Chesed

I naively thought I was at the bottom and life had to start looking up.

I was wrong.

I have a GI bug creating volcanic eruptions both North and South.

My apparently not completely healed uterus does not appreciate the upheaval and intermittently cramps like real labor coupled with hot flashes and chills.

I had to unbook a wedding in my very favoritest month of the year (May) because I forgot to check Adam’s school schedule and it is the same day as his end of the year picnic. I promised myself and David long ago I would always first be wife and mom.

I think soon it should be my turn to sit on the beach in Jamaica and have happy thoughts.

I can’t explain the way I feel

I only know that death is real

But stranger still it seems to be

That what has died is actually me.

For how long is depression a normal part of grieving and when do I need to do something about it?

I wish I would have died.

I feel like a corpse that moves.

I don’t even know how to describe it. I don’t feel sad. Or mad. Or anything. I just feel like nothing.

I tell my body to move and it obeys and that’s about it. When I think I’m going to cry, I don’t. Then suddenly I’m standing there sobbing and I have no idea why. I don’t want to do anything. I don’t want to eat. I don’t want to leave the house. I don’t want to do anything but lie on the couch.

Is this just a hormone wash? Is this me not being able to resolve the news I got on Friday? Is this a normal stage and I”ll be ok again soon? The boys are starting to reach their limits of endurance for a mom who is there, but isn’t and who cries all the time. I feel guilty. But completely powerless to do anything about it.

I cannot get it pulled together.

If I should die

before I wake

I pray the Lord

my soul to take

:: surgery on Monday went well

:: physically I feel stronger every day

:: emotionally I hit the wall -again- yesterday

I thought I’d gone as low as it gets on Friday two weeks ago. But now, I’m there again. My coping skills are exhausted. Right now I feel like a walking, breathing version of death and emptiness. It is unbelievable the way the death of a big dream simultaneously leaves you bereft of all interest in pursuing any smaller ones.

I’ll be back sometime when I feel better.

It’s been one of those days that should have come with flexeril.

I ran in to the doctor’s office for my pre-op appointment. Liam was with me because the person who was planning to keep him ended up having a sick child and I wasn’t in the mood for sharing germs. It turned out to be the best changed plan of the day. He jabbered like all two year olds do and charmed people in every waiting room we entered. But best of all, he reminded me of life and happiness and kisses and love and kept me sane. Especially when we sat in the last waiting room and he said, “Me poud (proud) of ‘ou, Mommy.” Oh, really, why is that? “Woof. Woof.” Yeah, his compliments are the best.

I signed the papers for the D&E and then got ready for the confirmation ultrasound. This time there was no screen for me to watch and I really didn’t mind. No need to see the blackness again. I could not figure out why he looked and looked and looked for so long without saying anything. How long does it take to see there is no baby? He broke the silence. “Well, this is not a normal pregnancy, but I think we’re looking at a molar.” I literally sat halfway up to stare at the screen. “See this spongy looking cyst on the back of your uterus.” It was sprinkled with black holes. “We need a better look. I’m sending you up to Pantops to get a high definition ultrasound. Oh, and we’ll need to do some bloodwork.”

Suddenly it was all flurry and paperwork. I looked at Liam and knew he would keep cooperating a lot better post lunch so we headed for David’s office. Apparently my brain stayed in the OB office. David’s office is five blocks away, but I was six miles down toward the other end of town before I realized I’d gone the wrong direction. We finally got there and heated up our lunches.

Liam and I headed out the door hoping to get the ultrasound done before they left for lunch since I was simply being worked in and didn’t have an appointment. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait long at all. The tech came in to do the ultrasound and then left to get the doctor. Thirty seconds later Liam starts dancing and says, “Me need doe potty.” I just knew it would happen. Even though I’d just taken him at David’s office. I grabbed my clothes and we dashed down the hallway and I stood him in front of the toilet where he started dancing again, “No, me need doe poo poo.” Better yet, I groaned. But I decided not to complain when I saw that he had one of those near diarrhea allergy things going on and thanked God he actually made it to the toilet in time since I was certainly not prepared for anything else. We hurried back to the room and I got up on the table again.

The second ultrasound confirmed the first although we won’t know for sure until the pathology results come in the end of next week. And it really doesn’t make a difference regarding surgery, it just entirely changes the follow-up plan.

That done we drove to the next place to get my bloodwork done. I was out and ready to unbuckle Liam when I reached back in for my lab order. Not there. I called the OB office to see if I had left it there but they were shut down on lunch break and I just got the answering service. She said they’d call back. So I drove back down to David’s office to fill out pre-admission paper work and went to drop it off and pay my ctyology bill from my first appointment. I signed so many papers today, but I never did see the one that says, “I didn’t actually mean to sign up for this.” By the time it was done I called back in and they started looking for the paper. I was pretty sure I was going to have to go back for another when I started going through my papers again and found it on the back of the directions sheet. Ding, ding. David laughed and reminded me about the deposit I was planning to make.

Back up to the lab and finally, finally I was on my way to pick up Adam. The day was shot and I thought about the sorry little grocery list in my purse that was now going to have to wait until tomorrow. Finally, finally we got home … and I found the deposit still sitting in my purse. Brain, you are welcome to begin functioning again aaaaaaaaanytime.

Thankfully molar pregnancies — or gestational trophoblastic diseases as my doctor said they are now calling it — are very rare … about 1:1000 births. There are two kinds, complete and partial. Different things happen depending on the kind but in general, cells that would normally become a placenta grow abnormally and rapidly form small tumors that look like grape clusters. Treatment is a D&C (which thankfully in my case was already in the plans so no crazy scheduling there) and then monitoring hormone levels for six months to a year. Sometimes microscopic cells come back invading other organs like cancer and must be treated with chemotherapy. Because of the very close monitoring, it is usually caught very early and almost 100% treatable. The good news is that only 5% of women with a partial mole have cells reappear and 10-20% with a complete mole. So far I’m not too worried. They said it’s a very good sign that my ovaries are still normal size and that it was caught so early. Ok, I lied. (I am a liiittle bit scared.) Mostly we have just been glad one million times over that we actually decided to do a D&E instead of continuing to wait it out. My story could have turned out very differently.

The bad news is that, either way, we won’t be having a baby again for a very long time. David and I are both bummed about that. There are a lot of things that are really cute about the way Adam and Liam interact even though it wasn’t our choice to have a four year age gap between them. But we really didn’t want that again. Most of the time, you can’t even read the same story to them. One child wants to roller blade, the other has just learned how to ride a tricycle. And I know that large families have that discrepancy anyway, but they also have the fun of having sibling groups to play with, not one here and one over there.

We both adore babies, but we’re both looking forward even more to the time when our children are past that whole diapers and car seats and pack and play and high chair stage. The boys are more fun every year and we were both excited about some day soon kind of moving along to that next fun stage of going to museums and big camping trips and all that stuff that’s so much more work with a baby. You know, the playing softball in the back yard stage. Plus, neither one of us is getting younger. David looked at me and said, “We’re going to end up in our sixties by the time our kids are like, twenty-three.”

But it’s like my friend said today when I called her and just spilled it all out, “You know, when we get hit with babies so close together we always say, God is ultimately in control of our family, and we’ve just got to believe that this is what is right for you guys.” And it is so true. David and I talked about how different this year will be with my not pregnant and actually human and functional. I think there’s probably a reason; I just don’t know what it is. Whatever happens, I don’t want this to feel like a wasted year.

And frankly, I am still hoping hope against hope that pathology will call and say, “all clear.” Hey, we can always hope.

How can I say thank you for the hundreds of kind words that have been flooding my inboxes and telephone and in real life? 

How can it feel as though I have lived ten weeks in the space of two?

How do you tell a story that isn’t finished?

Where is the line between sharing your story and forgetting to close the bathroom door when you vomit?

How can you tell a story that is true because it happened to you in a way that will not hurt someone else? 

And so I walk away.  Time and again.  Yet, I want to write.

Because it helps me to process. 

Because so many people have shown so much care and are asking how I am.

Because so many people have honored and blessed me by sharing their story.  Their courage gives me courage. 

And so I will write.  Because maybe someday, my story can help to bring healing to someone else.

That Tuesday night as I went to bed it felt as though my family and friends, acquaintances and even strangers were joining hands in ever widening circles around me.  I have felt held up and supported in the past two weeks in ways beyond imagining.  People have been so kind.  Over and over and over again.  Friends were just there.  They called to see how I was doing and no matter what stage of grief I was in, they just listened, responded to me at that stage, and cared.  When I cried, they cried with me.  When I was in denial of my grief and just wanted to ignore it, “they didn’t keep bringing it up or say, “but that was a baby.”  They just quietly let me know it was ok to grieve if and when I needed to.  And when I needed space and couldn’t talk, they gave me that, too.

I feel humbled.  And loved.  And I’m just going to say, I have the best families in the world.

It felt as though I went through almost every stage of grief just in that first day.  The shock, the denial, the sobbing, and in the end a measure of acceptance.  That this is the way things were supposed to be.  And underneath it all, I felt a strong sense of gratitude. 

This is kind of where I’d like to just stop.  Or at least put out a lot of disclaimers.  Or something.  I do not understand the physiology of grief.  I know that our experiences elsewhere in life cause us to respond in different ways to situations.  I don’t know why some hard things feel manageable to one person and feel like so much darkness and shattering to another.  I don’t know why God chose to lead me so gently through this experience, yet left me reeling in darkness and despair during the time I couldn’t get pregnant; but He did.  Please know that if you are reading this and experienced the same situation and it was not gentle for you, there is not something wrong with you.  It’s not because you weren’t spiritual enough or in tune with God or weak emotionally.  And please know that if someone you love has an anembryonic pregnancy, she may not feel the same way I did.  Just love her and give her grace and space and time the same way you did to me.  Ok, fears be gone.

Back to the gratitude.  Even before I got pregnant this time, I had this premonition that something was going to be wrong with our baby.  So I’m a worry wart, but this was stronger than normal.  After I did get pregnant, it faded a little.  Yet, in the back of my mind, something felt wrong.  I think God gave me the gift of foreshadowing and I cannot tell you how much it helped me during that sad week.  It was like those words came out of my mouth without me even thinking about it.  There was a ladies luncheon planned the day of my prenatal visit and I could not wait to waltz in and announce my pregnancy because I knew they would all celebrate with me.  But when my SIL asked me Sunday if I’m coming I said, “Yes … if there’s nothing wrong with the baby.”  And even the night before my visit when we took the cutest little pregnancy announcement picture and I was dying to put it on xanga I said, “but what if there’s no baby?”

It’s not that I would not have loved a child who had serious handicaps.  But it’s not what any mom dreams of for her child.  And most of all, I had a huge fear of carrying a baby for seven months or even full term and then losing the baby.  Or like my mom and dad, watching their newborn be rushed to a larger hospital and then to see him live for thirteen days before losing him to his many, many health issues.  No mother ever, ever wants to lose a child, but in my mind, carrying a child almost to term and then losing the baby before you ever feel one tiny puff of baby breath against your cheek is the absolutely most heart-rending grief of all.  Because of that and because of the way it felt as though something was wrong, I felt that God was sparing us of so much.  That he took the baby when he / she was so tiny I could not even see a baby was in reality a gift.  Especially when I read that 50% of anembryonic pregnancies are the result of serious chromosomal defects and the baby has no chance at life.

  (how symbolic is this … my SIL gave me three rose buds and they never opened … just like our baby)

In the next two days I bounced around between denial and sadness.  For awhile, my words, “there is no baby” as I called David, haunted me.  It felt as though there really was no baby.  What was I supposed to grieve?  The death of a dream?  Slowly, my heart began to believe.  Because I feel so strongly that life begins at conception when we’re talking about birth control, it is also for me to believe that life began at conception this time.  So if the “baby” lived for five minutes, it is still ok for me to grieve a baby.  And the truth is, a baby doesn’t implant for about three days and mine did so even if I couldn’t see it, it was a baby. 

That weekend just felt sad.  I cried a lot.  Not angry tears that things had gone wrong, but sad tears for what couldn’t be.  I felt sad that we couldn’t know this baby even though Liam’s story helped me to have perspective.  If we would have had the baby we wanted to have that time, we would never have known Liam.  And how would I ever have lived so well without knowing his sweetness?  So once again I find myself believing that God knows when the right time is for our family.  I feel sad for the loss of sharing the pregnancy journey with a friend who is also pregnant.  And sometimes, that grief is the hardest of all.  Because even though what happened does not feel like a mistake, I am sad for what I wish would have been.

It is hard to feel as though your body is associated with death.  As though in some ways you are the cause of it.  I woke up one morning with this enormous urge to run to Lowes and buy a tree to plant.  Anything to be involved with life instead of death. But the world was covered with a layer of sleet and then snow and clearly it wasn’t an option.  I still want to plant something this Spring.  I want something tangible to remember.  When people die, we place gravestones.  I’ll never have that, but I want a visual reminder of this part of our life. 

The week before Christmas I was scrapbooking Liam’s baby pictures and re-read his birth story.  I looked at my journaling during that time before I got pregnant … the questions about faith, about believing that God is good and gives good gifts … and I wondered, did I learn anything at all?  Just a few days before my prenatal visit, I remember my unbelief.  I was washing my hands, thinking about how quickly we’d gotten pregnant this time and how I could not believe that God had actually given me that gift.  That I still didn’t believe He would actually do that to me.  And after I called David and my mom that Tuesday with the sad news, I remember thinking, “See, God doesn’t give good gifts to me.”  Yet by the time I got home and felt the promise in the sunshine, I had gotten to the point of gratitude for all the reasons above.  And I felt so incredibly grateful for His gift of taking the baby so early.  Because it’s never easy, but this was so much easier.  I remembered some of my friends with primary infertility who would give almost anything to go through this instead of never, ever conceiving.  To have known for even four weeks that they are pregnant.  But most of all, it felt so good to know that while my faith and belief that God is good is not as unflappable as I wish, I did learn something in the darkness.

Like one of my former co-workers said on facebook in response to our loss, “While you are in a sea of sadness, you are not adrift.”  Those words are so beautiful to me because they express in one sentence what I have been feeling in paragraphs and chapters.  I repeat them to myself throughout the day.  And I believe with all my heart there is sunshine above the rain.

This morning I went to my eight week prenatal visit. The routine, but oh so exciting, kind of visit when you get to see a tiny baby with a heart beat taking up nearly all it’s midsection blipping away faster than you can blink.

It was so much fun to walk in those doors … to be on this journey of life again. To know what to expect and yet to be as happy as that first time ever when it felt so odd to open doors labeled obstetrics.

The nurse practitioner and I chatted about baby names and kids responses to pregnancies and fears of congenital issues because of my mom and dad’s story.

And then she turned for the ultrasound machine and I stared at the screen, looking, looking, looking and realizing I was not looking at a screen of life. “I’m afraid we’re not seeing what we’re expecting,” she broke the news gently. She kept looking, went to get the doctor for a second opinion and tears started rolling down my face and dripping onto the table.

It was all too clear. The thickened epithelium where the baby should have been growing, the collapsed sac, and the too big area of blackness.

It felt surreal. Me, the person who has never had the slightest scare after the little plus sign showed up, was now the person looking at miscarriage.

I feel lost in a sea of emotions.

Sadness …. for the baby we’ve all four been talking about already.

Grief …. as the dream of a September 5th baby dies.

Disappointment … like someone handed me an exquisitely wrapped gift and just as I was about to tear open the ribbons and peek inside, they grabbed it back.

Anger … that while some women blip through their first trimester asymptomatic, I have had weeks of nausea for nothing.

Fear … of the unknown of the days to come. I’ve never gone this road before.

A ray of Hope … because life comes after death. I stepped out of the car when I got home, my face streaming wet for the umpteenth time this morning. It’s mid-January but the sun hit me full force. The noon temperature was in the fifties and I smelled a whiff of earthiness and Springtime. For a few minutes the fog of sadness cleared and as clearly as though God had made Himself visible, I felt Him reminding me. Life comes after death, just as Spring comes after Winter.

I don’t know what all is in the next part of the story, but for now I can only believe.

Hope

Trust

Pray

Yesterday I was the woman with the secret in her tummy.

Today I am the woman with the black hole.

Yesterday I was talking to God, the Author, Creator, and Sustainer of Life.

Today I am talking to God, the Author, Creator and Sustainer of Life who is also my Father and who can carry me through the thousand question marks branded in my heart.

It’s Saturday and David’s home! 

How long has it been since we’ve had one of those stay around the house kind of Saturdays?  Way.  Too.  Long.  Last weekend he left for the Maryland boys camp at 5 AM and got back at 8 that night.  The Saturday before was the church wood cutting.  The boys have been in desperate need of one of those follow-my-dad-around-and-use-his-tools kind of Saturdays.

Does sleeping in skip generations or does it not actually ever happen in children carrying Y chromosomes?  I have yet to figure this one out.  7:30 and in comes Liam with his recently discovered siamese twin (a doll).  “ou old du baby,”  he says.  Adam was right behind him.  David kindly shushed them and brought them downstairs while I stayed upstairs and pretended to sleep in. 

We used to always cook breakfast on Saturday morning.  You know, the nice big kind of breakfast that lets you get by with a little snack instead of lunch.  But when Liam reacted to eggs there were so few things we could eat it became a much more sporadic habit.  And in December when David wanted to get to the shop to work, it was so much quicker just to grab the normal cereal fare.  But this morning was different. 

This morning we had pancakes (recipe below) and easy over eggs for three of us for the first time in ages.  The boys cheered and cheered.  Liam started digging into his pancake and when David asked him if he likes it, he nodded yes so emphatically his entire body shook.    And then he said, “Dis is aMAZing,” and he and Adam both started clapping and cheering.


So far they’ve been to Lowes and run the drill while David put new casters on the table.  I’ve heard the sander run, fire extinguishers get hung, and a light switch changed out.  Adam is painting a board (one he cut himself with a bandsaw and that I am going to be gifted at some point) and David is staining a frame for my dad.  And I already know that tomorrow and all next week, the boys will be different for this time spent with their daddy.  He has no idea what an enormous gift he gives them.

Last Saturday was a different picture.  They like me.  I know they do.  They just need their dad.  I knew it was going to be a terribly long day, especially since they are programmed for dad time.  So I was all prepared.  We did crafts at the table and made a winter sun catcher. 















I made a (somewhat redneck) target for Adam and bundled both boys up to go outside to try it out.  His first shot completely missed the target and cracked in the woods.  Then I took a second look.  “Adam, you have to actually look through the scope.” 





“Oh,” he said.  I watched him for a few minutes then pushed Liam on the swing.  When Liam opted for the sandbox, I opted to head inside after refreshing BB gun safety rules with Adam.  I was watching from the kitchen window as I cleaned up dishes and not five minutes later Adam came in the side door.  “I’m done,” he announced.  Nonplussed I remembered words from a mom friend in church, “You expect too much of yourself.  It’s totally ok to tell your children they have to stay outside for twenty minutes.” 










I tried it.  It was cold, but he was well bundled.  The problem was boredom and wanting attention (and after hours of my undivided attention he clearly wasn’t lacking).  I sent him back out the door with a few suggestions and he dutifully rode his bike a time or two across the back yard.  Not five minutes later I heard him tramping up the basement steps completely bereft of coat and paraphernalia.  “I’m going to do jobs for you, Mom,” in the sweetest tone imaginable.  Manipulation at it’s finest.  I was just ready to say, “Sorry, buddy, you have fifteen more minutes of outside time,” when I heard Liam also tromping up the steps. 

“Did you get Liam undressed, too?”

Yes.

And I hate to admit it, but he won.  Why I did not make him go back out alone I’ll never know.  Call it a bad moment of weakness. 





What do you do when your boys are bored?  Why can he sometimes come up with the most elaborate pretend play and the next day be completely incapable of feeling inspired to play anything even with suggestions?  How do you teach them to be independent?  He would have stayed out there for two hours if I’d have stayed out there and cheered his shots.  Is that really necessary?  No.  How is he ever going to learn to do a grown up job without someone hovering? 

I’m pretty sure the bad habit started when we lived at our other house right next to a pond.  I absolutely did not let him go outside unless I was out with him and even then he had to stay within my eyesight.  When we moved here he had just turned three.  I worried a little about the road, but I let him go outside.  Unfortunately, the neighbors had this enormous, very hyper, bad mannered dog that would come and jump on Adam and knock him over.  He was terrified and refused to go out.  The dog must have moved because he hasn’t shown up for almost two years.  But by that time Adam was four and simply refusing to go out.  Last summer he would go outside sometimes if Liam went with him, but most of the time it was too hot or too sunny or too boring.  The only thing he wants to do is dig huge holes in the garden (not the sandbox) so once it’s planted full he thinks there is no reason to go outside.  How can I get him enthused about playing outside when it’s nice? 

But back to Saturday, Adam claimed it was a very fun day.  All I’m going to say about that is that it didn’t go down on record in my book quite the same way.  And I am thoroughly enjoying listening to David take care of issues like Adam deliberately choosing to play with Liam’s truck and trailer because he knows it will make him scream and then bossily saying, “He’s grabbing.”  I like hearing him take care of Adam pouncing on Liam for the five millionth time this month even though he *knows* Liam hates it and it will make him scream.  I adore the fact that he gives them food at lunch time and that for one meal out of the week I do not have to say, “Adam, lean forward.  Adam, close your mouth when you chew.  Liam, get your fingers out of your mouth.  Adam, don’t scrape your food off your spoon with your teeth.  Liam, keep eating.”

I know that life with kids is kind of like the Israelites rebuilding the wall.  “Line upon line. Precept upon precept.  Here a little and there a little.” But sometimes stepping back from the front lines for a few hours helps me to see the wall again instead of having my eyes smeared shut with mortar.  Maybe it’s not just the boys that get their buttons reset with daddy time.

**********************************************************************************
Pancakes (the gluten, dairy, egg free version)

Combine:
2 heaping tsp flax meal
2 T. water
Microwave for 30 seconds 
(If you’re not allergic to eggs, you can use 1 egg instead)

2 c. milk (we use goat milk and it is the one thing I have never yet been able to tell the difference)
2 T. oil
1 1/2 c yellow corn meal
2/3 c. buck wheat flour
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
2 tsp sugar

Mix all ingredients.  Stir until smooth.  Fry in oil on hot nonstick griddle.  I found that out the hard way this morning when I tried to use my stainless steel pan.  In spite of being well covered with a layer of oil, the pancakes stuck to the pan so much I could not flip them. 

I always feel like I’m living in Laura Ingalls days when I make pancakes with buckwheat flour.  And I feel more shocked than ever at the stacks of pancakes Almanzo used to eat.  These pancakes fill you up fast.

Happy Saturday!  I hope something happy is in your food future.  We’re having tacos.

And Liam being interpreted ……….

Last week David called me around 10:30 in the morning saying, “How is your day?”

Great.

“Well, it’s about not to be.” 

Don’t you just love an opening line like that?  Warms you all the way to your toes.  Wait, didn’t I just use that phrase in yesterday’s post?  Told you winter is getting to me.

Apparently after an entire year of not noticing her invisible fence collar battery was dead, Miss Goldilocks decided to go exploring.  And just because it would be the logical choice, she wandered over to our neighbors who think dogs should experience heaven on earth.  I am not a dog lover.  I’m not a dog hater either.  I just am not one of those people who kisses animals.  Or who thinks they belong in my house.  Or who buys air conditioned dog houses.  It’s just not me.  I don’t mind if you do.  But please don’t mind if I stop at general care and kindness to our dog. 

We bought Goldi for Adam’s first birthday.  They weren’t the best match.  Rambunctious her and slow-moving him.  But as the years went on and she calmed down, they’ve started liking each other a lot more.  Liam loves her.  He’s still little enough to sit on her when she’s lying down and he snuggles up to her and yes, sometimes gives her kisses.  “Doe-di i doe dozy,” he says happily.  She really is a pretty dog.  And she really is cozy.  I love feeling the warmth of her when she stretches out by my feet when I sit on the front porch.  I like coming home and seeing her snuggled up on the front porch in her bed waiting for us.  But other than that, she’s mostly the men’s dog.  David is the one who takes care of her and the only one she really listens to although she’s not a bad dog at all. 

But now she was gone.  To the neighbor’s dog heaven.  Their dogs went crazy when she got to their dog so they opened the door.  Goldi ran in.  Their dogs ran out.  Great.  Just great.  And now it’s my job to pick her up.  I headed over to their house and stopped just outside the gate.  Nick brought her out and I suddenly realized I was bribeless.  Brilliant of me.  She jumps into the back of David’s truck when he tells her to, but remember she doesn’t listen to me.  And this is the car, not the truck. 

Nick finally bodily lifts all 60 or 70 pounds of her into the back and kisses her seventeen times as he says goodbye … and gives me words on her lack of grooming.  Tell David.  Not me. 

I’ve had bad experiences with her before.  She did a terrible number to my shoulder when I was 8 1/2 months pregnant and I didn’t want her dragging baby chicks around in her mouth.  I wasn’t about to risk having her run over me and head straight back to where we’d just come from so I backed straight down the steep hill as close to the kennel as I could.  Gingerly opening the back door three inches I eased my hand in and grabbed her collar.  And just like I expected, I dragged, shoved, pushed and prodded her the two feet into the kennel where she’d have to stay (and was determined not to be) til David got home with a new battery. 

Happy to be successful, I jumped back into the car, pulled the gear stick into drive, and hit the gas.  rrrRRRRRRRRRrrn.  Oh.  Back up two inches.  Tried again.  More spinning.  Four tries later I realized I was going to tear up the yard and never get up.  Visions of the woman who drove all over our yard in the middle of the night because she used our driveway to turn around and went down over the hill in the dark flooded my mind.  I could still hear her cursing as she spun and spun and spun and spun tearing up our grass at 3 am on a Saturday morning.

Finally I got Liam out of his car seat and went inside.  It was my turn to do the afternoon school run and I was not vehicle-less.  And I could. not. get hold of Kristina.  I tried her home phone.  Her cell phone.  Home phone again.  Great.  After lunch when the grass had dried off, I parked Liam on the sofa by the window and went out to try again.  Every maneuver seemed to take me further down the hill until finally I said to myself, “think like a man.”  So I did.  I think.  Because it worked.  (Never mind that it took six more tries.) And that’s not normal for my very woman brain.  I was so happy to be up that hill. 

Liam came flying to open the door, “Mommy, MADE it,” he said.  And all afternoon and evening and all the next day and part of the next he said the story I just told you about.  Only his version is the one you heard yesterday … and the one that’s hard to interpret.