being sad…


It makes it hard to write (or think) about anything other then the source of your sadness.

The source of my sadness is a dead baby.

Really, it was only a gathering of cells, not an actual baby yet, but it would have been.

And it makes me sad that I never got to meet it.

Ironically, I got a negative pregnancy test a week before the ER told me I was knocked up. (That’s not actually ironic, ironically.)

So, obviously, I had a sneaking suspicion that we had accidentally made a baby.

Before the negative home test I kept thinking, “I think I’ll get concurrent care with an OB for this pregnancy.” Meaning, I wasn’t feeling comfortable with just using my home birth midwife like I had for Emie’s birth. Also meaning, I knew something wasn’t going to be quite “right” with this pregnancy or baby.

Now I’m almost feeling guilty for those early thoughts about a less then perfect baby.

Honestly, when I thought about it, my mind went immediately to Down’s Syndrome and the possible heart conditions that go hand-in-hand with it.

I would also think fondly of the face of a little boy with the distinctive features of a child with DS.

I did not think I would miscarry.

I didn’t expect it.

I expected to love and cuddle a baby with a difference. I expected the beauty, struggle, and life change that would come with a special needs child.

I was already embracing how this would change me and my little family before I took that negative test.

So when they told me I was indeed pregnant, I already felt like I  knew who I was miscarrying.

I think it broke my heart.

It’s still breaking my heart.

And it fucking sucks.

Also- I may be a little crazy. Just FYI.


and then this happened.

On Monday I had a horrible death stomach flu/food poisoning/ bowel disruptor episode. It was gross and unfortunate.

I passed out that night, in my bathroom. Which is the classiest place to pass out.

Travis called an ambulance to rescue me because every time I sat up I got tweety birds floating around my head.

Back boards SUCK and HURT.

I had to listen to my baby cry for me as I was hauled out of my house.

The ambulance and ER staff were all very nice. They seemed to share in obsessing over the question every woman hears when dealing with health care professionals: Could you be pregnant?

I assured them that, no, I can’t be. Still bleeding from my last period. Thanks for asking about my girl junk, but  my SPINE is the issue right now.

After some Zofran, some Phenergan, some Morphine, and some x-rays we find out I’m not broken just strained. (Story of my life.)

The sweet nurse comes to check on me and “Hey, your labs are back! Has the doc talked to you about them yet? No? Well, I shouldn’t say anything BUT CONGRATULATIONS you’re PREGNANT!”

And I didn’t feel happy. Not for one second. I was already bleeding. I had been cramping for days. I knew that I wasn’t going to have a baby.

An ultrasound showed no gestational sac or signs of ectopic pregnancy. My hormone levels were ridiculously low.

With a prescription for zofran and another for lortab and a recommendation to see my regular doctor for follow up, I was discharged in the wee hours of  Tuesday morning.

Tuesday is a haze of pain pills, barfing, and exhaustion.

Wednesday I wake up to horrible cramping and a lot of blood. More pain pills. A doctors appointment with an asshole of an OB/GYN to confirm the miscarriage.

He does not offer condolences. He does not ask if I’m okay. He does not ask about my pain or bleeding. He does not ask if the pregnancy was planned or a surprise. I am nothing to him.

Thursday morning I get a phone call from the OB letting me know my hormone levels are even lower, confirming the miscarriage. All my other labs were normal, so no signs of infection.

He didn’t ask if my bleeding was better or worse. Didn’t ask about my pain. Didn’t care. Not his problem. Call him for another appointment after I take a home pregnancy test in a week, but only if it’s still positive.

Oh, and HEY! I can start “trying for another” whenever “I’m feeling up to it”.

Hey, doctor, fuck you.


I think maybe I started this blog to heal something in me.

I need to give up on writing for someone else and just write for me.

I don’t have to be funny, right?

I don’t owe it to anyone for this to even make sense.

My baby is asleep in the car outside my window right now and taking peeks at her every few seconds is making my thinking disjointed.

My god, she’s beautiful.

I want to remember so much about my life.  The fucking amazing people I’ve been blessed to meet or, even more wonderfully, been allowed to call my friends.

I want to write down stories from years ago about broken ouija boards or the time it rained without a cloud in the sky or the attack of the butterflies.

And I guess I want people to read them, too.  I don’t think anyone will want to read them until I figure out how to write them just for me.

So maybe this blog is really a memoir of sorts.

I can tell you all about when my friend ran diagonally through a busy intersection screaming “STREET CHICKENS!” to scatter the pigeons who were hanging out there. How he proceeded to climb a flag pole and turn himself horizontal to the ground and wave like a little Filipino flag at the cars going by. How I had to explain to the police officer that he was “a little different” and promise that I would take him straight home.

Because that shit was hilarious and everyone should have a friend like him at some point.

So, the point, is- I guess- I’m doing this for me now.

If another human being should stumble upon this train wreck and read it, so be it.

If not, werd.

sometimes i have panic attacks and sometimes my baby pees on the floor

The Toddler decided to pee on the floor instead of in the potty today. I’m kind of okay with it. Urination occurred outside the diaper and that, as far as I’m concerned, is a step in the right direction.

She also seemed extremely disconcerted about the liquid pouring out of her body and proceeded to use her pee soaked pants to clean all the pee off the tile bathroom floor. She may suck at putting her urine in the proper place, but at least she cleans up after herself, which is more then I can say for her older brothers.

I had this massive and amazing panic attack while at Target with my SisterWife (of My Mom is Effing Nuts fame). Thank god she doesn’t judge me when I tell her, “Hey, I took a xanax on the way here but I can’t guarantee I’ll make it long.” She didn’t even bat an eye when I said I had to leave NOW.

I spent the drive home telling myself I didn’t need another xanax and that I wasn’t going to have a stroke and drive recklessly in to the cars around me, killing us all.

I was successful and nobody died because I tried to go to Target.



life is good here, even when it’s shitty

This morning I woke up and immediately started acting like an asshole. I’ve got my period and a nice case of seasonal depression that wasn’t cured by buying a whole lot of unnecessary shit at the new Trader Joe’s.  Although, the salted dark chocolate caramels may be one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten.

So my husband, Travis, spiked my coffee. (My DECAF coffee because caffeine gives me a nasty case of the “panic attack”, so I didn’t even have the caffeine to counteract the booze.) I’m not sure if he was doing it to make me nicer or shut me up. Either way, it didn’t work and I just got mopey and spent an unnatural amount of time sitting on the bed staring longingly at the pile of dirty laundry, hoping against hope that it would magically (and instantly) wash itself.

Eventually I dug out some clean underwear and threw on some relatively clean clothes. Now I’m finishing my boozey coffee while the Toddler sleeps. It’s actually pretty delicious.

I’m going over to the Sister in Law’s house tonight to “teach” her to make trifle and drink wine and eat pizza. I’m just happy to have an excuse to make a decadent dessert that I don’t have to take home with me. I’m chunky enough