Archive for November, 2010

Thanksgiving blahs

Monday I moved all the furniture around in the living room and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned.

Yesterday I baked up a storm.

Today I can’t seem to find the gumption to get off my ass and do ANYthing.

Who knew I’d go 10 years without a thanksgiving at home.

I don’t even have any distinct memories of my last thanksgiving at home with my family. Maybe we didn’t even have one? Maybe my brothers went to their inlaws and we didn’t have one? I honestly can’t remember. I remember the Thanksgiving before that, with our road trip and a Christmas tree on top of the car, stranded with the boys in Weed. I remember the Thanksgiving after that, my first as a newleywed spent with D&B and Cheryl. I don’t remember the last one at home, though. But I know one thing: I didn’t expect it to be my last chance to spend that holiday with my family for the next decade.

It certainly wasn’t perfect, but it was a holiday. At least my mom did that stuff well and with a certain sense of childish wonder and delight.

And the food wasn’t something to publish in magazines, but it wasn’t health nut freakish either.

We almost always spent thanksgiving day with the whole family. I don’t know if none of the other families switched off with inlaws or what, but it was rarely (if ever) postponed until the grandkids started getting older and got married and had inlaws of their own.

I miss the predictability, the comfort of knowing my role and my place and easily fitting into it.

I just wish it were over, already.




I laid there in bed that night repeating my new mantra: I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have energy to cry. I will not cry.

I’d gone to bed early, wrapping my newborn baby into a tiny little pink burrito and laying her right next to me. I would sleep in the same position, without moving a muscle, until her change of breathing signaled to me that it was time to wake up and feed her.

But on this night I had been unable to go to sleep. It was a Wednesday, and my baby was 11 days old.

I’d been trying to empty my brain, to shove off the impending barrage of thoughts that I couldn’t begin to dig through or process.

I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have time to cry. I don’t have energy to cry. I will not cry.

And then my husband came in. He silently slipped into bed without disturbing our sleeping little angel and met my eyes above her head. He put his hand on my shoulder.

“I don’t have time to cry.”, I said.

“I know.”, he replied.

“I don’t have energy to cry.”, I sniffled.

“I know.”, he replied.

“I don’t WANT to cry!”, I wailed, and then I burst into tears.

“Come here.”, he replied.

And so I did. I shuffled over to the other side of the bed and let him hold me while I sobbed. When I could breathe again I looked over at our sweet little baby.

“HOW could anyone not see how precious she is?”, I asked.

There was no answer.

There IS no answer.

“She is so very precious.”, I said to him. To the angels. To God. To the air. I said it a few times, to remind myself that I wasn’t crazy.

I felt crazy. There were so many things that didn’t make sense, that didn’t add up, that I couldn’t logically explain.

When she’d told me how deeply offended she had been by my little boy, by the words of a three-year old, I’d only been angry. This was a side of her that I was familiar with though, the easily offended side. I tried to hold back my anger and reason with her, to explain how unreasonable it was to hold a grudge for so very long.

But somehow the logic escaped her and she will never know how great her loss is for holding on to such a petty offense.

On Wednesday night, though, I didn’t feel any anger. I didn’t feel any anger when she asked to leave early, or when she was bold enough to post her desire to leave early on fb. I just felt… disoriented.

Like I had lost HER somewhere, sometime along the way and I didn’t know when or how it happened. I didn’t know where to find her or if she was just simply gone. Forever maybe.

I questioned every memory, every feeling of love I’d gathered up through the years of my life.

I know there are some who cannot separate their perceptions from reality. That’s just the way it is. Maybe we are all like that to some degree or another, but while some can admit to this, others never can or will.

I couldn’t help but think about my father in law and how he proclaimed to the world just how little he valued his children by marrying his second wife at Disney World and leaving them behind. That was just the most public way he did this. He did it a million times over in other, less public ways, but just as hurtful nonetheless.

This doesn’t even compare to that. I can’t imagine feeling that sense of disorientation and confusion as a child. It must be something like being in outer space and having your tether cut loose. There is no where to go. Just out. Floating, freed, but not free.

Lately the memories of her have started coming back, trickling in like a stream down the window on a drizzly day. I am trying to be thankful for these memories, but they are still hazy, still blurry, and I can’t quite get a grasp on what they mean.

Maybe I never will, and I have to come up with who I am as an adult without the solidness of those childhood perceptions that tethered me.

Boob Attack

I actually drove all the way back to TC to buy this sweater because I thought it was GORGEOUS.

I think this is quite possibly the WORST picture taken of me in a very long time. I mean, I looked way better at 41 weeks pregnant, for crap’s sake.

I have to say, I have come along way from detesting my boobs and all the convoluted messed up ideas that went with that frame of mind, but I have yet to fully embrace THIS kind of boobage.

I went to the goodwill last week and tried on a couple dozen bras, hoping to find a couple to ease the pinch during the big-and-breastfeeding stage. I found one that fit me pretty damn well. It is a size 38 *wait for it* G. Yes, that’s right. G. Do you know what cup size means? Cup size is based on the difference in inches between rib cage and fullest girth around the girls. A cup is only one inch of difference. D is four inches. That makes G… SEVEN inches of difference. 36 chestband would fit me better, but beggars can’t be choosers when you’re shopping at the goodwill.

Anyway, without further ado, let me introduce you to:


…and the poor kid shoved in the background trying to be seen behind them…