Typical Monday Talk with the Three-Why-Oh

othersuchshelby — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 23:42:09 +0000

This afternoon, while reading through her calendar, pointing out various dates to me:

She: “Mama, the next day on the first day before the last day, are we going to do that thing again?”

[Brief interlude during which my brain: attempted solving for "huh?" in yet another incomprehensible preschooler equation; short-circuited; rebooted itself in a defensive just-answer-her-question-with-a-question strategy.]

Me: “Do you want to?”

She: “Yes!”

Me: “I’m going to have to really think about that one.”

She: “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’ Mama.”

I am completely at a loss.

Which, further evidence: motherhood, arrived.

Also? These are some of my favorite conversations in my whole life, ever. They leave me thinking that maybe, just maybe, she really will out-strange me one day.

And that maybe, just maybe,

she already has.

Before and After and Other Such

othersuchshelby — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 22:39:40 +0000

Before:

After:

That there’s the fountain-o-youth haircut, paired with the “quit trying to pull my shoe off of my foot while I’m taking a picture, you rascal of a kid” mid-sentence expression.

Hardly any difference in the length (only 3-4″), my super-awesome stylist, Lady Di, having invoked the only-one-big-change-at-a-time rule on me. I heart her for protecting me from myself. And for making me look 40 years younger.

Nevermind that me-minus-40-years basically means I won’t even be born for another six years. You cannot argue math with magic scissors. You just go with it.

I’m going with it.

Notice To Prepare Your Complimenter

othersuchshelby — Thu, 16 Feb 2012 17:40:25 +0000

When I was somewhere around the age of 14 or 15 or 16, my mother dropped me at the hair salon for my haircut appointment while she either waited outside or ran other errands–I can’t remember the part about what she was doing exactly. What I do remember is that I was going in for my first solo haircut appointment. Or maybe it wasn’t the first, but it’s the first one that I remember so we’re going to just call it the first and leave it at that.

Anyway.

Fifteenish. This was maybe (maybe?) a season or two before I was overcome by a raging case of teenage-personality-disorder. But when I be-bopped myself in for that haircut, I was just a normal girl excited about a beauty treatment.

And I enthusiastically told that lady, the one who had cut my hair for a few years by then: “I want it short!”

Only, I hadn’t told my mother I was going to do that.

And frankly, I can’t remember whether it was a premeditated chopping or a sudden cut-of-passion.

Either way, by the time I emerged from the salon to be-bop myself back to my mother’s car, the hair which had once hung to somewhere mid-back was now lightly grazing my shoulders.

I bounced into the car, turned to face my mother, and saw

her horror.

“What did you do?!?” she asked.

It’s possible The MotherSuch remembers that day differently. All I know for sure: long hair, then short hair, then way-way-way surprised mom, then “what did you do?” which I mentally translated as “you’ve ruined yourself!,” then overly-emotional teenage “what did I do?” tears.

It wasn’t awful, that haircut. Not at all. Not great, but not awful. If I could find my 1991-92 yearbook I would include a photo. (Anyone have that yearbook? Or maybe it was 1992-93? Snap a pic of my class mugshot and text/email it to me, pretty pleeeeeease!) It’s just that it was very, very different and, for my mother, the first time that one of her daughters would catch her completely off guard with their hair. (My sister would go on to so out-do me in the unexpected ‘do category that I can no longer even be considered a competitor.)

I mean, I’ve had some awful hairstyles. I am exceedingly qualified to tell you that The Short Cut of Circa 1992 or Thereabouts was not awful. (The junior high years were awful. The time when I served as The Red Hair Dye Decoy for a friend was the single biggest hair disaster of my life. I wish I had pictures of those, too. I’d share.)

And in the 19-or-so years since then I have never again had the courage to chop off the long in favor of short, above-the-shoulders hair. Not specifically because of The MotherSuch (to whom I must be fair: I would have the same reaction if The Child surprised me like that . . . which is why she will never be allowed to go to a salon alone ever in her whole life and also we will not own anything sharper than a spoon).

When I was 20, I married a man who prefers long hair. I’ve spent many years of marriage being very careful not to let a coiffurish whim lead me to be-bop myself into the house and surprise him into saying something that will affect what I do with my hair for the next two decades. He’s kind of a man of not-many words. But no sense taking a chance that among the dozen words he might say that day would be anything in the verbal vicinity of “what did you do?!?”

Also: I still be-bop.

Don’t you?

But I don’t make sudden hair changes. The people around me can’t take it. And I can’t take it when they can’t take it and then I spend the next eighteen months growing things back to the unsurprising place of Ho-Hum-Hair. Hence, many years of length and long layers and sameness.

So. I’m telling you all of this to prepare you.

Because after more than a year of careful consideration, after a year of warning the fam of my plans, I’m going in for a chopping today.

There have not been bangs on my head since high school. Today there will be bangs.

There may or may not be short layers to go along with the bangs.

There may or may not be hair hanging well below my shoulders when I’m done.

I need a change.

And it is just hair.

It does not matter.

It’s not who I am, it’s just the stuff on my head.

So I’ll start with chunky bangs.

And just in case you need a little warning to get your complimenter ready, this is it.

I’ll before-and-after you later.

For now, Sisterhood, just . . . prepare yourself with adjectives like “fabulous,” “amazing,” “incredible,” “beautiful,” “ten years younger,” “ten pounds lighter,” “TRO-PHY,” and the ever-popular “stunning!” (For other suitable suggestions, see Merriam-Webster, here.)

We’ve Settled Our Differences with a Little Fancy

othersuchshelby — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 15:00:26 +0000

The Child and I, we don’t particularly agree about the necessity of sippy cups in our lives any more.

She’d like to keep the convenience (and freedom-to-roam-outside-the-kitchen-with-it) of the spill-free sippys.

I prefer the one-less-part-to-wash of the keep-it-in-the-kitchen ‘big girl’ open-top cups.

For a couple months we’ve had an uneasy compromise: she can take a sippy cup with no more than —>this much<— water in it to bed with her, but the rest of the day we use the big girl cups. And almost every day we have a discussion-slash-negotiation about the whole thing all over again.

But then yesterday? I served my sweet Valentine a special breakfast complete with her juice, and then milk, in crystal stemware.

And?

The chef received many compliments about it being the tastiest juice and milk ever “dranked.” Not a single attempt at bargaining her beverage into the babier cup.

And that is how it came to be that my three-year-old spends her days toasting me with stemware.

I can live with that.

The Miscarriage “Me Too” (OS:S in the E-T on the 2/5/12)

othersuchshelby — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 22:05:22 +0000

Rerun of the 02/05/12 newspaper column today, something differentish tomorrow.

Until then . . . .

I miss you, OtherSuch.

Little and Unlittle

othersuchshelby — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 20:41:57 +0000

She kind of isn’t much of a fan of me taking pictures of her anymore, hiding her face behind her hands, squealing in delight at having foiled my photo plans yet again.

She kind of prefers to do her own self-portraiture, when she thinks I am not looking,

as evidenced by the dozens of photos collecting in my phone’s camera folder.

I’m going with it, on account of grainy bluriness aside, she’s actually capturing herself about how I see her.

Goofy.

Wild-haired.

Sweet.

Giggly.

Little and unlittle,

all at once.

Considering It: The Togetherness In Which We Are Held

othersuchshelby — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 17:17:07 +0000

Saturday night we met up with a large group of friends for a food and game night. During one round of “The Newlywed Game” the following question was asked of the husbands: “What does your wife have too many of?”

Most of the husbands answered ‘shoes’ or ‘clothes’ but one gave this response: dilemmas.

Hysterical. Also? Easily applicable to me. I was relieved when The Husband answered ‘shoes’ for me. (Not true, by the way.)

But isn’t that just part of the female condition? That we are such experts in the conducting of careful analyses that our male counterparts may misidentify our thoroughness? Or maybe it’s just that our analyses are more verbalized than men’s are?

Or, I don’t know . . . maybe we just have more dilemmas.

* * * * *

It has been two weeks since January 17th, two weeks since Dr. Bigger Picture said to give my body a week or two to miscarry.

Nary a spot and I could count the cramps on one hand. With fingers, plural, left over. Not counting my thumb, either.

I haven’t been in any hurry to call for the follow-up, thinking ‘nature’ may just be taking her time. Thinking maybe I’m wrong about comparing my uterus to a little old lady wrestling with a purse snatcher. Maybe I’m wrong to be telling my belly “LET THE PURSE GO, GRANNY!” At least I’m not doing it out loud in public. Yet. I did text it to one friend, but that’s not exactly ‘out loud.’

Also? One time my eighty-year-old grandmother (or maybe she was seventy-eight at the time?) wrestled with a purse snatcher. So, you know, hereditary fiestiness. And genetic not-let-go-iness.

* * * * *

On Monday I bit the bullet, called to schedule what I figured would be a late week morning appointment. Late week on account of probably they’re not in any bigger a hurry to see me than I am to see them, what with me being a not-success and all.

“How about Tuesday afternoon at 2:30?” she asked me.

Then I realized that the ball was no longer sitting idly at my feet, but rolling swiftly down the hill toward an unpleasant choice.

I accepted the offered appointment time.

Said a quiet prayer that my body would relax, let this baby go.

And took off after the ball I had set in motion.

I didn’t mention the appointment to any of my close friends. I don’t know why.

* * * * *

Since November, most of our appointments have been on Tuesday/Thursday mornings, with an occasional random Sunday thrown in for variety.

In mid-January, a ladies’ Bible study on Colossians started on Tuesday mornings. I wanted to join; wanted to dig into another book that I’ve only superficially read before. But the first class meeting coincided with our January 17th appointment. And then the next class meeting coincided with my need to be quiet and still in my own home.

When our appointment this week was scheduled for an afternoon, I presumed that my morning was being held open purposefully and that it was up to me to make good use of it.

And so I met up with the ladies studying Colossians.

Just in time for a reminder about from where the ‘togetherness’ of the last few weeks (months) has come.

It hasn’t come from me.

My attempts to hold me together after our previous losses were dismal experiences.

I am a terrible bus driver.

I do much better when I take a seat and just sing.

Not that my singing voice is remarkable. Or even in tune.

But at least I’m not singing me off any cliffs or anything. Can’t say the same about my bus-driving days.

* * * * *

Yesterday’s ultrasound showed that the baby’s heart had stopped and he had not grown any more since he measured 6w3d at our last appointment.

Do you know what that means?

I got to witness some of his very last heartbeats.

I am glad I didn’t reschedule that January 17th appointment.

Had I waited another day or two, it is not likely I would have seen those precious last beats.

As it is, I was keenly aware of every single day of that baby’s existence, from the day his cells began to divide to the day his tiny speck of a heart slowed to a stop.

And I’m going to keep referring to him as he.

* * * * *

Dr. Bigger Picture gave me permission to keep waiting on nature . . . and also gave me the option not to.

I’ve been here before, the place where I have to decide which is weightier: my need not to take affirmative action to remove a pregnancy I so desperately wanted versus my need to heal and move forward.

A dilemma.

In this context, I absolutely have too many dilemmas.

Just one of these is too many.

* * * * *

Last time I was here I waited five weeks from the diagnosis of the blighted ovum for my body to figure out that the pregnancy wasn’t viable. By the time I gave in and had the D&C, I was 14 weeks “pregnant.” Probably? The Ute would’ve carried that blighted ovum to term.

I cannot do that this time. I am 10 weeks pregnant as of today. I cannot bear another 4 weeks of waiting for the physical confirmation of an end that has already occurred.

I feel guilty admitting that.

Maybe because I know this time there was a baby?

Maybe because it’s just heartbreaking to confess that I am prioritizing my healing over my baby’s naturally passing from my body?

I don’t know.

* * * * *

The D&C is scheduled for noon today.

I spent yesterday making new plans.

Plans to resume training with my pavement-pounding girlfriends for a 10k at the end of February.

Plans to get those shaggy layers and chunky bangs in a few weeks.

Plans to road trip the 460 miles to visit my Other Valley Girl.

In all of the plan making, I didn’t mention today’s appointment to any of my friends. Not to anyone other than my mother and mother-in-law. I don’t know why exactly.

Maybe I was holding open the possibility that I’ll do a last minute flip-flop. I’ve done that before. (This is scheduled to auto-post while I’m in pre-op, so if you’re reading it I didn’t flip this time. Or flop.)

Or maybe I just couldn’t put it all into words more than once.

I don’t know.

It doesn’t really matter, though. I feel completely certain that every one of those girls would be quick to wrap me in assurances that they would make the same decision. To tell me this isn’t a betrayal when the baby has already passed away.

My Other Valley Girl told me that exact I-would-make-the-same-decision thing at least three times in December/January 2009-2010, first as I scheduled the D&C, then as I cancelled it the night before surgery, then as I rescheduled it five weeks later.

Maybe knowing just how supportive my support base is has freed me from the need to ask for the support. I just know it’s there.

And instead I can do other things. Like make road trip plans.

So thank you, friends.

See what you didn’t even know you were helping me through?

In him all things are held together.

You probably didn’t even realize your role in his togetherness holding.

I do.

To Self, From Self (Edition 01.30.12)

othersuchshelby — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 20:30:30 +0000

Ten things I’m telling myself today:

(1) There is nothing I’d rather use this Monday for than year-end reports.

(2) I don’t look a day over 27. Ish.

(3) My favorite jeans easily make me appear 5 pounds lighter than I am.

(4) If I really focus on a good stretching regimen I can reach 5’6″ someday.

(5) I don’t really need that 5.5qt Flame-colored Le Creuset French Oven.

(6) I am completely capable of understanding CSS and website programming.

(7) Another D&C is not that big of a deal.

(8) The Child’s 100%-full laundry basket that consists of 80% pajamas means we’ve had lots of snuggle time lately, not that we’re despicable lazy bums.

(9) It’s time to start training for another 10k, go all-in on the chunky bangs with shaggier layers, throw away the majority of what’s in my makeup drawer, and shave my legs.

(10) Greater things have yet to come and greater things are still to be done.

What things are you telling yourself, Sisterhood?

Test Post

othersuchshelby — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 21:16:54 +0000

(Please excuse–this is a test post re: auto-connect between WordPress and Facebook. It is blah and ugly and devoid of OtherSuchishness.)

My Shingle: “Goofball Consultant – Est. 2003, Reest. 2008″

othersuchshelby — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 15:00:05 +0000

One evening this week, following her bath, the conversation as she cuddled up next to me in all her freshly-shampooed-hair-smelling sweetness:

She: “Mama, before I was born you were a lawyer?”

Me: “Yes.”

She: “And you worked in the lawyer office with Emmy’s daddy?”

Me: “Yes.”

Pause.

She, voice rising to giggles on the last word: “So you had to talk to people when they were being lots of GOOFballs?”

Me, cracking up at both her inflection in the word ‘GOOFball’ and her insight into my former full-time profession: “That pretty well sums it up.”

Pause.

She: “What did you say to them?”

Me: “Please stop being goofballs.”

Intervening melody of small-child belly-laughs.

She, likely recalling the effectiveness of all the times I’ve asked her to stop being one: “Did they listen?”

Me: “Some of them, yes.”

She, considering: “But some of them, no?”

Me: “Yes.”

She: “No?”

Me: “Yes: no.”

She, in three-year-old-declarative fashion: “Mama, you mean some of them are still goofballs right now.”

Me: “Probably so. The lucky ones, anyway.”

‘Cause what did I know about goofballiness back then?

It’s pretty much the best.

Especially this kind.