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The Cat in the Hat Principle
We had a whole collection of Dr. Seuss books when our kids were little. I read them so often, I could do it with my eyes shut. If you’ve ever fallen asleep while reading a bedtime story, or even a middle-of-the-morning story, you can empathize. The Cat in the Hat Comes Back was a favorite. It chronicles Sally and her brother’s second misadventure with the crazy feline. Near the climax, their yard is covered with pink snow, spread by the Cat in the Hat’s “assistants” Little Cats A to Z. Those two uptight kids are dismayed by the antics of these twenty-six imps, and yell at the Cat in the Hat to take them away. . .
Journaling
As I read back over my journal for the winter of 2006, I am impressed at the hours and pages I devoted to pouring out my feelings at that busy time of my life; and realize how valuable those hours and pages were at the time, in helping me to process my feelings, and are now as a record. Especially for me, being blessed with a brain that holds onto memories like a sieve holds water. If I didn’t have my journal, I would have forgotten this particular day in January. . .
Burial
We had several choices for what we could do with Loila’s remains: have them cremated, bury them, or allow the hospital to dispose of them (“respectfully,” I was assured.) We left her at the hospital for two months while we grappled with that decision and everything else. I wrote in my journal, “Some days, I think I would like [to bury her]. Sometimes I think it would be too much effort, or too much emotion.”
Seeing Past the Windshield
Don’t get so caught up in the obstructions immediately in front of you that you fail to focus on where you are going.
The winter after our second child was born was a challenging one for our family. We had naively imagined that after my husband completed his master’s degree, our greatest difficulty would lie in choosing between job offers. Instead, we found ourselves back in our home city, where my husband cobbled together a couple of low-paying jobs into a six-day work week that provided something of a livable income. We had one car, and a workplace that was impossible to reach by transit . . . .
They/Them (Singular)
You may be wondering why I refer to my individual children as “they” rather than “he” or “she.” There are two answers to that question:
The Uncomplicated Reason: This blog was not my children’s idea, and yet they are often key players in my stories. To preserve their privacy, I won’t be using their names - but I realize if I use gendered pronouns, it narrows the pool of suspects considerably. By sticking to the non-gendered they/them, I’m giving them a better chance for anonymity.
The Deeper Reason: One of my children identifies as queer and nonbinary. Nonbinary, in case you are not familiar with the term, means that they don’t see themself as male or female, but neutral.
Good Moms
You won’t be a good mother. Not if by a good mother, you mean what I meant.
It is possible to take optimism too far. It wasn’t until I had my third baby that I really let go of the hope that I could one day figure it all out and become a perfect mother. Don’t get me wrong: I knew I wasn’t there yet. I messed up every day. But right up until I brought that third delightful bundle of possibilities home, I kept stubbornly believing that perfection was possible, and if I read enough parenting books and tried really hard, every second of every day, I would eventually master the feedings, the bedtimes, the teaching, the discipline and - voila! - produce well-adjusted, intelligent children who would never grow up to say, “My life would be better if only my mom had done X - or hadn’t done Y.”
Between 2005 and 2008, I lost four tiny babies to miscarriage. In an effort to help others who may be experiencing similar losses, I want to share the story of that journey. If you click on the title above, and then follow the “Next in Miscarriage Journey” links at the bottom of each post, you can read through my story sequentially.