Friday I'm in Love: Blessed

I don't care if this makes me sound like I'm kinda full of myself.  I recently discovered this post I wrote during my first year of blogging and I've fallen in love with it.

11/11/2007

Blessed

I just discovered a wonderful blog called Stirrup Queens and Sperm Palace Jesters. It deals with infertility, pregnancy loss and adoption and is an amazing resource for people going through those challenges. The sidebar has the longest blogroll I have ever seen, filled with blogs talking about people's struggles to become parents. As I read it, checking out a few blogs here and there, it was all I could do not to run upstairs and kiss my children. (Which would have woken them up, so I didn't. Barring natural disasters and other dangers, there's no way I'm waking them up. Because while I may be feeling joy at their existence, they would be feeling annoyance at being woken up and instead of a touching scene of love and cuddling, there would be tears and crankiness.)

I did not have Ironflower until I was 33. Not super late, but not exactly early, either. And I thought I would have trouble conceiving her. Because I was in my thirties. Because I was a smoker (I quit when I was pregnant - calm down). Because it seemed that all the mommies I knew had spent time "trying", charting their cycles and propping their legs in the air.

Instead, Hubby and I got lax about birth control. We were living together, engaged but not in any rush to make it legal. And surprise! Along came Ironflower. I spent the first trimester in a state of shock (when I wasn't too nauseous and tired to have any emotions at all, of course). I felt a bit like an impostor, not having even tried to get pregnant yet. But by the time she came along we were (sort of ) ready for her and for parenthood.

When Ironflower was 11 months old, we found out I was pregnant again. Four months pregnant. I hadn't had a regular cycle, what with the breastfeeding. My clothes were tight, but I'd attributed it to the chocolate I was eating to deal with the horrible conditions at work. The weird tummy flutterings? I assumed they were gas. Really. (I have ulcerative colitis and weird feelings in my tummy are pretty normal for me)

So I actually got pregnant with Lovebug while trying NOT to get pregnant. After the shock, and having to admit to the world that I was four months pregnant and HADN'T NOTICED, a whirlwind of activity began. Thus Lovebug was not forced to wear his sister's pink clothing or sleep in a purple butterfly bumpered crib.

But I began to feel guilty. Why had it been so damn easy for me? Why was I so blessed? I felt bad when talking to people who were struggling to conceive or adopt. I wanted to apologize, to say I'm sorry it was so easy for me. A little part of me always does.

But finally someone pointed out to me that if I wanted to feel guilty about something, I could also feel guilty about the fact that I get (more than) enough to eat, that I have a nice place to live, that I can walk, that crazy militias aren't roaming my town, that I don't live in a war zone. . . . . .

And so instead of feeling guilty about things I can't control, I'm working on feeling blessed. All the time, not just when I'm reminded of it. Even when Lovebug humiliates me in the grocery store, I am blessed. Even when Ironflower's whining makes me want to bang my head against a wall, I am blessed.

Wandering Wednesday: A Walk Down Memory Lane

I have a confession to make; we did not wander anywhere especially interesting this weekend. Hugmonkey spiked a fever for us Saturday afternoon, so Hot Guy took the big kids to the environmental center. I love the center so much that I've already featured it in two wanderings. Not wanting to get repetitive, coupled with the fact that I forgot to get Hot Guy's pictures from Saturday, means that Saturday options are a bust. Sunday involved a soccer game, a birthday party and dinner at my parents' house.

I could show you the before and after photos of my desk and our breakfast nook/office. . .except that I'm too embarrassed to reveal how bad they looked before I cleaned them this weekend.

So instead I give you pictures never before seen on the internet. . .taken in the days before Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and Pinterest. They are from a road trip we took while I was pregnant with Ironflower. I think I remember all the locations. . .but I could be wrong.

Pretty sure this is Lexington, Missouri. There was a Civil War battle there. 

I think this is me at Waterloo Village, a living history area in Jersey. 

More Waterloo. 

More Waterloo. 

On Lake Michigan. Somewhere in Indiana. Not an historical site! 

Also Lake Michigan. I gained a zillion pounds while pregnant and they've never left. 

Blacksmith at Waterloo Village. 

Throwback Thursday: I Don't Miss Diapers

I am shamelessly stealing this idea from someone I've been reading forever. Probably Aunt Becky. Or possibly Leslie. Karly? I don't know. If it was you, please tell me so I can thank you properly.

Anyway, not that many people read my blog now, it's true. But compared to when I started? I have legions of fans. So I'm sharing stuff I wrote back then when I think the only people who read my blog were my parents, Hot Guy, the bloggers listed above and a few other kind people.

From the archives: May, 2007

The Joys of Motherhood

So we went for a walk this evening. Then Hot Guy and the rugrats sat down at the table for pudding. About ten minutes after the walk, I walked into the kitchen and noticed brown goo under Lovebug's highchair. I was momentarily confused since he was eating vanilla pudding. He was grinning, spooning the vanilla pudding onto his bib and into his ear. I wondered where the brown goo came from. I asked Hot Guy.

"What brown goo? Oh. . .SHIT!" he exclaimed just as I glanced at my baby's back. Which was also covered in brown goo (aka shit!).

I've seen some explosive poops before but nothing prepared me for this. The poop went not only up his back and all over his shorts, it had piled behind him on the seat and in a somewhat larger pile on the floor. And there sat boy wonder himself, cheerfully eating his pudding and completely oblivious to the filth around him. Attempts to clean resulted in loud, piercing wails until we finally let him out of the bathtub. Goddess bless Clorox Wipes and Mr.Bubble.

Also this evening: The beautiful Ironflower announced that her name is Diego, that she IS a boy and will be growing a penis at a later date.

Soap Opera Sunday

A couple of years ago (that's like a decade in web time, right?) I joined this thing called "Soap Opera Sunday", where every Sunday a bunch of bloggers wrote soap opera like posts on their blogs. It was started by Brillig and Kate.  Many were true stories, but there was some good fiction too. I decided to chronicle how I got from divorced at 27 to being Mrs. Hot Guy.

I don't know how many of you were reading my blog back then, so if this is a repeat to you, I'm sorry. But it is Sunday and I can't think of anything else to post.

Soap Opera Sunday, Episode 1

When I moved to Kansas City, I was 27 and newly separated. I moved to KC for three reasons: because I got what I thought was my ideal teaching job there, because my ex-husband wasn't too far away in case the separation didn't take and because I was afraid to move back into my parents' house in New Jersey.

After the first four months, I realized how happy I was without my ex, so I suggested a divorce. Slowly I started to get my self-esteem back. I made some friends and had two suburban sports bars where I felt comfortable and safe. I volunteered and joined the art museum's young members group. I even started pseudo dating. While his mixed signals gave him the nickname "Freakboy", he was a friend and a good way to step back into the world of romance.

Not that I was in any rush to become romantically entangled with anyone again. Especially after my  friend T. got dumped and went on a singles scene rampage. Suddenly the suburban bars weren't good enough for her and she dragged me to Kelly's in Westport - one of the biggest pick-up spots in the Western hemisphere (at least it was at the time). After buying our trough-like beers, we spotted an empty table. Then T. needed to go to the bathroom andour other friend R. went to find chairs for our table. My job was to guard the beers from Roofie spilling sickos.

Naturally two seconds after the others left a sleazy older (I thought of him as "older" then, he probably wasn't actually much over forty, which doesn't seem so old now but the "sleazy" still fits) guy slid over to me and started talking. I panicked when I realized that my usual suburban bar tactics (escape to the bathroom, get an acquaintance to get rid of him) wouldn't work. I couldn't carry the three troughs of beer anywhere, and I didn't want to lose the table. I told him I wasn't interested, but sleazy guy didn't notice. He even took a step closer and I couldn't move away because I had to stand between him and our beers.

Then I looked up and saw a cute guy shuffling through the narrow aisle nearby. He was looking at me and I decided to take a chance. "Honey!" I called as I waved to him frantically. As he came closer, I realized that he was a very young cute guy. A possibly not even old enough to be in the bar cute guy. Would he get what was going on?

Sleazy guy leaned over and said to my chest, "Is that your------" and then all of a sudden I was being kissed.

Cute young guy had swooped in and grabbed me like I was a heroine in a romance novel. I hadn't been kissed like that in years. By the time we came up for air, sleazy guy was gone. "I think you owe me a favor," said cute young guy.

That's the end of the first episode, which makes this post long enough. What I want to know is if you all would like me to resurrect Soap Opera Sunday and tell the rest of the story, or, um, not.