Not writing and writing and healing

I haven't written in a while.

This space, while helpful in the beginning of my healing process, turned into another thing that held back my recovery. Not my physical recovery, mind you, but the emotional and psychological one.

Each time I came to this place, I thought I was healing ... until I started writing. I came back here after months of not touching my blog and saw posts that had been started but never finished. Certainly never published.

It's not that I was stuck. Honestly, I had too much going on to be stuck for too long before being pulled out of my thoughts and thrust back into the Mommy Abyss - the tie my shoes, help me wipe, I spilled milk all over the carpet glory that is mothering children.

What was happening was me saying, "This is how I cope." What was really happening was me saying, "This hurts too much. Moving on hurts more than staying here, so I'm just going to stay here counting the days, counting the weeks, waiting for my next round of lab work."

So I stopped.

Rainbows and butterflies

Today is one of those days I'm truly grateful for.

Ron and I went to the doctor's this morning for my post-op follow up ... the appointment I was simultaneously anxiously waiting for and hating the idea of going to since the day I called to schedule it. I think I hated the idea of going because I was so afraid there would be no answers.

But that's not what happened.

There were answers. A few. Enough to make the pain even more bearable; enough to guide me through the oncoming waves of grief. I know they're coming ashore again. They're going to wash over me once all of this sinks in a little more.

I am more than my miscarriages

Life changing news. I wrote about it because that's one of the best (maybe the only) ways I can get a grip on my emotions.

When I was younger, all this emotion and writing and pouring myself into an outlet was secret. There were notebooks and random stashes of folded up paper that lived in my back jeans' pockets that I would pull out and fill with angry, bitter poetry. A lot of anger. A lot of bitter.

This is where I come now. I try to make sure my thoughts are fairly well put together before I hit "publish." This is a space where I feel I can get out all my feelings - whether they're about stupid shit my kids are doing, the random places I find sippy cups, my love of cloth diapers, or my incessant need to finish writing the novel that should have been done months ago as soon as possible (because ASAP just makes more sense than an actual deadline when I have two small children) - but I also like to consider it a safe place for others to join some of these conversations.

Usually everyone just comments on the link I post on my Facebook page. That's fine.

Tonight, while I reflect on our loss - a child who won't get to spend Christmas with us next year - I also reflect on our gains throughout the year.

Pancakes ... as big as your head

Did You Know: A grouping of maple trees is called a sugarbush?

The only reason I knew that was because I've written a few different news stories about Maple Weekend in the past and have retained that knowledge for the future. It comes in handy every year when March rolls around and Mother Nature allows a little warmth to shine down on the groves. Maple Weekend is a big thing in this region and I'm not just talking about New York, though *pops collar* our state tree is in fact the sugar maple.

I'll give you a second to be impressed.

Everything happens with purpose

There are times when I feel like I've failed.

This failure, though, is not a Mommy Fail or even from the "I didn't bother to vacuum and the dog is shedding" aspect of my life.

This is about failing to listen to instinct, pushing aside the nagging sixth sense and then wondering why the hell I did because it's made it harder to handle the punch to the gut reaction when the bad news filters in. It's also about knowing there's nothing I could have done, because when your time here is up and you've been called home, the only thing left to do is pray you arrive safely where you're supposed to go and are held tightly until your soul is selected to come back here again. I guess, in all, the failure to listen is also the success of accepting those things I cannot change. But it still hurts.

Let me just speak plainly, the way you all have come to know I will: It fucking sucks.

I talked quite some time ago about getting these "feelings" and my whole breakdown with hearing people talking and not seeing anyone ... or seeing people walk past the doors and windows in my house and there being no one there.

It's OK to cry in front of them

I had an emotional breakdown today in front of my 3-year-old and it's OK.

Mommy cries sometimes. And the holidays are hard. Being a big kid, an adult, is hard, I told her.

And I wept while hanging onto her youthfulness, shrouded in the shadows of our upstairs hallway.

"It's OK, Mommy."

It is hard, and despite how much I adore the season, every year for the last seven Christmases (this would be the eighth) I've found myself feeling sad. And three years ago that sadness turned to an emptiness.

First, when my grandma, Nana, passed away in 2006 it was difficult to get through the holidays, but making her Rum Cake recipe in her kitchen with my then boyfriend helped me through it. It made it bearable to mix and bake and taste and drink and love because I was doing it in her home. And the years after that just got ... easier.

30 reasons this relationship works

The Boy and I have been married for five and a half years this month, and while it's not that long in the grand scheme of things (my parents have been married 38 years next July) it's an accomplishment in this day and age. That's not to say I haven't learned a few things in our nearly 11 years together, because the lessons are there on a daily basis.

Things marriage has taught me: