Trying a canter

This is my pinkie toe into the waters of unchaperoned online journals. I have been keeping a log, a journal, a diary for almost two years on one of those cozy parenting sites that celebrate virtual community, mothers with glee helping mother-to-be, that sort of thing. I confess that I was initially creeped out by the suffocating supportivness of it all- the B-I-G cyberhugs and the euphemistic use of initials for even more euphemistically referenced acts of untoward procreation ("BD" indicating "Baby Dancing" which, of course, refers to pervid screwing, or "trying" as eager couples like to confess over the Thanksgiving carcass.) Never having been one of the girls, it took me a while to warm up to the rest of the sorority. Still, I rapidly grew addicted (I use the term advisedly) to churning out reality Internet for the minnies and I have thus far produced tens of thousands of words, mostly about me. My growing narcissism is no longer content with the confines of a Good Housekeeping-esque surrounding, not to mention my inability to post video. And, just between you and me, Pliny the Elder (or was it the Younger? Those two!) and I were nattering on the other day and we are pretty sure Vesuvius just rumbled. I would hate to wake up one morning and discover that my journal had disappeared on the last day of iparenting.

I am Julia, by the way. I wrote a bio under About Me somewhere around here, and was surprised to discover that my tale of miscarrying woe can now almost fit on a matchbook. The first dozen times I told our story it ran to paragraphs and involved a lot of words like "grief" and "devastating." I find the fact that I have reduced the whole thing almost to the point of haiku rather amusing. I am either completely at peace with the fact that I have had six fucking miscarriages, or I am suffering from some sort of detachment psychosis. I have a husband, Steve, who is gorgeous and funny and makes my life sing and who carries a chromosomal rearrangement known as a balanced translocation of chromosomes one and four. Back when we first discovered this interesting peculiarity we were told that we had a 50% chance of a normal/carrier baby and a 50% chance of an unbalanced baby who would either miscarry or die instantly after birth. Seven pregnancies and one child later I have to say that someone was mistaken or we have the worst damned luck on the planet. However, we do have a son, Patrick, who is eighteen months old and is quite literally the center of our existence. We are both home with him all day and he will no doubt have to spend an extra three years in therapy as a result.

I had a D&C a week ago Thursday after it became apparent that I probably was not going to miscarry on my own any time soon, fetal demise having taken place about two weeks earlier. This most recent pregnancy was questionable from the start, as my hcg levels did not double properly and the embryo was measuring a week too small. Still, it hung in there and we managed to see appropriate growth and a really strong heartbeat before everything went to hell again and the heart stopped beating. So, after about a week I am finally (almost) finished with the physical unpleasantness. I discovered that I am sad, however, as I keep eating things in hopes of getting that jolt of pleasure that comes with Fazer cream mints or french onion dip. See: “detachment” above if you are wondering why I only realize that I am sad when chocolate fails to fix what ails me.

My next mission is to try to post a video of Patrick saying the letter Q.