Temple of Doom

Back to work tomorrow.  I've enjoyed my 2 months of summer, spending lots of time with Cookie, but all good things must come to an end.  I do love my job teaching at a high school here in the Pacific Northwest; however, it's fair to say I may like summer more.  So sue me.

Cookie also starts kindergarten this year.  You'd think she'd be excited, right?  You'd be wrong.  "Cookie, you'll learn all kinds of new things!  You'll get to paint and do art projects!  You'll get really good at reading!  You'll get to play with all of your friends!"  (I say this as if school is the BEST THING EVER!)  (Were there enough exclamation points in that section?  Just checking.)

"But, Mom, I'd rather spend my days with you."

Way to break my heart, kid.  Way to break my heart.

Anyway, back to work.  This week, no students, which means lots and lots of meetings.  I think they do this to us every year so we have some idea how students' butts feel after a day of sitting in uncomfortable chairs.  I've been going in a couple of times a week (unpaid, mind you) for a few weeks already, so I'm pretty much set to go.  I've been teaching almost 20 years, so I have it down.  That's not to say I don't get nervous.  Next Monday night, the night before the students return, I won't sleep at all.  It's a good nervous though.

(The title of the post refers to the place I work.  It's ironic.  Honest.)

Three Things

Sometimes, you don't know how much you want something until it's gone.  I'm not going to go into a lot of details about the miscarriage (that's another story for another day.  A day when I feel like crying.).  It will suffice to say that it HURT.  Like HELL.  Both physically and emotionally.  I should also add that the doctor at the ER was a prick.  ("Why did you wait so long to get pregnant?"  Is it really the right time to ask a woman that when she's losing her baby?  No, it isn't.)  

I never knew how much I wanted to be a mother until that opportunity seemed to be slipping away from me.  It wasn't until I saw DH's tears that I realized he was already thinking of himself as "Daddy."  It was tough.  

And finally, here are two things I never knew:  

1.  Miscarriages can take a long time.  I miscarried for about 6 days.  Vicodin didn't really help.

2.  Lots of women have had miscarriages, more than I ever imagined.  My midwife had one.  The nurse at the doctor's office?  She had one.  The Spanish teacher down the hall.  The blind student's Braillist had two.  My dog's vet had one right after I did.  

Oops.  There are three things.

3.  The fact that lots of women have had miscarriages doesn't help you at all when you're going through it yourself.

Elderly Gravida, Part One

Advanced Maternal Age.  Those three words don't exactly strike joy into the heart of a pregnant woman, let me tell you.  If you are over 35 years old and pregnant, the words "elderly gravida" are on your chart.  Over 45?  Geriatric gravida.  Oh. My.  Here's a brief story of one woman (that'd be me) and her experiences of elderly gravida.

Way back in the summer of 2001, Newsweek magazine had an article about fertility in women over the age of 35.  I don't remember specifically, but it seems to me that it said that the odds for a woman aged 40 to get pregnant without assistance were astronomical.  I was going to be 40 in a month or so, and I thought it was time to throw birth control out the window.  (Literally.  Those diaphragms can FLY!) On my birthday in September,  I told the hubster I was no longer in charge of birth control.  He read Newsweek.  He knew the odds.

That November, at the Veterans' Day assembly at school, I was complaining to a coworker about feeling crampy.  My boobs were more tender than usual.  And my period, which was pretty damned reliable, was a couple of days late.  Plus, every single patriotic song at that assembly was making me cry.  She suggested that, just perhaps, I was pregnant.  I *laughed* at her.  Then, on the way home from school, I stopped and bought a home pregnancy test.

When the hubster saw the unopened box on the kitchen table (I was waiting for first morning pee, thinking it'd be stronger), he turned white.  He was the one in the marriage who was less than certain about having kids.  I was more amenable to the idea, but I really felt that both partners should be on board.  Then, I turned 40 and the point was moot.  I thought.  DH convinced me to pee on the stick immediately.  (Well, once I made it to the bathroom.)  I told him that I was sure I was not pregnant.  I was just late.  After all, I was FORTY.  Newsweek said...  Yeah.

I peed on the stick, left it in the bathroom, and DH and I paced in the living room for the obligatory 2 minutes.  Finally, we both walked to the bathroom.  I picked up the stick and looked at it.  Two lines.  Two dark lines.  At that point, my legs gave out and I collapsed on the bathroom floor.  That's when DH realized that two lines meant a positive test.

After much stuttering and stammering, we both realized that we were going to have a baby.  Admittedly, I was a bit more happy about the news than DH, but he hopped on the happy train pretty quickly.  I did consider asking for a refund for my Newsweek subscription, or at least a contribution to a future college fund, but decided they'd laugh at me.  

We briefly considered not telling anyone until the first trimester was over, but neither one of us is known for our ability to keep secrets.  

Then, three weeks later, I miscarried.

In the Beginning

Why now?  Why at all?  I started reading blogs over 4 years ago, and I've never thought about starting my own.  Until now.  My daughter, Cookie, just turned 5, and I have this mothering thing under control.  (Famous last words.)  I've procrastinated all my life.  I got married in my mid thirties.  I became a mother in my early forties.  It just is natural that I start blogging years behind everyone else!