ten

I don’t do schmoopy very well. Whenever stuff tends to get mushy, I feel this uncontrollable urge to make the ugliest face I can, just to ease the schmaltz.

This letter to my husband, on our tenth wedding anniversary, may start to feel a little goopy. If that happens, just make a silly face at the monitor. It will help.

Dear Fred:

Ten years ago, your friends wrapped you up in duct tape and let you fall face first into the ground. All I could think about is how our wedding photos would be RUINED. Thankfully, you’re like Wolverine and heal quickly, and so the only evidence of your drunken debauchery at your bachelor party in our pictures is the tiniest little mark on your upper lip.

I wish I could go back and tell my 26-year old self to chill. That it didn’t matter that they hadn’t removed the (fake!) ivy from the gazebo or left the mirrored tiles on the tables or would there be enough wine for our friends or what if no one showed up. Because I was marrying you. At the end of the day, we would actually be starting this amazing adventure. An adventure that would take us across the country and back. An adventure that would let us grow as individuals while never having to hide from each other.

I would tell my younger (thinner) self to breathe, because after that day, I would have the most amazing partner a person could wish for. Someone who understood my crazy. Someone who would make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. Someone who would hold me when I couldn’t think of taking another step forward. Someone who would help me raise the most incredible child I’ve ever met. Someone who dances with me in the kitchen early in the morning and late into the night. Someone who would let me be who I am, 100%, never having to worry that it wasn’t enough. (I would also tell myself to eat a freaking sandwich because my wedding dress wasn’t going to fit.)

I would tell myself that after that day, the person I would wake up next to everyday would be my equal partner. I would support him as much as he was going to support me.  I would tell myself that I would be surprised by how much I was willing to sacrifice for this person. And how much he would ask me not to.

Honestly, ten years? It’s so trite, but it went by so quickly. It feels like you just asked me to marry you, and I just said “Ohmigod what?! Did you tell my parents?!” It feels like we just walked down the aisle and I said, “I feel like we robbed a bank!”  We just got married. Didn’t we?

You are amazing. You are. No, you are. Shut up. You are. You are the smartest person I know. You are the funniest person I know. And you are the hottest husband ever. I love that we can nerd out together at the movies and you can teach me about space stuff and you let me ramble on about library stuff.

We’re kind of made for each other. And it’s pretty awesome.

I love you.

 

 

More pictures on Tumblr. Because DUH.

cough

I’ve had the compose window open here for a while now. Maybe an hour. 

I’m still here. Here at the compose window. Here at this address. Here on this planet. Here.

Every now and then something happens and I think, “I should blog about this.” But that happens so infrequently anymore. More often it goes on Twitter, and even that happens less than it used to.

I have a new job. I started six weeks ago today. In the span of those six weeks, I have gone through such a gamut of emotions. I love my job. I love the new challenges. My brain… does not. I have experienced crazy levels of stress and incredible highs and lows and mostly exhaustion. Each day finds me faced with a ridiculous to-do list and some days it just CLICKS and boom, I’m off. I love those days. Other days, something short-circuits. Misfires. Stops working. Refuses to start in the first place. I flounder, pick something up, start it, realize I need to do something else, start that, move on to the third thing. Look at the clock, which is NOT SLOWING DOWN SLOW DOWN DAMMIT. Sometimes I look at my calendar and cry. Not really. But really. In my head. 

I need to retrain. My body, for one. I am weak and minimal effort makes me sore. There is a gym at my new job. It’s free. I need to get in there and MOVE.

I also need to retrain my mind. I have spent the past few years reducing the amount of information I take in into little bits, so that when I need to ingest more, it’s nigh impossible. I don’t watch movies anymore, and hour-long TV shows are almost too long. Read? Only if the gist can be summed up in 140 characters. It’s taken me so long to finish an entire book. I had last week off for Spring Break and I read more in that week than I’ve read the entire year. It felt… decadent. And hard. It was hard to do.

Needless to say I haven’t written anything in a while. I have work stuff to write. Fun stuff to write. And I’d like to write here again. 

So I’ll begin stretching. 

read

Anna has a post about her favorite reads for the year, and it occurred to me that I’ve never done one. Ever. Shame on me. So here’s my reading wrap-up for 2012.

I read 52 books in 2011, so I set a reasonable (HA HA foreshadowing) goal of 60 books for 2012. How many did I read? 38. Gah.

However! This is not a post about how many books I didn’t read, but the ones that I did!

My favorites:

Five books received five star ratings from me on Goodreads:

Attachments and Eleanor and Park, both by Rainbow Rowell. Both so, so good. The kind of books that you want to live in and never want to end.

Let’s Pretend This Never Happened by Jenny Lawson. My adoration of The Bloggess is longstanding, and this book only cemented it.

Broken Harbor by Tana French. I hope she writes Dublin Murder Squad books forever and ever.

The Fault in Our Stars by John Green. I am an unapologetic John Green fan so I was predisposed to like this. However, I did not expect to cry — nay, WEEP — the way I did when I read this.

My least favorites:

No one-star stinkers last year, but a few two star ratings:

Familiar by Robert J. Lennon. I was so intrigued by the premise, and stuck with it because I had to know what happened. But I felt as though I’d spent the time reading it locked in a dryer, tumbling all over the place. I was partly dazed, partly angry when I finished it.

Then Came You by Jennifer Weiner. I’m not sure why I tried.

The Uncertain Places by Lisa Goldstein. Again, suckered in by premise, disappointed by delivery.

This was also the year that sequels didn’t live up to their predecessors. Insurgent, Girl of Nightmares, Reached, and Shadow of Night failed to draw me in and left me wondering how much I would pursue the next installment. Thankfully, one of these ended a trilogy, so I won’t have to worry about that one.

I decided not to sign up for the reading challenge this year, but instead to make sure I devote time each day to reading.

Here’s to:

doing more and spending less

moving my body and my mind

quiet snuggles on the couch

crafty Sunday afternoons

journaling and recording

deep breaths and deeper stretches

climbing the ladder and not looking down

appreciation and gratitude

calm and peace

Happy New Year, everyone.

When I wrote the last post, the first reports of Newtown were just starting to trickle in. I spent the remainder of the day like so many, staring blankly at my screen, the need to squeeze my daughter growing stronger and stronger. On the way home, all the energy used to keep it together during the day vanished, and I sobbed the entire drive. I was wracked with relief over being able to go home to my baby and overcome with guilt that I was able to and so many parents were not. I avoided the TV all weekend, and when an email from the principal at Emma’s school asked parents to please talk with their children about what had happened, I shut down. Nope, not going to do it.

But we did. On Sunday night we sat her down and told her, in the most general terms we could manage, what had happened. We assured her she was safe, which felt like a hollow promise. How can guarantee anything? But we promised. And we told her we would talk to her about anything she wanted, and answer any questions she may have. She was solemn and asked only if they caught the person who did these terrible things. Yes, we said. He won’t hurt anyone else anymore. As I walked her to room at bedtime, she told me she would have rather not known about what happened, confirming my feeling about not wanting to tell her. And that night she asked to sleep with me.

I don’t want to think about it anymore, but I do. I’m angry that I have the luxury of not HAVING to think about it. Guilty. So instead I hug my kid a little harder.

tick

Well.

Honestly, someone should have started a pool on how long it would be until I posted again. One of you would be… not rich. But maybe have a couple of extra dollars in your pocket.

So I’m sitting here in the midst of what I like to call existential crisis mode, where I can’t focus on anything and I fleetingly think about all the things I should be doing, and then, like a boulder dropped onto my chest, I am missing my kid something awful. It’s fierce and piercing and it physically hurts. I’m not sure if it’s because of the child who was just carried out of the library, crying. Or seeing the headlines about the Connecticut school shooting. Or just because sometimes, despite the frustration and the backtalking and the seemingly constant sass, I miss my kid.

I’ve taken no pictures. I’ve written no blog posts. I’ve made no phone calls and I’ve addressed no Christmas cards.

Instead, I wait.

one. kind of.

I wrote this Saturday. With all the best intentions. Let’s try again.

I’ve done this before, not always successfully. But I’m once again feeling the urge to attempt something AND complete it. That urge is a dangerous one and usually results in tears and/or drinking. But fresh starts and all that. 

So we begin. A post a day for the month of December. I also want to do the monthly photo-a-day challenge, so I’ll try to include that picture with the post. 

Day 1: My view today: Emma at swimming lessons.

Do you want to join me with a challenge of your own? Share it in the comments and we’ll be each other’s motivation. 

My plan is to catch up by this weekend. I have the photos. I have the posts. I just have to put them together.

gut punched: epilogue

On November 14, I woke up early. I was hungry, thirsty, and empty. The previous day had me ridding my insides of every last drop of fluid available. I showered, dressed, and Fred drove me to the hospital. I was anxious and distracted. He kept the chatter light, telling me about students in his classes and articles he had read.

We arrived right on time, and I forced my feet to move forward into the building. The hospital employs the same philosophy as Disneyland: keep them moving and they have no idea how long they’ve actually spent waiting. After checking in we went up to the second floor to a little room. Less than 10 minutes in there and they came and took me to a pre-op room. I changed into a gown, took out my nose ring, and had an IV put it. Then Fred came in and we watched a bit of some crime re-enactment show. I kept asking if it was too late to back out. Fred kept saying yes. A new nurse came in and laughed when she said I was in for a “double whammy.” Sigh. Yup, that’s me. She promised happy juice would be delivered soon, and wheeled me out of the room, telling Fred I’d be back in an hour. I waved good-bye. I was 47% sure that was the last time I’d ever see him.

The procedure room was ice cold, and there was music playing. R&B. I don’t remember which song but I knew it. A nasal cannula went in with oxygen, heart and pulse ox monitors were applied. The drugs were pushed through the IV. Another nurse put a mouth guard in, which protected my teeth and held my lips apart. I was lying on my left side, staring at something that looked like a stereo, and that was that. No counting, no promises of sleep. Just… nothing.

At one point I woke up and opened my eyes to sound of moaning. It was me. Something hurt, cramping. The nurse rubbed my back and told me it was almost over. I closed my eyes and went back under.

The next time I opened my eyes I was in recovery, and women were hovering over me, chattering pleasantly and smiling. I asked for Fred. I asked for water. I went back under.

I woke up when they wheeled me into my room. Someone handed me apple juice and it was glorious. I signed some paperwork and the doctor came in. He told me everything looked good but he had biopsied pretty much all along the way. That explained the cramping. He also said I had diverticulosis and needed to eat more fiber. Was pretty convinced that IBS was my problem, and he’d had to give me medicine because my colon was spasming pretty good during the procedure. Told me to eat something mild and take it easy all day. One of the nurses said something about letting Fred take care of the laundry and I almost said, “He does anyway.”

Fred helped me dress and asked what I wanted to eat. “Burger,” I mumbled. “Fries.” I barely remember eating it. At home, I climbed into bed, woken a few hours later by more cramping.

The next day I was fine, though still a little blurry around the edges. Biopsy results were negative. I’m still dairy-free, and have a follow-up with the doc after Christmas to discuss further possible dietary adjustments. In the meantime, I can definitely say that I’m feeling better, though facing the holidays without cheese just seems cruel.

I’ve been dairy-free for two weeks. It sucks. I love cheese. All cheese. Any cheese. I also love whipped cream and ice cream and butter. Oh, do I love butter.

I’m not an optimist. I am not saying, “Oh, but I can still eat eggs! And wheat!” I don’t care. I want cheese.

It actually hasn’t been as bad as I thought. But as someone who never had to worry about what she ate, having to read every label obsessively gets a bit tiring.

“Why must you torture yourself thusly?” you may be asking.

Remember the whole gall bladder issue/non-issue? So, I never really got better. And in fact, at points, got a lot worse. As I wait for various tests and procedures to tell me what may or may not be wrong with me, my gastro doc has recommended I cut out dairy and see how I feel.

So far? I feel crappy without it, but feel even CRAPPIER with it. Yay?

(Actually, yesterday and today have shown a marked improvement. I even skipped my stomach meds today.)

On Wednesday I will have a camera shoved down my throat to check my upper GI for problems. Then a (one hopes) totally separate camera will enter from the opposite end to check the lower GI section. I’m looking forward to coming home afterwards and catching up on Grimm episodes and drinking ginger ale. Or clutching my midsection and groaning piteously. You know, whichever.

not just for kids

Last night, I was in bed, coloring (WHAT. It’s relaxing.), when I saw movement in the doorway of the bedroom. I assumed it was the cat, off to claim a snack. I stretched my legs and my feet bumped into the squishiness of said cat, fast asleep at the bottom of the bed.

Well, then.

I continued to color, wondering what malevolent spirit was prancing around my bedroom, when I saw the movement again. Not to be fooled twice, I looked up and realized it was not some headless child come to take her revenge but what appeared to be a mosquito. 

Now, instead of fearing would be attacked by a murderous poltergeist I was sure I would be dying in the night from West Nile. My coloring took on a feverish pace and I may have nudged the cat a bit harder in an attempt to get him to WAKE UP AND GET THE MOSQUITO! He was not having it.

I continued to color, now looking out for the plague-carrying insect, when a flutter of wings hit my mouth (!!!) and I swatted helplessly at my face. And then I watched. I would be diligent. I would not sleep while that mosquito still lived. 

And then I saw it. It was… not a mosquito. It was a tiny moth, attracted (I guess?) to the gleaming whiteness of my face. 

I returned to my paper and exhaled. No unexplained deaths in the night were in store, it seemed, and I could relax. 

I hate Sunday nights.

(OK, yes. I really was coloring. Blame Anne. She posted some grown-up coloring sheets to Pinterest and I grabbed some colored markers and went to town, letting my mind wander where it would. It was actually really relaxing and I highly recommend it. I think next time I may listen to a podcast, though. To ward off the ghostly mosquitoes.)