Oh THAT little thing?!?

I had to interview for a month long jury trial several weeks ago.  The attorneys asked we all fill out a 10 page questionnaire.  Normally, I knock these things out of the park.  I'm the kind of person you want on your jury and I love jury service.   I breezed through the first half and then stumbled upon...

"Have you ever been accused of a crime?"

Uhhhhh.

More than 10 years ago, my mother, brothers, and I were accused of vandalism, racist vandalism, and terrorist acts.  My name was dropped off in the very early stages but my brothers and mother had to fight it out in court.  The case was thrown out, we were innocent and the accuser was a complete nut job (my parents later sued and won for malicious litigation)... BUT... there's this little thing called 'public record' that demands I answer this question honestly.

I answered the question, making sure to point out that we were found not-guilty, but I wasn't selected to serve.

Disappointed, I called my mom who also was called to jury service this month, "Hey mom,  I didn't get selected on the jury.  I think it's the fact that I was asked if I've been accused of a crime and I can't avoid the fact that we were accused of racism and terrorism.  What do you answer to that question?"

 My mother was silent.

"Mom?"

"Ummmm" she says.

"You say 'No' don't you?  Mom!  It's ACCUSED, not convicted.  The answer is YES!" I yell.

"I kinda...forgot."

"ACCUSATIONS OF RACISM!?!?  TERRORISM!?!?!?!"

"OK, so, next time I'll remember" she says.

Sigh.

Mother.  Mother.  Mother.

M is for Miscarriage...

I've started this post a hundred times.  Not sure what I was willing to share with perfect strangers.  My delete key has been overused.  But writing has always been cathartic for me.  My own personal therapy.  It's an itch I've got to scratch.  So here it is...




Miscarriage.

Something that happens to other people.

Not me.

Please God.

Not me.


I took a pregnancy test before we left for vacation.  I didn't think I was pregnant but I was bored and have an industrial supply of tests in my nightstand.

And there it was.

Two bright pink lines.

Chris walked around the house with a perma-grin.  We radiated excitement.  This would be our secret.  We didn't want to tell anyone for a few weeks.  Just enjoy the moment together.

Four days into our camping vacation, at 4:30 am in the quiet of our rented trailer, I woke up.  Something was off.  Something was wrong.  I stood up and felt warmth trickle down my leg.  I clicked on the light and a pool of blood had formed on the floor.

Cash woke from the glare of the light and started crying.  I picked him up, gave him to my sleeping husband and whispered, "I'm having a miscarriage.  Will you walk me to the bathroom?"

He pulled on his shirt and we walked.  He kept saying, "It's OK hon.  Everything will be OK."  I was silent except for the grainy shuffle of my flip-flops against the walking path.

I knew it wasn't OK.

I cried in the dirty stall.  The kind of crying so deep, you can't seem to catch a breath.  

I cleaned up and met Chris, who had been waiting outside, Cash sleeping in his arms.  I see the hopeful look on his face.  The look that says, "You were mistaken right?  Everything is OK?"  But even in the darkness, he can see the puffiness of my eyes, and his expression changes to sadness.

We changed Cash into his swim trunks and walked barefoot in the sand, watching the sun come up.  We walked until my feet ached, then sat down to watch the waves crash.  Chris gently rubbed my back while Cash shoved handfuls of sand in his mouth.  He smiled and spit the sand out, his teeth covered in sticky brown goo.  He was pleased with himself and Chris and I couldn't help but chuckle through our tears.

I struggled through the rest of the camping trip, and continued to struggle after we came home.  Was I grieving too much for this whisper of a life?  When so many women have passed through this door of loss, my sisters included, why did I feel so alone? And the most haunting, the thought that maybe, somehow, I had caused it.  Did I eat the wrong thing?  Did I lift something wrong?

I've discovered that grief exposes the person you never thought you were capable of being.  I became the ugliest version of myself.

Chris' grief exposed a man I didn't know I married.  We've been through tough times, bad finances, and job loss.  But those things can be worked at and fixed.  Grief.  Well.  That's different.

He became the best version of himself. It was as if he was patiently, with quiet strength, picking up every piece of our shattered hearts and gluing them back together.

He let me parade the ugly version of myself around the house for over a month then told me I needed to stop.  We needed to move on.  I can grieve, but I can't be mean anymore.  And he was right.

Five months later, I struggle now and then.  Something will remind me and I get knocked off my feet for a moment but the old me is back.  I know it still bothers Chris at times too.  He'll mention something, get quiet, then move on.  But he never went back to being himself.  He came through a little stronger.  A little shinier.  Turns out, he weathers storms well.


Not long after we lost our little one, we got two more pink lines but... that's another story for a different day.

The Poop Troop...

Cash and I were enjoying the day off last Monday, soaking up the late afternoon sunshine in the backyard.  The dogs had destroyed a cardboard box and paper was scattered across the yard.  Cash seems to thrive when given helpful tasks rather than no direction at all.  I walked him around the yard and gave him paper to throw in the trash.  He got the hang of it quickly so I tried to hurriedly pick up the little piles of dog poop while he was distracted.  I pushed all the poo into a pile, keeping an eye on Cash.  He was wiggling and waddling all over the yard, giggling and squealing while throwing handfuls of trash into his own pile.

I was making killer progress on my poo pile.

Or so I thought.

I scooped another lump and looked up to check the progress of my little man.  He carefully picked up a scrap of paper in one hand and poop with the other.  Before I could yell, he threw the paper in the trash and added the poo to my pile, looking at me with sheer satisfaction.

"AHHHHH!  Noooo!" I yelled.

His lip started to quiver and tears started falling.

Bad mom had hurt his feelings.

"Oh honey, mamma's sorry.  Good job" I said while scooping him up in my arms.  "I love you bubba.  I'm sorry"

His eyes still full of tears, he wrapped his arms around my neck, poop getting on my shirt.

Ah. Ugh.  Gag.

After a thorough scrubbing - and shirt disposal - we settled on sharing an ice cream... because we all know, ice cream fixes everything.

No more poop scooping around the little man.

Ever.

Bark. Bark.

I've got a great guy.  He's thoughtful, selfless, caring...and on and on.  Sounds wonderful right?

Let me explain why it isn't.

A couple months back, he started swinging by the local ice cream shop on his way home and picking up a scope of ice cream for Cash and me.  He doesn't do it often, only about once a month, but it's enough to create in me...

Pavlov's Dog.

He calls when he leaves work, "Hey babe, I'm on my way home.  See you soon.  Love you."

My stomach starts to grumble.

My mouth starts to water.

I smell the phantom scent of creamy goodness.

I hear his keys in the lock and...

29 days out of 30, his hands are empty.  But my brain refuses to acknowledge that the 29 ice cream free days exist.

We can't afford to eat ice cream everyday - and my waistline doesn't need it, but I can't handle the bundle of nerves I have become.  I'm feel like screaming, "WHERE'S MY FRIGGIN' ICE CREAM OLD MAN?!?!?!?" Every. Single. Day.

Why did I listen to my mother?  I shouldn't have married him.  There are plenty of jerks out there.  I couldn't pick one of them?!?  What was I thinking!?!?!

This is leather?

Chris and I had decided to wait to purchase a larger vehicle until we saved more cash but when the engine started to sputter on the 'silver beast', the registration arrived in the mail and the smog was due, we changed our minds.

We shopped around on a very rainy December 31st.  I explained what I wanted and what I was willing to pay.  "Would you like leather?" the salesman asked.

"How much extra is that?"

He pulled out his invoice and pointed at the addition.

I coughed.  Sometimes I forget how cheap the Koreans make cars.

We got the leather.  I'm fairly certain the only animal who lost skin for me was a yak.  Cows just ain't that cheap.

The car also has an 'ECO' light that illuminates when you drive 'green'.  If you don't accelerate too quickly, brake suddenly, and sit idling your engine for 20 minutes while applying a final layer of mascara before work, the light comes on. It's supposed to alleviate the guilt some feel because they drive an SUV (I feel none of this guilt).

I have seen this light illuminated once...

while Chris was driving.

Even my car tells me I'm bad for the planet.

I love the car.  It's great.  Yak and all.

This smells like...

Chris has been working a lot of handyman jobs lately.  Sometimes he can squeeze in three or four different homes in a week.  At dinner last night he said, "All homes have a smell.  It's not always bad, but they all have a smell.  Obviously the homeowners can't smell their own home and it got me thinking... What do you think our house smells like?"

I smiled, "Hon, I spent a lot of high school and early college years babysitting.  Every house with a diapered child smells exactly the same.  Clean, dirty, doesn't matter.  They always smell the same.  I bet our house smells like that."

Confused, he asked, "What does it smell like?"

I set my fork down gingerly and said as gently as possible...

"Poop honey.  Our house probably smells like poop."

I have a feeling Chris will refrain from inviting folks over until Cash is potty trained.

Black Friday...

It's 7 am Thanksgiving morning and a newspaper is purchased at 7-11.

Each ad is carefully reviewed and sorted into one of three piles - Must go, If there's time, or Not interested.

Highlighters, paperclips, and post-it notes are used to mark items of importance.

Gift cards saved over the last year are placed near the corresponding ad.  $20 bills sit near the gift cards, specifically designated to each store.

There's one last look right before bed.  A quick review to make sure not a single thing is missed.

4:30 am on Black Friday, the alarm sounds... Chris hops out of bed, excitedly dresses, and heads out for his day of shopping.

What?  You thought it was me?  I hate the mall.  I hate shopping.  I hate crowds.

Chris came home about 4 hours later.  His car was so full, he had to take 6 or 7 trips to empty it.  I can't complain.  He saves all year for Black Friday.

He and Cash have been playing with the new tools all morning.

Nope.  Can't complain at all.

It's actually kinda cute....

just don't tell him I said that.