Nancy Drew, Cheetos and My Little Girl

It’s been a while since I’ve written. Anything.

I am not able to focus lately.

I am not able to focus now.

I wanted to check-in with myself out here.

Life is full. Life is good. Life is Life.

There are days when I stare out the window of the car and wonder about the path of the unknown humans that pass by.

There are so many of us.

So many lives being lived.

I wonder if others recognize the awe —

Oh, who am I kidding?! I am trying to force-write something poignant and romantic about the beauty of life.

In reality, I am sitting at home on the Fourth of July with my daughter who is running a fever. Our boys -hubby and son – are off at a family gathering full of swimming, fireworks and fun. We could not go.

We watched Nancy Drew.

I ate some Cheetos, then we ordered Chinese.

She is feeling okay except for the fever.

I am feeling sorry for us.

Now is not the time to inflict you with insincere attempts to create something earth shattering.

Now is the time to paint some toenails, suck on some ice pops and enjoy the solitude with my Little Girl.

I’ll light my way through the black hole another day.

Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

Even  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.


My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.

Upon considering Breakfast…

Don’t we all have some Holly Golightly in us?  The incessant race to get away from ourselves into the imagined person we want to be?  Running away from love to find more misery and reason to run instead of staying where we can find comfort and joy?  Is it the fear of not finding that comfort and joy to be enough that keeps us on the run? What if we were to find the love of our lives to not be all that we had ever been told to dream?  Or the happiness we are taught to spend a lifetime searching for to be a let down when we arrive there? Better to run from misery to misery, right, they never disappoint do they?  Sadness and despair are determined to not fail at their success.  But love and happiness – we have tricked our minds and hearts to believe they may not be real or lasting.  Do we ever believe the same about despair?  We all to often convince ourselves we will NEVER feel different, that we will always feel miserable.  What if we could swap out that same old fucking formula?  Trade out misery for happiness?  Keep sadness at bay rather than joy?

As deeply as pain can grip a hold of our hearts so can contentment and peace because they are our true selves.  We are born happy, unmarred, innocent souls with a treasure trove of laughter and acceptance and oneness.  It is only as we are aged by grownup time that we begin to filter out our original nature and retain the fear we are taught.

I did not know I was afraid of the dark until someone brought fear into my darkness.  I did not know how to be sad until it was told to me that must be why I cry.  I recognize this now that I have children with whom I have unknowingly taught fear much like it was taught to me.  That can be the only explanation for a grown woman to be afraid of a smile so all encompassing that it could lift me off the ground into the waiting arms of my spirit who unconditionally loves every molecule I am made of.

Should we never fear anything?  No.  Should we accept all that exists in our lives?  No.  Is it always up to us to find our happiness?  Yes.  Is this where the limits of my capabilities to stretch beyond this concept end?  Yes, for now.

I allow the din of many other voices to crowd my heart until it may burst into a million pieces.

I must let go to allow the symphony of the fugue fill my being until it pulsates with the life force that maintains its beauty.

But sometimes, I foget how to get to Tiffany’s…