Category: about me

I know I haven’t given much of an update about my working full-time now, just bittles here and there. But easily put, I really like my job. I like being back at work, talking to adults, using my brain for more than finding ways to entertain my preschooler, being forced to socialize again because even though I knew I had become a hermit it turns out that it was worse than I’d realized. I’m being a productive member of society. I’m not in any way saying that raising my son is not being productive, but I realize now that being ONLY at home with him and almost no social / support network (sorry but virtual socializing just doesn’t seem to count enough to prevent hermitizing but you guys did keep me from being completely insane) was really not good for me.

I’ve felt amazing since going back to work. Being physically active (I’m eating like a pig and losing weight from how much motoring around I’m doing) is great. I’m not feeling as tired any more. But the best part is that I’ve been pulled out of the heavy depression that I didn’t realize that I’d been in, building up over the last few years. Did you know you could suffer double depression? Last winter was horrible for me, but I didn’t realize the depression I suffered was only on top of a depression that had slowly built up over time.

Ok, I’m rambling, and on to the downer part of the post. You may remember that the only reason I was able to accept the position was that by some miracle in my small town, I was able to find a day home that was agency run AND did weekends. Finding child care here is nearly impossible for those that don’t work monday – friday 9-5. So, Dec 23rd at about 11pm as I’ve got everything ready for Christmas eve, I decided to go through Monsters back pack and read the journal S keeps for him about all day home stuff.

Inside is a letter of termination of care.

I re-read it about 10 times thinking that I was misunderstanding something. But I wasn’t. She’s got just as much problems with fertility/ pregnancy as all of us here and she’s having a really hard time in her pregnancy now (which she only opened up about a few weeks back). I was DEVASTATED. I cried all night and all Christmas eve. May sound like an over reaction, but it means so much more than just having to find a new day home.

Losing child care that I really like. The knowledge that I may very well not be able to find a replacement willing to do weekends. Not an exaggeration since I’ve spent three years here trying to find reliable childcare. The knowledge that if I can’t, I’ll have to quit my job. The only reason Hubby was able to take his promotion to assistant manager (which was a slight pay cut) was because I was now working so if I quit he’ll have to quit and go back into the field. That if I’m not working I’ll be drawn right back into that horrible place that I didn’t know I was in, stuck at home all the time not seeing anyone and looking at the constant reminder that I may be an at home mom but I can’t seem to bring any more children into this world to raise, rubbing my secondary infertility in my face. I’m terrified of going back there.

We’re just leaving out the obvious part about wanting her pregnancy to go well.

Can’t say that it helps that this is the fourth time I’ve lost child care and the fourth time it’s been to pregnancy. Just in case I needed that little extra face rub.

So I’m staring at the potential of everything we’ve worked for and achieved over the last few month flushing down the drain because it all depends on one thing that we have so little control of.

I’m more numb to it now. I’ve got less that two weeks to find a solution or lose my job.

So please, I’m asking you to all send your prayers, good thoughts, or anything more helpful than cheese string my way. Cross everything you’ve got that I can find someone willing/ able/ and responsible enough to take care of my son.

“Call Gramma” Day

It’s November 16. That means I’ll look at my agenda and it will say “call Gramma”. Not why, just to call. If I can’t remember why, then she has full permission to egg my house. You’ll find the note ten days later again. Why?

Today is six years from the day my dad passed away. So today is the day that my Gramma needs me the most. In ten days, it’s the anniversary of his funeral, so she needs me then too. I don’t have anyone calling me, I don’t think I’ve ever remembered to call my brothers on this day, but at least twice a year, I’m a good granddaughter.

A post today by Eggs In A Row talked about being torn as to what to do about her father contacting her.

My response (plus a little extra)

My dad and I had an awful relationship when I was younger. My mom left him when I was 10 and he avoided me most of the time, making excuses not to see me and my brothers. He moved away and my older brother kept contact with him. Sometimes he’d call on my birthday or christmas (not always). My little brother got to know him a little better once he was a teenager. But me? I look like my mom, a lot, and my dad was so awkward around me and spent a lot of time avoiding me because of it (that and I wasn’t afraid to tell him when he was being an ass or childish). Of course, that’s on top of other issue that we had just to make it extra fun.

But ten years ago, when my Hubby (boyfriend then) came to live with my family until we found an apartment, my dad showed up on the door step to see if my brother wanted to drive to Saskatchewan with him for a visit (doesn’t everyone drop by to see if you want to take a 6 hr car ride for shits and giggles?) and he met Hubby. He was the first boyfriend of mine (or friend past childhood even) that had ever met my dad. Kinda seemed like a sign, lol. With encouragement from him, I saw my dad a few times and tried to mend our relationship.

My dad was very sick and slowly dying from Polysistic Kidney Disease and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t convince him to move closer so I could help him out. I was just getting to know him again and we talked every few months and saw each other once a year. Then 6 years ago (today actually) he passed away. It wasn’t the PKD, it wasn’t even the blood infection that hospitalized him. He had a heart attack while I was trying to get on a plane so that I could be with him when/ if he died. I never got to say goodbye, I never got to see his body to confirm in my head that he was gone. But I did get to tell him that I loved him no matter what (and there was a LOT of “what” in there) and he got to tell me that I would always be his little girl.

I know it sounds cheesy, but just think, what could you live with. If you could live with leaving it be, then go ahead. But if it would break your heart to have him (or you for that matter) pass with the way things are, then do what you can. Trying isn’t going to make things perfect, but a “you drive me crazy, hurt me and lots of times I REALLY don’t like you, but you’re my daddy and I love you and I do want things to be better between us” still lets them know you care.

I’ll never really clue in to my dad being gone…not all the way. I don’t have too many  times anymore when I think “I haven’t talked to him in a while” or “why hasn’t he called in so long?” or just “I wonder if he’s doing ok?”. I have the awkwardness of trying to get my son to understand that Grampa is not actually my dad, but a man that passed away before he was born. It doesn’t help that my dad and step-dad can be mistaken for each  other in pictures by even family members, so telling him “that’s not Grampa, that’s Grampa K___, my daddy” has caused issue a couple times. I never got to meet my dad’s dad and my son will never get to meet mine. Kinda depressing. But so far there is no sign that I’ll be passing PKD on to my children so that’s one less strike to the pattern continuing on.

I miss my dad. No, I didn’t get along with him well, but I do have some fond memories. He didn’t know what to do with me past childhood, so the one time he saw me sick as a teenager (I think 17 or 18) he tied me up in a blanket, plopped me on the couch and spoon fed me greek salad (I had no arm access). I found it too endearing to be annoyed. The last time I saw him was a year before he died. It was the day before my older brother’s wedding and I had been up all night because he hadn’t showed up at the bus depot when he was supposed to. Or on the next bus. Not answering his phone. His landlord and friend couldn’t get ahold of him, and the hospital said he hadn’t come in. I was convinced that he died on his way home from dialysis or was laying beaten in an alley somewhere. Finally the next morning, the bus rolls in and off he comes like nothing is wrong. I had a HUGE hissy fit crying in the middle of the bus station and yelling at him and he just gets a big grin on his face because he saw that I cared. So ya, he laughed and smiled and hugged me like I’d given him a present even though I was probably embarrassing him. Somehow, that’s a happy memory for me.

He’s the crazy man that taught me to shoot when I was five, that convinced me that making itchiban was a valued skill in a caregiver (aka me caring for him), that fed me squirrels that my brother shot (ok meal for a little kid, lol) and kept the actual boogie man in the basement to scare us (the family is known for wacked senses of humour) and bad and all, he helped me become the person I am and I wouldn’t ever ask for a different dad.

Judge not

I think it’s pretty safe to say that everyone (mostly) is familiar with this bible verse

(don’t worry, it’s not actually crooked, just the awkward twisting result of trying to take a picture of the back of my own neck and not being able to get far enough away from myself)

I love this verse. Obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t have permanently placed it on my body. But like many verses people like to quote, few people read the rest of it.

1 “Judge not, that you be not judged. 2 For with the judgment you pronounce you will be judged, and with the measure you use it will be measured to you. 3Why do you see the speck that is in your brother’s eye, but do not notice the log that is in your own eye? 4Or how can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when there is the log in your own eye? 5You hypocrite, first take the log out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to take the speck out of your brother’s eye.  (Matthew 7:1-5 ESV)

Lots of people just like to look at the beginning and say that you shouldn’t judge others. Period. But take a better look at this. This is talking about being blind to your own faults and hypocrisy, judging others for their faults or sins when you have the same or worse (a log vs a speck) in yourself. And how often do we do this? “Cough, cough…not me, never”. Exactly, we all do this, a lot. But of all the things that we do, this is one of my largest peeves.

I know I am no better than anyone else out there, and I am happy to have that knowledge. I am far from perfect, and I work really hard to not judge others action or make assumptions about the way they act. Maybe it’s more noticeable to me than it would be to some because my husband is often the embodiment of this warning here (I love him, just being honest). He goes on angry rants on a regular basis and there are so many time when I want to say “YOU are judging them about that? Hello. Pot meet kettle.” but I bite my tongue because it’s not really going to do any good at the time, and I can just hope that he will catch on once he calms down. Of course it’s the people who have the faults that we hate about ourselves most that really get under our skin, and we want to ignore it in ourself and fix them instead. But that never works out so well.

Think of it like the funky masks on the airplanes. You put the mask on yourself before you try and help someone else. You are useless to others if you haven’t dealt with your own problem first.

I decided about three years ago that I wanted this tattoo. This is a reminder to me of how I wish to be/ not be. I don’t want to be the pot.  I want to remember to fix myself first. I want my husband or friends to call me on it if I’m pointing out the “speck” in someone else’s eye and being blind to the “log” in my own. And I want to be held to the same standards of judgement that I hold anyone else to.

Did that jibba jabba make any sense to anyone but me?

Anyone find it funny that the non-Christian has a bible verse tattooed to her neck? Christian or not, just try and tell me that it’s not right.

Holy Crap! is one year old

It’s been a year. Can you believe it? A year since I started this blog. A year since I was so full of grief and loss that I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore.

I felt so alone, desperate to find others in the same position. Wishing to help others by my experience even if it was only to prevent them from feeling as alone as I did.

I wanted people to talk about it. I was so tired of miscarriage being a taboo subject, people made to feel that they had to keep it hushed up like it was shameful. Do we hide our grief when our parents die? Our brothers, sisters, friends? Our living children? No. People expect grief and mourning. So why are we supposed to hide it when we lose an unborn child?

So, months after my second loss, I decided that not only would I talk about it to others, but I’d write about my experience and hope that it could reach others. And then I found you guys. A whole community of women sharing in the same struggle, each in their own way, and I can honestly say that I have never been so grateful for a group of strangers in my life. And many of us aren’t really strangers anymore.

You guys have seen me through some dark times and some grade A quality denial, nearly giving up but then hopping back on that overly flogged horse for one more try. You guys have listened and supported, not judging when I needed to get things off my chest that were less than sweet, laughed with me and cried with me too. We all know that this journey can make us a little less than sane and at times others may question whether or not our logic is human logic, but at least we know we’re NOT alone here. We can be crazy with vegetable soup logic together.

I don’t know how much I’ve grown in the last year, maybe not at all. I know that I’m no longer nearly debilitated (that sounds like a made up word) with grief. I can go more than 60 seconds without focusing on my losses. I can talk about my miscarriages to others without turning into a puddle (I didn’t say without emotion). And the biggest thing, I can feel some hope for the future. I may never raise another child. My son may never have brothers or sisters. I may never get pregnant again or I may have another loss. I don’t know. But at least I can HOPE that someday Mo’s Flying Spaghetti Monster will deem me worthy of the gift of another child (through any means…anyone have a spare they want to send my way?).

So thank you guys. Thanks for witnessing my crazy ass go through it all, but mostly just for being here. I’m going to keep on keeping on, keep hoping, and well…keep being a crazy ass for the most part. But at least I know I’m going to be ok.

And just because I’m a big fan of the laughing…

A letter to mommyodyssey

To My Mommyodyssey, (yes, she’s mine, I claimed her but I share)

Tomorrow she’s going for a laparoscopy and she’s scared and angry. Angry because last time she had a “minor invasive procedure” she came out of it worse for wear, scarred up inside and forever changed.

So now, it’s all happening again. Different doctor, different surgery, same “minor invasive” idea, same “low risk”, same “getting knocked out and having no idea what’s happening until it’s all done”, same complete lack of control as to what’s going to happen to your body.

And I’m scarred for her too, just like anyone else that has gone through any kind of surgery dealing with our fertility and reproduction would be. Ya, we’re a paranoid bunch, stop denying it. We’re the hypochondriacs of the reproductive world. Anything that can go wrong will go wrong because so much has gone wrong already, right? No, we need to back the F up.

When I went…what is it…over a year and a half ago I think, to have my big hairy, toothy, with its own thyroid and everything dermoid cyst removed from my right ovary, I was freaking right out. It was big enough that they didn’t want to leave it,
even though there was little chance that it was cancerous, but it may twist and cut off the blood to my ovary, my fallopian tube, whatever else it had grown on to.  Then I’d lose all that. But going in, I knew that there was a chance I’d be losing them in the surgery anyways, even though the chance was small.

But I was far more scared of getting put under. Why? I dunno. But it freaked me out more than anything. And I’m a nurse! I know people go through this all the time and they’re fine. Oh, and I was stupid enough to watch a video of my procedure beforehand
cause I though educating myself would be helpful. No, don’t do it. But when it’s personal, all practical knowledge goes out the window and all you’re left with seems to be doubt and fear and negativity.

So, I was afraid that above all else, I wasn’t going to wake up again. I got right morbid. I was in the middle of making my son’s “big boy room” and I busted my ass to finish it in time for my surgery “just in case”. I stuffed everything I could into his baby book, writing him letters about himself and me and what we did together every day and my special memories of him. I found a little corner of his room and painted a little love note to him on his wall so that he had something from me if I didn’t come back that he would stumble across at some point and feel loved.

The morning of the surgery I traded off, my son going with my step-dad to play in a helicopter (technically not supposed to do that) and my mom to stay with me at the hospital. I was NOT good company, but she was still a distraction a bit. I was trying to ignore the massive panic attack that I was going though, reminding myself of all the practical things that made no difference because it was me, not someone else or one of my patients going through this. Eventually, I gave up, surrendered to the numbness that was my only other option at the time, and went on in.

Of course they never get to things fast enough when you just need to “get it over with”. Waiting on the stretcher, having random nurses or surgeons come and ask me the same questions over and over (confidence inspiring, I know, but it happens all the time). And then eventually I go in, get knocked out, and remember nothing.

I only ever told one of my friends how I’d been feeling. Another mother that could understand the morbidity of my “what if’s” and not judge me or say I’m being ridiculous. I couldn’t tell my husband because I knew he’d yell at me for saying things I shouldn’t (maybe he thinks it’s a jinx, I’m not sure). I just faked a brave face for everyone else.

But eventually I woke up. I passed in and out for a bit, felt fine, told the nurses not to bother with a prescription for pain meds since they don’t work on me anyways (they looked like they wanted to have me committed when I said that, they must be wimps), and then I had to pee. “No way in hell am I using a bed pan if I can help it lady, no I’m not nauseous, just help me sit up so I can walk”. It’s amazing how you can go from fine to puking your guts out in a matter of seconds. But I did manage to walk to the bathroom after. And I puked every time I moved after that for the next few hours.

My mom took me home to live with her for the next week since my hubby was working and I couldn’t take care of my son. I came out of the hospital sliced up and stitched back together, underwear on backwards (mom’s fault), singing a song (slight side effect of the drugs) and pausing to puke every few minutes (it just snuck up out of nowhere), some pain in my chest/ shoulders/ back from the gas that they used to blow my abdomen up like a balloon, and walking like there was a short string from my head to my toes. But I was fine.

So mommyodyssey, that was my long-winded way of saying that we’re all scared, we’re all angry about the shit that has happened to us, and no matter how much I tell you that everything is going to be fine (cause it is) and that this time will turn out like it’s supposed to (cause it will) and that you will wake up (cause no one actually gets do die peacefully in their sleep like we all want to) and the percentage of things going wrong is so low (fuck percentiles, us infertiles hate percentiles)…all this will mean nothing because it’s not a someone else going through it.

I love you and I know that I’ll be hearing from you after your surgery when, just like I did, you will be able to laugh off your morbidity. I’ll be sending out my heathen prayers because if he’s there, he can hear me anyways. You know I won’t be the only one doing so. I know things are shit right now with this, and I wish I could be there with you to hold your hand and let you vent (even if you’re as grumpy and morbid as I got before mine).

Oh, and I managed to keep all my bits. I was lucky there (luckier if we knew why they aren’t really working). And my dermoid didn’t end up with teeth, hair and a thyroid. It was just boring fat and tissue so the dr didn’t bother taking a picture for me.

Venting methodes

CD how the hell would I know…somewhere in the middle?

Nice not to be tracking my own body and cycles like a stalker. Did you girls ever think of it like that? We have been our own personal stalkers. If we knew a quarter as many personal details of anyone else…we’d be creepy as hell. But it’s us, so we’re self-aware!

Self stalker/ self-aware

Determined/ stubborn as fuck

Potato/ potato (but said like a snobby english lady)

I got side tracked. My intention here is to talk about venting methods for frustration/ anger (mostly anger…you guys know me, lol)/ anxiety…you know. All those emotions we try to bottle up. Especially if you are a man (which the largest majority here are not, but if you are here then there was a man or man parts involved). Ok, maybe not especially men, but anyone who deals with stuff like a man…aka me.

So, I promised to keep you guys updated so you could hopefully benefit from my therapy…that just sounds fucked up when written down. During our last counselling session, after Hubby told A (super nice lady BTW) my labor story and she looked like she’d need to change her pants after laughing so hard, we focused on venting. You all know how big I am on venting! And now it’s not just me that’s saying Hubby needs to find an appropriate method of doing so.

He doesn’t like any of my suggestions. You guys remember my style of suggestions? Nearly all physical, nearly all involving hitting things. No, it’s not unhealthy! I’m not hitting anything that can’t take it…or is needed. So I’m going to list my suggestions and see if you guys can come up with a way of A) convincing Hubby that it’s not a bad idea B) alternatives that Hubby may not mind or C) praise my general state of +5 to awesome. I supposed there could be a D) something else I didn’t think of.

  • Smashing thinks we pick up at garage sales (but not at the garage sale itself, they may call the cops) like TVs, desks, large random items, etc.
  • Darts. Fun and simple and you only end up with a tender shoulder the next day.
  • Throwing plasticine. You roll it into balls and throw it at the wall as hard as you can. It makes a large splat and if you use different colors then it looks pretty too!
  • Screaming. Potentially cursing whilst screaming. Just do this in a space that you’re not scaring others or have them join in. group scream therapy.
  • Good old-fashioned hitting your mattress with a stick (make it a padded stick cause if you hit hard enough it rebounds and you might take it in the face, lol)
  • Shooting range – expensive but OOOHHHHHHH it’s s nice to shoot things. You’d never know it, but even though I am a great shot, LOVE to shoot and love wild meat…I need someone else to get Bambi for me. I stick to the inanimate objects.
  • My all time favorite. Fantasizing the most ridiculous situations and laugh your anger away. You guys remember my desire to sit in a garbage can at the end of my driveway and jump out growling at anyone the came by? We all know I’m nuts on the inside. Nothing new there. Humor, to me, is the all time best stress relief.

The counsellor tried to suggest journalling, but that falls under the “no way in hell” of him doing. We have a weight bench, but it’s never been touched (I’m a cardio girl) and he’s not ambitious enough to take up running. So, can you lovely ladies think of anything else that might do? Creative or super simple doesn’t matter.

She may or may not have also told me I have to practice leaving the house more…

What if I like being a hermit? Doesn’t it count if I’m just content at home now instead of avoiding the world?

Found a peanut

My best friend and I, as I may have mentioned in past posts, do not communicate on a normal human level. We don’t really talk, but instead communicate through grunts, strange noises, quotes, and songs. This is one of our ways of keeping happy, even though no one else has a clue as to whats going on about 90% of the time. We make each other laugh and we enjoy each others nonsense. In fact, I think making each other laugh is half of what we spend our time on. If you’d met me, you would understand that making me laugh has some strange results…which she seems to enjoy.

How do you laugh? Do you look/ sound like as much of a fool as I do? Some people have a nice laugh, and I am not one of them. But I don’t have just one laugh. I seem to have hundreds of them, each stranger than the last. They range from cackle to maniacle to snorting (very common) to high-pitched weezing, and of course my frequent “BLEHEHEHEHEE!” and usually followed by “I didn’t make that noise”. Lets just say, I doubt my laugh was part of the reason my hubby was first attracted to me 🙂 . And I’m a slapper. Dont sit beside me for a funny movie without being prepared for a couple potential wacks. And when I tell a joke (usually not understood by anyone but my best friend), it is usually followed by a knee slapping (yes, I tell real knee slappers) and the head thrown back kind of laugh.

I make myself laugh just by reacting to my own laughs and seeing other people reactions to me. I know I look ridiculous and I don’t care cause it’s funny. We all need to be able to laugh at ourselves.

This is one of the songs that will forever be embedded into my head when I think of Nik. To be fair, it’s not the exact version we sing to each other in public, but still. What morbid children’s songs we have going in our society.

The Scientist

Today is a day that, every year, I make a point of being with my friends. Today, eight years ago, one of my best friends passed away…on his birthday of all days. He wasn’t sick. He fell off a balcony. An ugly thing about this was that I saw it coming (as much as you can in these things). I remember telling him shortly after he moved into that apartment that he was going to fall off that balcony and die and I’d be really pissed at him. But of course you think that by saying these things you’ll officially stop them from happening, right? But that’s just not the case I guess.

Chris was such an amazing guy, and amazing boyfriend for a while, but even more amazing as my friend. And did I mention gorgeous? Classic ugly duckling syndrome. He never had a clue how beautiful he was inside and out. We dated for a short time, around 6? months, after I gave up pursuing him. Of course most of the time I just thought it was hysterical to go as far out of my way to make the shyest person I had met in a really long time talk to me and I loved flirting with him and seeing how red I could make him. When I came back to Canada after traveling post high school, I went out with my old cadet buddies (aka the friends that I keep no matter what it seems) and he’s a friend of theirs and we all go out dancing. Well, Mr. Shy took to calling me his “bitch” for the entire night and snuggling up to me (which for the record I found hilarious because I knew exactly how he ment it and it wasn’t in a rude fashion at all). Once I informed him that “only my boyfriend would be allowed to call me that” and he looked me straight in the eye with a shit-eating grin and said it again, I knew for certain that I’d finally broken this shy guy and stolen is affections.

But as great a time as we had together, we finally realized that we weren’t “forever” material for each other. One day I called him up and asked him to come over so we could “talk”. He showed up at my house shortly after with a box of all my stuff (well the stuff that he didn’t decide to keep it turned out) that I’d kept at his place. I took one look at it and burst out laughing at us being on the same page so clearly, gave him one last giant kiss, and invited him in to hang out for a while. Not the normal break up, hey? Well, we weren’t normal. For a little while all my buddies stopped calling me, feeling uncomfortable about the break-up and trying to show their support for Chris, not understanding that we were ok. But Chris kept calling me, kept bringing me out to hang with the guys and him so we could all bridge that gap together. He never left me out and after a while it was comfortable enough for us to hang out just the two of us again. And he always treated me great. How could I not love him? How could anyone not love such a fantastic person. And I’m really glad he knew how I felt about him. We spent the day together about three days before he died. I did his hair (he loved it when I’d streak it for him with blonds and red, very similar to what I added to mine actually) and of course I’d have to re-inform him about how some day I’d have a life-sized poster of him on my wall just cause he was so damn pretty. But for some reason as he was taking me home that night I had the burning need to tell him how much I loved him and how he was, along with being  one of my favorite people to walk this earth, one of the best friends I could have ever asked for. We made plans to get together for his birthday a few days later with all the friends and we went merrily our separate ways.

But on the morning of his birthday the phone rang at an ungodly early hour. Hubby (who at that point was Fiance) picked up the phone. He NEVER picks up the phone. Why did he this time? I can’t remember if he cried or if he was just stunned, but he got off and told me that Chris had died and I’d never been gutted so hard in my life. I don’t even remember the next few days except being with his family, and our friends, and putting together a memorial poster for the funeral. At the viewing, I completely broke. You ever held on to a corpse for dear life? Not pretty. Thats about all I remember other than after the funeral the next day, going to his parents and being with his family for a while (they are amazing, like him, and I became very close with them too), and then having a wake to make him proud. We had a toga party. Chris had always wanted a toga party.

I don’t remember what day it was in here, but I had another buddy take me to his apartment so I could collect a few things. I took the sweater that I gave him, I found a picute of our friends I’d made him, some pictures of us, and a few things he’d kept from when we were dating (like a McDonald’s happy meal Gandolph toy that I’d given him as a joke and he held on to even when he’d moved).

I cried so much in those days. And at my wedding it was just awful because I had wanted to ask him to stand up with me in the wedding party (his best friend was also my bridesman) but I’d never gotten around to asking him. And every year as this date approaches I get sad, but as time goes by I am able to look more at the great times we had, and even though I miss him incredibly, I know I don’t have the regrets I could have had, had I not taken that time to remind him how wonderful he was to me.

I love you Chris and I’m so proud to have you as the namesake of my son. If he can grow up to be half the man you were then he will be great. I’ll miss you always.

Now go and tell the people you love how important they are to you, because you want them to know.

p.s. I’ll just share a lesson that Chris learned so that you all don’t have the make the same mistakes. Berreo’s aren’t too bad, but scrambled eggs and chocolate chips are awful together.  😉

I think it’s pretty obvious that I’ve had songs on the brain the last couple days. Music it what I use when I’m not so much needing to escape reality, but to express it, or have a good bawl, or even just bring myself back to a place that a certain song/ album/ artist reminds me of. Like listening to Lisa Loeb makes me think of comfortable winters curled up in my bed. Or Smashing Pumpkins Mellon collie & the infinate sadness makes me think of jumping on my bed and dancing around with a great friend at night in the dark with my twinkle lights on. And Classical music makes me think of making out in the back seat of my friends car (It’s drove my buddy nut, but I just liked to bug him by calling it make-out music and I had to stick to my guns, lol)

After my second miscarriage I was looking for music that I could relate with, that would help me express what I was feeling and one of the songs that really jumped out at me was by Joe Purdy. I’d never even heard of the guy before, but because of this song I’m a big fan.

I just can’t seem to get it right today, I guess I’m going to give up. These words reminded me that I don’t need to get it right. Why should I try and make things right for others when I was the one that lost a child. I stopped caring what others thought and decided that I’d get better in my own time. I gave up trying to “get it right” and I instantly felt a huge burden lift off my shoulders.

I ended up developing an “F you if you can’t deal with me greiving” attitude and then I cried whenever I wanted to and didn’t feel like I needed to suck it up and put on a brave face. It was really the best thing that could have happened. That was when I realized that people need to talk about this. No more taboo for me. I wanted to reach out to others in my position and I wanted them to be able to know they were not alone. More than just a book they could read or a self help style cd, but someone they could actually communicate with that would talk back. Even when we want to talk, sometimes we can’t talk to those close to us and we just need someone that knows and has been there. And talking to strangers feel strangly safe.

So to those of you that I talk/ blog/ chat with or to the ones that are just reading and are not ready to put themselves out there…don’t worry about getting it “right”. Do whatever it is that feels right.

And on an unrelated note,  just another of his songs that I love

I’m coming home

This really isn’t my normal style of music…not that I really have a normal style since I listen to most anything, but I just happened to be scanning around the radio this afternoon and this came on. Wow. I doubt it will have the same effect on you, but this song really hit me. The lyrics hit home to how I have felt in the past.

my closet need a lot of cleaning now
I can’t sleep cause I don’t like the sh-t I dream about
hey Dear Lord please help me get the demons out
and then help me get my genius out
and get back to what I had
if my good’s outweigh my bads, do you think my mistakes is gonna even out

Been there? I know we’ve all made mistakes in life. Mine kept me lock in one hell of a nightmare (in my head) for a lot of years and still creep up to haunt me every once in a while. But when I made my way out, it was like coming home again. I can’t explain it very well, but maybe some of you know what I mean anyways because you’ve been in a similar spot.

Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes
I’m coming home

I don’t like rap music, but this is just beautiful to me.