kiwords

When Screws messed with the screws. And his father's head.

Now, for any of this to make sense, you have to understand a little about Clay, and his particular brand of mental illness. It's funny to me, because he is by nature a very happy and easy-going guy, but he does have certain THINGS in his head that need to be Just So. Not a boy in our family has escaped the experience of wandering up the stairs, outfitted for church (shirt TUCKED IN, belt ON, shoes TIED, thankyouverymuch), and being informed genially by their dad, "Whoa, bud. Your gig line's off."

That is, the line made by the buttons on their shirt, through their belt buckle, is not lined up Just So. It's not an angry correction, see, it's just...so obvious to Clay. That is Not Just So. Why would anyone want to be Not Just So?

Another Just So requirement for Clay is the screws in the light switch and outlet covers. They should all be lined up vertically, although a horizontal arrangement is acceptable, as long as it's absolutely uniform. If we're in a brand new building, and the screws haven't been lined up Just So, Clay can hardly conceal his contempt for the builder. I personally have only ever installed one light switch plate, and I tightened the screw too much and cracked the plastic, so I don't feel entitled to judge. Clay, on the other hand, is entirely qualified to judge, because that is Not Just So. Just ask him.

It's this particular pocket of mental illness that Tre decided to poke for April Fool's Day. This afternoon, while Clay and I were napping, Tre went around the house and fiddled with every single screw on every singl light switch plate in the house. They were wildly askew, not that any normal human would ever ever notice.

And actually, Clay didn't notice either. So Tre started sighing that pranks were no fun if no one noticed, and then we all (having been clued in by Tre) started dropping hints to Clay about what he'd done. Like, we knew he was IN THE DARK, but it would soon be ILLUMINATED. I think tormenting him was half the fun for everyone.

Of course, he noticed eventually, and had to concede it was clever, although perhaps not the surpassing act of genius that Tre was claiming it to be. He's been calling Tre "Screws" ever since, which Tre loves. 

And I think they're both so wonderful that I can hardly stand it. And P.S. our family is weird.

She is also required to wear at least panties to the dinner table. Because we are fancy.

When Sophia turned out to be a girl, one of the things I was looking forward to about having a daughter was the clothes. After 22 years (combined) of sweater vests and overalls, I was ready for girl clothes. Bring on the ruffle butts and patent leather shoes! 

And dressing her HAS been fun. But the subject, naturally, is larger than that. Sophia has a complicated relationship with clothes.

Some mornings she submits to my clothing choices for her with nothing more than an eye-roll and a route plea just to stay in jammies. Other mornings she is offended - OFFENDED! - that I should presume to pick her outfit and she flounces off to her room where she tries on everything she owns and flings it all to the floor in disgust.

Also, no matter what she wears, there inevitably seems to come a moment in the day when she decides she is done wearing it, and strips it off. Usually this happens at home. Yesterday it was at the airport, which was deeply amusing to a whole slew of people waiting to catch a flight to Milwakee. She so often turns up naked around the house that we have had to establish a whole new house rule: you may not answer the door unless you are wearing pants.  

But best of all are the days when she cobbles together an outfit on her own, and then loves it beyond all reason. Not only because she is so delighted with herself, but because she is right. She looks AWESOME.

The other day she found a whole bunch of hair ribbons I made for her a couple of years ago when she finally had hair, but I had not yet had my will to put ribbons in it quite so beaten down. She thought the ribbons were brilliant, and this was the resulting outfit:

And this was her idea of a joke, because I asked her to smile:

Goober.

We went to the library right after this picture was taken, and as we walked in, Raphael asked under his breath, "Don't you think you should...tell people that it's HER idea to look like this?"

"Oh, don't worry, honey," I said, "when people see her, they will either know right away it was her idea, or it would take too long to explain." He shook his head, at both her extravagance and my lack of concern.

But I'm pretty sure it's immediately clear when you meet Sophia...

...she's got her own plans.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Also, today I turned 41. I cannot think of anything that matters less.

Sorry for the long silence. I don't know what else to say about that, except thank you for all your kindness and concern. I am okay, except when I'm not. So it goes.

We named the baby Eva, and we buried her February 20. Eva was my great grandmother's name, and I've always wanted to name a daughter Eva (that's "EH-vah", not "EE-vah"). Somehow, though, it wasn't Sophia's name. I guess I was saving it. It means "life," and I love it, because the most important thing about my Eva is not that she died, but that she lived.

Some people raise an eyebrow at having a funeral for such a tiny pre-born baby, but I am so grateful we did. I absolutely hated everything about planning it, but the service itself was beautiful, and it gave me two things. 

First, I have a place to go, where I can sit next to her. I can't even tell you how much that means to me. And secondly - well, that day we found out she had died, when we left the doctor's office, we wandered blindly out the door. I sat down on a cold metal chair, my hands shoved deep in my coat pockets, folded over at the waist, and sobbed. Clay rubbed my back helplessly, and I gasped to him, "I just want it not to be true. Why can't it not be true?" In the days that followed, I said that so many times that Clay started answering me with slight desperation, "I'm sorry, but it is. It is true."

And after the service, when I watched them lower that tiny tiny, white tufted casket into the ground, and I stood there and thought for a panicky moment that I should lie down with her, just wrap my body around her, because who leaves a baby alone in such cold? - well, after I somehow survived that moment, I walked away knowing it was true. 

That may not sound like a mercy, but trust me, it is.

Today it was one month since the funeral, and I went out to visit her. I took a dozen roses. Two for Jennie. Two for Tre. Two for Max. Two for Raphael. Two for Sophia. And two for Eva. I sat next to her grave and prayed and cried and cried and cried until I was a red-faced, snotty mess. Again, this may not seem like a mercy, but it is. I told her how much I miss her. I told her about her siblings, and the struggles they are facing right now, and asked her to pray for them. I told her how weary and sad I am, and that I was doing my best, even though it seems awfully feeble. I told her I loved her. And I cried.

Then I left her two roses and took the rest home with me, where the rest of my life was waiting, with all its noise and problems. My husband, who holds me and tells me the truth. My squabbling, difficult, broken and beautiful children, whom I have the privilege of watching grow and unfurl in ways breathtaking and terrible.  

A beautiful bouquet, and so incomplete.

No. Incomplete, and yet so beautiful.

Bruised

The backs of both my hands are covered in bruises. They are starting to heal, morphing into splotches of blue and green and red, like topographical maps. I earned the bruises at the hospital on friday.

I didn't want a D&C, didn't want anything to do with the hospital or anesthesia or finality. My body didn't want to let the baby go, and I could see its point. But the doctor kept warning me with words like "sepsis" and "asherman's syndrome" and "hemorrhage." Clay told me, "I know you don't want this, and I don't want to pressure you, because you're the one who has to go through it." But I could see he was scared for me, and most of all I was unbelievably weary at the thought of more possible drama, so I consented. 

At the hospital one nurse put an IV in my left hand, and another tried to take blood from my right, blowing a vein. I don't mean to make them sound bad, the nurses, because they were so very kind. But my veins weren't cooperating any more than the rest of me was. I watched the back of my right hand puff up, and I didn't even care. I'd just seen some paperwork that described my pregnancy - 16 weeks, 6 days, and I was awash in anger that I'd never be able to say 17 weeks. 

The anesthesiologist explained that because I was so far along, he would have to consider me as having a full stomach. So after I was put under, he put a balloon in my throat, along with the breathing tube, to protect my lungs should I vomit. When I woke up, my throat was raw. For days when I spoke, my voice came out in a thin, whiny whisper. I hated the sound of it, so weak and pitiful, underscoring everyone's worry about me. 

My voice is mostly back, although I find I have little to say. And the bruises are healing. As the colors shift and recede, I find I am sorry to see them go. Somehow it seems more true to be bruised.

There is no easy way to say this.

I've lost the baby.

I hate the terminology, you know? It doesn't really work. I lost the baby? It sounds careless. I've had a miscarriage? Hardly a word that encompasses the ultrasound image I saw yesterday, of a tiny body curled up, looking like a still baby bird, perfectly formed in every way we could see...except for the eerie stillness. And so shall I say that? The baby died? 

That is too horrible, and I can't say the words.

But I don't suppose there is any words that would make it easier. Yesterday I went in for an ultrasound, at what was supposed to be 16 or 15 weeks gestation. Clay was with me, because I knew something was wrong. I'd demanded the appointment, unable to wait anymore for my scheduled ultrasound on Thursday. I lay on the table and gripped Clay's hand. The room was too hot. 

Of course, I've already told you what we saw. The doctor adjusted the picture and asked me how far along I was supposed to be. I stammered on an on about 16 weeks strictly by dates, but my cycle tends to be long, so we thought closer to 15 weeks. It was like a nightmare, where you can't make yourself say the words that make sense. 

And on the screen, my tiny, still baby, curled up and motionless.

"As you can see here," he motioned a circle on the chest, "there is no heartbeat. The size is what we'd expect to see in a twelve to thirteen week pregnancy. I am so sorry."

And oh, I am sorry too.

I keep wondering where I was, what I was doing when that life winked out.

"It's not your fault," Clay says. And yes, I know. I know. Only...what was I doing? How did I not know? 

Last night we lay in bed, forehead to forehead, whispering. Tears leaked endlessly onto my pillow.

"Our life is good," I said, and Clay agreed. "It really is. Only...now, I don't know how I will ever stop being sad and live it again."

Clay says that I don't need to worry about that right now, and that maybe, for now, being sad is what we are supposed to do. I hope he's right, because it's about all I can achieve today.

 

My latest best idea

I had a BRILLIANT idea today. I'm good at those. The ideas. I have one that's worth at least a million dollars, I swear I do. It's the doing anything about the ideas that I lack. 

Nonetheless. 

My idea starts here: have you ever gotten one of those magical boxes of Kellogg's Frosted Mini-Wheats (who doesn't love these? You are dismissed) that had a little extra frosting? So when you pour the milk and the shredded wheat part gets a little soft, the frosting still maintains a gentle crunch, making your cereal-eating experience well nigh perfect?

Well, here's my idea! Kellogg's should TOTALLY make Extra Frosted Mini-Wheats! I would buy them. And I think you would too. Come on, you would, wouldn't you? And on Facebook, we would all complain about it, "OH did you see this TRAVESTY of a breakfast cereal? Who needs MORE FROSTING in this world? What we need is EXTRA WHEAT Mini-Wheats!" 

And then they could make the extra wheat kind too, so when I pour myself a bowl of the extra frosting kind, I can take it and hide in my room to eat it. And when the kids bang on my door to ask if I'm eating the cereal with the extra frosting, I can bellow back, "NO! Go eat your EXTRA WHEAT MINI-WHEATS!"

Kellogg's is welcome to take my brilliant idea for free. That's how much of a giver I am.

And to answer your questions: Yes, I am feeling a bit less nauseated. What are you eating RIGHT NOW? Are you going to finish that? And no, I am not going insane, even though it is snowing and there is supposed to be something crazy like a foot of snow by morning and Tre's school is already cancelled. I'm fine. 

And FULL of good ideas.

And now you know...the REST OF THE STORY. Sort of.

I got an email today from a friend from inside the computer (Hi, Kary!), who mentioned that she was checking here regularly for updates about Max. And that shook me out of my stupor, because gah, what a jerk am I? Here I invite you all to follow me off a cliff of anxiety, and then I disappear without finishing the story. I'm sorry.

I guess the problem is that I don't know the end of the story yet. The good news is that Max's EEG came back normal. Normal! As in fine! 

See now, I feel like an ass, because I should be happier about this. But something IS going on with Max, and I don't have any answers, and I think we all know that moms have all the answers, always. Ha ha, I know *I* usually do! HA! Right? Just like the rest of you seem to? HAHAHAHAHAHAHA! I'm not malfunctioning or anything!

For now we're keeping a diary of "events" and hoping not to see anything. And then we'll wander away and pretend like none of this ever happened. Sound good to you?

Seriously, though, thank you for all your kind words and concern. The lot of you made me cry, more than once. Just because I'm pregnant and have been known to burst into tears over such touching moments as the end of the toilet paper roll does not undermine that fact ONE BIT. Love you all.

Just be okay.

This afternoon I drove across town to attend a mandatory parent's meeting for the honor band that Max is participating in. Honor band is sort of like a school band, minus the school. It's a pretty sweet deal, especially for a homeschooled kid. Music nerds, unite!

Most of the meeting went over various fundraising opportunities (as if anyone actually think of these as "opportunities." If we were to extend this use of the word, we would have to talk about root canal opportunities and tax bill opportunities too, people). Toward the end, the subject changed to the requirements needed to move up to the next level. This touched off an unprecedented level of parental sharing.

One mom piped up, "I'm CERTAIN that my daughter is ready for intermediate band. CERTAIN. Who do I talk to?"

"I KNOW," another mom broke in, "my daughter was ready in the middle of last semester. Seriously. I don't want her BORED, you know? We deal with that enough in school."

"My son auditioned for advanced band, and he was placed in SYMPHONIC band," a dad shared. "We were...well, not SURPRISED, but happy!"

And so it went for a while. 

I listened, but only with half attention. Max is in beginning band, and I don't really know if he's ready for intermediate. Don't really care. He and his teachers will work that out, I suppose. And eventually he'll move up, but from my position it sounds pretty much the same. Unaccompanied saxophone squawks do not really enchant at either beginning or intermediate levels. 

It may not sound like it, but I'm not actually judging these proud parents. The truth is, I'm lucky. I know it doesn't matter which band Max is in, because I know his achievement is not a measure of his worth. Tomorrow I take him to the Children's Hospital for an EEG to figure out if the...episodes of weirdness he's been experiencing are seizures. I've been studiously avoiding Dr. Google, for obvious reasons, and steadfastly refusing to think about it until we have some actual information. 

But I can't help this: I look at him when he's not watching, and hope so hard that he's okay that I forget to breathe for a moment. And I don't care if he ever plays in intermediate or advanced or any band at all. I just want him to be Max. To be okay, and to be Max. He's the only one who can swing that, after all.

I think about a dear friend's child, as bright and accomplished and beautiful as any parent could hope for, who is basically fighting for her life tonight. I don't care what she ever accomplishes ever again. Be okay. Be your precious self.

I know I've been the other parent before, it's too easy. I've slid my children's talents and abilities on like they were my own to wear. I've turned, just so, to be sure others could see and admire (no one does, not really, you know). I've forgotten the truth underneath what they can do.

Move up to the next level or don't. Play your saxophone, play your flute, play whatever lights you up inside. Find your way and please. Oh please. Just be okay.

A stinky, disgusting, honor, but still.

Last night - no, wait, I guess that would be this morning - a little after 2, I heard a cough and a gasp from Sophia's room. A doomed chill ran down my spine. And sure enough, as I swung my feet to the floor, she gave an anguished cry of, "Will someone come clean off my foot?"

I found her, as I'd suspected, sitting up, barfing into the diamond formed by her legs. And so it began.

Clay and I swung into mess-containment mode (we'd had blueberries with dinner. Of COURSE we'd had blueberries), mopped off the pitiful little urchin, and tucked her in bed between us. 

For the rest of the night we slept in 20 minute chunks, to be then woken up by another round of vomit. I have a system for sick kids sleeping in my bed, and I'm pretty good at containing it. We did use up all the clean towels in the house, though. After throwing up, Sophia would pitifully request just a little water, and I'd give her a drink, then try to wrestle it away before she gulped enough to make her sick again. I swear to you, she growled at me once.

Today was spent mostly just sitting around, with a fever-limp girl draped across me, doling out sips of water and nibbles of inoffensive foods (and NO BLUEBERRIES). 

If you had told me twenty years ago that I would have days like today, when I am on sick kid duty despite two hours of sleep the night before, when I would nudge two other kids through (nearly) a full day of school work, when I would spend many moments wondering idly if the nausea I was feeling at that exact moment was standard pregnant sickness or something ominous, I would have thought you were just being mean.

And if you had told me I would consider it an honor, I would have thought you were insane. 

Shows you what I knew.

Because I know you want to know.

Joshilyn Jackson has a new book, and if you go here, you can participate in her virtual booksigning, which will not only net you a signed copy, but will probably make you prettier. She's just that good.