All Hail the Goddess (or I swear my house is not a pigsty)

I stand in the middle of my castle and have myself a look around. What I see astounds me and overwhelms me. (no. not the awesome split layout of it.) (no. not the Elphaba-green walls.) (not the sheer mass of square footage per capita, either.)

On the seat of my recliner, which reclines atop a $$$$ and heavily stained rug (which we got gratis when M worked at a home interior company), sits a basket full of bunched up, clean colored clothing. (Yes, "colored" is a big deal because it's the load I put off until I can fetch it fresh from the dryer to immediately hang it up because I'm anti-ironing.)

Across from the recliner sits a pile of my shoes. Not all of them, mind you. The rest are in piles on the floor of my closet. We've started taking off our shoes upon entry into the house, but have never actually had the time to establish the "entryway" we envision will at some point be next to the garage door entrance. The area where we currently dump everything when we walk in is the large, low, square goodwill-find "coffee" table, which just seems to collect every odd and end in the house, which we then try to shove as far as possible to the other end in order to have a place to eat.

The sink is overflowing with dishes, some of which I'm quite sure have the same water used to "soak" them on Sunday afternoon after M made pancakes for dinner at my request. Blech! The counters have piles of mail that I'm so over trying to open. The floors have the silty, scratchy feel of dirt. . . oh, wait. . . that IS dirt! Brought in by the dogs who love to run figure 8s around our newly planted treets, resulting in more dirt than is normal or healthy. (Can we scratch the taking-off-the-shoes-upon-entering-the-house routine now?) There is also a thickening-as-we-speak layer of dust gathering on the dining room table we never use (hence the stained $$$$ rug in the living room).

In my bedroom is another basket of clean laundry, oh and another pile of clean laundry on my cedar chest because we needed a basket for the other clean laundry. Clutter here, dust there - oh, and clothes hung on the top bar of the closet waiting for me to sew a button or a hem, thus dwindling our wardrobes down to odds and ends - what, with everything else in baskets and such.

And then there's M's bathroom, which isn't clean, but of which I'm sort of envious because the shower is clean. My shower, on the other side of the split plan house, is not so clean. I asked him the other day "wow! how is your shower so clean??" He said "because I cleaned it". Hmmmm. Wish I'd have thought of that. Mine hasn't been cleaned in. . . too many months to count right now. On the other hand, I see all his thick, black hair on the floor (please don't be going bald from stress or from a sickness caught from the filth of our house), so maybe I'm not all that envious after all.

Add to this the OCD inducing news M shared with me the other day. Something about the large percentage of fecal matter found on keyboards. I don't know about you, but I tend to touch the keyboard and then. . . oh, everything else. (Bloggers: go wash your hands! Like NOW! and then wash the keyboard. I'll wait.)

[commence elevator music]

*sigh*

I guess what I'm saying is I'm no domestic goddess. Yes, I've cooked dinner every night this week, among various other things. But for crying out loud, can someone just get me a Stepford wife already!???! Is that too much to ask?

Betrayed

I was nervous. Waiting for doctor to come in and go over the pathology reports from my last surgery. My husband was with me, we didn't know what he would say, what the outcome would be. Dr. M breezed into the room and started talking. It was all gibberish. I didn't understand what he was saying. Finally, he closed my chart and looked at me. I knew that the next words he would speak would change the rest of my life.

"Well, you have four children. You're lucky. You probably should have stopped at one...."

".... it's a wonder you lived...."

".... no more children, not if you want to raise them yourself..."

Suddenly, the words no longer mattered. My world stopped. No more kids. Not in a year, not in five, not ever.

The life I thought I was going to live was snuffed out in an instant.

It's been a few months since that visit. I've shed more than my share of tears. Most days, I think I'm doing pretty good. After all, I live the "American Dream". I'm a mother to four wonderful children. I have a fabulous husband. We have a beautiful home, two cars and a piano.

But I feel like something is missing. Someone is missing.

At the age when most of my friends are just starting their families, I'm moving into the next phase. I'm done having kids. My family is set. I should be happy. I should be at peace... but I'm not. I can't begin to express the turmoil that clutches my soul.




They say that grief expresses itself in stages. I'm just climbing out of the depression stage. Some days I move forward two steps, and the next day, I fall back three.

I feel like my body has betrayed me. Over the last few years, when I kept getting pregnant, I would tell myself, "It's all for a reason.... You'll see why... Give it time." And that was how I coped. That was what I would tell myself so I could get through the day.

Now that I have the reason, I don't like it.

For years, I was in search of an answer. I wanted to know Why. Why is this happening? Why can't we control these things? Why me? Why now?

In one doctor's visit, I got those answers... And in one doctor's visit, my hopes and dreams were shattered. And I was left with even more questions.

Why is this the lesson I have to learn? All my life, all I ever wanted was to have a big family, why did you take that away from me?

Everywhere I look, I see pregnant women. Having their first baby, or their sixth. And it makes me angry. I'm angry that I'll never feel those precious kicks again. I'm angry that I'll never be able to bring home another baby. I'm angry that my body is broken... Because it broke my spirit.

I struggle to find peace. I try to enjoy the moments that I have with my children, my wonderful, beautiful children, that are here with me. But I feel like I've failed them. I failed my husband. I failed me.

So here I am, working through my grief. Hoping that somehow, if I tell my story enough, that I'll learn something. Because I need a reason. I need an answer. and I need peace. I truly, desperately, need to find peace.

Let Me Hear Your Body Talk

Women spend a lot of time thinking about their bodies. I'm sure there is some horrible statistic I could quote that would back me up, but I'm going by instinct here. We focus on the negative instead of the positive. In an attempt to counteract body dysmorphia, I present the following list.

Physical characteristics of which I am proud:

I'm very buoyant. You want to be near me when the ship goes down.

I have nicely tapered fingernails.

My feet don't generally smell, except when I wear shoes from Payless Shoe Source without socks.

I have sparse arm hair. It is blond even though I'm a brunette. Sometimes when I am nervous I like to pet it.

My skin is plump and juicy. One week I went to two funerals, one for a skinny lady and one for someone more robust. They were the same age. Guess who looked better at the viewing? That's right. I'm going to be adorable in my casket.

My hair is beautiful and shiny. It is free of dandruff, lice, and nits. I have the occasional split end and a rogue grey hair once in awhile, but it is manageable.

I have zits only occasionally. They are too scared to show up because they fear me. I am a zit murderer.

I have a good nose. Even my old best friend thought I was lying when I told her I didn't have a nose job.

My wrists don't have one of those ugly bones that stick up and look knobby.

I can sing an alto line. It's not pretty but I can do it.

I'm not sickly.

My skin tone is even. I only wear foundation on special occasions and I think I pass just fine.

My ears are small and good for hearing.

My ovaries, vagina and uterus have worked four times. Let's not push our luck, shall we?

I think I have sufficiently introduced myself. Maybe the rest of you can fill in the blanks and we could cobble together the perfect specimen!