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Sterile

In a few weeks I'm having the lining of my uterus lasered to oblivion. I imagine it smelling like smoke and burning skin, but I don't think lasers work that way. I am done being a fertile woman. Sick of the pain and fucking monthly bloodbath. And God knows I don't want any more babies. I can hardly handle the two I have.

That I had to reschedule my "procedure" for one of J.'s depositions led to a minor shitstorm on my part. He weathered it well. I told him I still couldn't forgive his job for the depositions he did in the days right after Claire was born. He said only, "I know." I think he's a little bitter, too.

I couldn't have handled those few postpartum weeks without my parents, who took shifts around the clock so J. could work and sleep and I could not go insane.

They are coming to Seattle tomorrow, my parents. I'll be taking them to a tulip festival and on a chocolate factory tour. My dad will tell the kids knock knock jokes and my mom will bring presents and we'll actually have some childless time, too, while Max and Claire are in school.

They must think it's weird that I'm of age now to sterilize myself. They must look at each other and say, "Forty-two! Our daughter is forty-two." Because that's what J. and I do about Eight and Six. Holy Shit, we'll whisper in wonder, Max and Claire are Eight and Six.

At the same time, it seems like we've had littles forever. I can't even remember my life before, except in snatches where I might wax nostalgic about things like free time on weekends, toyless rooms, and visions of my future, hopefully as a mother.

It's very different than I expected. So much better. And so, so much worse.

Poem in the driveway

Yeah, so...I don't know.

Claire yanked out one of her top front teeth two nights ago. She had been in bed, but pranced downstairs around 9:30, a bloody Kleenex in one hand, her tooth in the other. While Max is the type to whimper until I gently tug a dangling incisor out, Claire will find one that's only slightly wiggly and wrench it around until it pops into her palm.

She now looks like a little hillbilly, but is thrilled. I wonder how much longer we can get away with this tooth fairy schtick. J. got a whole roll of golden dollars and is stoked to slip one under her pillow.

*

I just sold our kitchen range. It was a complete beater. It had suffered years of abuse (mostly mine) and kind of limped along (think the van in Little Miss Sunshine). I'm relieved it's out of the garage, but I was bested in negotiations. I considered giving the thing away for free on Craigslist, so what do I care that I only got two-thirds of the asking price. It's better than nothing. But still, I hate that I'm terrible at bartering.

*

This actual sentence popped out of J.'s mouth tonight and skittered around the room like an injured cricket: "When you're my age, I'll be dead." He was speaking to Claire.

He's said similar things lots of times. But on this night, I snapped a little. Right now is the one time in Max and Claire's lives that they don't have to think too much about mortality, right? I mean, they're realizing, they're starting to learn that animals and people don't live forever, but hopefully they're not immersed in those thoughts, aren't dwelling on it. So, no reason to drive the point home.

I'm pretty sure he thought I was overreacting when I growled at him not to talk like that in front of the kids. But, knowing J., he'll take it to heart and cease. I hope. Otherwise, you know, dukes up.

*

My uncle Chad is in town. We met for lunch yesterday. In the 41 years I've known him, I'm quite sure we've never shared a meal, just he and I. It was fun, all that unbroken conversation. I love the guy. He's super upbeat. Comfortable. Just my dad's brother. (He and my dad both call each other George, even though that is neither of their names. And, despite that they've told me the reason multiple times, I can never remember what it is.)

*

This afternoon the kids were raking leaves in the driveway when I spotted a piece of paper. I picked it up and found a poem. It didn't particularly resonate with me, but was apparently written by a local Seattle blogger who leaves print outs of his poetry in a box on Capitol Hill. How it found its way all the way over here, I don't know. But I liked the symbolism. Like a message in a bottle.

Bright again

You hear your kids playing in the backyard

with the neighbors

whooping, shrieking

exercising the small measure of independence

you allow

You think maybe you should be out there

coaching, watching, laughing along

But you've had enough

You tell yourself this is good for them

Playground law

The day you came back from the midwest

you painted the pink streak back into your hair

It had faded

But is bright again

When your husband saw it, he said

"I thought you were done with all that."

"No," you said. "Nope. Not even close.

Why would you think I was?"

You're reading Olive Kitteridge

It makes you sad

But also has lines like

"She had the sensation that she'd been seen,

and she had not even known she'd felt invisible"

So you keep going, of course

Because the book contains so many truths

The author gifted with the amazing ability

to convey people's deepest fears and desires

You wish you could write like that

You went out with both of your best friends 

Saturday night

You felt lucky

So lucky

to have found these two women

who let you talk about anything

who let you spew terrible thoughts

and listen

really listen

Moving through the warm July evening

a little wine in your veins

you realized that Going Out isn't

always what you imagine

You remember this

from days when you were single

The emptiness at the end

The money spent

The drinks consumed

For the last year, you'd been imagining

it as something else

Something more fulfilling

But your two girls...they are fabulous

You're down about your writing

low

blue

Sighing a lot. Wishing.

Trying new spins on old words

Wondering when

When?

When...

The beginning

My sweet, amazing friend Tricia is 37 weeks pregnant with her first child.

And, while I'm breathless with relief that I am through this phase of my life, I remember the excitement, the anticipation of meeting the person I was creating.

It still kind of boggles my mind: that I made another person. That Tricia's body is making another body.

Weird. But also miraculous.

When I met Tricia for coffee this morning, her expression, when she arrived, was a cocktail of irritation, amusement at her irritation, and affection.

I remember this stage well, too. You just want to be done. You want your body back.

But, the thing is, you don't really get your body back. You can lose the weight, yes. You can whip your muscles into shape. You're never completely your own person again, though.

Your kids are always part of you.

They cling to you when they're scared, they hug with abandon, they step on your toes, they jab you in the ribs, they occasionally sleep next to you and, even when they're older and are away, they worry you, they occupy your thoughts.

It is all just starting for Tricia. It'll be her own journey, different from mine or anyone else's. And I feel honored to be part of it.

Sitting pretty

This makes John Edwards look, not just pretty, but silly!