you hate.  And I'm going full on bangs.  Also, I bought 7 more pairs of shoes."  "Well, I'm going bowling tonight after work.  And then tomorrow I'm swimming in the lake before the sun comes out.  A mile straight out, and then a mile back to the shore.  All by myself.  Also, for lunch I'm going to be eating 3 garbage plates."

So, that's how our conversations go.  And have been going since the beginning of Monday.

One last thing I love about fighting.  I love becoming friends again. I love when Big D comes home from work and, legitimately is happy to see me.  And snuggles extra hard.  And watches Grey's Anatomy with me.  And drinks wine with me.  And tells me that I'm the most magical mother and cooker this side of Lake Ontario.  And I really love it when he gets desperate to have THIS hot biscuit for dinner.

Also, I came up with a new word.  Wankfaggler.  I have a meaning for it that I will not share.  But I would love some new suggestions . . .

Take Aways
1)  Give me a fight any day.
2)  The reason I don't mind fighting, is because I've been doing this married thing for awhile now.  And I know that marriage is purely a very hilly ride.  It's a long ride down the hill, and a long ride back up the hill.  And a very short visit at the top of the hill.  But it's a cycle.  You'll always go down.  And you'll always come back up.  There are enjoyable parts all along the way.  And therefore, fights do not make me nervy.

Allow Me to Take Care of That for You

I am a bit of an extremist. A bit of an all-or-nothing type of lady.  It's like, give me whole beard or nothing.  Go big - or don't show your face. And don't try to grow a beard if you have awful facial hair.  . . . .. Moving on . . . .. .  Or, I'd rather have the fullest bowl of soup or no soup at all.  Or, bring me to orgasm or don't even think about it.  Or, sing as loud as you can with as much vigor allowed, or don't sing at all.

Also I like to make "points".  Even if it ruins my life.  One of these points that I shamelessly love to prove - is of Big D's complete unawareness of leaving his junk laying around.  And there is nothing more aggravating than seeing a grown man's junk laying around.

Big D carries junk around in plastic grocer bags.(EW!) (Clearly, a pet peeve)  And one time, he dropped his bag that he emptied, on our shoe pile.  The pile that sits right next to our front door.  The pile that is directly in my visionary line while sitting on my couch. And to make a point, I left that awful bag there.  Waiting to see how long it would sit there. 

Now I know that you probably think that I'm nuts.  And need immediate prayer for my prideful heart.  But you also must look at it from a quizzical heart perspective.  How unobservant is he?  How long will he push the bag aside to grab his shoes?  I am proud to say, that it stayed there a full year.

One full year I stared at that bag, while I sat on my couch.  Wondering, how you can ignore an awful, white, crunchy, plastic bag - laying on your shoes?

I wish I could remember how the white bag left it's year long stay.  I feel like horns and a marching band should have announced it's departure.  But it was completely non-monumental - hence why I can't remember.

One of my favorite things to do with Big D's junk laying around, is to wing it into the yard.  But there are rules that I follow in order to keep me in check and appropriate - otherwise I would operate as a loose cannon.
Rule #1  Make sure item has been in sight for at least a week.
Rule #2  Make sure item is in a spot that makes life miserable (ie plastic bag laying on shoe pile, gross old college stein sitting on counter in the way of doing anything productive, etc.)
Rule #3  Announcing my displeasure and desire for junk to be put out of sight.
Rule #4  Allowing a reasonable amount of time to relocate, said junk.  (ie 3-7 minutes)

And then I throw.  And I throw with great pleasure.  I wing things as far as  I can.  And I love even more when there's 3 feet of snow.  Legitamately, I am airing Big D's dirty junk.  And all the neighbors can see his junk rolling in the yard.  Or half buried in a snow bank.

When we lived in apartments (on the 3rd floor) . . .   that added an extra level of pleasure.  Not only would I fling as hard as I could, but then there would be this moment of silence, where the junk would be flying.  And in that moment of silence, my joy would exponentiate in greatness.  I would imagine the explosion crash - that usually ended up being a muffled thud . . .  I would fantasize about all the people who had watched me from their large windows that faced our balcony.  And I would get quite giddy when it came time for Big D to come home.

Also, another thing that I'm really good at.  Starting projects that I've asked Big D to do or help me with.  Usually when I start them by myself - it's in a great rage.  And I become very full of energy and strength.  Which actually means that I'm destroying something and making the project 7.0087 times longer.

Like one time I destroyed the whole front garden with a pickax.  Big D loved me a million for doing that.

And for everything else I've destroyed and or have given flying lessons too.

Take Aways
1)  I secretly love when Big D doesn't take care of his things.
2)  Yes, I make Big D nervy.
3)  He didn't marry me because I was a safe choice.
4)  He has verbalized to me (numerous times) his enjoyment in my unpredictability.
5)  I feel no sorrow or remorse for being unpredictable.
6)  I love to throw.  Especially when I shouldn't be throwing "it".

The End.

4 Pregnancies, 2 Births - 4

It was a Saturday.  Sunny and perfect and cozy.  We were sitting on the couch together.  Happy.  I got up to use the bathroom.  And my baby came out.  No warning.  And because I'd never had a miscarriage.  Or thought about a miscarriage.  Nor did anybody ever really talk about miscarriage.   I was in shock.  So much blood.  And chunks and chunks.  I remember being emotionally removed.  Nothing can prepare you for the feeling of having something that you've created, die.  And then empty out in the toilet.  The disrespect for human life, with no other choice.  I pulled chunk after chunk out of the toilet.  Not sure what chunk was my baby.  I stuck all of it in a bag, and then in the freezer.  Desiring to put it in the ground at some point.

I don't remember anything else about that day.

The next day was my massage school graduation.  The two things I didn't tell you:  1) my graduation was pushed 3 weeks later than it was supposed to be.  So yes, I was pregnant when I was supposed to graduate. 2)  For weeks leading up to my graduation (possibly even a few months) I had the feeling that I would not be attending my graduation.  But had no idea why..

I contacted my classmates Saturday night to let them know that I would not be at graduation on Sunday.  They were so sweet to me.  During graduation they called so I could listen to the ceremony.

Over the next few days I spent a lot of time studying.  I had to take the LMT boards in a few weeks.

 I went to work like normal - pool job.  That was weird.

I also had to get a bunch of blood work done.  Make sure all of the baby came out.  That was neat.  They handed me grieving pamphlets and told me about circle groups.  Asked if I was ok.  It's weird to have that question asked so close to losing someone.  They should wait a month or two before asking.

 I didn't really tell anybody what happened.  Just went on with life.  Felt sad on and off.  I wanted to talk about it with Big D, but he didn't want to talk about it at all.  That made me mad.

On a happy note, I was so relieved that I could get pregnant.  Now the challenge was just going to be, growing a baby.

Friends kept getting pregnant.  And due dates would come around. Reminding me that I didn't have a due date anymore.

Early that spring, a job opportunity opened up.  A director position for a pool at a fancy golfy club.  I applied and looked fancy.  Interviewed twice. And they offered me the assistant position.  I declined after a smooshing dinner.  It was a crap offer and they were trying to wrap it up in pretty bows.  The awesome part was, the new director who was smooshing me, butt dialed me after I declined her offer.   I called her back and she answered, and was horrified when she realized it was me.  (That actually didn't sound as incredibly awkward as it actually was when it went down)

The beginning of July I got pregnant again.  But I had been burned.  And once you have a miscarriage, you don't look at any pregnancy with such simplicity.

As excited as I was, I just couldn't connect or bond with the thought of me being pregnant.

And I'm done for right now.  While writing this blog - I also multi-tasked by chasing Ed back to bed for the past 35 minutes.  I know that sounded cute, because I used the word "chase".  But it was not cute.  And now I am livid.  And hot.  And beyond fuming.  And Big D is at work - working late.

So many blessings tonight.

Weekend Catch Up - Labor Day

Yeah, I've been slack in writing.  The problem being:  Sister Bear is in town.  And I've been spending probably, too much time with her.

Sister Bear is 37 weeks, great with child.  She also is starting a photography biznazz.  She wanted to use me and the rest of us, the Witherhalls to play around with different poses and backgrounds.  Things of that nature.  Things to broaden her portfolio.

So, she thought it would be neat to try a more "intimate" shoot.  Which included Big D and myself.

First she picked out all these clothes that were a) either plastered to my bottom.  Or, b) falling off of me in a boner-inducing way.

Then she chauffeured us in Mother's minivan out to the edge of civility.  Where we found my father hiding in the tall grass spying on a rabid raccoon covered in flies, but still alive

 Rabid raccoon and intimacy.  I was completely overjoyed.  For multiple reasons 1)  I was half dressed, and we drove to the precise location of where my father was.  2)  There was a rabid raccoon meandering about with flies.  3)  We could not see rabid raccoon approaching because of tall grass.  4)  We had to listen for rustling and watch for grass movement.  4)  I could not run in the clothes I was wearing.  5)  There were no rocks to throw when rabid raccoon with flies, appeared.

I guess the title of that photo shoot - if it had a name, would be called:  Lips and Buns.  It was not my favorite moment in time. Big D is still giggling and trying to keep his "manhood" under wraps.

Also, the least flattering moment, was when Sister Bear was doing a close-up.  And these were her precise words:  "ew!  your mustache is growing.  Relax your face!"

*AHEM*  Did that really just happen?   You just said my mustache is growing?  I mean, I know I have blonde fuzzies, but is it really that noticeable/horrific?  And then you want me to completely relax my face after saying something like that to me?

That was great.  I guess I'll just blame it on the pregnancy hormones.

Other highlights include:
1)  Having quite a few more photo shoots.  Including trespassing.  A lot.  Sister Bear is so talented.
2)  Fighting with Big D most of the weekend.
3)  Having an important man at church ask how I was.  And I told him that we were fighting.  And he felt nervous.  Maybe because I had crazy eyes.  And asked us to lunch.  And it was magical.
4)  Started a bible study called:  Good Morning Girls.  Not the best name.  But I'm trying . . . .
5)  Celebrated Murnice's birthday for the 3rd? time.  She wanted spaghetti and balls.  (she doesn't call them balls - just me) And I spent all day making a cauldron of sauce and balls - and she didn't really like it.  It's a good thing I like her.
6)  Going to a wedding.  Where Sister Bear lost it.  And Big D was in the wedding.  So it was me, with 3 wittle kids and a very pregnant hormonal emotional lady that I was in charge of.  It got REALLY exciting for about 58 minutes.
7)  Big D and I are still sleeping in the same bed = miracle.


The raccoon is no longer with us.  It happened to be in the road when Mother was driving.  One account said she ran and backed over it 5 times.  Another account said 7.  She enjoys wilderness hit and runs.  I think she likes to use it as her hand/eye coordination practice.

The end.