Julia

Happy Birthday To Me

I am feeling much more optimistic about Rusty. Since I originally thought he would live forever and was then convinced that he was not going to survive to see November, the optimism is somewhat mixed but mostly good. After speaking with my actual vet (the fill-in vet at our clinic was the one who diagnosed him with renal failure) and getting emails from a veritable phalanx of digital vets, I am no longer damping him with my tears while holding mirrored compacts to his face to make sure he is still breathing. The diet transition has been a little rough and getting him to take a pill the size of my pinkie is a two-man-one-child job (I hold him, Steve doses him, Patrick hops around saying "Rusty is allllllllllllllllllllllllll better now") but I think we have it under control. For now. I mean, the parts we can control. He is eating fairly well and drinking enough, I hope, and he seems as happy to pursue his hobby of sleeping on the dishwasher as he ever was. We will bring him back into the vet next month to see if the new food and drugs are helping. If not we will change tactics. A lady never shows excess emotion in public, of course, but I will confess to being a complete mess in the privacy of my kitchen these past few days. I could not stop crying and kissing his ears, which he frankly dislikes. While Rusty is technically my step-cat (Steve rescued him from a fire escape a solid eight years before I entered the picture) I love him devotedly and am just not ready to say goodbye. He is the eldest and gentlest of our four cats, a wonderful personality. Even Jammy-the-Closet-Cat likes him, and she's crazy. So we will do what needs to be done and hope for more time with him. Thank you, by the way, for all the excellent advice and sympathy. You are all always so very kind.

Today is my birthday and despite a rocky start (Steve was unexpectedly called out of town for a meeting. he left today at 5am and he will not get back until midnight) it is turning out quite nicely. Patrick slept longer than I did this morning (always the sign of a five satellite day) and Steve left a note instructing me to take Patrick to preschool and then proceed immediately to the massage he had scheduled for me. It was great, once I stopped contemplating how very weird it is to have a complete stranger rub one with scented oils. Rather Late Rome, if you know what I mean. I have always thought that employing a prostitute would be so embarrassing, what with the odd juxtaposition of the intensely intimate with the purely commercial but perhaps not. My natural modesty fled when she started dealing with the knots in my neck and by the time she got down to the lower back I would have trotted happily after her stark naked if only she would do that thing with her knuckles again. Gosh it felt good.

Today is the big Halloween party at school and, per someone's suggestion here last year (last year! see how I treasure your input), Patrick went as the red letter A. He is wearing (or at least he was when I dropped him off) red sweatpants and a red turtleneck. We bought some shimmery red felt and Patrick traced two capital A's on the fabric that we then cut out together. A little glue to stick them to the front and back of the shirt, a little more glitter glue to jazz it up and... ta da! The letter A. He was SO PROUD of himself. (oh wait. I took a photo for my mom. here. a picture is worth at least 40 words. and, shamelessly ripping-off Greg from Geese Aplenty, NO I am not a professional photographer and NO I really do not have anything to suggest for the amateur looking to improve. the ability to take photographs is a gift, I suppose. you either have it or you do not). Last year I sent pumpkin bubble wands for the party but this year I succumbed to the inevitability of Sugar and I let him hand out wee packets of M&Ms.

I have not yet investigated his backpack but from the heft of it I am guessing that everyone else's mother went for the party pack size. I will have enough candy to last me for an eternity. Bwah ha ha ha ha. Candy. I just love its sweet sweet taste.

I meant to share some reflections upon this, the thirty-fifth anniversary of my birth, but I realized I have not learned all that much.

Let's see, the more expensive the wine the better it tastes. The moral here is: never try anything over $6 a bottle. That way you will never be disappointed, because you just won't know any better.

What else? I wouldn't be 22 again if my life depended upon it. If you are in your early twenties right now you only THINK you are happy, what with your YouTube and mole-like metabolism. In truth you are very very anxious and it only gets better as you age into indifference.

Personalized note cards are always a thoughtful gift.

It actually IS much easier to love a rich man than a poor one although apparently it is also then harder to get into the kingdom of heaven. You will have to decide for yourself about this conundrum.

A piece of bread can quickly degrease braising liquid.

Recurrent miscarriage is really difficult but it is better to suck it up and suffer in relative silence if you possibly can because no one is ever going to say anything to make it better anyway. And chances are, given the slightest opportunity, they will say something horrible and you will feel even worse.

Self-mockery is an art form. Sometimes the subtlety required eludes people. It is best to ignore them.

And a very happy birthday to you. I probably missed yours so consider it belated and then put another future happy birthday on account. From me.                                 

The Very Good Cat

On the last post SarcastiCarrie (isn't that a clever name? every day I kick myself for not coming up with something better than Julia. and for not convincing Steve to change our last name when we married. I had two great suggestions, too: Blossom and Valentine. Julia Valentine. I think that is just charming. instead my last name is something Swiss and vaguely unpronounceable, so people spend a lot of time asking if they are saying it correctly. like I care) seems to be shrieking at me about Australia so here is the deal with our trip to Australia: we are not going. We were planning on it as Steve was supposed to be in a tournament there in November, but his knee never healed from the last surgery. Or rather, it is healing, but so slowly that he still cannot run on it and he would not be playing and I thought flying to Australia to watch was stupid. He agreed. So we will stay home and I felt sorry enough for Steve that I only put up the faintest protest when he bought his dream refrigerator. And Cinnabar is the wine I was drinking to excess last night when I posted. Mercury Rising. It's a meritage. The 2001 is not as good as the 1999 in my opinion but is still very drinkable. As I proved yesterday.

Now I have a problem that I need help with.

Patrick and I took Rusty, our eighteen year old cat, to the vet today. Rusty had begun stealing food, any food, RAW BROCCOLI, and eating it like a wolf, such that I wondered why and took him in to get checked. After a blood draw and xray he was diagnosed with chronic renal failure. When they gave me the diagnosis this afternoon I said, "Oh GOOD, it's not cancer" which is what I was worried about. The vet said no, not cancer, but looked at me funny before handing me several hundred dollars worth of special food. Now that I have had time to google it and learn that it is both progressive and terminal, I can see that there is not much to distinguish it from cancer, really. I mean, medically, yes, but emotionally, no. And I know I should have gotten that from the words "chronic" and "renal" and "failure" all strung together (my brother, gently, about an hour ago: "But Jules, you knew he needed kidneys to live, right?") but I did not. 

So we have a dying cat on our hands (actually quite literally on my chair as I type this) and apart from how I feel (awful. he is a wonderful cat and I will miss him dreadfully. I have learned to sleep on my back because he likes to sleep between my knees when it is cold) I am worried about: 1) how to keep him comfortable, 2) when we should consider euthanasia and 3) how to tell Patrick that Rusty is dying/will die without completely freaking him out.    

Any wisdom offered will be gratefully appreciated. The longer I live the more frequently situations seem to arise for which I discover I am completely unprepared. It sucks to be a grownup.

Cinnabar

A propos of nothing, this blog (Smitten Kitchen) is so pretty I think I need to buy a new camera. Because, obviously, I, too, would take lovely pictures of intensely beautiful food if only my camera was better, no? I mean, yes? And she Knows Food so it is not only visually pleasing, it is educational. The cupcake pictures alone are worth the click. Go on, I have nothing to say here anyway.

Speaking of kitchens, mine preempted you last week. I suppose I could have written something while the granite guys were here, or the floor guys, or the appliance guys or the cabinet guys but, not to put too fine a point on it, I feel like a complete tool typing away on my blog while people are laboring two feet away from me. The cabinet guy (who we see a lot of because he does nice things with weird woods and Steve loves him and keeps having him make things like tables and desks and kitchens) actually asked me what my job was on Thursday and, when I looked blank and useless like M. Antoinette on her way to the guillotine, explained "You are always working on the computer, I thought you did something."

I had to say no.

My mother is visiting and I have had too much wine to write anything (I just wrote "two munich wine" if that tells you anything) but here are the previews for posts I will write soon:

1. Patrick's screening (yeah yeah I know. that makes three times I have promised to write about it but every time I start I hear the ghostly voices of people mocking me and I get defensive. do you know how hard it is to talk frankly about a... a what? a freak four year old I love more than salt? my "profoundly gifted" child? HARD. even my mother, who acknowledges frequently that Patrick is entirely lovable but spooky, spends a great deal of time telling me that my job is to keep him normal. like I am somehow directly responsible for his obsession with... oh pick one... calculating how many windows there are in every large building we drive by ("First we need an equation... .") and believe it or not I would rather he was a little less... much. but every time I try to mommy blog him I sound like I am, I don't know, bragging or something. and, sure, yes, I am proud of my healthy gorgeous funny nice son but I really do not care if he is... but we'll talk about this later. see how defensive I am? )

2. My three RE's (I talked to all of my reproductive endocrinologists this week: uber local, local and DC. between the three we have concocted a new plan. actually three. maybe one will work. knock wood)

3. The remodeled kitchen. I will post the after pictures although we are still deciding on a backsplash and a range hood. Actually we should probably ask what you think about the backsplash, as you have solved every problem I have ever offered and then some (shout out to Melissa for the "Letter Jesters" book recommendation for Patrick. I bought it and he loves it. speaking of which, I am so grateful for the emails and comments that suggest random items Patrick might like. without fail I have purchased things like the LL Bean alphabet pants and the Ikea number duvet and they are always a carnival hit around here. so thank you) 

4. I'll think of something

PS I tried the suggestion of just apologizing to Patrick for not previously setting an end date on the letters-for-civilized compliance thing but told him that the letter train was grinding to a halt soon. We went to buy the puzzle and he has not brought it up since. Ta Da. And thank you for the suggestions. 

PPS Due dates are the motherfucking devil, I swear. Remember when I told you that I hate to get a due date? Because then the fetus dies and I feel awful and six months later a moment rolls by and I inadvertently remember the awful? Well, I had a date by accident for the last last pregnancy and it was my 35th birthday and I keep finding myself pondering some alternate dimension in which I am 39 weeks pregnancy right now. And the fact that I am not is kicking my ass. A little. 

Always Plan Ahead

Like better world leaders than I, I have recently been stymied by my failure to devise an exit strategy.

Patrick, as you may recall, has not been breaking any land speed records when it comes to abandoning his diaper in favor of the more modern conveniences. It took an entire year for him to consistently pee in or even near the toilet, and it has only been a few months since he has been able to accomplish this without an entourage. He still finds it necessary to shout "I have to pee!" before barreling into the bathroom, followed by "I am peeing!" and then (I assume to complete the narrative arc) "I have peed!" The, um, other part, though, not so much. And by "so much" I mean "at all." Remember when I offered him anything, anything in the whole world, to just poop in the goddamned potty and he decided he wanted the letter A that looked like these?

So I said OK and he said OK and he did it and I bought the A and there was much rejoicing until I said, "Alright! Now do it again and we'll buy the B!!!"

He said, "No."

And there the situation stayed for months, with me alternately ignoring the subject and bringing it up every five seconds and him politely but firmly refusing to have anything to do with the toilet unless it was to pee.

Until about two weeks ago when I decided this was absolutely ridiculous and I insisted* and he humored me and again there was much rejoicing. So successful has this been that we have been going into the local toy shop almost every day to get the next couple of letters, prompting more than a few absurd tableaux like these:

Patrick (placing the letters J K L & M on the counter): I would like to buy these, please.

Store Clerk (looking at them): Are you spelling your name, darling?

Patrick (studying the letters then looking back at her, incredulous): Juhklum?

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Patrick (extracting the R and the S from the rack): Ah! The R! And the S!

Store Clerk (walking by): Are those your initials? Does your name start with an R?

Patrick: I have an R in my name but it starts with a P.

Store Clerk: Oh! Is your name.... Robert? 

Patrick (looking at me): What?

[Five minutes later while Patrick is playing at the train table]

Same Store Clerk: So is the S for your sister? Is her name Sally?

Patrick: I do not have a sister. The S just comes after the R.

Store Clerk: So is your name... Sam?

Patrick (looking at me): What?

[Checking out five minutes after that]

Still The Same Sales Clerk: Did you get everything you wanted, Robert?

Patrick: I am not Robert.

Sales Clerk: Oh I'm sorry honey! What is your name?

Patrick: Sally. She's Robert (pointing to me).

Me: Thank you! Bye!

Whoa. Where was I? Oh right, Exit strategy, subcategory: failure to devise

So Patrick has been going to the bathroom like a civilized person and collecting his letters and all was golden and glorious until this morning. Yesterday he got the Z. Today he looked thoughtful in the car as I drove him to school and he finally said, "I guess I want a puzzle."

And I said, "Well, Christmas is coming."

"Right. But today when we go to the toy store, I think I want a puzzle."

And I suddenly realized that I had neglected to mention that I would not be buying him a present every time he evacuated his bowels for the rest of his life, which when you consider it was sort of a major oversight on my part. So I said I would think about it. A few minutes later he asked, was I still thinking about it? And I said yes.   

I will leave this right here because 1) that is where I left it with Patrick so if you have any ideas on how I can extricate myself I would appreciate it and 2) I need to go pick him up from school.

* By "insisted" I mean that he asked for a diaper and instead I hauled him onto the toilet and then instantly distracted him with a toy catalog that I had been saving for just such an occasion. The catalog had a picture of a marble run that had been inefficiently constructed so Patrick sat there analyzing the design flaws (no. really. this is a completely true story) and became so engrossed that he sort of forgot what was going on and... voila. Nobody was more surprised than he was, but he agreed it really wasn't that big of a deal. And he remembered that I owed him the B. 

Things My Child Does Badly v.1

As you may recall, Patrick's final preschool assessment last year touched on his inability to competently wield a pair of scissors. The teacher asked him to cut along the dotted line and he proceeded to hack away with both hands flailing until nothing remained but a few shreds of confetti. When she covered this shortcoming of his I believe the conversation went thusly:

"Now as you can see from his scissor work..."

"MY GOD! You gave him SCISSORS? Where is he? Is he ok? Did he cut himself, how badly did he cut himself? What about the couch? Did you let him anywhere near my couch with these demon scissors of yours?"

She gave me a sedative and suggested we try practicing with scissors at home.

And I thought about it, honest I did, but SCISSORS! You can cut something, something like a duvet or a cat's ear, with a pair of scissors. Scissors make me nervous. Playdough, now, there is a past time that is fun educational and completely unsharp. Lots of great, safe, small-motor skill building to be accomplished with a nice lump of play dough, says I.

So Patrick and my precious precious stuff survived the summer but he returned to preschool in September as incompetent with a blade as he had left it in June.

Which is why I was dismayed when he insisted today that he needed a pair of scissors and some paper because he wanted to cut out letters (free hand) and paint them. I doubted that he was going to go from garden weasel to kirigami master in less than five seconds with virtually no practice, and while I am as willing as the next parent to watch my child try and fail, Patrick tends to try, fail, and have a complete fucking meltdown while repeatedly trying and failing again. And it is LOUD. The psychologist who tested him the other week suggested the mot juste for Patrick is "meticulous". Which is all very good and well and I hope his biology lab partner appreciates this fine quality, but a small meticulous child is mostly a pain in the ass. Seriously. I remember when he decided to learn how to write two years ago but he lacked the basic skills to hold a pen upright. It was such an hallucinogenic, tantrum filled, days on end, nightmare that I finally confiscated all of his writing materials and refused to give them back. Then I walked into his room one morning and found him sitting on the floor tracing letters in the air with his finger. I felt like Mao or something. 

Today I wound up giving him both the paper and the scissors, although I did my damnedest to sell alternatives like "coloring with markers" and "eating an entire package of Sweet*tarts". To his credit, he was actually better with the scissors than I had anticipated. Yes he cuts upside-down. Yes he occasionally uses both hands to cut which necessitates the use of his FOOT as a paper holder. Yes I had to help with the curves which was totally how I wanted to spend my afternoon. Yes he cried and threw the scissors (he THREW the SCISSORS. see? how unsafe does that sound? and you were just blaming me for stunting his development with my neuroses) a few times when the cut zigged instead of zagged. But in the end he had produced 12 reasonable looking letters, A through L.

Then he went and got a small jar of paint. He fetched a little brush. He placed the 'A' just so on the dining room table. He unscrewed the paint cap. He studied his wafer-thin, copier paper canvas with a critical eye. At which point he upended the paint jar and deliberately poured 6 fluid ounces of red paint into a puddle over the center of the 'A', which he then slashed at with the brush for about ten seconds.

"Perfect!"

I suspect that the next preschool conference very well may cover painting. 

PS I am still sad. I am going to be 35 in a few weeks and although I usually love my birthday the way Louis XIV loved, oh I don't know, himself, I am approaching this one with a slight feeling of hysteria. Like, "I am turning 35 and I will never have another baby and that makes me feel sad." OK. Maybe not hysteria. Despondency! Better. One of the preschool mothers asked yesterday how my weekend was and I just stared at her. She laughed and said, "That exciting, huh?" And I said, "Well every day is exactly like every other day and has been for years, right?" Which has got to be the most Eeyore-esque thing I have ever uttered. I am also still bleeding, faintly. You may make a note of that: post D&C bleeding 14 days and counting. I have said it before but absolutely everything may be considered normal after a miscarriage. Up to and including locusts.      

PPS In continued fairness, Patrick now has great penmanship, the despotic moratorium on quills notwithstanding. His writing is more legible than mine, and fifty times more legible than Steve's.

PPPS But he cannot catch a ball.

Ça Alors

As a doting and indulgent parent, I frequently let Patrick select a little something for himself when we are at Target. Since he invariably gets a sheet of letter stickers it is no hardship (cheap AND educational- or it would be educational if Patrick hadn't known the alphabet since birth, making his pleasure in letters merely, I don't know, aesthetic?)

After our most recent excursion he sat down at the dining room table with his score and looked at the package. Savoring it, I thought, but in fact he was reading the warning label. This caused him to suddenly fling the stickers across the room, dramatically stating, "I cannot use these! They are JUST for mommies and daddies!" I could tell he was thinking about whether or not he should cry for emphasis. 

I picked up the package and looked at the warning. Then I handed it back to him and said, "Keep reading. See the next line?"

"NOT FOR CHILDREN," he said.

"Not for children..."

"Under three years of age," he finished.

"And you are?"

"Four."

"So, go. Stick. Enjoy."

He kept reading:

"Nee convenient pas yooks infants..."

I stopped him. "Patrick, that's French. You can't read French."

"Yes I can. I am! Listen! De moyn..."

"But you do not know what it means, so you are not really reading it." Tactful, you understand, but not fatuous.

"I do know what it means," Patrick replied.

"Oh yeah?"

"It means NOT FOR CHILDREN UNDER THREE YEARS OLD."

"Touché," I said.

"Was that French? I speak French," Patrick said, and started sticking his new letters onto a piece of paper.

PS I just got his written assessment from last week's testing in the mail five seconds ago. I wanted to look at what she said before I wrote about it, so that will just have to be a later post. In the meantime I have a question for you. I think Patrick would actually like very much to learn French (or Spanish. Chinese. Latin. something). Do you have any ideas on how I could go about finding a French teacher for a four year old?

For Fear Of Repeating Myself

I always feel like I should provide some sort of pithy summation at this point. A few well-chosen phrases that will serve to effortlessly transition the blog from the stark and somber Dead Baby on Board posts (what? too soon?) to the breezy bon(nne) vivant(e) anecdotes in which I prefer to wallow.

But I have nothing, absolutely nothing, to say on the subject that could be remotely construed as cathartic or closing. The miscarriage, the miscarriages, are just so sad and frustrating and I feel hopeless and helpless and SAD (again with the sad) and it annoys me to no end that I set myself up to be crushed like this. ELEVEN losses. ELEVEN. It is an incomprehensible number to me and yet you think it would at least utterly prepare me for miscarriage such that I would never again be startled by fetal death, and perhaps entirely cure me of a desire to ever be pregnant again. What am I... simple? It is EMBARRASSING. Apart from the sadness and the phlebitis (again. I have an infected vein from the D&C IV again) and the crabbiness, I am also completely embarrassed. I, I who cannot seem to produce a normal embryo for love nor money, I was so optimistic this time. I feel like an ass. A sad, sad ass.

I have no idea what we will do next. I have no idea if we will do anything next. I have no idea how I will feel if we stop, if we try, if we neither stop nor try.

So I am not going to worry about it right now. Talk to me about pregnancy, um, oh... say, after Thanksgiving. Until then I am ignoring the subject.

+++

I pick up a few new miscarriage pointers every time and I always like to pass them along to you, to use at your discretion.

The OB prescribed cytotec for this round, which I have never used before. The nurse warned me that there might be some cramping, so I took a couple of Tylenol before inserting it at bedtime. Unfortunately, no one thought to warn me that cytotec can actually start the miscarriage process all by itself and quite quickly... so here's a hint: USE A PAD. Good grief. I literally did not sleep the night before the D&C due to completely unforeseen grossness.       

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The genetics counselor called a few hours after I came back from the D&C on Wednesday to give me the CVS results. The fetus had a partial trisomy 1 with a partial monosomy 4. This is the same unbalanced version as the last one, which is good to know I suppose. Incidentally, for what it is worth, the nuchal translucency at the time of demise (which was 11 weeks and change) was 4.7 mm. I went back and checked the ultrasound picture from the CVS we had in April and it looks like there was an enlarged nuchal with that pregnancy as well. So, here in my scientific sample of one, excess nuchal translucencies can be interpreted as a sign of an unbalanced arrangement of chromosomes one and four.

For what it is worth.

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I have not eaten this much chocolate since Halloween, 1979. It is not even a conscious effort to make myself feel better either. I am actually craving chocolate with a vehemence I usually reserve for wine. And wine still sounds unpleasant. Weird.

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The hospital pre-admittance process is always very thorough. Name, address, purpose of visit, surgical history, allergies (remind me to mention IVs next time), metal plates, insurance, religion, purpose of visit, next of kin, purpose of visit,

"Date of your last menstrual period?" she asked.

"Ummmmm...." (you remember, there was the whole superovulatory six follicle cancellation extravaganza)

"As best as you can recall," she assured me.

"July 3rd."

"LUCKY!"   

"I wish *I* hadn't had MY period since July!" she continued, just in case I had somehow misunderstood.

There was a pause during which I contemplated the ceiling and wondered if I was the first dead-fetus-carrying woman in history to be so enthusiastically envied the temporary suspension of her menses.

"You know... all that blood."

Yeah. I know. All that blood.

I am still laughing about it. I like the absurd.

+++    

We had Patrick tested by an educational psychologist on Thursday. You know, to see if we can hook him up to a computer and have him teach the computer stuff. Guess what? It turns out Patrick is rather smart. S-M-R-T. I will tell you all about it in great detail later (including why we went ahead and had him tested and what we intend to do with this information), but I wanted you to know that I have not actually forgotten my existing child.

Oh. And he has a cold.

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Steve is continuing to work on the kitchen like a man possessed. The walls are up, the floor is down, the appliances are ordered, the windows are in (the single most stressful aspect of my entire marriage is when I have to help Steve hoist ridiculously heavy, extremely fragile windows into place. it ages me ten years, at least), the cabinets are being made and the new granite is selected. Pictures to follow.

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Thank you for all the kind words and messages. As always you make me feel better. Truly.

[I have gotten 1900 spam comments all over this blog since last night. IRRITATING. I have turned on comment authentication requirements in an effort to stem the flow. Nothing personal. Please forgive the inconvenience.]