Posts from — November 2009

Show and Tell is wasted on elementary schoolers. Join several dozen bloggers weekly to show off an item, tell a story, and get the attention of the class. In other words, this is Show and Tell 2.0. Everyone is welcome to join, even if you have never posted before and just found out about Show and Tell for the first time today. So yank out a photo of the worst bridesmaid’s dress you ever wore and tell us the story; show off the homemade soup you cooked last night; or tell us all about the scarf you made for your first knitting project. Details on how to participate are located at the bottom of this post.

Let’s begin.

I got really confused with the term “seven year itch” in regards to marriage.  Does it refer to that period of time leading up to the 7th year, or is it the entire 7th year until the 8th anniversary?  Being the anal person I am, I really wanted to know when I was supposed to grow bored with Josh.

Because I haven’t.

And I’m excited to say that we have made it through the seventh year of marriage unscathed, celebrated our 8th anniversary, and are still massively in love–the sort of love that makes one vomit a bit in their mouth when they hear about it because it’s the sort of love that beckons unicorns forward and makes rainbows shoot across the room.

You know, that sort of love.

For our anniversary, Josh bought me a pair of ballet shoes.  Not pointe shoes, because that would be unethical, but a lovely pair of black slippers.  And by “bought” I mean that he gave me the head nod when I told him that I neeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeded them.

Happy anniversary, Josh, and thank you for eight wonderful years of marriage.  And the ballet shoes.

What are you showing today?

Click here or scroll down to the bottom of this post if this is your first time joining along (Important: link to the permalink for the post, not the main url for your blog and use your blog’s name, not your name. Links not going to a Show and Tell post will be deleted). The list is open from now until late Friday night and a new one is posted every week.

A few days after I lost my grandmother, the traveling began and it kept everything at bay for two weeks.  There wasn’t time to sit and think; if I was at home, I was moving the twins through life or preparing for a trip or cleaning up from a past one.

And I knew this would happen.  I said it would happen.  I told Josh that November 15th would roll around, the travel would be over, and it would be like removing my hand from over the wound.  You just never know if it is starting to heal or still bleeding until you peek.

Last night, I was baking cookies for our volunteer project and this is the thought that keeps returning: I can never ask a question again.  I prepared for this.  One afternoon, many years ago, my cousin and I went to visit her and asked her dozens of questions about the past.  There is a tape somewhere in the basement that I made that day.  I have the family tree recorded, my favourite recipes copied, her health history memorized.  But it feels like there are still things to know, things I forgot to ask.  And now it’s too late.

A few nights ago, the ChickieNob was holding a stuffed animal I didn’t recognize and when I asked her where it came from, I have to admit that I thought the answer would be Lindsay because it was similar to a teddy bear at her house.  “Grandma S gave it to me,” she said carefully.

And, of course, I started to cry.  I had to explain to her that I wanted to talk about Grandma S, that I was glad she brought her up.

I don’t want them to ever feel scared to bring her up with me.  I was that child–the one who never wanted to discuss people who had died because I was so worried that the adults would start crying.  And I’m still that child sometimes.  I didn’t understand that I hadn’t made them sad with my question or comment, any more than the ChickieNob made me sad by sleeping with a stuffed animal my grandmother gave her.  The sadness is there regardless–the questions merely move it from the basement to the foyer.  The damn emotions are still taking up space in your heart, regardless of where they reside in your figurative house.

By which I mean, they’re still boxes you need to shlep with you if you move.  Your emotional baggage.

It’s something those in the community healing after a loss probably know well.  That you want to talk about it, you want to remember.  Talking and crying; it’s all part of the healing process.  That it would feel wrong to suddenly stop talking about her as if she hadn’t existed.  That the tears aren’t a sign that the person should stop–hold back their words–but instead, the tears are simply a human response to the grief that stirs up like sand at the bottom of the Chesapeake after a fish passes by.  It settles again into a new smoothness.  We wouldn’t ask the fish to stop swimming.  I would never ask the ChickieNob or Wolvog to hold back their questions and commentary.  It stirs things up, but it can also be a good thing to move sand around.

I have been having wonderful luck lately with meeting other bloggers.  Last week, it was Serenity and Somewhat Ordinary.  This week, it was Baby Shmaybe, To Baby and Beyond, and Palemother.

Last weekend, I was in Detroit doing a book reading.  What?  You don’t have a copy of Navigating the Land of If?  Well, you should remedy that and get yourself one.

First I met, Baby Shmaybe, who shall not be pictured as per her request, but she is simply lovely.

Then, Palemother came up after the reading which made me emotional because I didn’t know she would be there.

And then, I met To Baby and Beyond, who came with her sister, which was all kinds of cool.  And I’m so glad that I got to give her a big hug.

I am so incredibly lucky that I get to meet bloggers that I read face-to-face.

After the reading, I sat in the lobby for a bit and signed books.  Which, you know, makes a lovely present and is the perfect answer for all those pesky holiday questions about family building.  When they ask, just hand them a copy of the book.

If you could meet any blogger in this exact moment in time, who would you want to meet.  Meaning, not the blogger you most want to meet overall, but scrolling down your mental blogroll for a moment, who would be the best person to fit your mood in this moment.  You know how at different times, you’re in the mood for different people?  So, this exact second, who would it be with the understanding that ten minutes from now, it might be a different person.

I think, in this exact moment in time, I would want to be sitting cross-legged on top of a blanket with Vee at the beach.  Maybe in the late afternoon.  With a thermos of milky tea.  And a chocolate bar.  I’ve always wanted to see Australia, and I think a talk would be good.  If Bea and Eden could join us, all the better.

So I’m pouring drinks while you think about that question and catch us up on your life.

As always, it has been about a month since we met, bitched, cried, comforted, and caught up each other on our cycles and lives. Pull up a seat and I’ll pour you a drink. Let everyone know what is happening in your life. The good, the bad, the ugly. My only request is that if a story catches your eye, you follow it back to the person’s blog and start reading their posts. Give some love, give some support, or laugh with someone until your drink comes out of your nose.

I have a ton of assvice in my back pocket and as a virtual bartender, I will give it to you unless you specifically tell me that this is simply a vent and you do not want to receive anything more than a hug.

So if you have been a lurker for a while (or if this is your first open bar as someone who found this space through IComLeavWe), sit down and tell us about yourself. Remember to provide a link or a way for people to continue reading your story (or if you don’t have a blog–gasp!–you can always leave an email address if you’re looking for advice or support. If not, people can leave messages for that person here in the comments section too). If you’re a regular at the bar, I’ll get out your engraved martini glass while you make yourself comfortable. And anyone new, welcome. I’m glad you found this virtual bar.

For those who have no clue what I’m talking about when I say that the bar is open, click here to catch up and then jump into the conversation back on this current post.

So have an imaginary cocktail and tell us what is up with your life.

There’s an astronaut, currently on the Atlantis, who will be missing the birth of his child.  Which, you know, sucks hardcore on a base level, but add to that the fact that the couple is infertile and were told she would never be able to maintain a pregnancy and well…I think you all understand.

As Josh pointed out, people married to astronauts are more understanding of that sort of thing, having mentally prepared themselves for the possibility of their partner going on a space flight, much in the same way that those who have a partner serving in the armed forces know that their partner may be deployed during an IVF cycle or a birth.

But come on, he’s not even on the planet.

They do have an older child via adoption–a boy–and this child will be a girl.  So they are already parenting, though the arrival of every child–from the first to the 19th (if you’re the Duggars)–is important.

Still, I love how the mother puts it in perspective–“After being told for five years that we’d never have a biological child, I can’t squabble about a delivery date.”  So I just want to send out good wishes to the Bresnicks.  May it be an easy delivery for Rebecca, and a safe return home for Randy.

Directions: answer the question in the comment section.  Then leave a comment on the blog of the commenter directly before you (so it’s a chain.  #2 comments on #1, #3 comments on #2, etc.  If the commenter above you didn’t leave an address, just go one above that.  The point is to find new blogs/leave a comment–not stress).  The first person who comments gets a free ride and does not need to leave any comments.  The last person who comments gets…screwed.  My answer below the picture.

In case you can’t read it, the card states: DESCRIBE THE BEST TEACHER YOU EVER HAD.

My answer (because if I put it in the comments below, I’d mess up the chain): this was really hard because I kept juggling different choices.  Do I go with my high school physics teacher who was so great that I still remembered the formulas today?  Or my mentor from grad school?  Or my kindergarten teacher (I can tell you who isn’t on my list: my bitch nursery school teacher who didn’t let me sit next to the boy I had a crush on for the last Shabbat and instead sat me next to the boy with poison oak)?  I’m going to go with two because…hey…it’s the Ungame and anything goes.

#1: my college professor, Ron Kuka, who gave me coffee if I swung by his office in the winter before I walked up the hill, who was such an incredible writer himself that he made me fall in love with the short story, and who brought out the best in me as a student.  I can never thank him enough for all that he taught me about writing and the road he set me on.

#2: The story behind these words is too hard for me to write about, but I once had a professor–a woman–tell me that I had to get a thicker skin and essentially unlearn everything I knew about being a nice girl.  That I needed to stop being meek and grab the world by the cock and kick it in the balls for good measure.  She told me that there would always be people in the world who would try to bring me down and I had two choices, to kick them in the figurative balls or to drop out of everything and have nothing to show for my life in the end.  And while she may sound like a big bitch from this tough love talk, she inspired me to stick up for myself, to take what I rightfully earn, and to work my ass off.  And while she really wanted me to unlearn the nice girl, instead, I kept nice Melissa around and tempered her with the ability to deliver a few knee thrusts to the proverbial groin, but only when she really really needs to do so.