The Dancing Baby

I had no idea I was pregnant for quite a long time. You see, the birth control pill I was on made it so I only sporadically got my period. Or I just got the merest suggestion of a period, the kind that you could totally miss if you were wearing red panties, you see. So how was I to know?

After suffering from some sort of stomach virus for about 10 days at work, it suddenly dawned on me that I should probably go to the doctor. I called the doctor and when I described my symptoms, they asked me when my last period was.

"Huh?" I said. And then stared into space as I tried to recall the last time I'd had to use Spray 'n' Wash on my underwear. I couldn't remember. I finally offered a feeble, "June? July, maybe?" to the receptionist and she replied, "It's September."

Whoops.

So I bought one of those uber-conclusive, idiot-proof pregnancy tests they have now. The kind that says, "PREGNANT, YOU DUMBASS" or "WHOO HOO! GET OUT OF JAIL FREE AND GET READY TO PARTAYYYY!!!!!111111!!!YOU! YOU! YOU!" The reason I was so selective about my pregnancy test was because when I'd tested myself six years previous to this, I had gotten two negative signs right away and breathed a huge sigh of relief.

"Phew! I'm doubly not pregnant!" I said.

(Did I mention I failed Algebra II in high school? Shut up. I totally passed it with a 59.9% the second time I took it. So I am not a failure.)

But after having read through the directions again, which vaguely jostled an ancient math memory ("Two negatives equals a positive") I proceeded to take all three tests in the box. All of which came out "doubly not pregnant" which actually means "really really once pregnant."

And you know what they say, "Once pregnant, twice shy." Or is that, "Once pregnant, twice pregnant, you dumbass?"

Anyway, that's the story of my persistent fertility on the birth control pill. Yes, I've gotten pregnant with both of my children while on the birth control pill. While normal everyday Americans look shocked, askance, horrified at this news ... the doctors and nurses at the Ob-Gyn office give you a blank stare when you screech at them in the office while wearing your napkin robe with your toenails peeling polish from the pedicure you had three weeks ago and yes, you should have gotten a pedicure before you had to get in the stirrups but the chronic nausea from your imaginary stomach virus which actually turned out to be a baby virus kept you from it, yes in this state of disrepair you screech: "HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN TWICE?!? I THOUGHT THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 96 to 99% EFFECTIVE OR SOME SHIT LIKE THAT?!?"

But the professionals just shrug their shoulders and say, "It happens," or "I guess you're the 1 to 4%" and then they give you a reassuring smile, rub your knee and give you a bag full of baby formula samples and diapers, and you think to yourself, "Hey, I didn't even say whether I'd decided whether I'm having this baby or not!" But the doctors and nurses in Ob-Gyn offices are all-knowing because they know if you weren't having this baby you wouldn't be at your regular Ob-Gyn but you'd be skulking off to Planned Parenthood.

And besides, you're sitting there in the office rubbing your belly absentmindedly. I don't think one comforts one's unborn child if one is not planning on keeping it for a while.

So I made an appointment for a few weeks later to have an ultrasound. The doctor wanted to wait a few weeks to "make sure something is there" since none of us knew how far along I was. My last period was anytime between the calendar dates of "June" and "July" and I guess this wasn't specific enough for them.

A few weeks later the Boyfriend and I went back to the doctor's to figure out how long this little baby had been hijacking my uterus. I figured I was around 8 weeks pregnant at that point, which is pregnant enough to see the little seahorse that is your burgeoning baby.

The technician waved the wand around the cloudy universe that was my womb while the Boyfriend and I waited with bated breath. The next thing we knew, a living breathing, arm-waving, leg-kicking full-blown baby was dancing on the large-screen TV.

The Boyfriend, the technician and I collectively gasped.

"Oh my!" she said.

"Holy crap!" he said.

"What the hell!" I said.

The baby ignored all three of us and spun around in a womby piroutte and waved its arms over its head, bent and kicked its legs, and then waved its little fingers in front of its mouth. It spun and twisted in an absolutely blissful dance of life, ignoring the shocked adults witnessing its unbelievable State of Selfness.

"You are much further along than we thought!" the technician said, taking measurements. "You're 12 weeks!"

"12 weeks!' I said.

"12 weeks!" the Boyfriend said.

And then at some point we began to laugh. 

How could we not? We were expecting to see some anonymous little conglomerate of cells. We expected to see some reptilian snail of an embryo. We didn't expect to meet you with the perfect profile, the sweet round head, the delicate ears, the nimble fingers and toes.

We didn't expect you to be dancing.

My god. You were beautiful. How could we not love you? How could we not wait to dance with you? So your dad named you the Dancing Baby. And now, six weeks later, I can finally feel you dancing in there. You're still rocking and rolling. You've got a lot of shit to do, I can tell. You're a mover and a shaker. And you haven't got time for worried nancies like your dad and me. 

You want us to get up and dance too.

Neti Pot Fever

The Neti Pot and its sinus flush cousins have taken over. Forget about the Swine Flu epidemic, I believe there's a sinus irritagation epidemic going on that nobody's talking about. After having suffered with a cold/plague for the past week and a half, I have had more than one friend recommend I go to the Neti Pot.

I recall a year ago I had only one fringe, organic-friendly friend who dared admit to using the Neti Pot. Back then it was still something akin to eye of the newt. This time around I've got all kinds of Neti Potters whispering their pagan secrets in my congested ears.

"Neti pot," they whisper and then I hear the cackle of a Neti Pot coven echo from the woods out back.

Okay, there are no woods out back, but you get the point.

Some of my less fringe friends have suggested I use the more socially-acceptable and less bohemian nasal rinses that come in a more medical-looking plastic bottle. I don't know about you, but whether I'm tipping a porcelain pot in my nose or jamming a pastic nozzle up my nose doesn't really make a difference. It's the whole "flushing your nasal passages with salt water" I object to.

I mean, haven't I flushed my nasal passages enough between learning how to waterski on Torch Lake as a child, or completing my PADI scuba license at sixteen? I'd say my ears, nose and throat have been rinsed with enough salt water to last me a lifetime, thank you.

So I finally went to a doctor today to find out whether I had H1N1 and whether my co-workers dirty looks were justified or not. Turns out I do not have the Swine Flu (which means I still have to get the vaccine, drat) but I do have a sinus infection. The first of my life.

My god. When you people were bitching about sinus headaches and I was rolling my eyes all those years? Whoops! My bad! It really does hurt.

Who knew?

So after prescribing some antibiotics and bed rest, my doctor threw in one last prescription:

"Oh, and get yourself a Neti Pot or a nasal rinse. Use it four times a day. You'll be amazed by how much you get out!"

Et tu, Doctor?

I just irrigated my nasal passages. Intentionally. It was beyond disgusting. It did remind me of falling off the waterskis, getting face-planted on the wake board, and having to remove my mask under water in the Atlantic Ocean. It reminded me of a few other things I won't mention in polite society.

But nasal passages feel quite flushed, thank you. And salty.

On Second Chances

There's something much more romantic and uplifting about second marriages to me. I know to say that is practically akin to sacrilege, but for those of us who have been through divorce, we know it's true.

Isn't there something inherently beautiful about giving love a second chance? Isn't there something absolutely life-affirming when you've been broken-hearted, yet you pick yourself up and dare to risk it again?

It moves me, I tell you.

I don't know many people who have gone through a divorce who haven't said to themselves at least once (even if it was just a whisper): "Never again." I think that's a normal human response to pain. "Ouch that hurt" = "Don't do that again." Pretty simple, really.

But when it comes to love, marriage and babies — if you don't do that again, it could mean you might wind up living alone with a lot of cats.

Just kidding.

(Sort of.)

I love the triumph of the human spirit. I love that love can conquer all. Well sort of. In a global sense, I mean. Not necessarily in your first marriage. Ha. Just kidding. (Sort of.) I love that you can be chewed up, spit out and left for dead on the love highway, only to scrape yourself back up again and say: "I believe in me. I believe I am lovable. I believe I deserve love even if I screwed it up once before. Or ten times before. I believe I have learned something valuable here on the pavement of failed marriages. And therefore I will try, try again — except this time I'm a little bit older and a heck of a lot wiser."

The Fiance says he loves any story about the redemption of souls.

First marriages aren't about the redemption of souls. First marriages are about innocence. First marriages are often about a couple of kids who have no idea what life has in store for them. First marriages are about life-virgins. Second marriages are a little beat up, it's true. We've been rode hard and put up wet, you could say. But the two hearts standing there, risking once more to commit a lifetime to another person, they really know how much this can hurt. How much is at risk.

And yet they venture forth anyway.

Their faith isn't dead.

Their belief in love, intact.

You can't break the human spirit, at least not this one. And not the Fiance's. We won't mock marriage or innocence or second chances. We won't laugh at unintended babies either. None of these things are foolish, or accidents, or laughable.

These are acts of redemption.

It's a baptism by love and we can all be born again.

(You just have to believe.)

Writer's Block or The Pregnant Pause

I'm humor-blocked.

I keep waiting for something funny to happen so I can write a blog. I feel as though I've exceeded my allotment of serious posts. Of course my son Cracky says funny stuff all the time, but I feel as though I've exceeded my "funny stuff my five-year-old says" blog quota too. I don't want this to become the "Kids Say The Darndest Things" of the internet.

I've been sick this week, so normally that would provide some dark humor — at least you would think so. But laying on the couch with a pillow over your face so you can block out the painful, painful rays of the sun isn't as hilarious as one would hope. Though it is somewhat amusing that when my 48-hour headache finally abated last night, the relief was so palpable I almost felt like a cancer survivor. And then I washed my hair this morning and threw my neck out. Yes. One subtle move while scrubbing my head and *CRICK* my neck was totally whacked out. So now I'm walking around like a hit-and-run victim. 

*Sigh*

That's a little funny, right?

Maybe nothing's funny because I'm pregnant? (I love burying the lead!) The first trimester I was a wreck because I was afraid I was going to lose the baby (due to some complications). Well, that's not funny blog material. Then I made it out of the first trimester and for the last few weeks I've been waiting for the results from my Triple Screen test for any kind of chromosomal problems.

That's a laugh riot, huh?

The doctor's office told me last Tuesday that if I didn't hear anything within a week, that meant my test results were "normal." So it's been over a week so I'm assuming everything is fine. Of course the little voice in my head says, "Maybe they just haven't called yet." So I called this morning and left a message.

*Taps foot*

Plus I lost weight this week because of the slight touch of the Plague I had. My belly is smaller. Normally this would be a cause for the Dance of Joy, but of course a little voice in my head says, "Maybe the baby's dead."

Am I allowed to say that?

I know there are some things you're not supposed to say, but hell, I figure the only reason blogs are interesting is because some of us say the stuff we're not supposed to say. I don't know why I'm such an emotional wreck over this pregnancy. When I was 32 and pregnant with my son Cracky, I assumed everything would be fine. I didn't worry about losing him, I didn't worry about him being sick. I even went into labor on my due date. He was that perfect.

But this baby scares me.

I'm six years older, and when you're over 35 they play some sort of  Trumpet of Doom that announces you're at higher risk for just about everything. And I realize that even though I thought I only wanted one child and I liked the simple easy life of having one kid and no siblings to squabble with ... even though all that was signed, sealed, delivered and approved by yours truly ... now suddenly it's not.

One isn't enough.

I want my two babies.

Suddenly this baby matters so much.

I wish I could laugh, but I'm too worried to laugh. Maybe I'll laugh when this baby comes screaming bloody murder out into the world. Then I'll laugh at this noisy plan-wrecker of a kid. I'll welcome this baby into the world and let him or her know that it's all going to be fine.

Just fine.

And I'll stop worrying enough to show him (or her) how beautiful this world can be. And we'll all laugh. The Fiance, me, Cracky, the plan-wrecking baby, we will all throw our heads back and laugh and wonder how we ever thought we could have lived this life without him.

Or her.

I hope all of our laughter fills the house and shakes the walls down.

Life Humbles Us. If We're Lucky.

The Fiance went to his 25th college reunion this weekend. Of the stories he told me and the friends he reconnected with, what stands out the most to me is his observation that everyone had been humbled by life.

25 years after college graduation, the kids who knew where they were going and were self-assured that theirs would be a life of success and privilege had evolved into people who had suffered. Loss had come to them in all manner of ways, from death, to divorce to career disappointments. The Fiance noted that even ten years ago all of these folks still had life by the tail, but now they realized that it's life that has us.

It's a humbling thing, this living. When you look back at the plans of your youth, how many of us have followed a straight path from our planned point A to our planned point B? I'm embarrassed to say that I used to tell my friends in high school that my goal was to have a "Jag by 30." This seemed a perfectly reasonable goal, and I was talented enough to get it.

Now I walk around with a banner that reads: "Busted-up Honda by 38."

I laugh to write that, and realize that could really be the banner for my life. My duct-taped Civic is a metaphor for my life. It's got 115,000 miles on it, it still runs, and hell, most of the mechanics tell me, "That's nothing for a Honda."

It's all a matter of perspective.

I may be a busted-up hooptie of a girl now, but I've got a good engine and a reputation for tenaciousness. There are all manner of things I never thought  I would do, endure, survive. I never thought I'd be divorced. You can believe at 21 that you would never get divorced and when you promised through "sickness and in health" you meant it. You meant it like religion, and you would have been quick to judge anyone who failed those vows.

But I did it.

I left him in sickness.

I never thought I'd have a child, let alone a child out of wedlock. Nice girls from Bloomfield Hills don't do such things. I used to joke that my life had become a Jerry Springer show, and the pain of that truth wasn't buried too deeply underneath my bravado.

Strong, feminist, educated women don't let their boyfriends knock them around. Strong women don't disappear under the force of some bully's might. Anyone who has known me, even from our playground days, would never imagine I would take crap from any man. I was always a tough little tomboy. I never knew I would become a cliche.

But I did.

There are all sorts of failings, losses, disappointments and heartaches I never thought I'd go through. And even the ones I have encountered, I didn't handle nearly so well as I'd hoped. I have not gone through life with the poise and grace I'd expected of myself. The rigid expectations and the cocky assurances of my youth have been weathered away by this humbling life.

Though it's taken nearly 40 years, I'd have to say I wouldn't have it any other way. What I have discovered from this life of loss is a capacity for understanding. If I have failed myself and have had to pick up and start all over again more times than I care to admit, I find I am more apt to understand how you could fall. And more likely to help you up.

Some folks don't seem to soften with age, it's true. Some may not be so humbled by life but rage against it still. In their inability to forgive themselves their failings and to recognize their own weaknesses, they'll never acquire the ability to forgive you yours.

I'd take a life riddled with imperfection and messy humanity, if it leaves me sympathetic to yours. At 38 years old, I realize this is what it is to be a good person — not living a life free from mistakes and failures. Recently I'd confided in a friend when I was scared, disappointed and on the verge of castigating myself yet again for the direction my life had taken,  she stopped me in my tracks.

"It is your life, Mandy. And you get to live it exactly how you want."

So yes, it's messy. And yes, it's not ideal. But it's mine, and I'll take it just as it is.

Not That Kind of Dyke

I keep trying to be happy. 

Remain happy. 

Find happy. 

Or at least find equanimity, which to me, is happiness. (Or close enough.) The trouble with maintaining equanimity is that it is an awful  lot of damn work. And even when you work so hard at it, and scrape enough of it together to make yourself a little cup of Happy stew, some Happy-Hater is going to come along and shit in your Happy Meal.

My point is, it isn't easy to maintain emotional stasis. It isn't easy to be okay. It isn't easy for anyone. If you think you've got it harder than someone else, well, sorry, you're just wrong. You don't know everyone's back story, and you don't know what's going on behind closed doors. Everyone is struggling, and everyone is trying their damned best.

You're not special.

And neither am I.

But this happiness thing is hard work for everyone. Sometimes I feel like I've got my fingers, toes and nose shoved into so many holes in an emotional dyke that the unhappiness, dissatisfaction, anger, despair, boredom, cynicism, loss, dejection, abandonment and loneliness is going to bust right through the cracks I can't reach and drown me and this whole town.

I find myself having to shield myself from people lately. The thought, "If you're not bringing me up, you're bringing me down," has gone through my head a lot. It's made me think of the people in my life who aren't supportive, who are chronically negative, who are mostly MIA in my life anyway ... and I get to thinking why do I bother maintaining the relationships?

If you're not bringing me up, you're bringing me down.

Right now I seem to be bringing myself down, and I don't know what to do with myself — sprawled out against this great big dyke, blocking all the leaks I can reach and a few I'm only blocking with the power of good thoughts, good intentions and a Hail Mary pass of hope. I don't know whether to give up and let myself fall into the inevitable waters, or if I should keep trying to block the damn dam?

Maybe blocking the dam is the source of my discontent?

Maybe I won't drown, but maybe I'll swim? Or float. Or grow aqua lungs.

Maybe that's the problem. I don't know what to do once I stop trying so damn hard. I just imagine a cold rush of water and the sound of silence.

Kindergarten Love

"Mom, I have a girlfriend at school," Cracky announced and then caught himself. "Is it okay if I have a girlfriend?"

"Sure, you can have a girlfriend."

"Remember at daycare Miss Kathy said I couldn't have a wife until I graduated from college?"

"Yes, I remember," I said and stifled a snort. "So who's your girlfriend?"

"Her name is Kate and she is very beautiful." He pursed his lips and then smiled a secret smile to himself — half-pleased, half-embarrassed. And then his little cheeks went crimson.

My god. The boy is smitten, I thought.

"What color hair does she have?" I asked, checking to see if he was staying true to the blondes.

"Yellow."

Good boy.

He sat there with the same pleased look on his face and it was so tender, so sweet, I felt I would burst. Did you know five-year-old boys got like this? I didn't.

"Is Kate in your class?" I asked.

"No, she's in the class next door. But I go over there to do the calendar with her. That's our job."

"Oh. Do you get to see her at lunch or on the playground?" I wondered how my little Casanova had wooed a girl from another class. Love knows no boundaries, I guess.

"Yes. I eat lunch with her everyday."

My eyebrows shot up. This was obviously serious.

"She is the most beautiful girl I ever saw."

Because I couldn't contain the adorableness, I immediately texted The Boyfriend to update him on Cracky's new relationship status.

"He's in love," The Boyfriend responded. I paused and stared at the screen. My initial reaction was to laugh, but then I reconsidered.

"Are you in love?" I asked Cracky.

"Yes."

"With who?" I replied, still surprised, half-expecting him to say he was in love with me, his mom, of course.

"With Kate," he said, simply and certainly.

So there it is.

And I won't laugh at it. I still remember the boy I loved in Kindergarten. I was in love with Jason for the first half of elementary school, until he moved away. And then I loved him a while longer — until blue-eyed Eric moved to our school. 

Those childhood loves are still just as real to me as any other I have loved.

Is that odd?

I was always faithful like that. Cracky is too, it appears. He was "married" to a girl in daycare for two years, despite Miss Kathy's Rule.

We are lovers, the boy and I. Romantics, through-and-through. I wonder if Romanticism is Nature or Nurture? Are you born with a willingness, an eagerness to love? Are we all? I do love to see the world through my son's eyes, and to witness the newness and innocence of schoolyard love. As I write this, I remember standing with Jason and Robin in the doorway of the elementary school. Robin had announced her love for Jason, right in front of me, Jason's known best friend and suspected, besotted, unspoken-for girlfriend. 

Robin demanded that he choose.

"I choose Mandy," he said.

And I'm quite sure I stood in that doorway with the same little smile I saw on Cracky's face last night.