No Good Words

Dear Reader,

I typically try to keep my blog upbeat and leave the heavy real-life stuff for... you know... never. But, I hope you'll bear with me as I attempt to alleviate some of my feelings through the written word.

The only way I can come out and just say this is to do exactly that....

We lost the baby last night.

I went in yesterday afternoon for my regularly scheduled 16 week appointment. After talking through some of my concerns, the doc tried to find a heartbeat with the doppler and couldn't. She immediately walked me to another building for an ultrasound where she wasn't able to detect a heartbeat and said that the baby actually didn't looked formed right to her. (Kind of glad and sad to have heard that).

She quickly sent me up to LDS Hospital where they can do a more in depth ultrasound. Again, no heartbeat was found and the baby wasn't moving at all. (Side note: It did looked formed better in that picture.) By that point Steve had met up with me and after a total whirlwind we found ourselves in the OR area getting prepped for D&C surgery.

Because I'd eaten on my way to my appointment - silly me, not knowing I'd be needing surgery! - they waited to do the surgery until around 10:00 pm. All went well. I got home this morning around 4:00 am with instructions to take it easy for a few days.

We are obviously heartbroken, as you begin to love a baby the second you know of its existence. But, alongside the heartbreak is a certain amount of peace and an overwhelming gratitude for the three perfect, beautiful smiling faces that greeted me this morning.

A few thoughts:

*Waking up a little faster than they expected and finding your feet hanging from the ceiling is a little disconcerting.

*Having the super old, but super great, anesthesiologist repeatedly call you "Buddy" is strangely comforting. And at least it wasn't "Honey" or the ever dreaded "Dear"!

*I'd like to personally thank whatever cable station was having the James Bond Movie Marathon last night for helping keep my mind of a crummy evening.

*And last but not least, knowing people are praying for you makes a lot of impossible situations feel a little more bearable.

Thank you!

Back around the middle of September I accomplished what I am pretty sure is the biggest parenting coup of all time. A pet died and no one noticed. It was our "magically surviving goldfish". We'd had that sucker for almost 3 years. When I spent the 25 cents on that fish I was pretty sure it would live for a month. So I think we really got our money's worth.


Anyhow, said fish kicked it back in September and I just flushed him, put his bowl in the hall closet and put a porcelain doll on my girls' dresser where the fish had formerly resided. Nary a word was asked about Princess the fish. Oh, they noticed the new doll, but neither of them bothered to wonder where the fish had gone.

I blame the discovery on preschool. We were cruising along just fine until "F" day came up today and Cadie Lu needed to find something starting with an "F" to take to school for show-n-tell.

"I know!" She says with glee. "I'll take the fish!" Then she looks around for a minute and says, "Hey, wait a minute, where is the fish?"
Not one to be left out when the opportunity is ripe for drama, Ms. Els began scrunching up her eyes in an attempt to work up some tears. None came. In her best fake quivery voice she said, "Did my fish die Mom?"

"Yes." I replied.

"What? When? Why didn't you tell us?" She attempted to cry. Those eyeballs were dry as the Sahara dessert.

"A long time ago. And since you never asked I didn't tel you." I like to keep it real with my kids. No sugar coating stuff.

"What did you do with it?" Ms. Els was acting appalled, but her heart just wasn't in it. (I mean, really, it took her a month to notice. Obviously she wasn't BFF's with the fish!)

"I flushed it down the toilet." Another dose of reality. What? I should have lied?

This got the first honest reaction yet. "WHAT? You just flushed it? You should have at least buried it in the back yard!" Ms. Els let her jaw drop open for emphasis.

"Yeah!" Cadie Lu piped in. "And you should have put a sign over it that said 'Dead Fish' so we'd know where it was!"

Dead Fish? Nice. I can see she has a future career as a headstone wordsmith.

"I can't believe my fish is dead." Ms. Els whined.

"Oh jeez Els, it wasn't even your fish. When we got the dog you said the fish could be mine. And now I can't even take it for show-n-tell." Cadie Lu was more annoyed that Ms. Els tried to reclaim ownership than she was that her fish was gone.

"Hey, Mom, I know!" Cadie Lu managed to pull herself out of her grief. "Do we have any firetrucks? Firetruck starts with "F"!"

And with that our mourning period ended.

I feel better already!

Theatrics

You'd think that as the mother of three theatrical beasties that I'd be adverse to any dramatic behavior. For the most part this is true. I may be an exaggerator in story telling, but I'm not very dramatic about other things. I typically come down with a huge case of the heebie-jeebies whenever I'm around someone exercising their inner thespian.

However, a week or so ago I was told about a fellow bun baker (preggy) who is quite dramatic about her pregnancy. I've not really gone that route in the past, but I tucked the information into my brain storage for later examination.

This past weekend we went with my in-laws (Mom & Dad Hadley) to the family cabin. It was beautiful up in the mountains and we were lucky to catch some lovely fall colors. Also, my kids apparently needed the emotional healing of the mountains - I refuse to think that all they really needed was a break from me - because they were three happy little chipmunks for the entire weekend.

Unfortunately, I've been fighting a cold and wasn't feeling great. I mostly just sat around. At one point I was thinking about how crummy it is to be sick and pregnant and I had a moment of inspiration. I was going to try out this dramatic thing and see how it worked out for me.

I giddily imagined the foot massages, offers of babysitting and chocolate that awaited me.

Dad Hadley was sitting near me so I turned to him and said something like, "I'm not sure I'm going to make it through this pregnancy. I feel so horrible." I kind of chocked out the last word because it tasted like sludge coming out. All wrong and kind of icky. Then I giggled, which I'm pretty sure didn't really cement my complaint. I'm pretty sure I even blushed.

He looked at me and said something about hanging in there seeing as I'm not even halfway through yet. I appreciated his gesture, because the moment was a little awkward for both of us.

Finally I just laughed and blurted out into the stale silence, "Sorry, I was trying to be dramatic, but it felt all wrong."

He laughed back and said, "That was dramatic? No wonder it felt wrong, there wasn't enough angst in your voice."

So for the next few minutes him and I practiced being dramatic and began yelling out angst-riddled sentences such as "I think I'm going to die!" and "I feel so horrible!" and "Life couldn't get any worse!"

As we sat there laughing and screaming out our woes, something that had felt so wrong began to feel so right.

Next stop.... Broadway!!

A Fine Line

You know, just because I'm in my 30's, have been married for 11+ years, have three small children, a dog, and a part-time job doesn't mean I should let myself go... right?

This is the sad little pep talk I give myself about once every three months.

On that glorious morning I will let my long hair hang down in curls, find something other than a t-shirt to wear and dust off the old make-up bag.

It's almost like Christmas as I spread those eye shadows and concealers over my bathroom counter. Then I get to work. I imagine how my eyes will sparkle and how I will look younger and fresher than I have in a long time.

When I'm all finished and I step back from the mirror, this is what I suddenly feel like:

I was going for this:

Apparently, much like there's a fine line between love and hate, there is a fine line between super-models and pirates.

Savvy?

Why I'll Never Be Thin

When I was growing up food wasn't such a big thing to me. It was there when I was hungry, but I just ate and went about my business without giving it too much thought. My mom was great about keeping the cookie jar stocked and, probably because it was always there, I was able to go days without taking one.

Fast forward to the birth of my first child about 7 years ago (next month!). It was November. I had gone from working full-time and playing with my friends, to parenthood and staying home. It was cold and snowy and wet. My baby was tiny and didn't sleep and I think she may have hated me a little bit.


In those dark hours of 2003 I made a discovery that has been a both a boon and a curse to me ever since.

Eating = Happiness.

Good food can make even the worst days a little brighter.

Now it's 2010 and I'm just pregnant enough with #4 to let people think my chubby tummy is a baby bump. But really it's a brownie bump.

What to do? I'm addicted. There are days that all I want is for the kids to go to bed so that I can eat my pint of Ben and Jerry's (or B&J as addicts like me call it) and allow its soothing softness to melt away the last stresses of the day.

Somehow this self-talk: "Nice work, Aspen! Today you managed to keep it together and your kids are all still alive. The dog continues to find shelter in your home. Your husband got a wink and a butt slap. You deserve a carrot stick!! You go girl! Eat that carrot stick and think about what a great person you are. Just gnaw on that sucker until it fills you with joy!"

Isn't having the same affect as this: "Nice work today lady! You managed to hold your tongue and even smile a bit. Have some ice-cream. And that warm brownie...MMM......" the rest is lost as I sink into bliss.

Carrot sticks are something every human being is entitled to. Dessert is a reward.

And this is why I'll never be thin.

No Regrets

I've obviously been thinking a lot lately about kids. I mean, I'm going to be adding one to my brood. And what I've been thinking is this:

Raising my kids has been one of the hardest things I've ever loved.

Being a huge fan of self-preservation, I typically shy away from anything requiring this level of work.

And then, I had my own kids. And - POW - I loved them from that first time I felt them move inside of me.

So even though this job of motherhood sometimes feels like it has stripped me to the core and left me in tears, I can honestly say I have no regrets. Nothing else in my life has ever required this scale of work, prayer and simply "muscling through it".

And nothing else in my life has ever so completely wrapped itself around me.

Now, please excuse me while I go take a nap, eat some chocolate, and gear up for when the girls get home from school.

The Abraham and Isaac Theory

Several of my dedicated readers (both of you) have asked if this fourth pregnancy was a surprise. Could that question be due to my joking about naming the baby Oopsie Daisy?

My answer to that question is yes. But I really have no right to be surprised. Perhaps I'm more surprised by the failure of my idiotic reasoning than I am by actually finding my waistline expanding. Let me try to explain:

I believe that the majority of people are familiar with the Bible story of Abraham and Isaac. Abraham was instructed to kill/sacrifice his son, Isaac. It was a test of obedience, which Abraham passed. He didn't actually end up having to kill his son.

What does this have to do with me getting pregnant? Everything. You see, in my heart I kept feeling like we were supposed to have another baby. But in my mind I didn't necessarily want another baby. Three kids felt pretty great. I'm no newbie, I know exactly what having another baby would entail, and I was content.

My bad for actually saying out loud that I was content!!

So, in my twisted way, I decided that those "feelings" I was getting to have another baby were just a test of my willingness to obey promptings.

Are you following me?

I decided that if I went ahead and stopped preventing pregnancy, then that would be good enough proof of my willing heart, and, much like Abraham, I wouldn't have to actually go through with what I was being asked to do.

It would appear that I'm not actually like Abraham at all. You see, I got pregnant.

So, am I surprised? Not really. I mean, I wasn't preventing it.

But still... Imagine my surprise!!

If it's a boy, I'm totally naming him Isaac!
(But none of you can tell him why!)