TBT to 1993: "The Queen of Not-Fair-Ness."

Is there anything more emo than the summer before you turn thirteen? You're stuck at home all the time with your annoying siblings, your friends are all off at cool sleepaway camps (or, perhaps, Orchestra Camp), and there's no school to break up the monotony of suburban tween angst. It sucks.

...That's the only disclaimer I have in defense of the following journal entry, which documents the horrors of being twelve, including NO ONE understanding me, no one UNDERSTANDING me, and no one understanding ME.

Just in case the writing isn't humiliating enough, here's a picture
of me in my bathing suit, taken a few weeks after the diary entry was
written...tan lines and all. Whoever made the middle-school swimmers and
divers (I was a diver) take a yearbook picture in their bathing suits was evil.

********************
August 7, 1993
     My only wish in the entire world is for someone - anyone - to understand me, which happens to be one of the dumbest wishes in the world because I know and everyone else knows that no one will ever, ever understand me. And the thing is, I'M NOT HARD TO UNDERSTAND. It's just that I have no one to talk to that will be ready to listen. Even pouring out my feelings in this journal doesn't help much because the journal doesn't know anything to do to make me feel better, even though I've heard that writing down your feelings is great for the mind and it helps your self-confidence (which I happen to be a little low on lately). None of my friends (except Sarah) are home. They're all at camp or on vacation. (That's true. They are.)
     I suppose I'm grounded now because I just slugged Steve for being a little brat. He deserved it, though, and that's what nobody seems to understand. I guess, though, that that's partly my fault, because I can't explain why I hit him. It's been building inside of me for a long time, my hate for him. Finally now it's out of me (my hate for him is out of me, I mean), and look at all the good it did for me.
     No one understands how hard it is for me to be stuck in the middle of things. Half the time, I'm one of "the little kids," and the other half of the time I'm old enough to earn money and it's, "Cathy, gimme money. I need money and I'm too helpless to go to the bank and oh don't worry I'll pay you back."
     WHEN THE HELL IS EVERYONE GONNA PAY ME BACK?!!?
     It's just not fair!!
     Life's not fair, Cathy.
     Dammit, I know life's not fair. Who should know better than me, the Queen of Not-Fair-ness.
     Because I hit Steve, the hard-earned money used to pay for the Nintendo Game we got is going to waste because Mom said no.
     NOT FAIR.
********************

Well. That escalated quickly. I don't recall harboring such hatred for my younger brother, but there you have it. Sorry, Steve, that you were the recipient of my hormonal rage bubbling over. I also don't recall being my siblings' personal financier, and I'm not exactly sure what's up with me talking to myself towards the end of the entry ("Life's not fair, Cathy"). I think I really did wish that someone would stumble on my journal and just totally GET me and provide all the answers for me. I don't know who that someone was; probably an imaginary boyfriend.

And now look at me, with a husband who understands me all too well and enjoys nothing more than watching his wife and his daughter (the...Princess of Not-Fair-ness?) get into the ultimate Battles of Gorga-tude against one another. Can't wait to see what works of melodramatic art Rowan's tween years produce! After all, I've heard that writing down your feelings is great for the mind.

Yikes. Good night, and good Throwback Thursday to you.

(Find more Throwbacks to Hell here!)

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the breaths that take us in and out.

The doctor called today. The Red Pee Mystery isn't solved, but it appears to have been officially a fluke. I'm still on strict orders to avoid getting knocked up until my four-week follow-up, but the weight of uncertainty has, thankfully, eased. 

I spent the weekend vacillating between feeling completely blasé about the situation and mentally composing a sure-to-go-viral postmortem letter to my daughter about how precious she is. And then one of Rowan's tiny BFFs landed in the hospital with scary symptoms, and I tumbled hard into a chasm of fervent, desperate hope - hope for Rowie's friend, hope for my misbehaving kidneys, and hope that parents out there recognize, every single day, how damn lucky they are.

It's all so precarious. And, yes, precious. I can't stop breathing in the moments, mundane and extraordinary alike, that just seem unbelievable and miraculous. (Sappy mom alert.)


Like: My sweetest two-year-old baby love, pulling up a chair for her newest buddy (BB-8) at the bagel shop and posing for a picture with him. Then she devoured her bagel sandwich, which just happens to be my favorite combo as well: cheese, mustard, and lots of extra pickles. I love that she loves what I love.

Like: Rowan sleeping soundly in her crib, cuddling with her "friends."

Like: Flying through pillow mountains on a cold afternoon.

Like: Meeting Daddy at his work for lunch and getting some work done on the "pa-puter":

Like: Upside-down Spiderman sunglasses and cracking each other up in the backseat of the car.

Like: The way she likes to hug J.J. and me at the same time and make us all sing, "I like to be with my fam-i-ly!" Apparently, it's a song from Daniel Tiger, who's also taught her how to stomp her feet when she's frustrated, be a helper in her family, and use her wo-or-ords.

And there are the extraordinary miraculous moments, too, like: On Saturday, we went to the Fox Theater in Detroit to see Sesame Street Live, thanks to Rowan's beyond-incredible Gramma Jody. Rowan had been asking for two days straight if it was time to go see "the really, really, REALLY big Elmo" yet, and she sang the Sesame Street theme song the whole way to Detroit:

She was adorable from the second we stepped out of the parking structure, literally oohing and aahing at the city lights and then at the theater's intricate designs.

We had special tickets to meet some of the characters before the show, and although there was a 50/50 chance that Rowan would be completely freaked out at the sight of them...

...she was delighted to meet them, hugging them, singing to them, giving them high-fives and nose-honks, and dancing with them. She asked specifically to sit on Grover's lap, which totally made Grover's day (it's hard to measure up to Elmo in a toddler's eyes, you know?). 

She was entranced during the show, alternately staring wide-eyed at the stage and dancing with the characters who came up and down the aisles:

And that night, wrapped in her towel after her bath, she snuggled into my shoulder and said, "Now THAT was a fun day!" Extraordinary.


Mostly, though, it's the everyday stuff that blows my mind and fills my heart. I feel lucky all the time that I get to be Rowan's mama, and that my days are spent with her. There's no one else in the world who would take off their boots and line them up next my boots, just so the boots could be with their "mommies." Every day she does this. Every day it's extraordinary.

Extraordinary, miraculous, amazing, precious.

Feeling grateful tonight, and looking forward to hearing good news about my little buddy T.

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coming soon.

They call my name sooner than I expected. A nurse ushers me behind a curtain to check my height, weight, and blood pressure, and I sit beside her as she clicks through her list of questions. "Oh, it's your first visit to nephrology! Welcome!" I try not to sound sarcastic as I thank her, but I'm not happy to join this club. Out of the corner of my eye, a number jumps out at me from my chart.

35.

The patient is thirty-five years old, and I'm the patient, so I'm thirty-five. It's older than I feel, but biology isn't fueled just by emotions.

The nurse hums a little. "Any medications?" she asks.

"Nope," I respond. "Just a prenatal vitamin. We were hoping to start trying to conceive again soon."

She smiles broadly at me. "Oh, congratulations! How exciting."

And it is. But soon is a relative term, the implications of which echo in my heart as the nephrologist sits down with me to discuss our next steps. Soon, we'll schedule an ultrasound, a CAT scan, possibly a kidney biopsy; we'll know more soon. Soon.

At the end of this particular soon is, hopefully, my release from nephrology with a clean bill of health, and an all-clear to proceed with our family planning as we wish. It'll be at least four weeks before my next nephrology appointment, though, and before the next "next steps" are discerned. Weeks add up, and weeks turn into months, and my mind's eye keeps flashing back to the number on my chart.

35. Already advanced maternal age, already reaching the end of my reproductive years.

35. And at least thirty-six by the time I have another baby, to say nothing of another baby after that.

35. Three years older than when I was pregnant with Rowan.

35. Not old, but no spring chicken, either.

35. Maybe I've been waffling about adding another baby to our family, but let me just say, I don't like being told that I can't right now, and that we have to wait.

35.

The answers can't come soon enough.

(And you can tell me all you want to calm down and not freak out, and I will do my best to follow that advice while also trying to erase the pitying look on the doctor's face when I joked, "So it wasn't the cranberries?" Nope. Definitely not the cranberries.)

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a year from now.

I can't decide what the universe is trying to tell me.

Is it trying to tell me that I can never predict what might happen? Or that I'm the only one who can predict what will happen?

At the risk of sounding completely full of woo, it feels like fantasies of mine are starting to manifest. Like, dreams coming true, life getting flip-turned upside down, magic blooming...that kind of stuff. And all I can keep thinking is: Would I have predicted any of this a year ago?

Mostly, the answer is no. I wouldn't have guessed, a year ago, that I'd start having my writing published, or that I'd end up with two separate (very part-time) freelance positions. I absolutely would not have guessed that I'd be generating any sort of income from a freaking Etsy shop. And I was afraid to guess whether I'd still be a stay-at-home mom or not. That has been the single biggest - and most surprising - dream come true to date. 

I mean, it works the other way, too. Life has taken some frustrating, unpleasant, and downright crummy turns in the last twelve months. This time last year, we could plop Rowan in her crib at 7:00, and she'd be snoozing by 7:15 at the latest - none of her now-standard hours of bedtime shenanigans. This time last year, I had no clue that we'd soon be scheduling every-six-month dermatology appointments to monitor the progress of Rowan's vitiligo. This time last year, I assumed we'd have or be expecting another baby by now, and I never thought we'd have to postpone pregnancy until we get to the bottom of my kidney issues (which I still think are a fluke, but apparently, that's up to nephrology to determine). And this time last year, I'd put off calling my mom back because...that's just what you do sometimes, when you don't know you only have a few months left with her.

If you had told me this time last year that I'd have a day exactly like today, I'd have laughed at you, at the absurdity and amazingness of it all. Let's say it's January of 2015, and you're telling me about the kind of day I'll have today, in 2016. You'd say:

• Your two-year-old will wake up at her new-normal time of 7:15 (not 5:00!) and chatter in her crib for awhile.
• You'll kiss your husband goodbye as he heads out for a job that doesn't exist in January 2015.
• You'll have a debate with your sweet girl about semantics...which will kinda blow your mind.
• You and Rowan will go to story time at the library, where she's the "big kid" now.
• At the library, you'll meet up with a friend to drop off three paintings you made for her kids. Yeah, no, I said paintings.
• You'll spend nap time applying to a preschool for Rowan; commiserating with your mom group friends about toddler drama; and accepting a writing position with a local organization that you totally love and admire.
• While Rowan is at Grandma's house in the afternoon, you'll swing by the post office to mail off another painting order.
• And you'll listen to an NPR segment about the frontrunner for the Republican Presidential nomination, who is...wait for it...Donald Trump.
• At 8:45 that night, while you're trying to finish a blog post (for the blog that you actually update regularly now!), you'll have to go upstairs to tuck your daughter back in, because she's still awake and her pillow is "too high."

What would I have said to all of these predictions? Does it matter? They still seem mostly unbelievable to me, even after living them today. And while I'm in no hurry to rush through this sweet, sweet, dream-come-true time of my life, I'm beyond curious to know what it'll all be like a year from now.

Let's dream for a minute. Like - hey. This is what your life will be like, a year from today:

• Your three-year-old will sleep past 7:30, which is great, because you're due with Baby No. 2 soon, and you need all the sleep you can get.
• You'll kiss your husband goodbye as he heads out for the job that he still can't believe he gets to go to.
• You'll have a debate with your sweet girl about hurrying up on the potty.
• You'll drop Rowan off at her co-op preschool, and you'll head back home to do some quick chores. And, let's be real, to spend some quality time with Netflix.
• You'll spend afternoon nap time counting your lucky stars that your three-year-old naps at all...and getting some work done. You have writing deadlines coming up and blog sponsors to respond to.
• While Rowan is at Grandma's house in the afternoon, you'll run some baby-related errands. You'll spot an adorable newborn outfit and you won't feel guilty dropping $20 on it, because you're no longer needing to pinch every single solitary penny.
• And you'll listen to an NPR segment about President Sanders's new student loan forgiveness policy. Hooray, you qualify!
• At 8:45 that night, Rowan will be long asleep, and you'll be finishing some more work (from the couch, natch). Funny how you spend just as much time writing/working as you did in January 2016, but that now you're making a respectable living from it!

It could happen. You never know. But also - it feels like the universe is pretty much saying, "You do know. You do. Make it happen, cap'n."

What about you? What's different in your life today that you wouldn't have imagined (or were too scared to imagine) a year ago? What were the big surprises - the good, the bad, the ugly? I really think our collective answers are meaningful, and, importantly, that you have nothing to lose by starting to dream now.

(Rowan's like, "A year ago, my goals involved finding the optimal surfaces on which to wipe my nose. My goals remain the same today, and will surely be the same in January 2017. Also, Mommy let me eat half her Jimmy John's sandwich today, so I'm pretty much set for life in terms of dreams come true.")

dream come true (the sandwich for her...the scene for me).

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