Choices

“When a man cannot chose, he ceases to be a man.”
― Anthony Burgess, A Clockwork Orange

In Clockwork Orange, the choice is about your very humanity, even if the real you is a total criminal and degenerate. My choices, lately are more simple-- thank goodness. But in the Year Since The Blood Clot, I have made a lot of changes. I have made some big changes lately (HUGE) in terms of my health and spiritual life. I originally planned to write about them here as I went along. Then I didn't. I told myself I "should." I felt guilty about it.

But something happened the longer I didn't do it. What I soon realized is that I didn't write because, frankly, I didn't wanna. Not because it wasn't interesting or that I don't have anything to share, but because, for now, I just want to experience those changes, without judgment. My feeling is that I'm not ready to share them. So I won't. Done. Then, in that space, I started writing one of those books I have been wanting to write for FOREVER. One choice led to another.

In the space of not doing the thing I thought I should do- in the absence of guilt and self-berating- I figured out what I wanted. I made a choice that was meaningful. Then I made some more. I made active and personal choices based on what I needed, not some ideal I talked myself into. Of course, I have to write about something here. Kind of the point of a blog...

so what's to sharea. Well, the downside of making choices, especially when that answer is "no." I've learned in a way I didn't expect that saying no can be very hard. Not the changes themselves, necessarily. In my case, the changes were easy, but not everyone gets as excited about your changes, nor do they understand them. people don't just bummed when you say no. Sometimes they are hurt, confused, and sometimes they just stop talking to you. Especially when you have set up the expectation with other people that you won't ever say no. The person you become is the One Who Will Always Be There And Do The Thing. That's a heavy title. Always being there means the one person you most likely fail to show up for is yourself. But the person you say no to only sees you not showing up for them.

People get used to you always saying yes. They don't see the ways you compromise yourself. In that way, they may not even really understand who you are. How can they when you never completely showed them? Friends, for one, might not always understand why you suddenly aren't up for everything they plan. They take it personally. Even if you are still there and still love them, not being able to say yes to all they require of you speaks louder to them.

I tried for a while to work around that, but that choice? That will really screw you up because eventually, you end up resenting THEM for YOUR choices. Resentment creates its own energy. You take it with you and it sits between you. The only thing to do is create a new normal...and realize, not everyone is going to come with you. If they felt the resentment in the first place, the changes might be even more confusing. Not realizing you felt it against yourself more than them won't change anything. If they didn't feel it, the sudden pulling back probably feels likes ordinary rejection. You do have to accept those consequences you've created, even while you change.


but you have to make choices just for yourself. No, your child does not need another activity that cuts into the budget (and your sanity). Yes, you choose to prioritize sleep so you can get up early every day to workout. Yes, this means midweek evening get togethers aren't possible anymore...but you feel better than you have in years. You set up your rules and you stick to them. Of course, then an impotant invitation comes along- like a friend's birthday party- and even though you are leaving early the next morning for a trip and you haven't yet packed your entire family and their carry-ons, and you are crazed with stress because everyone putgrew their shorts since last summer and where are you going to get some now, and you will be exhausted the next day getting up at 4:00 for your flight, you go to the party. Because it matters.

That friend matters.

That day you choose them because it means something to be there that day, to both of you. That day, sleep and family time and not being stressed out does matter less. in that way, your choices are real and meaningful, not rote. That's how the balance goes.

It's been almost a year since my pulmonary embolism. Actually, the day I count is the day I found out about it, but the day before is the one that changed everything. The day before was the day the clot went through my heart. That was the day I called my husband panicked, scared, and feeling very ill. I chose not to let him come home. I chose not to call 911. I chose to just deal because I had a brunch the next day and I couldn't let people down. Feeling sick, exhausted, and in pain, I got through the day and the brunch. That night I went to the hospital unable to breathe and told how lucky I was to be alive. I got lucky because the choice I made could have killed me. I made a choice to put everything but myself first and I ended up in the hospital.

It hit me, I was making choices all along, but usually those choices weren't for me.

Now, I make choices more carefully. My time, I discovered, means more to me than anything else. How I choose to spend it is not a small thing, but everything. Not everyone will understand that. After all, we all have moments that matter very much to us and not to other people. It's easy to take offense about that, but we shouldn't. Our days are numbered and our choices matter very much to us, as they should.

I'm not scared there won't be a later. It took a while, but I gained confidence- the way anyone whose life has been threatened understands- simply by having one day after another in which things were okay again and nothing bad happens. But time? Time is still not guaranteed and I know it personally and deeply.

I now have a few different tests for my choices:

1. Is this something I want to do or am I doing it out of guilt, because I should, because it is expected of me? (Want wins, guilt loses. Always, guilt loses. Only resentment comes from guilt.)

2. Is the gift of my time greater than the loss of it? (Meaning, time spent talking one-on-one or birthdays win. Joining yet another huge group of people of which I know two and will likely only see them for a few minutes loses.)

3. Am I afraid of something or have excuses not to do it? Or do I just not want to? (This is an interesting one because fear and excuses tell me it matters to me, I just have a block somewhere. Simply not caring one way or another means just that...it doesn't matter to me.)

We are the sum of our choices and the choices I make, the way I spend my time, matters more than ever to me. I take the small stuff less seriously, but my days much more seriously. I know what it is like to feel like you've lost yourself. The pill caused my clot because it first affected my emotional state so much. I was a walking shell of who I had been. It ticked away at my days and my life. I wasted more and more time being sick and ignoring it. I made choices that I thought made me look normal so no one could see how very not normal I felt inside. I ceased to be myself. I am so lucky that I didn't cease to be altogether.

And that's why I count the day I found out about the clot, not the day when it went through my heart. I had already survived the night before. The day I found out about the clot was the day I decided I had to choose better, every day, for myself. It was the day I made what I wanted matter just a little bit more.

Now, the choices I make are because I want to be only me. Me choosing the things that matter and to spend my time with the people who matter. I say no. I don't want to join the PTA- even though it would mean I am "involved" and helping the school- and then I don't join. I don't make excuses, I just decide, I don't want to. But I do show up to volunteer in my child's class and for field trips, because it makes her happy. Making her happy matters. Balance. Those choices, they reflect what matters to me without giving all my days away. In those choices, I am more myself than I have ever been.

(40) Days of Awe-some

“I felt deep within me that the highest point a man can attain is not Knowledge, or Virtue, or Goodness, or Victory, but something even greater, more heroic and more despairing: Sacred Awe!”
― Nikos Kazantzakis, Zorba the Greek


When I first started this blog I had...frankly, NO IDEA what I as doing with it. About a year ago I came up with The Best Plan Ever! OMG! A blog dedicated to reporting back on and keeping this mama focused on finding herself again!

I am not one of those incredibly cool people who have always known who they and then stayed focused on that.

Nope.

I am one of the ones who knew who she was and then somehow ended up totally no where near that person. Like, the self I was living with was in Seattle and my Real Self was somewhere in the Mediterranean.

So, what got in the way? Stuuuff (Name that movie!)

This stuff was really basic. Nonsense. Laundry. (Oh, my gosh, so very much laundry.) Mostly, it was getting stuck in my own tape of excuses and losing priorities. Excuses, oh, lots of excuses. I mean, we need a real answer, right? I got trapped in the inertia of life and didn't make time. The questions of how to get back on track could be overwhelming. How does one get back to their real self? How would I get back into the habit of being me? And what does that even look like?

I started with the basic theory that new habits need a month to be established. I had to spend at least that long on the attempt. Then I made a list of all the things I used to love to do and never did anymore. I looked at the goals I had yet to achieve. (So many goals. Let's not talk about that yet.) Because I have a flare for the dramatic, and I was about to turn 40, it seemed only right to spend forty days doing All The Things. Things I wanted to do. Things I had planned to learn to do. All the elements that give me joy and make me feel more like myself. Each of the 40 days would be one awesome day representing a year of my life!

40 Days of Awesome!

YAY, ME! I AM DOING AWESOME STUFF!

But day after day, I felt, eh...not ready. Not Awesome. It kept Not Happening. I played the blame game. It's the kids' fault, they didn't let me sleep last night. It's the cat's fault, he keeps leaving fur everywhere. It's my fault, I need to work out more. What I didn't know is that I was becoming increasingly lethargic and dangerously so. I was failing at my big goal and I started blaming myself, when when I should have noticed is that something was actually wrong.

Two months after my birthday had passed and my 40 Days of Awesome were no closer to being realized, i had an incredibly sore mystery spot in my back. The next day I had my very first and absolutely all encompassing anxiety attack. the third day, my chest hurt so badly, I couldn't breathe. The ER visit when kind of like this...

Doctor: We're going to do a test on your lungs and see what's happening.
Me: Great?
Doctor: Huh, it looks like we found something in your lungs. We're going to do another scan.
Me: Found...something? Uh, okay. (Inside me: What do you mean SOMETHING?! Because in my world something is Tumor That Is About To Kill You!)


So the doctor left and a nurse came in and pushing this whole "something" word led to this...

Nurse: By "something' we mean it could be fluid. We're looking at the possibility of pneumonia.
Me: Oh, okay, I can handle that. (Inside me: Whew! Way better than cancer, but pneumonia? Ugh.)
Nurse: Or it could be a blood clot.
Me: Um... (Inside me: WHAT?! Can we please go back to pneumonia!? Pneumonia sounds just fine, thanks! I will take that.)

Turns out, it was a blood clot. To be exact, Pulmonary Embolism. The words the doctors used to describe the clot were fun: substantial, sizeable, considerable, huge. Doctors are good with adjectives that seem blasé to them and make you want to vomit.

I was lucky, they told me, to survive. (Why do doctors say something that big like it's merely interesting?) That pain in my back? That's where it started. That panic attack? That was the clot going through my heart. The pain in my chest was where the lung lining was inflamed from irritation. Amazingly, the scariest symptom was the signal I had already survived. (That fact, post a PE, is NOT comforting, in case you are wondering.) Technically, the danger was over, but there was a lot of recovery ahead.

Physically, I recovered really well and quickly. I am still on blood thinners and have to figure out why I had the clot in the first place. The biggest culprit is the series of hormones I was on (Nuvaring and birth control pills), but we really aren't sure and haven't ruled out a clotting disorder just yet. But I haven't lost lung function, that I can tell. A Fitbit has helped me get moving. Still, there was a lot of feeling fragile, vulnerable, and just plain terrified for a while. For the first month after my PE, I would leap up in a panic if I had been sitting for more than a half hour. I woke up three different times thinking that I had actually stopped breathing as I was falling sleep.

After panic subsides, there is a growing need to regain normalcy and strength. Now, there is mostly goodness, relief, and gratitude. There was also a clear need to not take for granted this life for which I had gotten a second chance. It still wasn't awesome.

You'd think that would be enough to get me going, right? I've been really good at this avoidance thing, though. That habit, it is firmly established. A blood clot wasn't enough to keep me derailed. I blamed kids being home from school. (Well, I mean, honestly, you will give me that one, right? Please?) Just for fun, friends battled cancer, my cat died on my anniversary, and my husband was laid off from his job. You want excuses, I had them. The difference this time is that I knew how easy it was to ignore danger signs when my life had gotten so unhealthy and inactive anyway. You can't take care of yourself and know when something is wrong if you're already not at your best.

This year has not felt awesome, but it had the potential to be. Which is why I need it more than ever.

Right now, we are in what is known as the Days of Awe. It is basically the Jewish New year, which is nice because if you totally screw up your resolutions, you get a second pass in a few months via the secular calendar. (Honestly, why more people haven't caught on to this loophole is beyond me.) The Days of Awe are the days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. During that time, we are encouraged to repent, to confess, to ask for forgiveness, to reflect, and to truly focus on what we could be doing better in- and with- our life.

The days of awe are often maligned as depressing or hard. The truth is, change can be depressing and hard, that's why we so often give up, the nice part about the days of awe is that they only last a week and half, just long enough to test if you're serious. The "awe" part is in searching ourselves, we realize there are always ways in which we can move forward. It is often through exploration of my own life and gifts that I realize how truly awesome this whole life thing is. Now I find myself ready to make my whole life as awesome as possible. It is our focus on what greatness is available to us, if we want it, that is truly awesome.

Days of Awe-some. Get it? How perfect! (Cheesy all over, that's me!)

So, today, my first day of the 40 Days of Awe-some. Instead of starting my 40th year this way, I am ending it with this experiment. I'm a little late, but still determined. And ready.

There will be more explanation of this in the days to come. Part of my awesome is just plain writing and putting myself out there. My blog posts? They will not be perfect. I'm learning, but I'm no longer waiting until they are to write. I suspect I will improve with time. (Luckily, I can imagine too many people will be watching in the meantime. Yay for obscurity!)

I will not be perfect. I suspect most days I won't even be that awesome and will miss a good half of the ideals I have placed before my days. But the point is to do what I love and find where my joy lies- outside of kids and husband. I will do my best to share what I discover as I go. As we all know, life is short and it can change on a dime. We have to make the most of it.

Be Awe-some, people!

Smile

Keep smiling. Because life is a beautiful thing and there is so much to smile about.

-Marilyn Monroe

Marilyn was not wrong. It is a sad truth that Marilyn's smiles, alone, were not enough. and they never will be. But smiles are a reminder that life is beautiful...and also complicated. As Marilyn pointed out, smiles are a sign that we are trying.

Lately, I have been focusing on making some changes. The truth is, I am about to hit a big birthday. The kind that anyone under 80 laughs about, but anyone over 25 admits to fearing a bit. Except. I am not fearing it. I am actually really, truly, Not Lying, looking forward to it! Honest!

I am turning 40!

Want to know why I am so excited? Because it feels so free staring down 40. No, really!

When my first baby was born, I felt so much love- that heart exploding and the world feeling perfect kind of love. And I felt fear. There was a lot of fear, though that has worked itself out over countless midnight illnesses and falls and playdates. It didn't go away, but I have learned to use it and respect it.

I also felt something I never expected, something no one told me about. I felt an enormous relief. I was so relieved not to think about myself for once. Like so many people, I spent countless hours worrying about ridiculousness- about hair and others' opinions and my weight (even when there wasn't any to worry about). I worried about a lot of worthless things. When my baby was born, I worried about things that mattered and they almost never were about me.

And then, somewhere along the way, I realized I never worried about me. A little too much. So much that I found myself going to many doctors with many issues. I found my pants didn't fit. I found I didn't like looking in the mirror. Or inside, for that matter. I had stopped worrying about how I was spiritually living my life. well, maybe I didn't forget exactly, but I definitely stopped striving for better. It was clear, there was major room for improvement. Somewhere between Always and Never, I thought, was Balance.

So, forty days before turning forty I began to challenge myself. I wrote down the goals I had for myself and for my family. I thought about new skills I wanted to achieve and old habits that I missed. I focused on what aspects of life I could use more of: peace, fun, positivity, and gratitude.

There is so much to share in this journey. So many little changes that are adding up to something big. Something I might actually write about. (Imagine that!)

But I started with the goal that seemed simple (and really isn't), but that could make everything else better: Being positive.

I have two small children and three cats. The former are in an endless battle of Love You This Second, Hate You The Next. And the cats will not stop barfing in the middle of the night, usually on a piece of furniture or my clothes. I have an almost 100 year old house that is falling apart and a back door that, well, someone tried to walk through recently (while I wasn't home and without my permission). There are school shootings way too often, still. People think the internet is an excuse to be inhuman in their comments (not to me, but in general, and usually to pieces written by my friends). My dad is aging with Parkinson's. And, despite many hours of focused visualization to the contrary, I keep getting bills.

Yes, life gives plenty to be grumpy about. And that is exactly why we can't be. It is exactly why we have to take a cue from Marilyn and smile. Really smile. Even when it isn't easy.

So, today, I went for my flu shot and I got a chance to put theory into action. I smiled at the pharmacist. Nothing. Well, it was early. There were two people ahead of me in line before they even opened the pharmacy. He told me to get my "shoulder ready" for the shot. Maybe it was the coffee, but I turned and looked at my shoulder and said, "Get ready, Buddy!" When I turned back and smiled at him...nothing. Big nothing.

I think his eyes might have even narrowed.

While I waited for him to come out with the shot, I felt dumb. I felt like I should stop. I felt maybe I was bothering him and that made me feel bad. But that little voice of positivity popped up in my head, "Keep trying." I wasn't trying to make him smile back. (Okay, maybe I was a little.) Mostly, I just wanted to not give in to the negativity. Keep being positive. Keep trying.

When the pharmacist came from behind his counter and began his little talk about side-effects and the like, he asked if I had any concerns. Nope, I said, especially now that I was finally getting my flu shot. "Last one in the family?" he asked and I turned to see...a smile. "Of course," I smiled back. And he wished me a good day, smiling. I did the same, smiling.

And that felt good. It still feels good. Maybe it even helped the pharmacist a little, too. It was worth it to keep trying, keep smiling. The world can be beautiful. Even if it means seeing someone break into a smile, despite themselves. Suddenly, the world was just a tiny bit more hopeful, more positive.

Smiles help make it so.

Five Angels

(This was written on Monday, but I had some posting issues. Still, one week later, I feel it even more deeply.)

This morning I did something I've done hundreds of times. I visualized angels flying besides my child. Then I visualized a few hundred more. They took over a whole building, a school, in fact. And I started, for obvious reasons, with a kindergarten class.

When my daughter was first born, I would sleep with her in my arms. It wasn't the usual exhaustion of a newly-made mom. Nor was it a product of co-sleeping. It wasn't even a desire to hold her because I loved the weight of her in my arms. Like all first time moms, I had read the statistics on SIDS. I knew of moms who brought home healthy babies who failed to thrive. But it wasn't just other stories that concerned me.

My pregnancy had already come with concerns. My baby failed to gain weight due to umbilical cord abnormality. I endured constant ultrasounds (two a week) and non-stress tests (also two a week). I have a box full of ultrasound pictures. I began to get so good at reading them, I mused that I could be an ultrasound technician.

When my daughter was born- healthy and only a tad on the small side- I thought relief would come. But the expansion of my heart also came with a flood of new fears. I was overwhelmed with the idea that I could not fully protect her. Granted, sleeping with her in my arms wasn't wise either and I managed to convince myself to stop the practice. She slept by the bed in a bassinet instead. But even as I complained that she Would Not Sleep Through The Night, part of me was relieved to be awakened in the wee hours of the night and know that she was well.

When she finally moved to her crib in a whole other room and did in fact sleep through the night, I found myself more than once running in alarm to her side to be sure she was still breathing. So many moms have experienced the same thing, but I had to give it up. This sense of panic, I knew, would never leave me. There had to be a better way to deal with it. Bigger challenges are coming- junior high, driving, date nights with teen boys, college, more date nights with grown-up boys...

Around this time I read a bit of obscure Yiddish mother folklore. In days when babies truly were at peril, in ways we Americans can't truly understand, and died at alarming rates, their mothers would bestow upon them angels in their sleep. Two angels at their feet. Two angels at their hands. And one angel at their heads. The idea was that, in sleep, our souls leave our bodies and transverse the other realms of existence. Some children don't find their way back. Angels guide them in their journey and ensure they return safely to their bodies in the morning. Granted, it's a pretty unscientific approach to infant deaths, but the idea of it soothed my heart. That next night I began giving my daughter angels.

As she got older and fearful of the dark, I made it into a bedtime ritual. I made a simple rhyme: Two angels on your toes. Two angels on your hands. One angel on your nose. With my finger, I would lay a kiss with an angel on each foot, each hand, and her nose. It comforted both of us, especially when she was sick or scared. When it came time for preschool, she nervously stood at the steps of the school and it was then that I turned to her and gave her angels. "But, Mama! I'm not sleeping!" she laughed. Still, she seemed to lighten.

When it came time for kindergarten, nerves reared their head again. This time she asked for angels. Of course, she was too big for me to give kisses in front of everyone. Instead, I held up my open hand, five fingers outstretched. She in turn, held up her hand and then placed it on her heart. The first week of class, I had to fight tears, but it helped us both. It became part of our morning ritual as we said goodbye on the school grounds and lately it has been almost too routine.

Until Friday. Until the world lost 20 tiny little souls in their own school.

I've struggled all weekend to process what happened. That the fears I have so often told myself to shake off as nothing more than paranoia suddenly hit so close to,home. Not my actual home or actual town, but the actual fears in my heart. And yet just like I couldn't, for my daughter's well being, sleep night after night with her in my arms, I can't do what I want to do: Keep her home forever.

So I marched her to school. We chatted about the usual things. We discussed the play she is in tonight. We talked about the play she will see with her class tomorrow. We began our day seemingly as any other, just as the parents of Sandy Hook Elementary surely did on that Friday morning. Only, I had to force every step. I gave her angels as I always do. And as my daughter's little head bopped off to class, past the other kids lining up for school, I closed my eyes and visualized the angels, fluttering, warrior-like, around her.

Her class filed in and I visualized angels around them, too. And around their teacher. And then that didn't seem enough and I flooded my image of the school with angels, too.

And that still didn't seem enough. I sent angels to those families of Connecticut who are grieving in unimaginable, horrible pain. I send angels to those whom responded to the horror. I send angels to all the little survivors and the big ones, too- they may not have died or even been shot, but they are still wounded.

I sent angels to all the school children, their teachers, and their nervous parents. Then I flooded the world with angels.

It seems, perhaps, a very small thing to do in the wake of what has happened. I admit, I am still looking for ways to do more...and deciding what "more" really means. I started with what I can do right now- turn from the path of fear and begin acting from a place of love and hope. If nothing else, the image of an angel is one of love.

I must do this. We have to embrace the love and find strength in it, however much fear wants to grab at our hearts. I say to all of you and all who cannot hear me: May angels guide your feet to good places. May they guide your hands to do good acts. May they guide your mind to be open and loving.

May the angels guide us all.

Lighten the Hell Up

So, when I started this blog, some crazy woman in me had a goal of writing about some healthy changes I wanted to make in my life. Blogging will help! It will keep me honest! It will help me write more (one of the desired changes)!

Honestly, I am not going to even talk about that insane woman too much because I am the mom of a 3.5 year old and a 4 month old baby. It takes me 4 days to finish a magazine. Crazy Woman forgot that. Then it took me a year to write another post. I add another blog or book to my day and that's it, I have to give up showering. And brushing my teeth. I refuse to do that. For one, those are probably the only things keeping my husband here. I give them up and he's going to be all, "Well, hell, she doesn't even brush her teeth or shower anymore. Might as well chat up that chick in the Starbuck's line who actually wears lip gloss!"

Okay, not really. He's cooler and more loyal than that. But do I need the freak out fantasy while I am covered in baby puke and putting a dress on my daughter's Princess Jasmine doll for the 800th time today. No. I do NOT.

So, yes. I have no time to read. Not at all. And that Happiness Project writer, remember her from three days ago when I started talking? Well, she has a point. She has a very interesting perspective. What I know about her from TV interviews is that she appreciates life and the little things more. And I am cool with that. I realized, though, that my own investigation into my life is not about happiness. I am happy. I appreciate my life.

It's not about Not Sweating the Little Things. It's more like I've been stuck in a lack of lightness. Momentum of Seriousness, if you will. (Will you? Please? Because the baby is napping right now and I'm not sure I'll have time to come up with anything else. Thanks.) I need some funny. Some goofy. Some Not Taking Things so Damn Seriously All the Damn Time.

I may also need capitalizing intervention.

And I am trying to clean up my language. But fuck is so much more impactful than damn. And I would rather say Not Taking Things So Fucking Serious. Dammit. And fuck. I am taking this too seriously, aren't I?

See? THAT is my problem. I have lost all perspective on funny for funny sake. What's a Big Thing and what's just a life thing. What will affect my children forever and make them good people or serial killers. And what will just make them fun to hang around. And me fun to hang around, for that matter.

I used to know. I used to be fun. Goofy. Not so fucking serious all the fucking time. So I am going to make that my goal. I was going to say mission. But mission sounds to serious. So dialing back. Life is messy and serious and drama-filled. I'm okay with feeling down when it's required. And I'm not worried about over-indulging in fake drama. I'm no candidate for Real Housewives of Somewhere. But I do need more goof in my days. I need LEVITY.

Also, writing more would be good. I don't think it's technically a blog if you only do it once a year. (Kind of impressed it's still here, though! Maybe the universe has hope for me, too. Or, you know, that whole nothing-ever-disappears-from-the-internet thing. But I'm going to focus on the positive. Universe has faith in me. Blog still here. I think I will count that as my positive move of the day. Plus, the baby just woke up.)

When will I learn?

Small children do not understand a sardonic sense of humor.

My daughter has been asking (ie. relentlessly begging) for a dog on a weekly basis. I don't know where this came from. No one in our family has a dog, except my dad. The relationship between Joey Dog and Emilia could hardly be called friendly. Adversarial, perhaps. Competitive, maybe. Contentious, yes. There is usually food involved. The fact that my daughter won't admit to being lower on the hierarchy has not aided their relationship.

Anyway, the nagging had been wearing on me. In part, because I would love to have a dog, too. I had two when I was her age. But with three cats, no. Not going to happen. I am not about to add a puppy to a home that already has three people, one a preschooler, another child on the way, and three damn cats. (I know you're saying, three? THREE cats? What are you crazy?! Um, yes. Apparently. But we'll leave that story for another day.)

So one day, in the midst of another pleading-for-a-dog-because-otherwise-I-might-and-most-likely-will-die-if-I-don't-get-one-immediately session I was feeling a little worn. And I answered the way I sometimes would to an adult. "Frankly, Emilia, at least one cat was going to have to die for that to happen. Possibly two. Preferrably three."

"Die?"

"Yes. Die. The cats. I'm sorry. That's just the way it is. As long as there are cats, no dogs in our house."

Now, Em doesn't understand death. She's not even three. I didn't really think this had any impact on her. She seemed to consider it for a moment and then stopped asking for a dog altogether. Child stopped pestering! There is quiet! I won! Kind of.

Flash forward to this morning. There were some adorable puppies on the Today Show. The rolly-polly, falling all over each other, fluffy kind. You're awwing in your chair, aren't you? So, being the good mother that sometimes convince myself I am, I called to Em, knowing she'd like them, "Emilia there are puppies on TV! Come see the puppies!"

Predictably, I heard feet running towards me and then Em gaspsed, in a VERY EXCITED tone, "Did the cats DIE!?"

I don't know what's worse. The emotional damage I've done to my child...or the look of disappointment on her face when she realized there were at least two alive cats right in front of her.

Um. Oops.

My gift to you- laughter. At me. I'm all about sacrifice.

HAPPY HANUKKAH!

They say change takes times

Until you are hit by one of those unexpected changes that changes EVERYTHING.

Right after I wrote that last post I began to feel tired. Drained of life tired. I thought it was the culmination of a recent move, trip, and having a two year old with an accomplished sense of verve for life. Then I began to feel sick. Really sick. THen, one morning, I walked into my daughter's bedroom and passed out in her dorway. I took a pregnancy test.

I sat down, prepared to wait the agonizing three minutes that the evil people who make these tests expect you to wait. In thirty tiny little seconds, "pregnant" popped up on that little digital screen!

In order for you to understand my joy you have to know that it took a year and half for me to get the same results with my first pregnancy. In fact, my husband and I, who had decided that infertility procedures were not for us, began to discuss life without children. Getting pregnant the first time felt like a miracle. Hoping for a second one seemed like greediness. But aren't humans always wanting more? And, well, I couldn't shake that determined voice in the back of my noggin that said someone was missing.

Turns out, the same voice was chatting up my husband. (Busy body.) So at the beginning of the summer we decided to give it a go, if for no other reason that having our thoughts back. Immediately had what an early miscarriage. I sighed and pondered cursing that voice. Still, the voice remained and I felt inclined to listen.

So we took a deep breath. Focused on moving into our new house. Took a vacation. Sold our condo. Settled into the new house. Finally it was time to try again. At the risk of telling you so much more than you want to know, once was all it took. And it TOOK. Turns out as long as they aren't telling you the pigeons across the street are spying on you for the FBI, random voices in your head aren't so bad. (haha)

I am sick all the damn time. But I don't care. I have an ultrasound in a few days and that is a big step for those who have had past disappointment. Once you've struggled, you never really lose the feeling that maybe you got your hopes up too soon. I need to know that things are developing as they should and then I will use that b-word without any fear.

Still, I am so hopeful. Joyful. A little bloated and still wearing black because this is not the time to buy new clothes without elastic. But HAPPY.

My first little experiment may have gone awry, but G-d provided another and, let's give it to him, better plan. In the meantime, I am celebrating grace, life, and the fact that my toddler has miraculously begun to happily play by herself for hours just when I need her to most.

For all these reasons, G-d is good.