OH the PLUMBING

The house gave us a present when my SIL m and her husband, Joe, came to visit from Ohio. All we did to deserve it was take four showers in a row.

The drain in the garage backed up with some sort of dark sludge. The plumber described it as, "Yep. That's Number 2." 

AWESOME.

The thing about living in a beautiful neighborhood with old trees is that the roots of those old trees can find their way into your pipes. And when the people who live in your house hadn't done anything about it--say, for a decade or more--the roots form a tangled net that can't let a lot of water (or solids) through to the main drain. It makes for a lovely surprise on a Sunday afternoon when you have out-of-town guests. Especially when you've only been living in the house for less than a month.

The plumber put a cutter into our pipes and "rodded" out a three-inch-diameter hole through the roots in the service line until he hit something inpenetrable at about 60 feet. Three days later, the pipes backed up again. 

The second plumber put a cutter into our pipes and rodded out a three-inch-diameter hole through the roots in the service line. He, too, hit some sort of impasse. They suggested we call for a camera, because the clay (yes, in the '60s Midwest, they used CLAY) pipe could be broken or there could be a gigantic ball of roots at that 60-foot mark.

The camera guy had a lot to show. The roots looked like that scene in Disney's Snow White where Snow is running through the forest and the tree branches look to be so thick and menacing that kids in the '20s who saw it in the theater peed on their seats. But I digress. No broken pipe, just a maddening amount of roots. 

The plumbers were accessing our service line through the corner of our garage where the cast-iron pipe is only four inches wide. In the yard, the clay pipe is six inches wide. They said it would be much better to dig a 5.5-foot-deep hole in the yard, cut out a section of the clay pipe and put in an access so they can forevermore get directly to the six-inch pipe and not have to come through the house. 

They did that. But still couldn't get through the massive root ball 60 feet from the house (and a lot closer to the main), so we have to call another plumber with a more powerful cutter. In the meantime, we just have to time our water usage and make sure nothing offensive (I'm talking two-ply toilet paper), gets into the pipes and hope for the best. 

After all this is done, we need to sanitize the garage, the downstairs bathroom and the laundry room, as well as the brand-new carpet and padding in the downstairs. We estimate the entire endeavor will cost a cool five thousand dollars.


Here are some things I learned from this experience:

• Don't flush anything down the toilet but the thinnest of TP. If any product says "flushable," it'll likely go down the drain, but if you have anything (like our roots) in your pipes, it will get stuck. Tampons are even worse with their stringy parts that can get tangled.
• You do NOT want a backup--the sewage could ruin your walls, floor, furniture and anything else you might have near the drain.
• If you don't have an existing clean-out access in the yard, the plumber will be happy to put one in for you--6 feet underground using an excavator machine.
• You don't have to disclose roots in pipes when you sell a house in Illinois (per my realtor). The plumber said there is no way the previous owners did not know about this. 
• However, the plumber can record the video of the insides of your pipes and put it on a flash drive in case you want to try and take somebody to court. The footage will look like a very disturbing colonoscopy.
• There's a homeowners' insurance policy that includes backup coverage--only 50$ a year! Your homeowner insurance agent will regret to inform you that you did not get "backup coverage," but conveniently email the form you were supposed to have declined the day after you inquire about how much damage is covered in your policy, saying he "forgot to show it to you."
• If you're buying a home near mature trees, you may want to ask when the last time the pipes were rodded/have a camera down there before you sign any papers. About $200 is way better to spend than 25 times that.
• Apparently this happens to a LOT of people. Ours is the only house on the block that hasn't had a clean-out access put in/pipes back up. Pretty good for a place that was built in 1968. Lucky us.

Welcome to home ownership!

looks like she's made it

Hey guess what, Internets, my friend Shalini wrote a book! And people can buy it on Amazon!

I think it is amazing that she's been talking about this for a long time, then put in the sweat and tears and hard work, and now when you click on this link, you can see all that hard work and even read it on your Kindle. 

Who knew that the shy girl with whom I roasted marshmallows in fifth-grade girl scouts and then again in my backyard in high school was going to be a bona fide author (under a pseudonym)?

Makes me believe that things can really happen if you use your talent and a LOT of hard work. Congrats!

***edited to add***
You can get a print copy, now!

cotton

It feels like two months, not two years. I never could have made it through without you--and I never want to. 

Happy Anniversary, Jon.

 

 photo by SecondPrint Productions

reversal

I have been working in a hospital on and off for more than a third of my life. I'm used to the noises and the fluorescent lighting and the terse whispering and the weary-looking eyes of nearly everyone there. And unfortunately I have spent way too many hours in hospital waiting rooms. But when I found myself sitting on a cart in Emergency Department Pod A trying to wrap my mind around the fact that my water broke 23 weeks too early, I went sort of numb--and all I could think about was my brother.

Is this what it felt like for him all those endless mornings at 4 a.m. when he was getting prepped for surgery? When everyone was bending over backwards to make him smile or be comfortable and nothing really worked but he pretended that it did work just to make them feel like they were helping? Did it hurt him this much every time a nurse went digging around for an IV? Did his muscles cramp up like this? Was it just as annoying to have to drag a beeping pole to the bathroom while holding the back of a gown closed? How did he lie like this for WEEKS at a time? I was only there for three days. Oh my God it must have been so much worse for him. HOW did he endure this? How did he not complain more? How did he get through this over and over, so many times? I just wanted to see his face.

But I couldn't call him. He was in St. Louis, probably sitting at his desk toggling between work and ESPN. He was looking forward to holding his niece or nephew someday. Making plans to indoctrinate the child to root for Chicago teams despite the kid having 50% Los Angeles DNA. I kept picturing his expression on the FaceTime when I told him I was pregnant (he was the first person I wanted to tell)--usually so stingy with his smiles, he was absolutely beaming. It had been a tough time and it was nice to give him something to be happy about. A few days later, I got a text picture of him holding a friend's newborn and he looked so happy. I could just picture what a tremendous uncle he will be. For years I have said my children will call him the Hindi name for Mother's Brother: "Mama," and he has threatened all kinds of bodily harm if I made good on that promise. But as soon as he heard there was going to be a Baby, I was certain he would love my kid more than anything in the world--even if she called him "dookieface." This news was absolutely going to break his heart. If I could delay that in any way, I was going to.

A few hours into my stay, Jon and I were trying to decide how to tell the doctors we weren't going to listen to their stern recommendations. I decided it was time to call my brother. I gathered my composure and picked up my phone.

"Shut up, I'm already on the road."

I don't allow myself to think about what was going through my husband's mind on the 40-min drive to the Emergency Room, and I don't want to know what that five-hour drive was like for my brother. Jon has since said that anytime he sees someone frantically overtaking people on the road, he imagines them worried and rushing to a loved one, so he just gets out of the way.

Jon never left my side for more than a few minutes throughout the entire ordeal. My mom and dad were on the other side of my hospital bed. And then my brother burst into the room. Things did not magically get better. We were still helpless and losing our child. But when I looked around and saw that my team was complete, I finally let out a breath.

Many times I have tried to explain how I feel about my brother. Maybe everyone thinks of their siblings this way, I don't know, but making sure he's ok has simply always been a life requirement. I remember tiptoeing into his room at 3 a.m. to see that he was still breathing when I was 10. He came to visit me in Champaign after he got his drivers license, and on the way home his car broke down on an unlit stretch of Interstate 57 at Sauk Trail; the sheriff lit some flares and just left him there. My then-boyfriend couldn't understand why I was pacing around in tears thinking about my brother, scared and alone, waiting for hours after the flares went out for my parents to get there. And I cried just as much as our mother did at his college graduation.

I feel like an overbearing just-as-bad-as-mom who lectures and worries and causes the biggest eyerolls imaginable. Most of the time, I probably am. However, my brother dropped everything, threw together a bag, jumped into his car and drove 282 miles just to be in the same room as me and all he said was, "How could I NOT be here? You are my sister."

People say that you don't know what it's truly like to care about another person's wellbeing until you have a child. Having had one--albeit very briefly--I agree. But I think I already had a pretty good idea.

Happy Birthday, brother.

9/9

Today is our beautiful nephew Declan's first birthday. Just 366 days ago we were hoping to get a glimpse of the guy. And for the last 365, people all over the country eagerly await each photo update and hope for the briefest chance to hold him. A curious little man, he's crawling at top speed, tasting everything that's cold and shiny, and climbing stairs. They're taking him to his first professional football game (San Diego Chargers) to celebrate. As far as I can tell, he's having a blast. I'm sure Uncle Jon approves.

Today is also the 92nd birthday of my Godmother's mom. Everyone knows her as Ma. She's sweet and vibrant, and she can hang with the multiple energetic great grandchildren she watches during the week. She made me her time-consuming family recipe, Methi Laddu (Fenugreek bars full of all kinds of nutritious stuff that's helpful for post-delivery moms) to help me get strong after Baby. She added extra sugar to cover up the bitter taste, and I ate every last one.

I realize I have been saying it lately--maybe I'm just getting old-- but it's amazing how quickly the time goes tripping along.

Here is Declan last February, finally big-ish enough for his raccoon costume.

Declan at 4 months.

OH the PAINT

Hi friends!

Here are some lessons I learned in the last few hours:

1) IF you spent a lot of time pondering paint colors and finally made a decision on just two colors to use throughout your ENTIRE home with a certain brand, STICK TO THAT DECISION.

2) BECAUSE it will be very easy to get swayed into changing to "close enough" colors when you can only meet the person painting your house at dusk after a grueling day of work. Mostly because you discover he gets a discount on a different brand because it will save a) time and b) money.

3) ESPECIALLY because you will want to throw yourself out a window when you walk into your home and realize that instead of gray, every single wall is one of two shades of purple. Not because it's ugly, but because it wasn't what you wanted and it was ALL BECAUSE OF HASTINESS.

4) AND THEN you will have a toddler-style meltdown because you realize that yes, you guess you DO remember signing off on a swatch called "Mysterious Mauve," and you did mention that it looked kind of purple at the time, but didn't really think hard about what that means. You'll want to kick your own butt into next week.

5) SO you start scheming to try and mask the color with lighting and draperies and distracting furniture, but you know in your heart that every time you look at any wall (and they're EVERYWHERE) you'll be reminded of what a moron you are. And you decide you MUST find a way to ask the guy to re-do it, even if your budget is at negative eleventy hundred dollars already.

6) OH BUT THEN the painter quotes you even more than you dreamed it could cost, a ridiculous amount when you find out YOU HAVE TO BUY THE NEW PAINT, and you calculate that this re-do will cost exactly 75% of what the original quote was, even though that quote included many tasks that would not need to be re-done. But the dude now has the upper hand, so there's not a lot of room to negotiate, what with you buying $30+ gallons of paint.

7) THEN you will hem and haw and imagine you just inherited a ton of money to re-do this, knowing inside you must do it to protect your sanity.

8) AND THEN you will cry, thinking about all the stuff you would rather do with that money.

however long they tell you, add two weeks

Here are some updates:

• We closed on the house on August 7. 
• There were several projects we wanted accomplished before we moved in, so we set a move-in date for September 1. Almost a month should be long enough, right?
• Several things about the house needed to be updated before we moved in--more posts on those later.
• We hired a contractor, painter, cleaning service, but were thinking we could move ourselves in (after all, Jon and I ended up moving all our stuff into the apartment from the condo by ourselves in 2010).
• During the last week of August, it became clear that we were not going to be able to get out by September 1. We extended our lease at the apartment a week.
• Things are coming together at the house! Jon and I are doing a lot of stuff ourselves, including taking off the baseboards in the bedrooms, which we are guessing are original to the house. Behind the baseboard along the wall where our heads will go when we sleep in our future bedroom, we discovered a mummified bird. While the Internets say that's a bad sign, I've decided that because we found it and will be removing it, we are helping ourselves.
• We are having a horrible time packing the apartment. HOW did we manage to get all this stuff into a one-bedroom apartment? (Note: Do NOT pack up the kitchen first. You will be very sad when your time at the apartment is extended and you cannot use or eat anything you already have).
• Also? I have a ton of stuff in my childhood bedroom at my parents' house. Jon has no idea how much stuff. And I had promised it would only stay until we bought our own house...
•  Oh, and work and comedy are still clipping away at a breakneck speed.

Our house was featured in the latest The Second City shorts competition entry (Jon, Madelyn and company won 2nd place).

35

All year I've been telling Jon how much I cannot wait until 2013 is over. Lots and lots of bad news this year, from Jon's grandfather passing, to the highs and extreme lows of our pregnancy and even losing out on what we'd hoped for months was our very own new home because the bank wouldn't turn on the gas and water for a full inspection.

But then I got to thinking: The year *technically* begins for a person on their birthday, right?

So maybe I don't have to wait until January 1. Maybe my fresh start for good news can begin today, when I've completed 35. Perhaps my 36th year will bring more good news than bad.

Here's a start: Last week we closed on a house.

Madelyn will get her own room. With a door (not a dining room with a be-sheeped flannel bedsheet tacked to the ceiling). And a window. We will have multiple bathrooms so people who need to urinate will not have to dance around until the room is available. And we will have a yard with big tall trees.

One thing the house had to offer that it will most CERTAINLY not be around when we move in? A room with two green walls and two gold walls that had a strip of Green Bay Packer border going all around the room.

The first thing we did after we closed on the house was rip that junk down. Coincidentally, I was dressed for the occasion. 

Go Bears.

While we loved living in downtown Chicago, Jon and I are suburban people, through and through. He's been dreaming about having a garage for tools and sheltered cars for years. And I'm dying to have more than a corner of the living room for my sewing machine. This place is a lovely single-family home built in 1968. But we have big plans for it. Stay tuned, I'm sure there will be before-and-after photographs to come.

Here's to 36!

Jon: I remember when there was no Adriana, and now she's smarter than all of us

Saturday night we were at mfm's house celebrating her 7-year-old Adriana's birthday. The kids these days, they are so amazing. So articulate and thoughtful. Both she and her sister treat Jon like he is the coolest person in the world. I try not to be jealous, but I am.
We were all sitting out on the deck, having dinner and chatting.

mfm: Did you hear about the baby dolphin at the zoo? [Newborn Dolphin Dies at Brookfield Zoo].

me: Yes, that was really very sad. But I heard it's not uncommon for dolphins.

Adriana: What happened?

me: The baby dolphin didn't make it.

Adriana: Does that mean it died?

me: Yes.

Adriana: Aren't you and Jon going to have a baby on November 1st?

me: Yes, we were. But our baby didn't make it.

Adriana: Your baby died?

me: Yes. But maybe one day we can have another baby.

Adriana: Maybe your baby can be born on August 8, just like me!

me: Are you sure? Because then you'd have to share your birthday party, your cake, maybe even your presents...

Adriana: Hmmm. Well maybe your baby's birthday can be on August 9th.

***

Later on, mfm, ri and I were sitting at the table. Ri was talking about having to find tenants for her old condo. Adriana came up from the backyard and proceeded to put a flower in my hair, and then in ri's hair.* But she still had a few flowers in her hand.

Ri: Who are those flowers for?

Adriana: Someone very special. I'm not telling who. Mom, can I have some string?

mfm: Sure. I'll go find something. [She comes back with a little piece of tulle. Adriana ties it around the flowers and brings them over to me.]

Adriana: This is for your baby. Who died.

mfm had told the girls we were going to have a baby, but it had been so long since anyone mentioned it, she had no idea the kids remembered it at all, let alone the due date. Her plan was to count on their lack of knowledge about gestation and not say anything until we actually had a baby. But Adriana, as usual, was smarter than we expected. I was so touched, I get teary just thinking about it.

*Inquiring minds want to know why, if Jon is "so cool," he didn't get any flowers in his hair. He had about four or five flowers hanging out of each of his back pockets.

lightspeed

CC's son, b, turns FIFTEEN today. Seems like yesterday when he met Jon for the first time and tried to use The Force to kill him.

They grow up so fast. 

this is Sparta

Last week, Jon ran the Super Spartan race somewhere in the middle of Illinois. No training. Just sheer will. I was convinced he was going to break a bone, or worse, and spent the day worrying.

However, during the 8plus-mile course, he completed every endurance task--climbing walls, dragging cement blocks, crawling through mud, scaling a wall and ringing a bell--except the one where he had to pull a rope tied to a weight nearly as heavy as he is and lift it 30 feet. All while covered in a thick layer of mud. And he emerged with little more than a bruise and a couple scratches to show for it. Jon was disappointed; he'd been hoping to show off more legitimate battle wounds.

The next day he threw all the fancy wick-away-moisture clothes (including underwear and socks), his commemorative shirt and a towel he's had since college into the wash in our apartment building's community laundry room. It wasn't even half a load. He forgot about it.

Later that night, when we came back from our near-nightly walk, he remembered his gear and went to grab it, expecting it to be on the table or even the floor. It wasn't there at all.

He was so sad. I immediately got angry and started stomping around. We've lived here three years, and while some people around this complex look a bit shady, they're all probably decent people. I started imagining the pain in the butt it would be to do laundry at my parents' house and planned to amp up our house hunting so we didn't have to live in a place where someone would take your (albeit clean) underwear. Then I remembered there was a family doing tons of laundry when I came home from work that day, so I decided to believe Jon's stuff got collected with theirs and it was all just an oversight.

So I taped this sign to the laundry room door:

 I forgot to add the headband with his race number on it. 

We spent the day shaking our heads, sad that someone in our little community would take his clothes, and bummed that neither of us really got a look at the congratulatory Super Spartan Race tshirt he'd gotten at the finish line. At least he still had his medal.

But then!

He got back everything but the headband (not pictured, underoos and socks).

Madelyn found the stuff but the headband on the folding table two days later. All is right in Sparta.

Today Jon is running the Super Spartan race with the menfolk connected to some of my college buddies.

His facebook post about it has a link to the eight-plus-mile obstacle race, which may include mud pits, electrified wire and running up hills with buckets of rocks, with the sentence, "This promises to be the dumbest thing I do all year."

To which one of the other guys responded, "You underestimate yourself... You'll do plenty of other dumb stuff. I'm more likely to be hospital bound than you on this one."

It's so flipping hot I can't help but worry someone really might end up needing medical attention. Especially because in the last two months, Jon hasn't been to the gym, and only ran ONCE for three miles. 

But he looks really happy in the picture, so there's that. 

I am on call all weekend, so I figure I may as well go into work and try to catch up on all the crap I did that got erased this past week because of a system upgrade that wiped our test environments. And yet I am still sitting on the couch reading blogs.

***

Yesterday I met up with pp and had a lovely brunch/haircut date. This concept is genius because:

a) I get to hang with pp
b) I get a really sweet haircut
c) I get to try new places to eat in the city
d) The stylist starts the color on pp, does my trim while her hair is "processing," and the whole time we're all shooting the breeze like the do at the salons in movies.
e) My hair looks way more amazing when I leave than anytime I try to do it myself.

Of course, it's not ideal when I'm on call and my phone rings while the stylist is washing my hair. But it was fine.

pp seems to think that because she was a little hung over she wasn't a great date. She doesn't realize that just being in the company of someone who wanted to murder you for hitting snooze for almost five years and manages to loves you ANYWAY is a gift in and of itself. I was in a similar state, having been numbed up at the dentist and failing at chewing. Still a good time.

***

Last night we went to ri and c's house for pizza and booze. Jon was hydrating and carbo-loading--hell, it's the absolute least he could do to prepare for the race today. Highcon facetimed us. They ordered a pizza. C and I proceeded to split like three bottles of wine and we watched their little angel, Ari, toddle around like a champ. Then ri went up to put the baby to bed and accidentally fell asleep. And then I lay down on the couch and accidentally fell asleep. C and Jon talked about electronics and mortgage rates. We never got to the gelato that Jon and I brought. Nobody was mad about all the falling asleep because we've known each other for a quarter of a century and it's all good.

***

I started writing this post thinking everyone is annoyed with me being Debbie Downer the last several posts and trying to post something light and more "normal." But then I read this. If she hadn't turned off comments, I would have told her I feel the same way.

Yes, I think about my daughter minimum 20 times a day and will probably do so for a really really long time. I will probably mention it from time to time. But that doesn't mean I'm not happy for the girl in the office and want to go to her baby shower. Or have a really fun time chasing Ari around the dining room table. People don't have to feel weird. It's ok to talk about. Or not. The more important thing is to spend time together. Even if it entails chomping on the side of your cheek trying not to drool Hollandaise sauce or falling asleep in the middle of a conversation about speaker wire. 

I sincerely hope I will take the time to reach out when someone I care about is sad.

the genetics report came back

Our baby was a perfectly healthy, just had an acute infection. Whether the infection was there before the bag busted or was contracted during the three days in the hospital after it broke, we will never know. But as far as our doctors are concerned, there wasn't anything wrong with me or the baby. All signs point to the fact that we randomly got a bad bag.

The testing also confirmed my suspicion (and Madelyn's and my mother's): Baby was a girl.

I'm not going to lie. It's a little harder knowing what the sex was. I'm thankful to be able to use a nicer pronoun instead of talking in circles to avoid using the word "it." At least we know.

celebration

This is the ring-bearer pillow I made for a friend who got married today. Her shoes were the same color  and have the same kind of pleated pattern. She looked gorgeous.

Going to weddings reminds me of just how breathtakingly wonderful my own wedding day was. I hope everyone can feel that kind of happiness at least once in their lives. And I'm really glad that this country took a step toward making sure everyone who wants to get married will be able to feel it too. 

you take the good, you take the bad

I know you have been worried about me. I'd be lying if I said the last month has been just fine. Last week we got several pieces of bad news concerning the health and happiness of people we really love, so that was actually the saddest I have been in years.

But I've also been happy: Jon and I went to a local Arboretum on a Thursday evening, as Ale had been suggesting for weeks. Jon and Madelyn have been making awesome sketches for Second City's Second City Shorts competition. Our nephew is such a light in our life; even though it's via camera, I think I love him more every time I hear his laugh. And my brother moved back home to Chicago.

*** 

Things have been completely nuts these past two weeks back at work--it took me almost three days just to get through my email. Our project was implemented more quickly than most companies do it, so there was a LOT to fix because we simply did not have the manpower or hours in the day to test it all before unleashing it out onto the public. Today I put in some 15 hours; I'm still spacing out a little and I want to be sure I'm pulling my weight.

But my coworkers really care about me. They had missed me, were hoping I was ok and valued my presence on the team.

*** 

I was in a car with my parents for 5+ hours on the drive to St. Louis to get my brother and his stuff, and my dad managed to still be critical of the 3.5-star hotel I got for a super deal.

But we had a smooth move and no one got hurt. And my brother is living in town...for now.

*** 

We had put in a bid on a house in March. It was a really great property for a great deal, but it was bank-owned and the bank did not want to pay the outstanding water and gas bills from the previous owners in order to let us have a full inspection. We just didn't feel comfortable buying it blind, so we yanked the deal.

But we started looking again and saw some places yesterday that were really nice. The one with the wow-did-a-tv-show-redo-this backyard was already under contract before we could put in a bid. It was on the market 8 days. Things are going fast, so we need to move quickly. But damn, that place was gorgeous.

*** 

I have been lying low about going out, only seeing people in small groups (or not at all because of work).

But my friend is getting married in a week and we're so happy for her. It'll be nice to see everyone. And dance.

*** 

Exactly a month ago today I was in the hospital going into labor knowing that we weren't going to get to go home with our baby. I'm starting to thaw out from the initial numbness and have been feeling my feelings way more lately, which is probably best. Today I had my first encounter with a person who lovingly asked about how the baby and I were doing, and I had to break the news over the phone. I felt terrible about how bad he felt. Another coworker posted about feeling her baby move for the first time, which I never got to experience. They had been trying to get pregnant for almost a decade and lost one pregnancy, so this even more extra special.

But I didn't cry.

*** 

My pregnancy buddy (who was due 3 weeks after we were) lost her baby, too. I cannot describe the level of OH NO I felt while racing over there to try and comfort her after she found out there was no heartbeat. I hate that we have this in common.

But she actually made ME feel better. Like us, she and her family were just hoping and praying for a healthy baby. Maybe the universe did this to us because our babies weren't healthy, in order to spare them any suffering. It makes me feel better to believe that.

*** 

It's not easy.

But it's getting better.

normal

I'm supposed to go back to work tomorrow. The doctor says I'm physically back to normal and can resume regular activities. I am filled with panic--it feels like the first day at a completely new job, not one where photographs of my loved ones are hung up and fading and there's a stack of notebooks filled with my scrawly handwriting. I worry that I will continue to space out randomly throughout the day, but maybe I'm just spacing out because I've been watching redundant decorating shows (pergolas are the hottest in backyard landscape design right now).
 
More than anything, I'm terrified I will oversleep because I haven't been awake earlier than 10 a.m. (good day) and have stayed in bed until well past 3 p.m. (not such a great day). At every turn in my life, I have become more convinced that I was created to be nocturnal.

Thank you all for your kind words and thoughts and beautiful wishes. I can't tell you how much it has meant to Jon and I to get a comment or text or card or flowers or hug.

Before all this happened I had a post in mind that seems ridiculous now, but here's the gist:

Back in 2009, when Jon and I got engaged, we didn't have any money because the condo had sucked away every last penny we had saved, so we kept telling people we weren't going to get married till 2013. We didn't have to wait that long, but when we did set a date for 2011, Jon wanted to ask some of his best friends from back home to stand up in our wedding in person. He went back to visit and it took some doing to coordinate a dinner where all of them would be present. He was still figuring out the best way to bring up the topic during the dinner when his friend Mike says to the table, "Guess what, guys; I proposed to S! Will you guys all stand up for me at our wedding?" Jon had to follow up with something along the lines of, "Hey, me too."

So when we got pregnant and waited the requisite 12 weeks to tell anyone, Jon was hemming and hawing over what to say when announcing the news to his friends when he got a text from Mike: "Guess what? S is pregnant!" She is due 5 days before when our baby was scheduled to be born.

Today we found out they're having a boy. I think they might feel a little weird talking to us about it, as just a few weeks ago S and I were comparing aches, pains, maternity clothes and ultrasound stuff, and now suddenly I'm out of the game. But we are very happy for them. Seeing other people's kids makes us more hopeful than sad.

What I'm wrestling with is that my physician basically said it wasn't hormones, it wasn't stress, there's nothing wrong with my body to have caused this, and that the pathologist said our baby had an acute infection. Whether that occurred before (to cause) the water breaking or in the three days after, they cannot determine. She essentially said for us to just contact them again if and when I get pregnant again. I like to have answers, a plan, a strategy for the possible next time. If I needed to stand on my head and do Kool-Aid shots, or withstand a lot more pain in order to prevent this from happening ever again, I would do it, without question. But not doing anything at all? That simply does not compute. Jon and pretty much everyone else regards this as fabulous news, but I can't help but worry.

I guess I just have to take it one day at a time, starting with tomorrow, when I really hope I heed the alarm.

wherever you are

So it's been three weeks since this happened.

I haven't been back to work. The doctors gave me six weeks, but I didn't think I needed that long. I wanted to start work again this past Monday when Jon was going back, but I managed to catch some kind of respiratory virus that took away my voice and has left me coughing my lungs inside out. Plus there's post-pregnancy stuff happening physically, like achy pains and food coming out of me for a person who is not here to eat it. So maybe my body was telling me I needed a little more time.

For the last year, I yearned for a week at home with no responsibilities so I could do things like sew together the sweater I knit for our nephew that didn't get done by Christmas (which is fine, because he's still got a couple of years before he will be big enough to wear it) or finish a quilt I have all cut out for a friend whose child is already like 5 months old. I had even been dreaming of a week without new requests at work so I could finish all the half-completed tasks that keep getting shoved onto a back burner. Time to get our wedding album together, even. We already paid the pretty penny for it, but never signed off: I want to swap out some photos our photographer laid out (way too many shots of me). Coming up on our two-year anniversary, I don't know how our photographer will react if--and when--I redesign and ask him to change it.

But I didn't want that time like this. Never like this.

I need to take this empty, useless feeling and burn it into my heart to stop myself from ever wishing things were slow and dull so I could *do* stuff. Clearly I can only accomplish anything when my schedule is completely full. Not having anywhere to go apparently means sleep until 3 p.m. and watch television that I wouldn't be able to pass a quiz on a week later.

The thinking is what's really getting to me. I haven't had time alone for a long, long while, and generally I like it that way--the circus in my brain can sometimes be kind of scary. I'm trying to figure out what and why and how, and there are no answers.The only thing making this somewhat bearable is the love and support from family and friends.

In April, Ri and C's baby, Ari, turned a year old. I, in signature Cadiz fashion, couldn't get to the bookstore fast enough. I spent an entire afternoon in there, looking at every chewable board book that seemed entertaining. It is one of my favorite things to do. I walked out of there with an armful of books for Ari and one little book for our own baby.

At 17 weeks, a baby will be able to hear you, so it is encouraged that you talk, sing and read to them.

There were so many funny, cutesy books to choose from, but this is the one that I chose for our child's first book. Basically, it's about how no matter how old the baby is, where he or she may be, no matter the circumstances, my love will always find him or her. I rubbed my belly in the store and got teary-eyed. I couldn't have said it any better.

Yesterday would have been the 20-week mark of the pregnancy--we'd probably be having an ultrasound to finally find out the sex. But instead, I'm sitting here with this book, hoping that wherever our baby is, our love has indeed found its way there.

we held our perfect child, long enough to say goodbye

The cruelest detail was that I didn't actually hear that strong, healthy heartbeat until after they told us there was nothing they could do to save our baby.

***

Last Saturday, I had severe low-back pain. I thought I might have hurt myself, even though I hadn't been lifting or straining. Sunday night I felt weird, crampy twinges, some so severe I had to kneel down on the floor. I've never been pregnant before, and have long been regarded as a weakling when it comes to pain, so I figured it was gas and told myself not to overdramatize. It wasn't at regular intervals, but it kept me awake. Granted, I hadn't been able to sleep until the sun came up for the previous few weeks anyway. Plus, I'd had an (informal, I have technologist friends) ultrasound just three days before that looked fantastic. While the techs didn't feel confident about the sex of the baby just yet, they assured me our child was healthy--and showed me four strong beating chambers on the screen. In fact, I even saw Baby drinking amniotic fluid and moving around like a champ.

***

Monday morning I went to the office at 7. Any other day I would have been inhaling Cheerios at that hour. My mom recommended I call the doctor, but I got the answering service. I planned to call right when they opened at 8 a.m. Unfortunately, I had staggering--apparently they were contractions--pain and my water broke at 7:50. Just like the movies; a weird pop and a torrent of warm fluid. I can't get that horrible sensation out of my memory. And even though I'm pretty angry at God right now, I am so thankful this didn't happen while I was alone, especially while driving.

A coworker friend drove me to the Emergency Department and I called Jon to say he needed to leave work immediately and be with me in the ER. He didn't buy my fake-cool voice. I can only imagine the terrors going through his mind during that 40-minute drive.

The doctor did a check and said the outlook was extremely grim. Essentially, at 17 weeks our baby's lungs weren't developed enough to sustain him/her outside the womb. And on the inside, the child needed plenty of amniotic fluid to breathe, protect him/her as well as to continue lung development. Sadly, there was probably only a teaspoon or two of amniotic fluid left. And they didn't think it would last. If our baby would have been at least 24 weeks, he/she would have had a much better chance of making it on the outside.

***

For whatever reason, at the 14-week doctor's-office ultrasound, I couldn't distinctly hear the heartbeat. Jon and the doctor did, as well as my mom and dad with my brother's special stethoscope, but I just never felt confident I'd heard it and that made me sad. However, when they took me from the ER to Labor and Delivery and checked for fetal heart tones, it couldn't have been clearer: 165-170 bpm. A healthy rate for a 17-week baby in utero. That was devastating.

***

All the medical professionals were strongly encouraging Jon and I to consent to induce labor and deliver the baby. They worried I'd get an infection that could threaten my life or ability to have more children. While they never say "zero" or "one hundred percent," Baby's chances to make it were as close to zero as they could estimate. Hearing that right after such a strong heartbeat was excruciating. I was lost, but Jon was unwavering; we were absolutely not going to give up on a kid that wasn't giving up on us. They respected our decision but said they'd move ahead if I showed any signs of infection.

This continued for two days. They kept checking the heartbeat, which continued strong and thus became increasingly unbearable to hear. The baby apparently found a tiny pocket of fluid on my right side and was hanging in there, fighting it out. I was trying my best not to move and lose another drop of fluid for my kid. Everyone that came in the room already had that horrible, pitying look in their eyes.

***

On Tuesday evening, contractions started again and we stopped checking for heart tones. I am so thankful the universe made that decision for us, because Jon and I could not have lived with ourselves if it happened any other way. Regardless, we weren't going to get the baby, and if the placenta didn't come along when I delivered, I'd have to have surgery to remove it. So I consented for an epidural.

At 1:50 a.m. Wednesday May 22, our beautiful baby was born. From the look of it, our child was fighting to breathe until the very second it came into the world. Everything was perfect, from each little finger and toe to the cute little nose--which Jon swears looks just like mine. The mouth is definitely Muller. He/she was curled up and looked peacefully asleep.

My mom, dad, brother and Madelyn were all there, and most of them held our baby. It was tough watching them looking down at the little one. At 7 inches and 4.25 ounces, he or she was measuring tall, which I have to say is a little surprising. Baby was about the size of the doctor's hand.

But the absolute worst was watching Jon. He'd developed a fever, was shaking with the chills and was pacing around like a maniac until the baby came. I've wanted to be a mother since my high school babysitting days, but Jon was born to be a father. My already broken heart was completely crushed when I heard that he was cradling our baby and singing to him or her.

 The smudge on the left is a handprint.

No one knows why or how this happened. Not yet, anyway.

Apparently this is called Pre-term Premature Rupture of Membranes (PPROM) and it occurs in 2 percent of all pregnancies. If we were further along, perhaps something could have been done to save our child. Perhaps not. The maternal fetal medicine doctor says the membrane sac is extremely strong--experiments have been done where they drop cannonballs on it and they just bounce off. But no one knows why some can weaken and break. In my case, it wasn't a small hole, it was a blowout--impossible to put back together, even if the science had been there.

We have been researching this and there is all sorts of speculation, such as Baby had some kind of virus or infection that didn't show by making me sick, or a signal from either one of our brains telling my body he or she was ready to come out, inducing labor. The doctors were very clear that even though they will be testing the baby (including chromosome, which will finally tell us the sex), there's a very good chance we will never know how it happened.

***

Baby was cremated at a local funeral home and we will be taking him or her to two special resting places (one here and one in California) as soon as we decide where those should be. My parents handled all of that business. I've always been grateful for the love we have from family and friends, but at times like these, that support is pretty much what is helping Jon and I get to the next day. We haven't wanted to see anyone, but knowing people care give us strength.

***

It's so hard to describe what we're feeling (here's a link to Jon's post about this). The second I felt that gush of fluid, something in my mind snapped and sort of turned off. I am terrified of what will happen when it turns on again. Jon says that there was nothing we could have done better or differently these last four months. When I show signs of cracking, he is adamant: Yes, I was working a lot, but he's not wrong when he says my coming home and leaving my coworkers there to continue would have caused me far more stress than just putting in the 70+ hours a week. I'm not sure other people in our lives are as convinced as my husband, including myself. But I will have to learn to live with that. I hope I am able.

I am so grateful that our little one no longer has to suffer. There are few things worse than holding your child and knowing he or she will never take another breath. I wouldn't wish that upon anyone.

happy mother's day

 

It was killing her not to be able to put this out on her desk at work until we were at 12 weeks.

I gave this to my mother on her birthday. She said, "Oh, that is sweet," and sighed. "Maybe someday it will be true." 

Then Jon said, "Well...how about today?"

Watching her process what we were saying and proceed to completely freak out was simply amazing.

I could go on and on about how much I adore my mother. And on and on some more. But for the sake of brevity, I'll just say this: I couldn't possibly come up with a better or more appropriate sentiment. 

 

so really you should be glad i've been so busy

I can't remember the last time I had a day off from work. Was it a month ago? I wish I were exaggerating. The last three days I've been working 15-hour evening shifts from 11a-2a, as the project we've all been slaving away on for 18 months is finally up and running--well picking up speed to hopefully be running in the near future.

I realize, with all the working the last few months, that I never got around to figuring out what could replace my google reader. And now it is gone. With all the wonderful blogs I've always enjoyed. So that is sad.

But this post is not a total bummer: Jon and I are having a baby (!), due in October/November. I am hoping for Halloween so s/he can share with her/s father, and I can have all the fun of costume birthday parties without the guest of honor being a party pooper.

During these months that I have been vomiting, sore and grumpy, I have channeled that frustration into spreadsheets and dramatic eye-rolling during neverending meetings. I leave work and just want to sit on the couch for the length of one sitcom and go to bed. I haven't had a real meal at home in more than a week. So here is a condensed version of all the whining you likely would have read about if circumstances were different:

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

You're welcome.

just blame Larry

"OMG [redacted] just started changing stuff in the system without asking, and now our stuff is broken!!!"

"We call [redacted] 'Larry.' "

"Effing Larry."

"Feel free to use that around your office. Especially if there isn't anyone named Larry."

"I can't wait to kick Larry's a$$."

the secrets we must keep

About a month ago, I posted a cryptic note on twitter. It's just the kind of post I hate, because a) what do they mean!?! and b) they're plain annoying. So here, let me repeat it:

"I hate to have to be the one to keep scary secrets. And later suffer for having kept them."

In the span of an extended weekend, my brother called me up with work troubles, relationship issues and--having gone to the cardiologist because he wasn't feeling well--health concerns. The kid has been working from home, lives in a town where everyone he knows he knows through his girlfriend, and was now under directive from his physician not to travel. That week, he was essentially alone. The worst part was that he wasn't even going to tell us.

He prefaced the conversation with the caveat that whatever he was going to tell me must not, under any circumstances, be repeated to our parents. And if I gave the slightest hint of freaking out, he was going to hang up and not tell me another thing. Apparently, his oxygen levels are low, his white blood count is low. He's relying on his pacemaker way more than the original 13%. That cut he's had on his ankle from last spring? Still hasn't healed, even with the help of a wound-care specialist. And then he said his cardiologist mentioned the possibility that if things don't get better, he may need to consider two words that have never been up for discussion in the last 30 years, two words that made my blood run cold: heart transplant. I'm not sure I even processed the rest of the conversation after that.

Apparently, this boy had transferred his records, found this doctor in St. Louis, went for preliminary tests and scheduled himself for a cardiac catheterization. He's had them before--they run a tiny camera in through the femoral artery and check out how the blood flow is going. He wouldn't tell me when or where this was going to happen and forbade me from telling my mother. I spent the next week of nights crying on Jon and days pretending all was cool--trying very hard to act nonchalant over the telephone. Jon was right, I had to respect his wishes, at the very least if I wanted information.

I see my parents often. And keeping this from them made me feel like a fraud. Listening to my father complain about the government or the fact that the old car didn't pass emissions made me want to stand up and scream at the top of my lungs about how he is wasting his energy on stupid shit that is NOTHING compared to things he really ought to be worrying about. And my sweet mother saying things like, "oh your brother hasn't called. he's probably really busy with work." It was killing me.

After weeks of subtle cajoling, I convinced my brother to tell my parents. It just wasn't right. They were upset--and looked at me with the eyes of the betrayed. But they realized that being angry was pointless. The kid was going to do what he wanted.

Monday, my brother had his cardiac cath. He did not allow any of the family to be there. His girlfriend, M, was there for him every step of the way, despite also supporting her family through a medical crisis of their own last week. Thank God for that girl. She texted and called us with updates and made sure he was doing ok. After the procedure, it was revealed that my brother had "coils" or Arteriovenous Malformations between his veins and arteries (that mix oxygenated and non-oxygenated blood, making it even harder to breathe and function). They were able to remove about four of them, but they "weren't able to solve the oxygen problem," whatever that means. So it wasn't a routine checkup. This thing was a full-blown procedure.

Who knows what the next steps are. Hopefully this new cardiologist is going to have some answers. This is the first time we were not there to see him groggy and high as a kite in the recovery room (but he did not disappoint over the phone--I'm pretty sure I got a Tupac Shakur serenade). That was really hard for us. But I can't even fathom what going through all this--and trying to protect us from it--must be like for him.

farewell, gentle man-grandma

The rule is: If you don't come home for Christmas, you don't get a gingerbread man. And trust me, you want a gingerbread man.

Jon's grandparents make them for each kid in the family each year. They're about the size of your palm and the traditional shape, but they're not boring: Grandpa is in charge of decorating. He uses the red-hot candies and frosts the outline of the clothes. Zap one of those bad boys in the microwave and it's like you're chewing on Christmas. There must be a magical ingredient they're keeping secret from the rest of us, because none of the grandkids who've attempted to make these cookies has done them justice.

The last few years, Jon's mom and aunt have been baking the gingerbread men, but Grandpa insists on icing them--this Christmas it took eight hours, but he made sure they were all well-dressed. And we got to enjoy them because we came to California for the holidays. I'm fairly certain that Madelyn somehow got to eat two.

It was my first Christmas with Jon's family. On one hand, I wouldn't be with my own parents for the first time in 34 years, so that was a little sad. But at the same time I was looking forward to it. I grew up hearing great stories about my mom's house with her six siblings laughing and bickering over making sweets and playing cards until four in the morning at Christmastime. And for so long it has been just my parents, brother and I during the holidays while my friends all went off to sit at "kids' tables" and fight with their cousins. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't jealous, especially because I have a big, loving family--it just takes 23 hours on a plane to meet them for dinner. Jon has three sisters, two brothers-in-law and a brand-new, adorable nephew. It was going to be the bustling family Christmas I had always longed to experience.

Before driving down to Jon's sister's house, we visited Grandma and Grandpa. Jon showed them how to use their new laptop to FaceTime with their great-grandson. They looked so sweet with their headphones, watching him wiggle and coo on the screen. There's nothing like a baby to bring joy to anyone's face, but it's extra special to see that kind of smile on a grandparent.

On Christmas Eve, Grandpa had a heart attack and was admitted to ICU. We were able to see him a couple of times before coming back to Chicago. Jon said it was difficult for him to see the man who has always spoken with such authority and strength barely talk above a whisper. But Grandpa was sitting in a regular chair next to his hospital bed and eating hospital chicken; he looked tired but otherwise pretty ok. We held his hand and told him we'd see him the next time we came to visit. 

Three weeks later, we were back in California for his memorial service. 

We left frigid and icy Chicago for 70-degree, sunny California. The front of the church was lined with beautiful arrangements of roses, irises, green plants. And posterboards of photographs. Grandpa had looked so smart in his military uniform back in the day. People milled about outside, talking quietly. Many of the smiles were directed at the great grandson, who showed up wearing a onesie with a tiny striped bow tie.

The service was lovely. There were hymns and a lot of stories about how Grandpa was funny, such a loving father, and how he treated Grandma like a queen, always. And there was an honor guard: I had only seen this on television and it was really moving in real life. They asked everyone to stand and played "Taps." Sweet Grandma, who is wheelchair-bound and very very thin, held herself up on the arms of her chair for the entire song. After the flag was unfolded and re-folded, one Marine held it close to his heart, turned and knelt before Grandma, presenting her with the flag on behalf of our country and president and armed forces. He thanked her for Grandpa's service.

I did a lot of crying and holding Jon's hand and surreptitiously trying to hide my soggy tissues. I hadn't known Grandpa very well; I've probably spent a handful of afternoons with them when we would come to town. But I know my husband, what a caring man he is, and I know he spent a lot of time with these grandparents growing up. When Jon was little, he would call for "Grandma," but when she came he'd have to clarify, "No, I want the man Grandma." Even on the way home from the service, Jon and his sister M talked about countless summer days spent at Grandma and Grandpa's community pool and how nothing tasted better than Fritos and cranberry juice after a long afternoon in the water.

When Jon and I were first getting to know each other, it took me a long, long time to guess what his favorite flavor of muffin was. Bran. Yeah, because Grandma would make them so delicious every Sunday; they'd have them after church. Jon likes to slice his muffins in half lengthwise, butter in the middle, and warm them in the toaster oven. He never makes bran muffins, probably because they just wouldn't be the same.

The memorial was very sad, as expected. But it was hardest to see Grandma, having also just lost her sister/best friend right before Christmas. She has this crazy notion that being in charge of her care the last few years may have kept Grandpa from staying around longer. She said as much when the family was gathered and discussing next steps. She started to cry. Jon looked her right in the eye, and with a strong and authoritative voice said No, that isn't the case, and I know it for a fact. Then he made a bit of a joke and she smiled through the tears. Later he told me that it meant so much to him to be able to be there in person for her, to at least try to reassure her it isn't her fault, and hug her and tell her again that he loves her so so much. I hope she felt his love for her as much as I did.

During the service, the pastor asked for people to stand up and share something about Grandpa. I'm terrible at funerals, but I wanted to get up there and say something about the gingerbread men. I just never got up the nerve. Which is a shame, because everyone loves those cookies. And I have a feeling they're never going to taste quite as good.

Happy 2013

I was trying to come up with something to tell people I accomplished in 2012, and aside from restarting my career/getting a certification, trying a crazy diet and starting to exercise in earnest, I have very little to say.

I didn't have time for projects or too much time to spend time with friends--until the very end, which will have been an amazing 16 days of driving around California, sleeping in and hanging with Jon's people.

Work alone is no way to live. Hopefully in 2013 I will have lots of cool projects and trips to talk about!

Hopefully you will, too.


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oh, Christmas tree!

Every year, my crafty sister-in-law m, (not to be confused with Madelyn or A, my other sisters in law) makes advent calendars. I have no idea how she has time to do this, but they are always gorgeous and thoughtful and really lovely to receive. Last year, she sent us an over-the-door shoe rack, decorated with glittery snowflakes and pretty numbers for the 25 days before Christmas. Each pocket had three gifts, one for Jon, Madelyn and myself, each wrapped in a certain paper. She did this for everyone in the family! Now I use the rack to wrangle all my yarn.

This year, m changed it up. We received a big box in the mail.

It had a pretty white tree in a pot.

The stripedy red box had a handmade ornament and corresponding tag for each day.

We hung all the tags and the ornaments on the bulletin board. Way nicer to look at than expired coupons.

Some of the ornaments were personalized--like this ball of yarn and knitting needles, for me.

This one was just really pretty.

On the 24th, there was a star for the top, made out of sheet music-paper.

And because Madelyn has been slacking, here is a gratuitous shot of everyone's favorite nephew:
Merry Christmas, everyone!


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the world didn't end after all

I'm in California for the holidays, my first H Christmas! We got in Wednesday, and settled into Jon's childhood bedroom. Then it was family and fun--including Sarah Silverman and Friends (including one of my faves, Aziz Ansari!)--until I went for a walk with my sisters in law.

My oversize wallet was half hanging out of my pocket, and while I took a moment to say, "Self, just watch, you are going to lose your wallet this way," I walked on out the door, around the block, through the park and to the coffee shop. The trip was about 20 minutes, total.

And then I noticed my wallet was gone.

In the following hours I ransacked the entire house, driveway, street, park, coffee shop enlisting help from the family. I even bothered Madelyn when she was out with friends to ask about it. There weren't that many people out, it was the middle of the day, and I couldn't understand where the heck it had gone.

Right before I got to the dirty business of canceling credit cards and completely flipping out about how I was going to get on a plane without my Drivers' License, Jon suggested we check the post office. He thought he had seen a mail carrier around when we were frantically checking every lawn on the sidewalk. News to me, but people who find wallets sometimes drop them off to the old P.O.

We went to the nearest post office looking for the mail carrier for his block, but they didn't have it. The sweet girl behind the counter apologized and said they didn't have it, but we could try the bigger post office in town.

Jon drove me down to the bigger post office, where the line was out the door with people trying to get their holiday cards in the post. I rang the buzzer at the post-office box window. A mail carrier came to help and then called the boss.

When the boss walked up to the window and said they have my wallet, I about did a cartwheel. I had been ready to give up--apparently the nice lady at the first post office called and said a couple would be coming by and to send them back to the first place. Someone had put my wallet in their mailbox!

All the cash was gone, but my credit cards, ID and gift cards were all there.

IT'S A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE!


And the best part? I didn't have to have my parents express-mail my passport to get home. I hope whoever took my money does something good with it. I'm just thankful they put my stuff in a mailbox and not a trashcan.

but it is pretty accurate

"You know what I want to do during Christmas vacation?"

"What's that?"

"I want to watch lots and lots of movies."

"Okay."

"But only if I can snuggle up next to you."

"Well, you've gotta have someone to sleep on."

"That's just not right, Jon."


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i left with a bag of hair

I was in the mood for a change. For months I was contemplating chopping off my hair again, and decided to make it happen. Of course, I am lazy, so I never *do* it--generally I walk out the door with wet hair and that is fine by me. But I have been trying to make an effort (makeup at least once a week!) lately. I thought I'd take it to the next level.

 A few weeks ago, my friend Claudia was sweet enough to show me how to straighten my hair. My mom bought me a flatiron, but it is still in the box. My hair was long enough to tuck into the back of my pants; especially when straight.

I went to pp's stylist and coordinated my appointment with hers (so she could stop me from doing something insane that I'd regret).   

 

The stylist straightened my hair with the blowdryer and took off 10" as if it were nothing. I still had a good amount to work with, so she started doing her thing. There was a good amount of hair on the floor at the end. 

 CC was concerned about me making the cut in winter (even though it's December 2 and 63 degrees in Chicago), so it's nice that I could keep so much length and still have enough to donate. But it's not long enough for a ponytail, so going to the gym is going to be interesting.

Of course, this is how it looks out of the salon. We will see what "style" my kindergarten-level skills will produce on Monday. Let's just pretend this is what I look like all the time, shall we? 

Now pp and I are on the same trim cycle (apparently I have to start getting haircuts every eight weeks...). Making a date out of getting my hair did with one of my favorite people is probably the best way to make sure I actually do it. 

 

I sort of like linking to old posts, so I'll still throw that in there once in awhile.

it's a preference, not an orientation

In which the word gets out that my husband likes lesbians.