Shakespeare, anyone?

June is nearly here, and with June comes my favorite part of summer--Shakespeare in the Park. From the first time I heard of it, I knew I would love it. The first show I saw had some bittersweet memories. It was Louisville Day with the GSP group, and there was some division over whether to go to Kentucky Kingdom or Shakespeare. The powers that be nearly faced a mutiny when they decided to try for both. I was in the Shakespeare group--we were watching Comedy of Errors, which was being performed on roller skates that season. It was a great time until intermission, when we were loaded onto buses and whisked off for a measly hour at the theme park. We were all so angry at having to leave, and I still feel bad for the performers who lost over half their audience with the intermission.

The next time I had a chance was when Terry asked me out on our first date. Unfortunately, we had to postpone the date for his family's vacation, and the season was over by the time they got back.

After that were many years away, and when we finally moved close enough to go, I'd somehow forget until after it was too late. So from our first planned date, it ended up taking some 11 years for us to actually make it to Shakespeare in the Park together. But now that we have, I've gotten much better at remembering when it runs, and we typically see each play that runs at least once. The girls don't always appreciate the heat, late night, and frequently inconsistent sound, but I still love it! And this year, I'm looking forward to reading the plays with the girls before we go to see them. Mostly comedies, which I love: Twelfth Night, The Tempest, Richard III, and (my favorite) Much Ado About Nothing. So looking forward to the summer.

Dad: Super Villain or Sidekick?

The girls picked out a bright pink "SuperMom" shirt for me to wear for Mother's Day next week. Linda was telling me all about how I can also wear it for Halloween for the coolest costume ever--adding on a pink cape and pink skirt. I suggested that maybe Terry could be a super villain. Terry liked that plan, though his initial name choices of Dad-X or X-Dad sound too much like Rid-X or X-Lax. So not gonna go there.

But then Linda came up with the best idea yet: Super Dad could be Super Mom's sidekick! Heehee! I love it. We rock girl power at our house! No suggestions of Super Mom and Super Dad saving the world as equal partners. No. He can be my sidekick. :o)

10 Days til Double Digits

Marty is really looking forward to entering the double digits with this upcoming birthday. I want to make it something special for her her remember, and I think I've come on a good solution. Terry and I will be taking her out to see Wicked. I'm kind of excited about that. I think it may be the first big musical production I've seen since Phantom of the Opera in high school.

Today she asked me what I did for my 10th birthday, and I couldn't come up with anything. I thought for awhile that might have been the year my mom was out of town to be with my Grandpa before he died, but that was my 11th birthday. My 10th, I would've been in Venezuela then. No idea what I did. Probably a party with the other "peas in a pod"--the other girls in the gifted program in 5th grade. That was a good year. I've rarely had friends that I was so close to. But it was just for that year and then I moved and never kept up with anyone again. But I remember them (maybe the last names are off). Elizabeth Petty (the only other one that had been at the school in 4th grade, so she knew me at my not-so-best, the year I attempted to fit in with the crowd), Sakita Withers (whose mother set up a small Girl Scout troop at CIC--my only year as a scout), Danielle Smith (who made jokes about her mother Mary Brown marrying John Smith, combining the 4 most common names in America), and Kenya...something...(who pronounced bag as "bayg" and had a cupboard above her closet large enough for us all to climb into and play). Hmm. I was hoping this reminiscing would jog my memory of that birthday, but while I can remember several parties with those girls, including one slumber party when we got the news that Great-mom died, I can't think of one specifically as my birthday party. Oh well, at least I know it was a good year, even if I can't remember the day.

At any rate, I hope that Marty will remember her 10th birthday as a positive, and will enjoy the year that comes with it.

In Memoriam

I have always loved names--used to name everything around me. Even my knives had names. In middle school, I started a collection of baby name books to help me think of character names for stories that I could write. But what I always looked forward to was naming my own real children. My daughters have beautiful and meaningful names--Marta Louisa after my great-grandmother (the one whose wedding picture inspired my wedding dress), Christine Angela after my best friend Angela Christine Doll (who died at the age of 14 after years of struggling with brain cancer), and Linda Marie after my favorite aunt (though I had never considered that particular name, it popped into my head when I woke up one morning--before I was even aware I was pregnant again).

But today, as I face a new year, and a new life where pregnancy and more children are no longer even an option, I would like to remember the ten children I never had with the names, lovingly chosen, that I will never give them. The following lists are approximately chronological according to the order I've considered them. Since I've only known the gender of the first (boy), I've split my lists into equal numbers of boy and girl names, with one extra of each (so 12 names). The extra names are in parentheses, and are only considered as extras because, generally speaking they are the ones that were only considered for one pregnancy, instead of kept for future possibilities.

Boys:
Randall Kemp (after my grandfather--this name on my family records for my first boy)
Michael Glen
Eugene Howard
Thomas Orion (would have been used for a boy this most recent time)
(Joseph Ammon)
Daniel Elias

Girls:
Ryn Michelle
Elora Dayne
Amethyst Rose
(Bonnie Grace--or Bonnie Jean to match the song)
Violet Olivia
Julie Elizabeth

I am sad that there are so many names I love that I never had the opportunity to use, but even more that there are so many children I never had the opportunity to know. But I remember...

The Curse of December 28th--An Open and Shut Case

Warning: this entry is largely cathartic, so if it's TMI for you, don't read it.

2009 cemented December 28th as my least favorite day of all time. But it started in 1998. I was 19 years old, pregnant for the first time--21 weeks, over half-way to the finish line. I was about two weeks from my scheduled ultrasound (on student insurance, there was only one--so we'd put it off a little to have a better chance of finding out the gender). Christmas Eve I noticed some spotting, but the on-call doctor didn't seem concerned and simply told me to keep off my feet as much as possible. So I laid on the couch through Christmas, opening all my presents: a rocking chair to nurse in, an infant swing so I could take 1/2 hour breaks to do my homework, and baby blankets. Christmas added in a little bit of pain, but again, the on-call doctor that day simply told me to lay down on my left side and call the office on Monday. The day after Christmas brought more of the same. My first anniversary, we stayed home from church as I laid in bed--very well into labor, as the doctors I called daily should have recognized, and I would have known if I'd ever experienced it before, or if I'd been far enough along to even consider that as enough of a possibility to research the signs yet. Monday morning (December 28th) came in a blinding red haze of pain, that I managed to speak through as I called the doctor's office and attempted to set up an appointment as I'd been told the previous 4 days. The doctor, it seemed, was in the hospital that morning, and couldn't see me until the afternoon. Terry tried to give me a blessing, but was interrupted when an urgent pain sent me running to the bathroom, where I passed the remains of my baby (still inside his sack) and the placenta all together. Terry gathered the remains in an old clean mayonnaise jar to take with us to the hospital, I ruined my favorite fuzzy slippers in the snow and slush, as we went to the hospital--where I should have gone in any of the four previous days had any of the FOUR doctors I contacted not been so concerned with preserving his/her own holiday weekend. Once in the hospital, I figured at least the doctor was there (the reason I couldn't get an office appointment that morning), and it shouldn't take too long to see her. But, no, instead I was left waiting for hours in a rather open room in the ER, where hospital staff left the jar with the bloody remains of my baby out on the counter for me to stare at (I have never saved a jar again--for any reason, and threw out a dumpster full of old Mason jars that had been left in the basement as soon as we moved into our IN house). Finally, the doctor came (past the time of my scheduled office appointment), poked and prodded me, commented that I "should really be in more pain than this", and commented she thought the problem may have been incompetent cervix because of the "painless delivery"--at which point, I really rather felt like ripping off her head. Then I was sent off to radiology to check if everything had passed all right, with a catheter inserted and put in reverse--to fill my bladder for the ultrasound. Another scary and very strange first time event. At my follow-up visit, I learned that the baby was a boy, developed to 18-19 weeks, and was told that pathology wasn't able to discover much more because the body decomposed quickly in the open air after it passed (a problem that really needn't have happened if any of 5 separate doctors had been competent enough to recognize there was a problem over any of those 5 horrible days, or if the hospital staff had taken care to seal the remains properly instead if sitting it out in the air for hours until the doctor finally deigned to appear. Needless to say, I have nothing at all good to say about that particular set of doctors, and once they sucked all the money out of my small savings account, I had nothing more to do with them or that hospital--ever. In the meantime, Christmas is always a hard time for me, and while I managed to kick the depression enough to be able to sing again a year and a half later, when I finally had Marty, it's still--11 years later--a toss-up on whether I'll make it through singing about the joyous birth of a baby boy at the time that I lost my first and only baby boy (that I'm aware of).

Fast forward now to 2009. Skipping over the happy births of my 3 practically perfect princesses, and the many, many losses scattered through the years, we come to my final, surprise pregnancy. The one I had hoped would be lucky number 13. Three ultrasounds showed me the tiny heartbeat, the final one further developed than any pregnancy since Linda. So hopes were high, everything seemed to be working out well. I was able to enjoy Christmas with the family and an anniversary overnight getaway (a little early). But then came Monday, December 28th. Perhaps I should have known better than to schedule a doctor's appointment on the 11th anniversary of my first and worst loss. But I wanted to get in as soon as possible--and the appointment was with the high-risk doctor in the practice, who I should have been seeing all along, but is very difficult to schedule in. I told the doctor that I had no bad symptoms, except that the nausea had recently stopped (not necessarily bad, since I was nearing the end of the first trimester), and that I was really there to hear the heartbeat--since I'm aware of the tendency to have a 2 week delay between end of development and onset of any signs of loss, and it had been 3 weeks since the last u/s. So she tried for that before anything else. At just shy of 13 weeks, the heartbeat should have been easy to find with the Doppler, but it wasn't. So she wheeled in an ultrasound machine, and still couldn't find anything. So she sent me to imaging, where I was unsurprised to see the tiny form--completely still, and measuring only 11 weeks, 4 days. The doctor seemed surprised that the medications and everything hadn't worked. I was sad, of course, but am not really surprised by bad news anymore (especially since I'd done the same medication through the previous 2 losses). So I was scheduled for surgery on New Years Eve (since I'd been taking blood thinners, I needed a couple days to get them out of my system before surgery). I knew the girls would be away for the last half of the week, and I didn't want them to think I was shoving them away, so instead of spending the romantic day with Terry that we'd planned for after the doctor's visit (that I obviously wasn't up to anymore), we picked up my favorite distractions early and spent the day as a family--watching Princess and the Frog, buying everyone a book of their choice (and several for me, of course) at Half Price Books, and added 3 more to our reservations to the Melting Pot, where we introduced the girls to the wonders of cheese and chocolate fondues. It was a better way to spend the day--remembering the blessings I have with me all the time.

Yesterday, New Years Eve, I spent largely unconscious, as my 13th pregnancy and 10th loss was completed in surgery. While I was out, a tubal put an end to that chapter of my life. I'm a little bit sad, but mostly relieved, since I don't know how I've survived the pregnancy drama as long as I have, and have NO desires at all to continue it. As a small example of the contrast between my first, and for many reasons worst, pregnancy loss, and this most recent one, I'll write a little bit about this hospital experience. Despite having to wait a few extra days for the surgery, I was still symptom-free by Thursday--so no days of bleeding or pain to wait through. I was forewarned, so the hospital trip and loss were scheduled, expected, and relatively easy--not a rush to the ER as my world turned upside down, or waiting to complete a miscarriage at home only to rush to the hospital while hemorrhaging (which I've also done, a few times). Outpatient surgery was recently improved, so the experience was much nicer than even the last couple times I came to this same hospital. I came in to a private room where I signed papers and was prepped for surgery. The nurse managed to get the IV in on the first try (a rarity for me--my record is 11 attempts before success). After the surgery and recovery, I returned to the private room where Terry had waited for me in a comfy-looking recliner. For the first time ever, I was offered the opportunity to arrange for burial (though I didn't choose to, since it seemed wrong after doing nothing for the previous 9--but it is comforting to know that my baby will be buried in the unmarked grave that is offered for free, rather than tossed out in the trash or flushed down the toilet). The nurse was shocked when I mentioned that burial wasn't even given as an option for my loss at 21 weeks. Apparently at this hospital, at least, it's standard for any loss over 10 weeks. Also, for the first time ever, I was given books for the girls talking about dealing with death, grieving, and loss of a sibling. Not sure that the books are fully relevant to the situation, but the thought was most welcome. Another first, not only was I told that counseling and support groups were available if I wanted, but it was made very clear what was available and exactly who I would need to contact to take advantage of those services. Again, I don't know that I'll make use of the information--it seems a little silly after 9 times getting through on my own. But then again, maybe it's about time I actually deal with my issues instead of simply writing long and whiny blogs when I'm sad or can't sleep. At any rate, this hospital experience was a far cry from my first, thank heavens. It was a good way to end the baby-making era of my life, and now I'm looking forward to a new year, and a new set of experiences.

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.