Being whole with half a heart

Nate asked me if focusing so much on our loss meant I was not fully appreciating this new experience. Conversely, does fully appreciating this experience mean I no longer feel the loss? No, it doesn't.

I do know this is a different pregnancy, but sometimes…

In that slippery middle space between sleep and wakefulness, I call this child by a name I used to call her sister and am immediately overcome with guilt. Guilt for both the girl that once was but never grew up to be, and guilt for the girl who now lives inside of me.  I believe this happens more often than not – that the blurred lines of a life gone and a life given are a result of my mind trying to deal with both the heartbreak and hope-filled possibility of a long awaited dream come true.

I once likened my “new normal” to a delicate tightrope walk – an attempt at balancing a life of simultaneously occurring contradictions while desperately inching my way forward: happiness and grief, hope and despair, denial and acceptance - and now, life and death. 

Having another baby doesn’t mean that you forget the one you lost. It doesn’t mean that the one who is here will make everything all better. It is not her job to heal me. It is my job to let her know how very much she is loved, valued, and wanted. At the end of this journey I will be cradling this baby girl in my arms while also carrying her sister in my heart. I will carry them both for always.

I have two. There will always be two. 

Adventures in Bedresting: Hair, there, and everywhere - 21 weeks

Last week, as I sat in the waiting room of my OB’s office, I came to a decision about something. Surrounded by other preggos in their cute maternity dresses, jeans with pretty sandals and perfectly pedicured toes, tidy hair and carefully applied makeup – I decided that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t hurt to make more of an effort with my appearance before leaving the house (and by “more of an effort” I really mean “ANY type of effort”).

And then I thought, DAMN, these people must have a lot of energy to do that kind of stuff and I can’t really leave the house now anyway except to go to the doctor (who doesn’t care if I live a life without shame since she’s seen EVERYTHING), so what’s the point? I don’t even try to see my toes anymore.  I suppose the least I can do is attempt to run a brush through my hormone charged hair which is thick and curly to begin with but now resembles the bride of Frankenstein circa 1935.  Truthfully, I don’t much care how I dress because I’m not about impressing anybody these days (“or ever”, as my brother says when refusing to be seen in public with me while I’m wearing my favorite pair of fat yoga pants).

But a strange thing happened in the waiting room that day. A husband who was there with his wife kept staring at my legs. I was wearing a faded blue Old Navy t-shirt and a knee length fluorescent orange skirt with a super stretchy elastic waistband because the only things that fit these days are super stretchy skirts and my favorite pair of fat yoga pants (color coordination be damned!). Thinking this fella was impressed by the size of my calf musculature, I gasped when remembering that I hadn’t shaved in about 4 months. Luckily it was sparse (Asians don’t seem to be very hirsute), but it was quite long, if I’m to be completely honest.

I must admit that I did feel a momentary hot flash of embarrassment and started pondering why I didn’t take more care to present myself in a socially acceptable manner.  

 - Is it because I don’t love myself?

 - Is it because I have a misguided sense of self-confidence?

 - Is it because I don’t feel the need to conform to society’s ideals of what a woman should look like?

Maybe all the above and none of the above.  Maybe I’m just too tired from being worried all the time to care about the latest maternity fashion trends. Perhaps had things gone differently in my pregnancy with Ligaya, I would be more inclined to buy maternity clothes, or start making decisions about car seats, or think about what color to paint the guest room in case we can actually use it as a nursery this time.

I just don’t want to jinx anything. That fear of buying maternity jeans isn’t because I don’t understand how the hell they work with that long stretch of material at the top and odd length of denim at the bottom. It’s thinking that the second I plan for the future, something bad will happen. It’s worrying that the moment I allow myself to be excited about normal pregnancy rituals like choosing a name, or buying a stuffed bunny rabbit, or even looking at strollers - it’ll all be taken away.

I’ve said it a million times, but I’ll say it again. It’s hard. Being cautiously happy when all you want to do is just BE HAPPY is exhausting. At some point you want to stop dipping your toe in the water and just jump in. While I can’t completely do that yet, it helps me to break things down into smaller goals….like addressing the bride of Frankenstein hair situation, for example.

I’m not ready to buy maternity clothes, but I can certainly try to tame the tangled beast that lives on top of my head (hey, it’s easier than shaving my legs).  So...without further a-doo-doo...introducing the Asavea hair straightening brush! Thank you once again, Amazon!  

Maternity jeans will eventually run their course, but a good hair straightener is forever

Baby steps…one day, one tangle, one deep breath at a time.

21 weeks.