Writing. Again.

There was a time when I wrote. I wrote about inane things like my life and my dog. But, a few times a week, I'd sit down and write. I didn't write to gain readers or to get a book deal. Very few people knew about this blog and I didn't censor my writing for those who did. I wrote to write. For me. And I enjoyed it. A lot. Then I took a new job at a company that blocked the vast majority of websites - including Blogger. And then I had a kid. And then I had another kid. And, somewhere along the way, I stopped writing. I've missed the anonymity of this blog - of being able to write about what I want without criticism, without judgment, without anyone knowing it's here. I do wonder if I'll be able to do it. If I'll be able to keep up the schedule and habit of writing. If I'll find things to write about. And I wonder who I'll be as a writer now. If my voice will have changed since having kids, since I'm less willing to put myself out there. Or if I'll have a more serious tone now that my life, well, it's a bit more serious. At its worst, this will be a good exercise - a good mental break from a career that taxes my emotional health, a step toward being the writer I've always wanted to be - and, right now, that's enough for me.

On Losing

I thought I'd be drafting an email this weekend. It would follow calls to close friends and family and would contain a witty, slightly self-depricating and excited announcement of a new baby.

But, sometimes life has other plans.

On Thursday we went for our first doctor's appointment. I asked my husband if he was nervous as I got undressed and my stomach tightened - an odd question given that we really had no reason to be nervous. Perhaps it was some type of mother's intuition; perhaps it was just an odd coincidence.

The doctor came in and we chit-chatted a bit. She commented on my long hair and bangs; surprising since she hasn't seen me in over 18 months - with all of the patients she sees on a regular basis, she remembered something as trivial as my hairstyle. But, this is the woman who helped us through three years of infertility, who, on my first visit, sat with me for 45 minutes and explained why we could be having issues conceiving and then did it again when my husband came in a few months later; she was my last hope when other doctors had prescribed clomid and rushed me out of the office (even though I had none of the issues clomid fixes). She has, for the past 6 years, been an amazing and incredible part of our family's journey. She was thrilled to see us again, there for a second pregnancy.

We hadn't planned to get pregnant but, while lulled into an artificially blissful state thanks to a tropical location, fruity cocktails and the ability to sleep past 6 am, on a vacation to the Dominican Republic in September, we threw caution to the wind. After all, it took us three years to make a child the first time around.

And it happened. First try. Take that infertility.

We were shocked. And, by the time we found out, we were back in the real world, complete with tiny house, crazy dog, active toddler and ridiculous schedule. All on top of a very tough year full of many tough choices and changes. But as we got past the initial shock, we were excited. Another baby, siblings three years apart and with birthdays just 2 months apart - perhaps, if it was a boy, I could actually use all of old clothes I'd been stockpiling in Miles' closet for the past 2 years.

As the doctor started the sonogram, I saw the baby on the screen. "There's your little bean..." she said before trailing off. She looked around for a few more minutes and her silence said it all. She broke the news, I got dressed and a few minutes later I was sitting in her office, listening to a list of options for closing the chapter that we'd just started.

So here I am, still pregnant. But not. I'm walking around with a big belly - causing people to give me the 'fat or pregnant?' stare as I talk to them. I think about the fact that I have a dead baby inside of me and it's crushing. I'd planned on getting my maternity clothes down from the attic this week and pack away the clothes that started to bind my waistband until I could fit into them again. I thought about Christmas - about the fact that I'd be able to enjoy all of the treats without worrying about an extra couple of pounds - this was going to be the last time I'd go through pregnancy, I was going to let myself enjoy it. Now I sit here, 7 pounds above a pre-pregnancy weight that was higher than it should have been, bordering on the need for maternity clothes, while I wait for the doctor's office to schedule a D&C, assuming nature doesn't take care of things on its own before then.

Sometimes I feel silly - like I'm not entitled to be sad about something we weren't even planning on in the first place. I wonder if it isn't karma, my payback for not understanding why women who suffered miscarriages early on in pregnncy were so upset about something that wasn't even a part of their life yet.

I don't know why I feel compelled to write about this. Perhaps because, as I've told friends about what happened, I've heard so many of them tell me about the same thing happening to them and it surprises me. I wonder why more women don't talk about it, why instead we sit and wallow in it, wondering if we did something wrong, giving ourselves the "why me" speech, thinking that we're the only ones who are subject to nature's ugly side when, in reality, there's nothing we could have done and we're not alone.

There is good in this. We finally know the answer to a question we've been asking ourselves for the past year: we do want another child and we are ready. It's also brought us closer than ever - it's caused us to really examine some things we brushed under the rug for years and we have a greater appreciation for everything we have.

But it's still hard.

We'll move on and I'm sure in years, we will understand why this happened, perhaps even be grateful for it. For now though, we're just sad.

Sick Time

I have a cold. Nothing horrible - just enough to make me feel crappy. This morning I went into the bedroom to try and sleep some of it off but I couldn't sleep - instead I laid in bed, doing nothing. And, I realized how long it's been since I've taken a sick day - an honest-to-goodness, sit around, watch TV, read, let your body recover from the funk it's in, day.

When my brother and I were in elementary school, sick days were spent at my grandparents' house. They'd set us up on the couch, provide us with plenty of Red Zinger tea, toast made from homemade bread, potato soup and white noodles (my grandmother's homemade white cheddar mac and cheese). The television was ours to commandeer for the day and we got our fill of 'I Love Lucy' or 'The Andy Griffith Show'.

Somehow over the course of the next 25 years, sick days became a thing of the past. For the past 12 years any time out of the office was spent tethered to my blackberry or laptop - naps were limited to an hour or two and, the closest I came to rest and relaxation was spending my day in my pajamas or typing on my laptop, propped up on pillows in my bed.

Now that I'm self-employed and have a 2-year-old, I feel compelled to take advantage of every single minute of time. My to-do lists are pages long, I feel as though I'm never accomplishing everything I should be and I am perpetually trying to squeeze a just one more thing into an already overcrowded day.

Today is no exception. Today was supposed to be my day to get things done. My husband is watching our son all day, the office is mine to work in and I'd lined up a rigorous list of tasks to complete in record time. So far, I haven't accomplished anything on my list.

Part of me thinks I'm wasting the day away; part of me thinks it's the universe's way to telling me to slow the eff down.

I'm planning on spending part of my afternoon making homemade split pea soup. Perhaps once I do, I can sit on the couch with a big bowl of that, watch some crappy TV and enjoy some real sick time.

Rolling the Dice

When do you know it's time to take a jump?

My whole life has been calculated - each decision carefully planned with full knowledge of the consequences of each side of the decision, weighing the ramifications of both sides of the coin. And, in each case, I've made the safe bet - the 6 or 8 at the craps table and, while I've eyed those "4 the hard way" bets, the so-called suckers' bets, knowing that when they pay off (which they inevitably will for someone) they pay off big, I haven't been brave enough to throw my money down on them.

But now I'm faced with a bunch of decisions and, to be honest, I don't know if I can keep playing the 6 and 8. There are so many aspects of doing the right thing that are comforting, familiar but there are also so many parts of the "right" route that make me want to bang my head against a spike-studded wall.

I don't mean to be cryptic - it's not because I have anything to hide or because I don't want the general public (i.e., the 3 of you who still read my drivel) to know. Instead, it's because I don't have the energy to go into the numerous ways in which I feel stagnant, the lack of confidence that plagues me or the back and forth that I go through on what feels like an hourly basis.

I struggle with the difference between being impulsive and being willing to take a chance. While I'm willing to take a chance, I fear my decisions may be viewed as irresponsible or lazy: two traits with which I never want to be associated.

A friend asked at lunch today, "If you hit the lottery but someone told you that you had to still keep a job, what would you do?"

I hate questions like that and were I not busy juggling a 15-month-old who was more interested in shoving his face in a dirty fountain than in his ravioli, I would have told my friend that questions like that are bullshit - that if we all asked ourselves those questions and lived our lives based on them, we wouldn't have trash collectors, customer support representatives or janitors. While I'd love to have a career I love, I wonder what entitles me to have a job I love? Why should I be allowed to follow my dreams while someone else is resigned to working two crappy jobs?

When do you let yourself take the plunge? How do you just give up the reins and truly live life instead of living a the life you've carefully crafted? Or is that careful crafting what makes living life worthwhile?

Oh hell, I think I'll just go have another drink....