Before and After

The girl with the curls that everyone wants went to the salon for her birthday and came back STRAIGHT! It's a most shocking change. Very cute, but I can't say I'll be disappointed when it springs back to life after her next bath.

The Best-Laid Plans

I've never been very good at following through with plans. Hmm. Not necessarily true. It's the timing of my plans that usually changes. Usually because of my desire for instant gratification. Once I decide I want something, I want it right now. Sometimes the timing resembles my original plan, through no fault of my own. For example, when we first got married we decided it would be good to wait until closer to at least one of our graduations before trying to have a baby. But I would go to church every week and come home in tears after seeing all the beautiful babies around. So we tried and got pregnant almost immediately. Everything was great until 5 months later when I lost that baby. And 6 months after that when I lost the next one. I suppose it all gave me incentive to finish school as quickly as possible--just 2.5 years after high school graduation. And 5 months after graduation, I had my first baby--actually somewhat in line with the original time frame I'd considered. I suppose it's possible I could have saved myself some grief if I'd been patient. Or perhaps I would have merely prolonged the inevitable.

I'm also one of the most superstitious people you'll ever meet. I'm always looking for a sign or omen to clue me in on the outcome (especially when I'm pregnant, because, face it, that's been my whole life). When baby #2 followed without difficulty, I thought my problems were over. nine months later I was proven wrong. But I figured my mother had lost 3, so I could handle losing 3, and I'd paid my dues and could just go on with life. Baby #3 came shortly after, seeming to prove my theory right. Except for the 6 losses in the past 6 years. 12 pregnancies in an 11 year span, and I decided I'd had enough.

I moved on, starting a new era of my life--past the baby making stage. I found my ideal grad school program and began the application process. Picturing being able to enjoy grad school without the drama of pregnancy and loss, I decided it was time to do something more permanent about the situation. I had on my to-do list for last week to schedule a dr's appointment for that very purpose, when I happened to look more closely at the calendar and realized that perhaps a test was in order. Sure enough, I'm pregnant again.

Now that I've had a week to get over the shock and initial fear, I find I have good hopes for this one. First, I've always rather thought 13 was a lucky number. Second, babies always like to be as inconvenient as possible, so the fact that this happened just as I decided to return to school after 10 years seems a good sign. Third, I've given away everything even remotely baby related. And last, the fact that I really actually was going to take permanent measures means that if this kid wants to come, mommy's done messing around. It's now or never. All of these things seem to indicate a positive outcome. I suppose I could include the fact that all three girls have been praying all year for mommy to have a baby--but that's been the case before and never helped a bit. I find I'm growing rather jaded. Normally a pregnancy would bring out my bargaining self. I'd work harder, pray more, study the scriptures more, serve more--all in the hopes of a desired outcome. But all the bargaining with god rarely gets me my way. So I'm feeling just a wee bit discouraged and a bit more spiteful. Which in turn makes me nervous. So mostly I'm a wreck. But I'm determined to at least be a hopeful wreck until my hope is taken away.

But I suppose one way or another, time is actually on my side. Either 1. I lose this baby, too, and will have some time to get over the worst depression before starting back at school next fall, or 2. I have the baby and have a couple months to settle into some sort of routine before classes start.

In the meantime, I'm driving myself crazy with worry with every pain in my back (though I"ve been having back trouble for several months now). My pseudo-pregnancy symptoms provide some relief, except that I know they're all in my head. I'm fully aware that I'm only feeling pregnant because I'm aware that I'm pregnant, and would not notice any change if it weren't. I know because I've been giving myself fake pregnancy symptoms for the past several years--just because I want it so badly. Morning sickness used to be one of my good signs, but I can't trust it anymore, because it, too, can be faked (not saying that others fake it, just that I do).

At any rate, I'm trying to think good thoughts. But can't help but be terrified. Even toddlers seem completely tiny now. I have no idea what I'd even do with a newborn again. I lived in the land of babies for quite some time, with all three girls born within 3 years of each other. But I'm out of that now. If this baby does come s/he will be born right around my current baby's 7th birthday. But thinking good thoughts, and everything will turn out as it should. Right?

My Mini-Me

Marty has somehow learned how to crochet. I know it wasn't from me, because I gave that up a long time ago. But when I checked on them last night, Marty had a hook and some yarn and was working up a line of chains. She said she was making a doll blanket, but I didn't figure she could, since she'd never before been able to turn and work into the beginning chain. But I shouldn't have doubted her, I suppose, because she came down this morning with four rows of fairly neat single crochets done. The stitches aren't perfect, but they're a darn bit better than my first attempt to teach myself crochet--when I was 18 years old.

So today, we're camped out on the couch (well, except while I'm breaking to write this), and crocheting together while we watch the travel channel and explore exotic locales. So much fun to have a little mini-me. One of these days, she'll probably discover that I'm really boring and she doesn't actually want to be exactly like me. But for now, it's pleasant to have someone that wants to do everything I do, shows interest in all my interests, and will just come along for the ride while I do what I like.

I'm also enjoying that at least one of my children wants for little more than to snuggle and read classic literature (whether to herself, or have me read to her). And that she is now old enough to understand the humor and subtler irony in the stories we read. It's so fun to hear her giggle at a funny passage, while Linda's still looking at me for her reaction cues, and Chrissy is off doing whatever she does while she pretends not to listen (though I know she absorbs way more than she lets on).

Well, it's time for me to join my mini-me and get some handwork done. :o)

Mother's Day earrings to Mother's pendant

Happy Birthday to Me!

My birthday present this year came in a day early, instead of two days late, as anticipated. But I finally did something I've wanted to do for years now--I turned my pretty opal earrings into something I could actually wear.

This piece is particularly meaningful, and I'm wanting to be wordy about it, so I'm pulling out the blog, even though my last entry was only yesterday.

Just a few months after we were married, Terry and I were on one of our mall-walking/window shopping dates. Gazing through the window of a jewelry store, I saw the most perfect opal earrings. They were the same shape, color, and setting as the opal on my engagement ring. I fell completely in love with them, but we were students and they were $90. But, come Mother's Day, my sweetheart presented me with the earrings I coveted. I laughed at the thought of him giving me a Mother's Day gift, since we had no children and were not even expecting any at that point. But he insisted that I was the mother in our family, and would eventually become the mother to our children. So I wore the earrings for the promise of motherhood.

I wore those earrings almost every day for the next few years--through two failed pregnancies and one more successful. My ears had always had a tendency to become infected, but I ignored that, and tried to overlook the fact that no matter how many times I cleaned my ears and the earrings, I would have to clean crusted blood and gunk from the earrings each night. Thinking back on it now, I suspect that it may have to do with the blood clotting problem I have. But that's just a suspicion. At any rate, after I had Marty, earrings were pretty much not an option for a while (she would put herself to sleep by rubbing my ears). So the earrings took a prized place in my jewelry box for a while.

My years of no earrings because of babies let my ears finally heal, but they also closed over. But I loved my earrings and wanted to wear them again, so once Linda was old enough to trust, I had my ears re-pierced--just so I could wear my Mother's Day earrings again. But that didn't work, either, as my ears simply kept getting infected. So at last, I determined that I'd simply have to turn the stones into a custom piece of jewelry. But I really had no idea how to go about doing that, so the earrings remained in my jewelry box.

Finally, just a few weeks ago, in keeping with this trend of facing my fears and doing things I've always wanted to do but was either too afraid or too cheap to do (i.e. get a car, frame my painting, even consider going back to school), I started going into jewelry stores and making inquiries about how to go about designing a new piece to set my opals into--actually not too easy since not all jewelers will do custom work, and even fewer will consider working with opals. But I found a place that would do it, found a basic design that was actually quite perfect to fit the 2 opals into, and even added the girls' birthstones (emerald for Marty, citrine for Chrissy, alexandrite for Linda--all synthetic, because I'm still cheap, after all).

So now, my Mother's Day earrings that were given to me two full years before I even became a mother, but represented the hope for motherhood, are now part of a beautiful pendant that I can wear proudly to display that hope achieved.

thoughts on being artsy in a science geek family

I thought I'd gotten used to it--the engineers' patronizing attitude toward all my humanities-based interests. Terry loves to remind me of the study published in BYU's newspaper years ago that showed average incomes based on college majors, which showed the average English major's income as lower than the average high school dropout's. I put up with all those jokes and comments because, honestly, I haven't done much with my education.

I can even put up with my sister's horrified exclamations when I complain about the troubles I'm having with the basic review of middle school math as I'm preparing to take the GRE. What else could I expect from my math teacher big sis?

But when my sis-in-law mentioned to her dentist husband my current plans to apply to a library science program, I had to listen to an amazingly long rant about "why would you need a masters just to be a librarian?" Why on earth would it make any difference? I want to further my education. This is a field that interests me. It just so happens that a master's degree is required in the field. So where would there be any problem for me to further my education by getting the required degree in a field that interests me?

Why do I have to listen to these comments that belittle my dreams? I have no interest at all in their chosen professions. I think the thought of looking into people's mouths all day is horrifyingly disgusting, and I see no purpose to it being such a popular field to enter, except that dentists tend to be very wealthy and drive fancy cars. Engineering just sounds boring to me--I tried once to let my BIL talk me into a more practical major, like engineering (an electrical engineer, he says "civil engineering is easy--anyone could do it"), and could find no enthusiasm for any of the course descriptions, though looking at any humanities major, I would drool over the course catalog--only having difficulty choosing between appealing options. The strange hierarchy among engineers leaves my EE BIL turning up his nose at my CE husband, but yet CE hubby mocks architects as being less competant--paying more attention to the aesthetics than the physics.

I suppose it doesn't matter what field I wanted to enter. Perhaps I just need thicker skin. I know if I had gone into architecture (which was on my list of possibilities back in the days before I became too mathphobic), I would feel put down on, because I've listened to comments about architects. I could even have gone into geology or archaeology (some of my more science-based interests), and I would have had somebody telling me it wasn't "real" science. I wish I could go back to the days when I felt smart, and would not pay a bit of attention to anyone who tried to make me feel less, because I knew I was one of the smartest, most capable people around. I need a shot of my old 16 year old hubris so I can push forward, following my dreams, no matter what others may say.

Thoughts of Ages and Education

I remember wanting to be 8 years old. Then I was desperate to hit the double digits. Then 16 was the age of choice. 16 meant makeup (which I wore for maybe a month before I decided it wasn't worth the time), driving (which terrifies me, and I only do when compelled to), and dating (fun in theory, except that the dates didn't really happen). 18 was important because it meant I could act on my engagement and marry my sweetheart.

When I was younger, I pictured 24 to be the perfect age. At 24, I would be active, healthy, skinny, beautiful, free for travel and adventure. 24 was a very disillusioning birthday--as my frumpy mom-of-three self barely went outside to check the mail. Not that I would change it, because I love my girlies, and to all appearances, those early years were the only chance I had for having children. It just wasn't what I had pictured for myself. Looking back, 24 wasn't all that bad, because back then I still had hope for my other plan of a house full of children. I always thought 6 to 8 sounded like a good number. But that's just not going to happen.

I'd never thought past 24--anything older than that was just ancient and not worth considering. :o) For the past several years, I've joked that I'm only amazed that I haven't actually hit my 30s yet. I feel far too old to still be in my twenties. But now that there's only a month and a half until my 30th birthday, I find I'm seriously thinking about what I've done with my life and where I want to go from here. I know I would never have guessed that, at 30 years old, my family would be, not only complete, but half raised. In another 10 years, Marty will be grown, Chrissy finishing highschool, and Linda nearly there. When Chrissy was born, I was offended at comments that I was smart to finish early. I was not remotely done with my family. But little did I know, they were actually right.

So now I'm thinking about a 5-10 year plan for my future. The one thing I really feel badly about was college. I finished--got the paper. But it meant nothing. I started school with 45 credits from AP tests. I took a few classes my first semester for fun, and because I thought it would be neat to graduate with honors. I loved learning Greek, and was pretty good at rough translations, but couldn't wrap my head around the conjugations and declensions, so I didn't continue with the language because I couldn't risk my GPA dropping and losing the scholarship. I loved art, but was too afraid to apply for the art program in my senior year in highschool. I applied the next year as an art minor and was accepted, but was pregnant by the time I could take a class and didn't want to risk anything from chemicals and paints. So I never took a single art class. Pregnancy also made me drop the social dance class I'd signed up for with Terry. I left my job at the library that I loved because I was afraid of carrying large stacks of books while pregnant (though I miscarried just a week after I quit).

I chose my major because it had the least number of credit hours to complete. The summer term I took the classes I was most excited about (including my senior course on Arthurian legends), I miscarried, and took off the entire month of July and missed out on sooo much. I passed the classes, and my professors were very understanding of the situation, but I wanted to learn that stuff. I wanted to be there for the lectures and discussions. I'm ashamed that I let fear and money dictate the paths I took. I was glad to be finished, though, when Marty was born just months after I graduated.

At any rate, school is where I want a redo. I want to look at my diploma and actually feel that I earned it--by doing my best work, not just the minimum that would get me through. But first I need to come up with an answer to the eternal question--"What do I want to be when I grow up?" I never really answered that question. I had several conflicting images of what my life would be like. I've actually lived out most of my dreams, and discarded several that became less important to me. I need to come up with new dreams now.

I am a person, too!

I'm getting really tired of being treated as a nonperson. Utility companies (among others, but I'm mad at the electric company today) that insist that everything has to be in Terry's name because he's the one with an income. And then if anything goes wrong, I can't talk to them about it because it's not in my name, so I have to interrupt Terry at work to make phone calls about things he knows absolutely nothing about because I'm the one that manages the house and pays all the bills. Grumble, grumble, grumble.

I am a person! I have a name! I have responsibilities and I honor them. Anything that Terry has done on paper in the past 12 years (other than, of course, his schoolwork and the actual engineering) was done by me. I was the one that signed him up for all his classes. I filled out student loan forms. I set up and pay for all his bills. I keep his resume updated, and find him jobs when a change is needed (thankfully not for a while). I fill out all the benefits forms. I file the taxes every year. I do all of this, even though even the thought of paperwork sends me into a panic attack. But despite all this, on paper, I barely exist. I still could not get a credit card in my name alone (well, maybe I could, but not one I'd want), because everything has been done in Terry's name. Apparently having my name on all the accounts doesn't really make a difference, because I personally have no income.

I'm sick of it. I'm a smart person, darn it. I was 3rd in my class in high school, went through college on a National Merit Scholarship and graduated with my Bachelors in just 2 years. I wrote and published a book with three children under four years old. It was a short book, and short-lived, but it was a good one. I hate when people, companies, and "official policies" make me feel like a nobody just because I choose to stay home with my children. I also hate feeling guilty for not keeping up with housecleaning (which I really, really don't like to do) because it's really my only responsibility.

I want more. I want to be more. I want to remember how it felt to be sure of myself--like back when my whole life was academics, and I was darn good at it. I knew it and everyone around me knew it, too. I want recognition from more than just my family. Not a lot, just a little. But I want it. I want something concrete at the end of the day that I can point to and say "I did this. And it's good."

Growing Up

My little girls are growing up, while I remain largely oblivious. This is never more evident than when I finally give in and go to buy new shoes. In my defence, we spend the summer in bare feet or sandals. So I have some small excuse for not realizing the change. But it was still a shock to find out that Chrissy has gone from wearing size 3 children's to a 7 in women's shoe sizes. I'm totally jealous of Chrissy's cute shoes. Black tennis shoes with fuchsia trim. And I got her some cute gray boots, because I want some for me, but can't find anything cute my size. :o(

Marty also has crossed the line into adult sizes of shoes, but unfortunately has inherited my awful feet (short, but super wide), which are practically impossible to fit. So Terry fit her with boys' size 5-1/2. She was a bit upset about wearing boy shoes, but was consoled by the fact that I, too, wear men's shoes in the futile attempt to find shoes wide enough for my monster feet. However, they are relatively cute tennis shoes for boy shoes--dark brown with orange trim. I guess this explains the girls' recent frustration at trying to squeeze into little girl socks. Sigh.

Linda is not immune to this growing up thing, either. Though she remains relatively petite (for my kids, at least). She jumped from 11's to 13-1/2, and is just about ready to start over with the numbers. Who ever said this sort of thing was allowed, anyway?

The Evolution of a Name

I love my name. I think it's beautiful. Randy-Lynne. I spent many years perfecting my signature until I found the way I like it best. I even like the look of my initials R-L. I like to sign them all loopy together.

Lately I've been thinking of my name, and how the way I use it has changed over the years--especially in the way I introduce myself. I grew up as Randy Cottrell. In high school I started writing out the Randy-Lynne, because, as I said, I love the way it looks written out. But I still introduced myself as just plain Randy (which has its complications, as I discovered when I introduced myself to a new guy when I worked in the dishroom at the Cougareat. He was Scottish, so he gave me a funny look and asked if that was an invitation).

Then when I got married, I became Randy-Lynne Wach and have spent many years now introducing myself as such. I've noticed, however, that since moving back to Kentucky, I've gone back to introducing myself to people as just plain Randy again. I'm wondering why. There's not too many people still here that knew me way back when, and that shouldn't make a difference. Am I just turning lazy? Am I regressing back to my teenage state by being in the place I lived as a teenager? Is it just my Kentucky name? I don't know. It just seems a strange change. And because I don't really understand my motivations, I'm not sure if I want to do anything to change it.

Party for Katherine and Tony (aka 4th of July)

Just the usual insanity at a party at Grandma's, plus a few extra Californians. Katherine's cake was fabulous! (of course, I made it) a slightly mango flavored yellow cake with lemonade frosting. Not all of the kids were up for it, but I thought it was great. So much fun to hang out with family.

Unfortunately, I forgot my camera the day before when my very good looking nephew, Dee, and his girlfriend were there. My favorite part of that visit is that, once the girls learned he was a cousin, he automatically became "one of the kids", despite the fact that he's, what? 27? This family I've gotten myself into is just a little bit intimidating sometimes. :o)

Things I'll Miss

Last month my house sold (finally!!!), which leaves us in a tiny apartment recovering from the disaster of homeownership. Overall I'm very happy to be returning to the simplicity of apartment life. For example, when the water decided not to stop running when I turned off the faucet in the shower yesterday, and all it took was a phone call and about an hour before it was fixed--the handles all replaced with shiny new ones. I loved not having to think up how to find a few extra hundred dollars for a plumber. Or a few weeks ago when I complained that the refrigerator was acting kind of fritzy (though still keeping things cool enough most of the time), and the next day a new refrigerator appeared--with a bonus 3 cubic feet more than the previous one, so I can now store enough food to feed my family. I also particularly enjoy not having to remember which day is trash day, and being able to take out the trash whenever I want.

Despite my appreciation of apartment life, I will still miss my old house. Not the squirrels or the bats or the sagging floors. I do miss my ginormous kitchen. And I particularly miss being able to paint wacky murals wherever I wanted. Since it's been over a month since my house sold, I'm sure they've been painted over or ripped out by now. So I will memorialize them online. My big red house, my giant "aquarium" (Nemo blankets over the windows because I found it disturbing to see straight through the house and the windows were drafty. It glowed in the evening--we became known as the "Nemo house" in town), the circus in my kitchen, and the maypole dance hallway (complete with glow-in-the-dark stripes).

My Rainbow Dancing Girl

This is my Rainbow Dancing Girl. My Mother's Day present from Terry that we finally go to go buy yesterday, now that things from the move are settling down and she was less likely to get bashed up in the move. This girl kept me mostly sane in the past several months.

She's been locked up behind a glass case at Costco for months now. When I would go out shopping since this past March, my mask would slip and I'd kind of fall apart. I have no idea what people thought of the crazy lady walking through the aisles, or occasionally just sitting on the ground next to the cart, with tears pouring down her face. But I would always eventually go to the Rainbow Dancing Girl, and she would cheer me up--like a dose of instant sunshine. (I think the piece is actually called Over the Rainbow, but I always think of her as the Rainbow Dancing Girl). So when I told Terry that looking at her made me happy, he decided to let me have her.

I love this beautiful lady. I think it's because she's the me that I always pictured. Me--though much skinnier and better coordinated, for sure. But free, happy, just enjoying being in the moment. Someone who could do just about anything, and would do it, with her own unique style and energy. Someone who radiated color, beauty, and joy. This is the me that I would like to be.

I'm probably a complete moron for buying a huge fine porcelain sculpture like this when my girlies are still so young. But for my daily dose of sunshine, I will take the risk.

Galapagos sellout!

One of my favorite time-wasters of the moment is reading fanfiction online. Today I stuck my foot in my mouth as I called out the author of a fic on having the main characters hide out in villas on the Galapagos Islands. I wrote in that I was sorry, but there was no way I could suspend my disbelief enough to accept that people could rent villas on the Galapagos Islands. There was no way that the country of Ecuador would allow that sort of thing on their precious islands. When I was there, there was only a couple buildings on the islands--just enough space for the few scientists that worked there, and those were barely allowed. But then she sent me a link to the website for the hotel she used in her story. And sure enough there it was, a fancy-pants hotel complete with villas. Further research shows no less than 19 hotels on the Galapagos islands!

I immediately sent an apology to the author for faulting her research, but this news has completely crushed me. I'm flabbergasted, horrified, appalled! How could such a thing happen? When did this happen? I know it's been a good 22 years since I lived in Ecuador, but those islands were a major source of national pride. They would never think of doing anything to damage the precious and unique ecosystem. Those islands were more than sacred--I can't even begin to describe it. Terry joined me in laughing at the concept of staying in villas on the Galapagos, because as recently as 12 years ago (when he was there on his mission) the attitude toward the Galapagos was the same as I experienced.

What has happened in the last 12 years to make the country do such a 180 on their policy toward the islands? I am sorely disappointed in the country of Ecuador for selling out like this. I have always dreamed of doing another Galapagos cruise, now that I'm old enough to really enjoy the experience (not that it wasn't GREAT when I was eight, but my memories that far back are pretty fuzzy) and appreciate the science. But now this news has disillusioned me, and I'm not so sure anymore.

Today I am in mourning for lost innocence and misplaced trust. It seems there is truly nothing sacred on this earth anymore. Okay, yeah, I know there's the temples, but you know what I mean. I can't believe it's affecting me like this, but it's been bothering me all day now. I kind of feel like curling up in a ball and crying myself to sleep over this.

The Saga of the Thorn ends at last

Mother's Day last week was quite a busy day. It was also Marty's 9th birthday. It took 9 years for her birthday to fall on the Sunday to be able to share Mother's Day. Whenever it came up before, Leap Year skipped right on over it. So that was fun.

Party at Grandma's was fun, too. Except for the hurting part. It was the usual--tons of crazy kids running wild all over. But then there was screaming, and Linda was carried inside. She hadn't put her shoes back on after jumping on the trampoline, and was viciously attacked by wicked thorns off the neighbor's thorn trees. I pulled out one thorn from the side of her heel--a big sucker about 1/2 inch or more long. In the middle of the arch on that same foot, there was an obvious puncture, but there wasn't an obvious end to pull out right away. The other foot also had been poked, but just enough to leave a drop of blood--nothing stuck in there. Terry and Jeff tried to get the remaining thorn out (I'm way too squeamish to go digging around in my poor baby's foot for splinters), and they thought they'd pulled out most of it, with the chance that there might be a small sliver broken off, so we figured we'd watch it.

Monday morning, I checked the foot and it seemed okay--not red or swollen at all. Linda cried at having to walk, but I figured my foot would hurt, too, after having people poking at it for half an hour. So we tried to keep a normal day, and Linda figured out a sort of hobbly walk that didn't hurt too bad. But when I checked at the end of the day, her whole foot was bright red, swollen and hard--as though she were walking on an egg.

So Tuesday, Terry and Linda each got a day off, and we took her in to the doctor. By that time, the swelling had gone down a little from the previous night (probably because we had stopped making her walk on it, poor chica), but it was still too swollen and tender to really do or see anything right then. So we got some antibiotics for the infection (really horrifyingly nasty stuff--whatever happened to the old yummy pink bubblegum stuff?) and were told to soak her feet in hot water 3 times a day to try and help loosen up whatever sliver was still in there and bring it out.

Now it's Sunday--a full week after the thorn attack. I was trying to work out a way to get a ride to the doctor again without having to make Terry take off another day of work (this one car thing is really starting to be a drag). But then Terry, checking her foot after the mid-day soaking, saw a little tiny black speck peeking out of the wound. Linda was not pleased with more "surgery" with needles and tweezers, but I tried to tell her how much better things would be once we just got it OUT for once and for all. Keep in mind that we were still thinking we were just dealing with a small piece of the broken tip. So imagine our surprise when Terry finally got a good grip on the thing with the tweezers and pulled it, and pulled it, and more and more kept coming out--another fully 1/2 inch of thorn that had been buried in my sweet baby girl's foot for a whole week! Yikes! Just thinking about it hours later, I'm still freaked out about it. I think my baby girl my be the bravest person ever. And she's so sweet and cheerful, that if it weren't for the fact that she was walking funny, you'd probably never have known she was hurt at all.

So yeah, I guess I don't win any "Mother of the Year" award for this past week--Linda wins all. I'm just glad it's all over now and she can finally get back to the business of getting better for real.

I Am the Green Eyed Monster

Except that my eyes are brown. But they used to be green, so work with me here.

I promised myself I wouldn't clutter up my blog with more of my depressed ranting, and I probably don't want this posted online, but I'm at my computer now, and it's been a long day. I need an outlet. This is really depressing. If you keep on reading, it's your own fault. This is my catharsis. Or at least an attempt toward that goal.

First things first. I went to sleep "early" last night (1 am) to prove to Terry that I am capable of sleeping more than 3 hours on a Saturday night. It's been over a month since I've slept more than that on a Saturday (several weeks I've stayed up til 6 am, to then wake by 7). Really, I've just been doing a lot of reading, and I like to finish my stories unless I'm just too tired. But Terry thinks that I'm just avoiding Sundays because it was while I was home alone resting while everyone was at church that I started bleeding with this last miscarriage. I suppose his theory makes sense, except that I don't like to think that everything I do has to do with my 10-year-long depression. OK, so I tried to make Terry happy and get more sleep, though he still pestered me about the sleep issue because I woke up early (at 6) and got up instead of staying in bed while not sleeping through the rainstorm this morning. At any rate, I slept. And getting enough sleep is so overrated. It just makes it take more to work off my nervous energy.

So I went to church, and I did better than usual. I made it through the first hour and a half before I couldn't stand to sit down anymore. So I got up and started my usual course of laps around the building. At least this building is circular, so I can keep moving without interruption. When I first started this escape 10 years ago, I had to take it outside, and ran laps around the building in the snow and ice. (OK, I've done the whole "take off my shoes and run until I'm too tired to think about it" escape for longer than that, but it was 10 years ago that it became a regular event. need to work on my endurance though for it to really help, cause I'm so out of shape, I can't run nearly long enough to run away from my thoughts). But the hallways are always crowded with parents keeping fussy babies out of classrooms, so walking the halls doesn't always help as much as I'd like it to, either. So I did maybe a dozen laps outside in the rain for variety.

I'm kind of surprised by the people I pass in the halls. I get lots of comments about the great exercise I'm getting as I walk around and around the building for over an hour (it does add up to probably 3 miles an hour, even walking at a stately "church" pace--I took a pedometer once, so as many as 6-8 miles over the course of the meetings). But noone seems to notice that about half the time my face is soaked and dripping with tears. I don't even try to keep up my Happy Face at those times, but nobody seems to notice. Not that I'd really accept any help or hugs or whatever, cause I'm just not touchy-feely when I'm depressed, but sometimes it might be nice to not feel so alone.

OK, I guess I'm getting to the green-eyed monster part of this post. I try not to think when I'm walking, but today I couldn't help it. This one seems to be my hardest to pull out of--except the very first--10 years ago, which was the blackest depression I've ever known, taking nearly a year to pull out of, during which time I couldn't even so much as sing along with the radio. Christmas songs still choke me up pretty bad. There are so many reasons why this one is so bad. For one, it was my 12th pregnancy, making a total of 9 losses--6 in a row. This was going to be my final try (though admittedly, I haven't done anything to stop, and I still hold out a small superstitious hope that I might have a lucky 13 sometime). I'm not even 30 years old yet--though I feel so much older, and I feel like my chances and hopes are shot. Most of my life since I was 18 has been centered around having and caring for babies, but mostly this crushing loss that keeps repeating over and over again, making me feel like a complete failure at the one thing that is mine to do (other than housework, and that totally doesn't count--I don't mind failing at that). Another stinging blow with this loss is that I was given a blessing that stated outright that I would be able to carry this one to birth, and it was all a lie. It makes me angry.

But the worst part about it is that ever present green-eyed monster. It's not a new problem. Pretty much any child I see from 10 years old and down to the ones just showing up as a slight swelling in their mother's belly reminds me of some child or other that I would have had, since I have been pregant nearly constantly since 1998. And this is the year of babies in the Wach family. Within the course of this year, all 3 of Terry's brothers, his little sister, and a niece will all be welcoming new babies. I was excited to be part of that crowd, but now each new birth is another reminder of the one that I'm not having. Worse yet, every single one of those that is far enough along to know yet is expecting a boy. I love my girls with all my heart, and the thought of having a boy terrifies me still, but the fact is my first loss--and really the one I mourn the most each time, since I was 4 1/2 months along then--was a boy. And I've always felt guilty that I was so vocal about saying through that pregnancy that I always wanted a girl first. Now I just ask for a living baby, but that doesn't work out so well for me either. I don't begrudge a single one of them their babies, especially since I know that they've ALL had difficulties with pregnancies and losses of their own. I am so happy for each one of them, but I wish I could be joining them, too.

The funny thing is, you would think that seeing the babies would be the most difficult thing, but it's not. Well, seeing them is rough. But babies are wonderful therapy for me. I never feel so complete as when I have a baby in my arms. Even seeing one smile or wave at me sends a wave of healing to my heart. I wish that I knew some of the young mothers at church well enough to ask to hold their babies for a while. It would help so much. But I don't. And I can't bring myself to reach out for a baby and ask, for fear I'll come off as the raving lunatic that I am.

Also, I tend to project my own tendencies onto others, and I worry about asking a mother to share her baby with me, because I was very selfish with my own. By the time I had Marty, my "third time's the charm" baby, there was no way I was going to let anyone hold my baby for me. Terry had to practically beg to get me to let him hold her for a while. I finally gave in a little bit by the time Linda came around, but only because it's not so easy to hold and snuggle a 3 year old, 18 month old, and a baby all at the same time. Not that I didn't try. I'm a little bit more comfortable with asking to care for baby nieces and nephews, but then I have to join the line of other adoring family members that want to play with the babies. So most of the time I just end up with empty arms and just feel hollow. Even being the Lady with the Yarn doesn't help nearly as much as it used to, and all the frantic crochet work doesn't do much for me anymore.

Well there you have it, for anyone that bothered reading through all that--everything that's been on my mind today, and more than probably anybody wants to know. But I'm not looking for sympathy or anything--just wanted to get it out there. Now I need to pack lunches and sign permission slips and get to sleep before it's tomorrow. And hopefully things will seem brighter in the morning.

Brotherly Love

My George hanging out with little brother BobCat. Not quite the fuzzy little kittens they used to be, but sweet nonetheless.

Words Lost to Spellchecker

I've spent the last week or so wasting a lot of time reading stories and things online, and I've come to the conclusion that certain words are being lost to our society because of our reliance on spellcheckers. The most notable of these "lost words" is the word "definitely". It has completely disappeared, replaced by the apparently more spellcheck-friendly "defiantly". This change has appeared in dozens of stories, all by different authors, so it is not an isolated event. It has come to the point that if I see the word "defiantly", I read it to myself as "definitely". Which leads me to wonder if I would even recognize "defiantly" if it were to appear correctly in context. I may have to stop and think about it. Hmmm. Maybe "defiantly" is the lost word...

Once I became terribly excited to see the word "definately" before I realized that it was incorrectly spelled, and only closely resembled the correct word because that particular author had neglected to run spellcheck on her work. Ah, sigh. Thank heavens for the work of copyeditors in most printed/published works.

In case anyone wonders, I only rarely use spellcheck (never on my blogs), and then very carefully checking the context before accepting recommended changes. Most of the time my spelling errors are the fault of my atrocious typing "skills", though some of my classes on the history of the language did a number on my ability to recognize standard forms, and I find myself having to look up correct spellings more after college than I ever did before.

So there's my rant for the day and a caution. Beware the use of the spellchecker, and always reread to make sure of the context. Has anyone else noticed other words that have fallen victim to the plague of the spellchecker? I know there are more. Maybe I'll start up a collection.

I can't believe that I would see the day that I would cross over to the dark side and join the Grammar Police. But here I am. :o)

Another Good-Bye

Halloween 1991. I was in 7th grade, just turned 11 years old. I went Trick-or-Treating with my sister and her boyfriend. I was a witch, she was a princess, and he was a...flasher. Not quite as bad as it sounds. Quite. As the evening wound to a close, we noticed a persistent follower. A tiny little ball of fluff with a major motor. We brought our follower inside with us. She was the most beautiful little kitten--a perfect blend of siamese and tabby. She was so happy and sweet. Whenever anyone even entered the room, her little motorboat purr would start. It didn't take much to convince mom to let us keep her--especially once we found out that her owner wasn't even aware of the new litter of kittens.

Over the years, we also had visits from her brothers--Leo, who looked completely tabby (though strangely the stripes were made up of spots) and Sia, seeming completely Siamese. But Spook was always the best. The perfect combination. Eventually I grew up and moved away, and Spook quietly moved on to old age, keeping my parents company. My little family returned and disturbed her final years with wild and crazy little girls and dogs and new cats, but Spooky remained the regal queen over the household.

Now I am nearly 30, and the time has come for me to say goodbye to my sweet Spooky. She has been old and fragile for quite some time. This morning, though, her body gave out. Her stiff hind legs refused to move at all. She seemed alert, though somewhat confused at her traitor body not responding to her commands. But the time had come, and I held Spook on the way to the vet and watched as my mom held her for her last moments as the vet administered the anesthetic that would help her to drift away from the pain. The little motorboat kitten was still purring as she spent her final moments with the family she loved for nearly 2 decades. I drove my weeping mother home as we left behind her beloved old friend.

And now I say good-bye to my old friend. Farewell, sweet Spooky. Thank you for being a part of our family.

I Hate Today

Was really tired today, so Terry took the girls to church and let me go back to bed. After a short nap, I discovered I was bleeding, so called Terry home and we went to the hospital. 6 hours in the ER later, I'm home, but with no good news at all. Not that I expected any good news.

So tomorrow morning I go back to the doctor to see how everything ends. And I have to somehow comfort my baby who is heartbroken that she will never be a big sister. But after a dozen pregnancies, I am completely done for. This one was my big experiment to see if taking the oodles and goodles of medicine would do any good. And I guess not.

I'm going to try to post quite a bit for the next week or two to cover up this awful day as soon as I can. But for now, here it is...

It's Alive!

I had a happy ultrasound today. I love those. I'd post the picture that they gave, but at 6 weeks, it really doesn't look like anything yet. Just a little fuzzy spot. It was much cuter in motion when I could see its tiny little heartbeat flickers.

Now I just need to take my astonishing amounts of medication (I think I could actually rival my Dad for the number of pills I need to take, though I guess at least I only need one injection a day) and settle in for--hopefully--another 8 months of worrying for no reason. And then the fun begins.

Tagged

I am sorry it took so long to write this up.
I know more than most people do about birthstones.
I want to go back to school to learn something, not just to get it over with.
I have three and a half beautiful children.
I wish someone would buy my house already.
I miss the circus in my kitchen and my Maypole Dance hallway.
I fear almost everything.
I feel loopy at night after I take my medicine.
I hear the buzzing of the computer, and not much else.
I love the quiet of school hours.
I smell not much today—I’ve got a cold.
I crave palmitos (palm hearts) and anything with cream cheese in it.
I search for a pen every day—where do they all go?
I wonder why this little exercise is taking me so long.
I regret very little.
I love my big crazy family.
I care for more than I always let on with my actions.
I always wanted to be a gypsy and travel all over the world, not to mention wearing the beautiful brightly colored skirts, scarves, and thick jangly jewelry.
I am not a gardener. Seriously, I can’t even grow weeds in a garden.
I believe things eventually work out to the good.
I dance badly, and only alone in my living room.
I sing loudly along with Indigo Girls or Pink Floyd when I’m angry.
I don't know how to make numbers dance in my head, the way Terry can.
I fight like a mama bear for my babies.
I write stories for children.
I lose most of the time when I play games.
I win only when I try to convince people that I don’t win all the time.
I never know what to say or how to act when I’m around people.
I listen to Philadelphia Chickens and other kiddie music when I’m cleaning.
I can whistle almost indefinitely without taking a breath. Sometimes I catch myself whistling and realize I’m happy, and I didn’t even know it.
I am scared of losing another baby.
I need something warm to hold and keep my heart together.
I am happy when I am making something beautiful.
I tag, ummm… who reads this? Maybe Jody and Angie... anyone else (you're safe this time, Monica)

Cheeky Monkey

Linda and Ashley discuss strategy in an intense game of Cheeky Monkey.

(for anyone who doesn't know what Cheeky Monkey is, I don't know, either. Some sort of card game. But all the cousins just LOVED playing it with Uncle Dave over Christmas)

Snow Day?

We had a light dusting of snow last night (seriously light--it was only barely more than what Monica posted about playing in in southern California last month). I didn't think too much of it, but sometimes the powers that be out here are real wimps about things like snow and ice. Not that I mind much...I am, too. So anyway, on a whim, I looked up school closings online, and there it was! I was so excited to send the girlies back to bed at a quarter after 6 this morning.

Now the only problem is there will be limited play in the snow, at least for the Linda. Friday afternoon was so warm, she didn't even notice that she left her winter coat and gloves at school. Though how her teacher--who is concerned about the cold when I send the girlies to school with socks but not tights under their (long) dresses--could have missed the lack of winter coat, I do not know...

My Brush with Fame, or Babysteps in Networking

I'm so excited. I just placed a signed bookplate into one of my newer books--Sucks to be Me: The All-True Confessions of Mina Hamilton, Teen Vampire (Maybe) by Kimberly Pauley. It's not the first book I've gotten signed, though it might be close--maybe the third? But it was probably the coolest, because it's from someone I know (ok, only virtually, but still...)

As a true wanna-be writer, I am on several writers' e-groups. Mostly lurking, trying to glean as much information as possible and turn into a "real" writer by osmosis, I suppose. But this Christmas, the discussion turned to books that they've been reading (with Christmas as the perfect excuse to buy more books, of course). Several discussions on Twilight got me to try that series (which I completely love and am nearly as obsessive about as any other Twilighter--now on my 5th time through the set. I think. I'm starting to lose count). But after a few times through Twilight, I decided I needed to expand my horizons, so I entered the YA section of my bookstore and found Kimberly's book Sucks to be Me, which was also discussed onlist quite a bit (since Kim is an active member of the list). So I read her book, and took her up on her generous offer to listmembers of a signed bookplate to place in it (it's really cute, too, with a picture of a bat on it). And that's something for me to consider if I ever have another book to want to promote.

So here's my plug for Kim's book. It's a great story. A fun and easy read--not intense at all for a vampire story, but mostly about family and growing up. With a lot of vampire jokes and situations thrown in. The characters are great, particularly George (who she meets at her vampire information classes). I don't think I could say enough good things about his character. I wished for the story to continue so I could get more scenes with George, but alas....