I’m not as poignant as Anne Lamott and as much as I’d like to be her when I grow up, I know I will not be writing wonderful, powerful thoughts on God and faith and my fucked up life and making a best seller. For starters, I’m not that fucked up. And also, I’m not so sure about God. So, pretty much, there goes that book.

I know God is a hot topic. I hate hot topics. No, wait, actually I love hot topics because why can?t we all just agree to have a lovely conversation and say what we think in a nice way and know we?ll never come to terms and agree and that’s ok? Why can’t we just be honest about stuff like how much we pay in taxes or why are we embarrassed to admit our new mortgage on the condo is more than half our income and that after losing one job I?m up all night, most nights, playing with numbers? Why can’t we just SAY, “Hi! I’m Leslie. I like yummy martinis, blogging, and I fed my child with a bottle. ALSO, I stay at home but I want to work from home because I just think I’m that damn good to have my cake and eat it, too. Bring it on, Internet. No! WAIT! I also caved and let her keep her a binki. So take THAT.”

So, God, Yes. See, I used to believe. I believed and believed in my heart and I said the right things and I prayed the prayers and I went to bed knowing I was “saved”. Then I found out Santa was fake, the Easter bunny was fake and all these other religions had their own god and everyone else thought they were right and HOW would we know? Maybe there is one God, the ONE God but everyone drives a different car there? Maybe he (or she) has different names like Buddha, Allah, Macintosh (for us nerds and I?m totally kidding here. See? Sarcasm! It’s fun. Try it.) Anyway, my point being, why is it that one person is more right than the other if we’re all preaching love and kindness and Jesus-ish stuff? Oh, right. We’re not.

So then the conflict starts because SO-AND-SO thinks this and SO-AND-SO says that. And we’re more right and you?re more wrong. And you’re going to hell because you don’t have a star on your belly like these sneetches and we?re going to heaven because we do. And I got so confused that I quit the race, got married to the person I loved for who he is, not what he did or did not believe, and had a child.

Then I got fuckedup.

See, Anne Lamott says, in her book Operating Instructions, upon considering how much she suddenly stood to lose, now that she had a son to lose, she wrote, “Now I’m fucked unto the Lord.? I couldn’t say it better. So I won’t.

I started praying again because I was pregnant and what could I do? The chord could wrap around her little neck. I could die in delivery. She could stop living in my uterus and I?d be helpless. So I prayed. And I prayed after she was born because she was so tiny and so small and I was so helpless and overwhelmed.

I seem to pray only when I feel helpless and overwhelmed and I know what kind of a friend that is: A needy, snotty, shitty friend. “Hi God! Sorry about your issues. See, I’m having this hard time…” So I stopped doing that because who wants to be called only when there’s a problem?

And then there was a problem.

So I tried God again and prayed because I was pregnant again and I needed work and how the hell was it supposed to work out? Isn’t that the thing about god? This big master plan? Well, if he (or she) has a master plan and I’d like in on it, I figure I better pick up the phone again ‘cause ain’t nobody shelling out information without asking. So I asked. And I thought I had an answer. “Hi, Leslie. This is God. I heard your request and you’re in. YEA BABY! You’re IN! You got it all, hon. The baby. The working from home. That’s right. Who’s your daddy? Uhhu.” And me and God smacked some high fivers and smoked a joint. Ok, we didn’t inhale. Still. We celebrated. And I prayed for truth. And I prayed in earnest. And I believed again.

Then I pissed him off. I’m not sure where I went wrong. But I think it was the “tell the Universe thanks” because if there’s one thing the bible is clear about is that God doesn’t like it when you go messin’ on someone else’s turf. He?s all in to lettin’ people know who’s behind the scenes. Like the credits on a movie, only the ONLY credit should read, scrolling… “Main Contributor….................... GOD.”

Then he (or she) goes in and takes it all away. Because I’m an ungrateful little bitch? Because there’s even ANOTHER plan? Because I only call when I need something? I dunno. Or maybe he (or she) didn’t take it all away because there is nobody there pulling strings to take things away or put them back and we’re natural human beings with a body built to keep procreating when it?s time and to terminate it when it’s not. And the job thing? Well. Shit happens.

But I’m not in to that, either. So what am I? I’m nothing. I’m nowhere. I’m not blaming and I’m not praying. I?m just. Not. I’d like to have faith, but honestly? I don’t think this is the kind of “building of character” shit that I’m in to. And I’m not really big in to “letting go” because I really REALLY like to be in charge. I know. I have issues. But also? I’m so freakishly paranoid? That if he (or she) can take away this, what’s to stop him (or her) from taking away everything? My husband. My daughter. My family. His job. Our financial future. Everything? Where’s the rug when it’s being tugged? How far is the well if you trip?

God, I hope I don’t have to find out. And now? I just don’t know.

Everyone has a story about when their Grandma was little, during the Great Depression, they had no rice therefore their parents ate rice every night like it or not until the cows came home. Because damn if she was EVER going without rice again. Or maybe it was butter so they had butter on everything. I forget. Then I also remember one of my mom not having shoes that fit her in elementary school so she used to go to Sunday School barefoot and sit on her feet to hide them under her dress. She swore we would never be without nice shoes that fit and clothes that were new and well cared for. Even as they sat on a hefty credit card bill and changing trends from bell bottoms to ankle zippers and back, we never went without.

And so when LB was walking a bit odd last night in the grocery store and hitting her feet saying, “OWIE! OWIE!” clawing to take them off, I realized I am not my mom. In fact, I am the anti-my-mom. My poor child tore off the only shoes that (used) to fit her feet and ran in stocking feet in the store. I was horribly embarrassed. Mr. Flinger didn’t think much of it because “whatever, kids take their shoes off,” but knowing she was crying because mommy bought an elmo DVD instead of shoes this week made me feel like the BEST MOM EVER. (Or was it the Starbucks Liquor? Or the Vodka? Or the Coffee? Either way. BEST MOM EVER!) So, to make up for my Best Mom Practice, I went to Stride Rite today to buy her shoes.

Now I know why I’ve never done that before.

Holy mother of batman, people. It was insanity. The tiny tiny isles with the stacks of “reach the one you want and they all fall down on your toddler” boxes compounded with several pissy toddlers, two pissy sales associates and even more pissy moms and dads. Back to school shopping? Out after your morning bloody mary? What the hell, people! It’s 11 AM on some random Wednesday and you’re all at effing Stride Rite?

LB was at her finest pulling out all the stops. She can run like the wind in stocking feet! She can slide across boxes faster than you can blink! She can crash in to a box of freshly stacked displays and make the entire store look our way! Wheee! I’m pretty sure everyone knew I am the BEST MOM EVER.

And then I tried to make her try on the shoes. Holy hell.

Screaming. Running. Fighting. Bribing with string cheese and stickers. Trying to be oh-so-patient while people step over me, ask me to move, “Excuse me but your large crack-showing ass is in the isle and your stroller is being pushed by some wild child with one shoe on.” Yes. I know.

So we ended up with one pair, I think they fit, and ran screaming from the store right in to Carters, where I spent the rest of the money we don’t have (sans job) and made myself feel all giddy with 50% off and pissing off people because I gave up parenting.

I was shopping, damnit. And I was going to enjoy it, screaming, running child or not.

It seems my only outlet (rather, the only healthy outlet) for my frustration is in design. So I quickly came up with a ?what to do when the Universe craps on your life? blog. I KNOW I KNOW! I?ll grab some extra TP and flush like mad until it all goes away.

And here we are. I do like the brown. Don?t think of it as shit-brown. It?s more like chocolate. MMMMMMmmm Chocolate.

Following a *teeny weeny* melt down after talking to the ?advice? nurse (aka: bitchass lady from my pregnancy that is back to haunt me again), I decided to lay the kid down, grab a coffee, and design with some chick music on in the house. Therapeutic for me. Nerdy to you.

Now that I can talk without using the eff bomb every other word, let?s discuss advice nurses and the pitch they give you when you call. I swear to god, it?s like calling India for your computer support. ?Push One to talk to a real person, Press Two to leave a message. Press 3 to be put on hold for thirty minutes. Press 4 if you know they?ll all get you on hold for thirty minutes because you?ve done this before.?

Beep

Elevator music.

Thirty minutes later: ?Hello? Yes? Hi. I have a uterus problem. I need to talk to Uterus Support?  ?Yes. I hear that you have Uterus problem? You speak to support? Yes.? Ok. Yes, I had my blood drawn and, well, I wondered what the numbers were and I?m bleeding, see, and I don?t know what to look for in a miscarriage. I don?t know if I?ve seen.. IT ?Well. You to look for tissue. Yes. Have you rebooted? Is it plugged in? Oh. Sorry. Wrong Paper :: sound of shuffling :: Yes. Uterus. I see your number. It is low.? Yes, I know it?s low. I?m hoping to know what it is. I?m having a miscarriage now.  Long Pause. Long description of what HCG is that I?ve heard a billion times. More shuffling of papers. ?348.? Ok. My number is at 348. Thank you. Now, what do I look for? ?Yes. The tissue, the result of conception, will be not blood like. It will be grayish and pink. You will cramp and have pain. Then you are to know it is coming. Like labor.? Uh. Like labor? ?Yes. The pain is to like labor when the tissue is coming. Yes. The result of conception will come out to follow.?

I swear to god, if she says ?result of conception? one more time, I?m going to lose it right here. Right now.

She did.

In fact, she said it over and over and over. She kept talking. She kept reading the script. She was heartless, and horrible, and I ended up bawling on the phone to Mr. Flinger, who could not leave work no matter how much the bitch at Kaiser said ?result of conception.?

It was a person. It was a baby. You might not agree, and that?s ok. But to me, it was real. And, for your information, the ?result of conception? makes a person. And THAT is what I?m still looking for coming out of my body.

How long before it?s ok to drink? Someone? ?Cause we just got the BEST Starbucks Liquor (recommended by ) and vanilla vodka for Starbucks Martinis. Care to join?

Since there aren’t any hallmark cards for “currently emptying uterus”, I thought the next obvious sign would be lumbering up to the counter at Fred Meyer with two Elmo DVDs, a runny/red nose and puffy eyes, a pack of kleenex, pads and martini mix. No need to ask how my day is, really. Someone teach people behind the counter a bit about body language. ‘Cause unless you really REALLY want to know? Don’t ask.

I had my blood work today since they’re now watching for my HCG to hit zero. Now it’s the “Let’s play for under par!” game. And I was just getting used to rooting for a higher number.

I think the thing I’m most thankful for, (aside from KNOWING, and having a supportive husband who is sad but still taking the kid so I can lay down and cramp in peace, and all that mushy love crap… ahem) is the wonderful support and advice from all of you. The thing is, I’d never know what to expect if I didn’t have Christine and Traci (to name a few) telling me what will happen when I miscarry. That book isn’t out there, “What to expect when you think you’ll bleed to death.” And there’s no chapter on, “Where to find the HCG calculators so you can play with your HCG numbers and check the doubling times!” or “Fun with HCG needles!” It’s not there. None of it is. So instead, I’m listening, intently, to all your comments and emails and my uterus. I’m trying to have that still small voice that says “HUSH” when my uterus says “UUGGHHHHHHHH!” and my body sends the baby packing. I’m thankful that you are willing to talk because I’m more than happy to listen. And the knowledge that I am not alone is worth a million Skinny Cow Ice Cream Sandwiches, which I have a new pack of 20 from Costco of, so help yourself. And then settle in. It could be a long night.

There are two kinds of bloggers. Those that blog on the weekend, and those that don’t.

Which are you?

P.S. I do both.
P.P.S. You know that.
P.P.P.S. No new news. As of last night everything stopped. WhatEVER. It’s getting old, isn’t it? Yes! no! YES! NO! YES! NO! Baby! No baby! BABY! NO BABY! Good lord.
P.P.P.P.S. I used to think P.S. stood for “Please See”. So P.P.S. is “Pretty Please See”.
P.P.P.P.P.P.P.P.S. That has nothing to do with this post.

The end. (finally)

I know people blog during labor, but how many people blog during a miscarriage? Probably not a lot, I’m guessing. So I don’t think I will, either. (I usually open my mouth too early, speak without speaking, and say the wrong things anyway, so I will spare you all the wrath of my rambling…)

However. I think I have an answer and it’s not even Tuesday. And honestly? I’m thankful to have an answer. Just this morning I had dreams that the baby was ok, doing well, and I’d be puking in a few days. But really, I think, although it hasn’t started in full as of yet, that it’s finally something I can let go. And, like I said, I’m ok. Really. Thanks to you all, I love you, I appreciate your stories, I love that you read and care and send emails and cards and call me. I’m ok. I’m surprisingly relieved to have an answer.

And if you really want to know, I can update you. But so far, just a smallish amount of stuff and the impending cramping that is a sign of what is sure to come. It’s like Christmas, all the anticipation, minus the presents and the family and all the fattening food. Ok, I had pizza tonight and ice cream (because I’m pregnant, yaknow) so it’s a little like Christmas if you have pizza and ice cream on Christmas.

Which nobody ever does.

So it’s not like Christmas at all. In fact, it’s the anti-Christmas.

Years ago, I moved to a small town where I attended college and ?found myself? in the most clich? since of the word. I was on my own for the first time in my life, I had a houseful of great roommates, I obsessed about dumb things like boys and homework and trying to balance a checkbook on a 250 dollar a month student job and financial aid. I spent much time by the water writing in my journal, on pen and paper (back in THOSE days) and being idealist and liberal and hippy.

And then I grew up.

Mr. Flinger and I have a lovely story I?ll share with you one day. It?s really very long and tiresome full of words like ?we were on a break? and ?14 years together before we got married? and ?moving away to find out we loved each other after all.? It?s a lovely story that we enjoy telling too much and never tire of hearing although I?m sure our close friends do. We?ve had one thing in common these many many years: To move back to the Puget sound, the north cascades, the rugged landscape we fell in love with during that fragile period in life called ?your early twenties?.  The water is healing, the grass is greener and the air is so fresh, you get a little high on the pure oxygen.

This, of course, is total B.S.

Reality, finally, is here. The housing market is impossible, the traffic is horrific, the taxes are killing us. You know, it rains nine months a year in Seattle? It does. Also, most people are introverts and don?t bother with the new people in the complex, in the church, down the street, at the coffee shop. I am the ?new person? and it?s an awkward and judgy place to be. The closest park on the Sound is full of sand fleas and gnats and smelly crawfish that make the ?I?ve been camping six days in a row without a shower? body smell like fresh pine. I have no playgroup. I have nobody to share the toddler thing* with and I have nobody to meet at the puddle park (where the HELL is the damn puddle park here?) or have over for dinner because I have no place for them to park.

It?s not the ?writing in my journal for hours alone? kind of place I remember because I?m not the same girl I was then. I?m a mom now. I have no such thing as ?alone time? and when I do, I do something useful, like poop. This land I remember filling my shoes with sand and walking for hours letting my feet be exfoliated by the soft rocks is no longer here.

But as I sit here and write in my laptop next to the slushing sound of Lake Washington, just miles from where my best friends from that same house years and years ago live, it?s not exactly like I remember it. But that?s ok. It?s not so different, either.

*I wrote this before I found out Kate lives about 7 minutes from our new condo! I love the blogosphere.
** AND CARRIE!! WOOT!
*** Sorry, we’re not there for ever yet. Just went up to sign papers and it hit me.. holy shit.. in 30 days this will be home.

If you knew me in person, you’d never utter the words “graceful” when describing me. In fact, I can think of several antonyms that come to mind (klutz, uncoordinated, “trip much?”) This doesn’t just apply to my physical attributes. I’ve mentioned it before, but while I like to think I’m tough shit, I am so not tough shit. I’m more of an “all feisty and tough when the going is good and one pile o’ weepy hormones when it’s not” kind of a gal. You don’t see many made for tv movies based on that heroine.

So, when it comes to the pregnancy purgatory I’m in, it’s not a surprise that some days I feel that my body can do anything! I can grow even the most damn stubborn baby! Thy lining will thicken and the child will implant and thy hormones, they will explode into the thousands and I will be the bitchy, pukey, crazy pregnant lady we all will come to know and love. But on other days, or those minutes when the house is quiet and I have a few minutes to think, I’ll mentally curl up and drive myself batty thinking of the what-ifs. “What if it IS ectopic. What if I DO bust an ovary? What if I never bleed? What if I have a missed abortion? What the hell kind of name is MISSED ABORTION? What bastard came up with that? Must’ve been a man. Only a man OB would send me home to grow a dead baby for a week and torture myself with the hope beyond hope…” and on and on the mind-fucking goes.*

I struggled with what to post because, somewhere, people thought I was brave and ok, and handling this with grace. I am so glad I can pull the wool over your eyes so well. Grace? Not-so-much. Honesty? Too much. Humor? As a coping mechanism.

See, the highlight of my weekend away was the abundance of water and time outdoors to breathe fresh air and watch the sun dip behind the silhouette of the Olympic mountains. But the low point of the weekend was walking in to the wrong building at the doctor office (where I had even *more* blood drawn) and finding a birth class on break with ten to twelve very pregnant women walking around with their partners and me waiting for my uterus to give up what I already know: there is no baby there anymore.

I bawled as we stepped out the door and couldn’t explain why. I’m not unhappy for those women. I’m not jealous that they are a month (at most) away from not sleeping, postpartum hormones and major life changes they will question in the bathroom on the floor at 2am. I’m not even jealous of the wonderful person they get to fall in love with and watch learn how to hold his/her neck and learn to focus on objects further than his/her nose. I’m not, in any way, dreading the birth of a baby of two good friends of mine. I’m looking forward to being there, days later, when one of my best friends brings her new son home and I can’t wait to see JB grow into her roll as big sister. I have no problem aching to hold him and knowing it is not my turn right now. I am ok with that.

Mostly.

I think, as I sat by the water staring into the rocks submitting to the water’s ebb, I figured out that I am not as sad for the loss of this child as I am the loss of the pregnancy. I’m not interested in debates on “when life begins” because life started the day I took an ovulation test, called up Mr. Flinger and told him to get his ass (and sperm making pieces especially) home. Life started the day I told people I was pregnant, with so much glee, even more than last time, because we wanted it now. We had a plan and OHMYGOD we are just so fertile it actually worked! That, for me, is when this all happened. So what, if I’m not sad for the loss of this child, is it that I was crying for? If I am being honest, I think I am jealous that the anxiety/fear/unknown portion of pregnancy is almost over for these women. I told Mr. Flinger, “I only need ONE MORE PREGNANCY. Just one. That’s it. ONE.” I was not a calm pregnant lady last time and I attribute some of this to hormones but also, my real deep seated inability to be in control of the situation and my lack of willingness to just “accept” that someone else might have another plan for me. I have a belief that I know what?s best. I like to keep it that way. And what?’ best right now is for me to get just ONE MORE pregnancy over.

If you ask me. Which nobody did.

I want a complete family. I want to take my two children to the park and watch them play together, or even fight together, and learn to live in the same car together with all those stupid “I"m not touching you!” games and I?ll yell over the backseat, “LB! Stop torturing your brother!” and Mr. Flinger and I will smile slyly at each other because we are complete now.

I want that so much that I actually did burst in to tears at the puddle park on Friday when I saw the cutest little family with a three year old and a 6 month old and they played together and the baby drooled on her mom’s arm and the dad took the older one to play at the fountain. I want it so much that I cried, again, in the grocery store as a very ragged mom with two boys, exactly 2 years and 5 days apart, she said, but who’s counting?, tried to keep her two year old from stealing cookies and the baby cried to be held. I want it so much, that I’ll be willing to do this all over again. The fear, the anxiety, the nausea of the first trimester.

What I’ve learned is that I know what to say now, or rather, I know what not to say. I know not to tell someone to “calm down” and that “it’s because you’re stressed out that you miscarried.” Not only will that sentence cause an already vulnerable person to burst in to tears but it heaps on a multitude of guilt she already is thinking on her own. “It’s my fault! My body sucks! My body hates me! I did something to deserve this!” and simply saying it’s because she was stressed adds the “shit! I need to not stress out! How the hell do I ...” and the circle goes until she self combusts.

I will not want to remember this baby. I don’t think that makes me insensitive. I think it is how I am coping with a tragic, and unfortunate situation. I do not feel the need to personalize him in to someone I will miss years down the road. Instead, I want to fix it. I want to understand. I want answers. And I want to get pregnant again, I want to obsess all the hell much I want because I have a right to do that, and I want to feel the baby moving inside me and the hormones wrecking total havoc on my mental health until I cry because I?m in love with someone I haven’t met in the real world yet, but that I know more than any other human, aside from my daughter, and who only knows me.

I want that. And that is what I want to hear.

So, I know it’s silly, and it’s not really being brave, and it is not, by any stretch of definition, being “graceful” but I want to hope for just a few more days. I want to keep the dream alive until it’s not alive anymore. I want to not think about the “dead baby” in my uterus, but rather the child that for the rest of his entire life, I can torture with “you were SUCH a pain in the ass even before you were a full month in utero!” because that?s going to cause a lot of bills in therapy that I think would be so worth it just to have him here.

And if he’s not here, and if it’s not my turn, I’ll be ok. I can promise you this, I won’t be graceful about it. But I will be ok.

*Thanks to Nicole of Sitting Still for the reminder to stop mind-fucking myself. Best. Advice. Ever.
** Thanks to Dee and Jenny for the wonderful compliments.

Because y?all need to read more about my fun-with-hormones, thought I?d let y?all know what the doctor said and the lube party that ensued. There hasn?t been this much action in my hayhay since conception. Party? Understatement.

After yet another HCG draw today, I got to see my actual OB. I brought Mr. Flinger (keeping LB from sucking on the ear instrument or playing with the stirrups) to be sure the doc didn?t say ?you?re going to be fine? and I hear ?you?ll be barren for life, might as well get the adoption option started.?  This, roughly, is how things went. (Words of Dr. H in green)

?Well, [bust in to full paragraph here]... [take deep breath and see if he?s not passed out, rolling his eyes or sipping vodka in his flask].. So, I started feeling pain on my left side, googled, freaked out, and here I am.?