finslippy

Clarification.

We're hoping that we get some answers from the pathology report, that we find out that there was some chromosomal defect and that we were spared unspeakable pain down the road. Anything so we can feel like this isn't the worst that could possibly have happened.

I found out today that the words I wrote were interpreted by some as "at least we didn't have a disabled baby."

That was the furthest thing from my mind, when I was wrote those words. I was thinking of the fetus's nonviability. I was thinking at least the end happened now, and not deep into the second trimester, or at birth.

The last thing I wanted to do was bring any other parent pain, and I'm sorry if I did.

What are you doing tomorrow night?

Answer: you are coming to Brooklyn, to see me.

Also some other people.

No, but seriously. Tomorrow night at 5:30 p.m. I will be at Soda Bar with Heather, Doug, Sarah, and Greg. (Scott, aka Pretty Rambo, will be there as well.) We will be there to sign copies of Things I Learned About My Dad (In Therapy), which you might notice over there in the right-hand column.(If you like you can BUY A COPY AND THEN WRITE SOMETHING NICE ON AMAZON. No pressure. Do it. Doitdoitdoit.)

And that's not all! After the Soda Bar festivities, we will be moseying a few blocks away to Cringe, the monthly reading hosted by Ms. Sarah Brown. Supposedly I will be reading something at this event. It seems incredible to me that I will be able to scrape myself off the ground and shower by tomorrow, much less get to Brooklyn, much less talk to people and write my name on things and then get up in front of friends and strangers and read my pre-teen tribute to Billy Joel. But I have promised, and at least I'll be able to have a drink, or four.

Isn't it nice when someone tells you what you're doing? All that confusion about what's to come—all of it has been washed away. It's all so clear, now. Brooklyn, you, me. See you there.

Overwhelmed.

I cannot begin to tell you how much all of your emails and comments have meant to me. I read each and every one of them, and every one of them helped more than I can say. (And yet I'm still sadder than I've ever been. This seems mathematically impossible, but my emotions are terrible at math.)

Right now I'm feeling a lot of things, and soon enough I will write long and confused posts about this bizarre rollercoaster ride I'm on, but first I wanted to say thank you. To all of you out there, and to those close to home. I have an amazing family who have rallied around me, parents who came and cried with me and made dinner and cleaned my refrigerator, friends who visited and sent gifts and let me cry all over them and took Henry on extended playdates. I have an impossibly sweet boy who has remained, I am pleased to say, mostly oblivious to what's going on. (Although this morning he pointed out that I haven't played with him in months. I have some serious catching up to do.) And I have the greatest husband of all time. (Sorry, ladies, but I win.) And if I say anything more about how much he's done for me, I'll start crying again, and sheesh, my mascara is already messed up enough. (Yes, I applied mascara this morning. I had this delusion that today maybe I wouldn't cry. Ha ha! HAAArggh hmm.)

More later.

The worst post I've ever written.

I wish I had good news for you.

I was 10 and a half weeks pregnant, yesterday. I woke up a pregnant woman. The worst of the first-trimester misery was over. I've been lucky that way: this time, as with the last pregnancy, I was pretty much done with the constant nausea by eight weeks. Last time I freaked out and demanded an ultrasound, convinced that the absence of nausea heralded bad news. Then of course we saw Henry in there, waving his limbs at us, and we laughed at all our silly worrying, and carried on. This time I knew better. I was so calm throughout this pregnancy, nothing like I was the last time. When I was pregnant with Henry I began freaking out approximately ten minutes after the stick showed me both its lines. A week later I developed hives across my abdomen, giant egg-shaped welts. My doctor diagnosed me with some kind of virus, but I knew what had caused it: apocalyptic Google searches. This time, I knew: Thou Shalt Not Google. I didn't unearth my pregnancy books from the basement. I took my prenatals, and I laughed at my rapidly expanding midsection. The eight-week appointment was great, and we saw the fetus in there, heard its enthusiastic heartbeat, took a picture home that showed its little limb buds sticking out from the body. I planned the announcement post on my blog. Scott and I were beyond excited.

So as I said. Yesterday, I was pregnant. Scott went to work, Henry went to school, and I… well, I went to the bathroom, where I noticed some spotting. It was spotting so tiny that I could have ignored it. I could have not seen it at all. It was an eensy brown smudge. Nonetheless, I promptly began hyperventilating. This is what I do. Because if I worry hard enough I can ward off any bad news. If I'm neurotic enough, the universe will laugh, pat me on the head, and rain disaster down on some unsuspecting sane person. I called my doctor, who was as unconcerned as any normal human being would be, but suggested that I come in, just for peace of mind. I made an appointment for the afternoon, and after that, there was absolutely no spotting. Nothing at all. I laughed at myself, at what a big deal I had made over this tiny one-time smudgy nothing.

Everything was casual and light at the OB/GYN, until the ultrasound. The first thing I noticed was the absence of movement. Maybe it's the angle? I thought. She was moving all around my abdomen, so it was hard to say. Then she began pointing things out to me. "Here, you see, here is where I should see a heartbeat." I'm so sorry, she kept saying, I'm so sorry. She began measuring. I'm so sorry, she repeated, it looks like growth ended at about eight and a half weeks.

Everything that follows is a blur. I believe the first thought I had was, "And now I shall have a margarita." It was the best thing I could think to stop myself from losing all control, but I couldn't stop it, of course, and soon I was weeping so loudly that I imagined the office staff ushering all the pregnant women out of the building. Nothing to see here, ladies! No bad news around here! Who's for ice cream? The doctor left me alone so I could call Scott, and arrange for someone to pick up Henry, there was no way I could pick him up from school in my current state. The call to Scott was the worst call I ever had to make. I kept repeating what the doctor had said. I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. Because if I could feel bad for him, if I could concentrate on him and all he had lost, I didn't have to think about what was inside me at that moment.

Nothing much has happened since then. We're going in for some sort of super high-tech ultrasound this afternoon, which seems like the worst form of torture, but apparently is necessary before they can schedule the D&C. Meanwhile I'm having absolutely no spotting, just an occasional breathtaking pain that rips through me and reminds me of what's going on, like I need reminding. We're hoping that we get some answers from the pathology report, that we find out that there was some chromosomal defect and that we were spared unspeakable pain down the road. Anything so we can feel like this isn't the worst that could possibly have happened.

Spring break

Readers, my son is at my parents' house all week, and you know what that means. I'm not wearing any pants! Is what it means!

Okay, actually, I am wearing pants right now. But in spirit, I am as pantsless as the day I was born.

When I left Henry today, he was casually announcing to my mom that he couldn't help but notice that right next to the new adventure park in her town (the one where they're spending the day) there's an ice-cream stand, you know, so in case they needed some ice cream after riding some rides, well, there it is! Isn't that convenient! And then my mom said, "And I think after ice cream we should get you some more Legos for our house." Henry concurred, then glanced at me and said, "Okay, bye, Mom." Get out of here before you make some stupid speech about moderation, woman. My boy is going to miss me something fierce! I can feel it!

While Henry's over there, I am going to be here catching up on many long overdue projects and deadlines and plants that need planting. And mulch! My god, there's so much mulch to be, you know. Put down. Around the, uh, plants, and such. It's a wonder I haven't killed the neighbors' gardens, along with my own. Anyway, this is all to say that as I will be Going Wild all week, I will not be so much with the posting on this here web-log Internet site. Barring some sort of extraordinary occurrence, like I'm arrested for speeding while nude and I need you to bail me out. I am almost sure this won't happen again, though, so try not to worry.

Cellulitis! A short play.

I. Walking to school.

Henry: I have to be careful of my purple thumb.
Me: You have to be what of your what now?
Henry: My purple thumb. See?
Me: What, did you get magic marker on your thWHAAAAT IS THAT. Scott. Scott!
Scott: Oh, wow. Did you cut your thumb at some point, buddy?
Henry: Hmm. Yesterday at school there were these white cracks on my thumb so I put my finger in my mouth, and then the cracks went away.
Me: Oh, god, you put it in your mouth?
Henry (sighing): Yes, and then the white cracks went away.
Scott: Does it hurt?
Henry: Only when I touch it.

We head back home. Phone calls to the doctor ensue. An appointment is made.

II. At the doctor's office.

Nurse: So what happened?
Henry: Well, my thumb is all purple and swollen, see?
Nurse: Wow. Did you get a cut?
Henry: Yesterday there were these white cracks all over, but then I licked it and the white cracks went away.
Nurse: White cracks? And you … licked it?
Me: I know. I… I know.
Henry: It's okay! When I licked it, it got better! Well, it still hurt.

Doctor: What did you do to your thumb, Henry?
Henry (sighing deeply): White cracks, licked it, school, purple.
Doctor: White…what?

Finally, after much explanation, there is a diagnosis, and a prescription. We leave. I try to convince Henry not to ever lick his wounds or really any part of himself, especially at school, blah blah. He ignores me, preferring to list his favorite aliens from Ben-10. The End.

That play's going straight to Broadway, my friends. Mark my words.

New post on Wonderland today, about lying to your children. Like how when I told Henry that if he licked his thumb ever again, somewhere a puppy would die.

Communication breakdown.

What we said: Time to get dressed!
What he heard: Tell us that story again. The one with no real ending.
What we said: Okay, really, it's time to get dressed.
What he heard: How slowly can you slide one foot into a pantleg?
What we said: GET. DRESSED.
What he heard: Whoa, mister, where's the fire? Surely you can zone out for a few minutes while your head is still inside your shirt.
What we said: Okay, I'm leaving the room now because otherwise I'm going to scream.
What he heard: Chase after me! Chase after me and be sure to make robot noises! Also, don't zip up your pants first, so that they fall down around your ankles. I love that.

What we said: So how was school today?
What he heard: GIVE ME YOUR SOUL.
What we said: I don't need details, I just wanted to know if you had a good day.
What he heard: DELICIOUS SOUL. I WILL EAT IT AND LEAVE NONE FOR YOU. NOM NOM.
What we said: I can tell by the shrieking that you don't want to tell me about your day, so let's move on.
What he heard: Truly, sir, you have defeated me. I tip my hat to you.

What we said: You can watch one show.
What he heard: You can watch at least one show.
What we said: No, one show. One. That's it.
What he heard: I'm sure a little whining could convince me otherwise.
What we said: That sound coming out of your mouth is not changing my mind.
What he heard: I'm beginning to see your point.
What we said: Or we could have no television for the rest of the week.
What he heard: Which leaves me more time for grilling you about school. I will get that soul if it's the last thing I do. BWA HA HA.

No sickness over here! Nope!

Okay, well now that two (2!) commenters have observed that both Henry and I get sick "a lot," I'm feeling all defensive about my sinus infection or whatever it is that's currently consuming the inside of my face. Shut up! I am not sick a lot! Where are my tissues!

Actually I thought we were doing remarkably well, considering the multitude of viruses being distributed like party favors amongst his peers. Then, of course, MELISSA decided to come to our house, and cough all over our stuff. "Please stop kissing my son on the lips," I begged her , but she just laughed and told me to lighten up. And then sneezed all over his Bionicle.

Henry's sickness on Thursday and Friday was this low-grade-fever-but-not-much-else virus that seems to be sweeping through town. The kind that leaves them unwell enough to have to stay home but energetic enough to drive you nuts. The virus seemed to afflict Henry in such a way that it dangerously elevated his charm level. He kept gazing at me and saying things like "I'm really enjoying this nice quiet time with you." It was… alarming. I tried to remain calm.

I don't know if Wondertime is out on the stands yet, but we received our copies of the May issue, with Henry adorning its pages, and we heartily approve. Henry took a copy of the magazine to school with him this morning. "I'm famous," he told his teacher, and held out the magazine as proof.

And now I'm off to irrigate my head-holes, or whatever it is I need to do to breathe.

Yet another sick day for two-thirds of us.

New Wonderland post up today. Read it! Comment! Not to pressure you, or anything.

Henry is home sick and Scott is home working, and the cat is plotting the dog's death. The house feels very full today. This is not a bad thing, necessarily. (Except for the dog.) Henry is right next to me, completing a Space Puzzle and shouting out random words, some of them real, others not so much. "Zucchini!" he shouts. "Zerf eeney! Zerf koo-eeney!" I asked him what any of those noises had to do with his puzzle, but he just shrugged. It's simply his way, to emit a constant stream of noise. The other day I pleaded with him to cease and desist the use of the phrase "Old Man Jenkins." I couldn't figure out why he kept saying it, and then later that day we ran into a bunch of his school friends, and he shouted "Old Man Jenkins!" and they all fell to the ground laughing. "Old Man Jenkins!" they shouted back. He is a comedy maverick. And me, I just sit here, writing down what he says.

I'm here!

I beg your forgiveness, as I am both besieged with work and also under the weather. I have a cold and/or allergies and some sort of stomachy unhappiness to boot. Terrible noises are emanating from my person. I want chicken soup. BRING ME CHICKEN SOUP.

Spring is sort of here, but not really, but I opened a window anyway. Boy, there's news for you. "It is Slightly Chilly, But Nevertheless, Alice Has Opened a Window". There. Can I go back to sleep? Anyway, now Izzy (the cat, for those of you not up to date on our pets) has pressed herself against the screen and her eyes are bigger than her head right now and every ounce of her is twitching. HOLY. CRAP. THERE ARE BIRDS RIGHT THERE IWILLEATTHEM. She's the happiest being in the house right now. Charlie is the happiest being on the property, as he is gallivanting around the backyard, eating grass, dreaming about when and where he can barf up all the grass he's been enjoying.

Oh, God, that's it. Henry's still at school, I'm here drinking tepid tea and clutching my abdomen, and I am officially the most boring person on the planet. Forgive me.

Three bloggers show up at my house, and all hell breaks loose.

Melissa, Chris, and Susan arrived this afternoon and before I could even say hello they were emptying my cupboards, drinking my liquor, and slapping around my dog. I begged them to stop, but Chris said, and I quote, "I've got seven kids; do you really think your whining has any effect on me?" Then she gave me a roundhouse to the kidneys and everything went black. I had no idea she was so mean. Eventually Chris and Susan left, but not before Susan lurched upstairs, claiming to need to use my bathroom, and then came back down to announce that she hadn't quite made it. It was pretty traumatic, is all I have to say.

Now Melissa's upstairs napping and before she went up there she grabbed me by the collar and growled that if anything woke her up, there would be hell to pay. I'm so scared.

As for things not going on in my imagination, here's my Wonderland column for this week.

Why, hello there.

I know, I know, when will she update and get something up that's not that uplifting slice-of-life crap, SHEESH. When most of the comments are "Awwww," I know there's a backlash brewing somewhere, a portion of my readership that's retching into their cupped hands.

He's just so cute these days, damn it. A while back I told Henry that I have a terrible problem because all I want to do is hug him, and he told me, "That's not a problem, it's love." Now all I have to do is give him a look and say "Henry" in a plaintive voice, and he says, "Moo-oom, it's just love, don't worry about it." I can't stand it! So cute! A wuzza wuzza!

Okay, I'll stop, okay. But seriously, nothing's going on over here. I'm trying to write this book thing, which means I'm hiding under my desk and rocking back and forth, forth and back. It goes on like that for hours. If I'm sucking my thumb, I won't admit to it, but anyway I certainly am not.

Here's something! The May issue of Wondertime is out, and it contains my essay, which you can see here on their website. The print article has all the cute pictures of Henry and Scott, whereas the web version just has the one picture of me, in which I'm wearing cinnamon buns and looking like something smells terrible. Since the picture was taken in our kitchen, this is more than possible.

A good morning.

He ate both waffles.
He examined his sticky fingers and said, "I need to wash up."
He wanted to brush his teeth and wash without me, as a surprise.
"When I come out, you say, 'How did your teeth get so white?' and 'How did your hands get so clean'?"
He forgot that he needs my help squeezing the toothpaste. I came in, for a second. I had to pretend I didn't do that.
He jumped out of the bathroom and did jazz hands at me.
He stood on my bed, carefully brushing his hair, while I got dressed, and explained to me how he likes his hair done.
"You have to have your hair off your forehead, so you can look beautiful," he explained.
He brushed my hair. "You have a big forehead so it's easy for you to look beautiful."
Then he said he was going to show his Dad how beautiful he looked, and he ran downstairs.

Bully for you!

My new Wonderland column is up, and it's about bullying. Read it if you know what's good for you.

And wow, may I just say, now that I've done all this reading about school bullies, I am looking forward to Henry's entry into kindergarten a little bit less. Would it send the wrong message if I sent him to school in a helmet? Or a bubble?

I'm also realizing how easy I got off, bully-wise, in school. I regularly received threatening notes in junior high, but no matter how many times I learned that I would soon get the beating of my life, I never did. Perhaps the sniveling dissuaded my enemies. No one likes to get their fists wet.

The worst that happened is that the girls who wanted to beat me instead grabbed my LeSportsSac, mocked its contents, and broke my frosted blue eyeliner against the outside of the school. The sight of glittery light-blue smudged on brick can still move me to tears. Oh, Wet 'n' Wild Azure Dreams! You never had a chance!