Welcome back to IComLeavWe. It stands for International Comment Leaving Week, but if you say it aloud, doesn’t it sounds like “I come; [but] leave [as a] we”? And that’s sort of the point. Blogging is a conversation and comments should be honoured and encouraged. I like to say that comments are the new hug–a way of saying hello, giving comfort, leaving congratulations.

Here is the vital information, pure and simple (a more detailed set of rules follows below the list):

• The list opens the 1st of every month. It remains open until the 21st. You can add yourself at any point. The list is open to everyone in the blogosphere–blog writers and/or blog readers.
• Add yourself to the list by filling out this form: The October list is now closed.  Add yourself to the November list starting on 10/27.
  
• Click here to cut-and-paste this bit of code to add to your sidebar (if you have the old code from another month, remove it and replace it with this one). You need to add the icon or a link to the current list on your blog (see below) and will not be added until it’s up.
• Commenting kicks off every month on the 21st. Please mark it somewhere (calendar, post-it note taped to your computer…), though I will be sending out an email reminder on the 20th. Commenting week runs from the 21st to the 28th. Every day, leave 5 comments and return 1 comment for a total of 6 comments. You are highly encouraged to choose the blogs you comment on from the participants list below, but this is not required.
• I will send a second email on the 28th to remind you to remove the icon from your blog.
• Read below if you want to find out about Iron Commenters.
• The commenting ends on the 28th. We catch our breath and the whole thing starts again the next month on the 1st. Drop in and out according to what is happening in your life between the 21st and the 28th.

1. Stirrup Queens (twins, books, writing)
2. The Unfair Struggle (mfi, speedskating, life)
3. IUI to Roux-en-Y (pregnant after WLS)
4. Growing Griswolds (IVF, infertility, hope)
5. Team Harries Beats Infertility (waiting, peace, hope)
6. My Life is About the Journey (pregnancy, rpl, anxiety)
7. The 2 Week Wait (infertility, humor, life)
8. Patience is Not My Virtue (ttc, gluten-free, infertility)
9. Feeling Beachie (life, family, humor)
10. It Is What It Is (Or Is It?) (pg w donated embryos, pg @ 46, parenting)
11. Ready For My Bundle (ivf, pregnant?, family)
12. My Violet Thoughts (mfi, parenting, exhausted)
13. My Bum Ovaries (premature ovarian failure)
14. Somewhere In The Middle (infertility, DIA, waiting)
15. for all the things we hope for (endometriosis, infertility, doula-ing)
16. More Salt (ttc#1, 2ww, miscarriage)
17. The Buggy List (bucketlist, humor, ttc)
18. Breathe Gently (pregnancy, IVF, PCOS)
19. Dancing My Way Through Life, Loss, and Books (loss/ttcal, books, ballroom dance)
20. Waiting for Baby (vasectomy reversal, IUI, PCOS)
21. I’m Just Ducky, Thanks (gestational surrogacy, fear)
22. Unexplained Rantings (infertility, adoption, rpl)
23. Thought Provoking Moments (IVF, Loss, Life)
24. Worth The Wait (ivf#1, 2ww, unexplained)
25. An Engineer Becomes a Mom (adoption, parenting, infertility)
26. Writing for Life (ivf, expat life, uk)
27. (Still) Trying to Conceive (hope, unexplained, break)
28. Baby-Making Merry-go-Round (pre-term labor, hospital bed rest, IVF)
29. Stupid Stork (infertility, ivf, shenanigans)
30. Survive and Thrive (baby after infertility)
31. The Infertility Voice (IVF, donor egg, hopefully pg)
32. Our Journey Through This Lovely Life (ttc adventures life)
33. What A Day For A Daydream (post FET #1, endometriosis, unexplained IF)
34. The Elusive Second Line (RPL, miscarriage, TTC #1)
35. Comatised (cancer, survival, love)
36. Rasta Less Traveled (surrogacy in India, special needs child, twins)
37. Omeletta (food, life, sarcasm)
38. Life Of An Army Wife (infertility army crafting)
39. Wandering Wonderment (family, politics, local news)
40. A Blanket 2 Keep (pregnancy after IF, life)
41. Creating a Family (infertility, adoption, adoptive parenting)
42. Serenity Now (infertility, parenting, cycling for #2)
43. Musings of a Hormonal Egg Basket (life after infertility)
44. The Childless Mom (ivf-icsi-fet, humor, pregnancy #1)
45. Follow Every Rainbow (unexplained infertility, UK)
46. Lil Family Blog (pregnancy, lesbian, parenting)
47. My (In)fertile Confessions (treating pcos naturally, clean eating, twins)
48. Among the Blossoms (pregnancy after infertility)
49. The Question Now Becomes… (donor insemination, mfi, marriage)
50. IVF Over 40 (advanced maternal age, chromosomal testing, gestational surrogate)
51. Pollination Chronicles (IVF abroad, ectopic, FET for baby#2)
52. This Life of Mine (parenting, loss, preterm labour)
53. Weathering Storms (transracial adoption, parenting, life)
54. From Here to Motherhood (infertility, ttc#1, relationship)
55. Infertility Unexplained (IVF, CCS, infertility)
56. Bébé Suisse (pregnancy after loss, switzerland)
57. The Days of Our Lives (new parent, parenting after losses, faith)
58. R. Sativus (adoption, parenting, infidelity)
59. Life is Simple, It’s Just Not Easy (preemies, twins, life)
60. Sillyness Abounds (parenting after adoption)
61. If You Don’t Stand For Something (MFI, geekiness, general life ramblings)
62. Our W Life (pregnancy after loss)
63. The Closet Infertile (IVF, infertility, staying sane)
64. MRKH Musings (infertility, IVF surrogacy)
65. Who Is This Fertile Myrtle (secondary infertility ivfs failed)
66. One day at a time (adoption, life, school)
67. Tales of A Cautious Optimist (ivf, mfi, infertility)
68. Comprised Fertility (reproductive immunology, working with kids, TTC #1)
69. Believing in June (TTC #2, parenting, infertility)
70. Journey To The Finish Line (pregnant after IVF, twins, humor)
71. Hapa Hopes (IVF#3?, life, decisions)
72. Our Adventures through Infertility (IVF, infertility, life)
73. Dragondreamer’s Lair (parenting, secondary infertility, life)
74. The October list is now closed.  Add yourself to the November list starting on 10/27.

Q: What if I miss a day?

A: Catch up the next day by doubling your comments–12 comments instead of 6.

Q: What if I have two blogs? Can I sign up twice, listing both blogs?

A: Yes, but you also need to double your comments. If you have two blogs listed, you should be leaving 12 comments per day.

Q: What is an Iron Commenter?

A: Not for the faint-of-heart. People who wish to be an Iron Commenter and be entered on the Iron Commenter honour roll need to leave a comment on every blog on the participants list (exceptions are blogs that require you to have a special log-in, such as some LiveJournal accounts or other similar situations). You can spread out this commenting any way you wish over the whole week, but the final comment needs to be left by midnight on the 28th (EST). Reaching Iron Commenter status is done on an honour system. Please email me if you earn Iron Commenter status so I can add you to the wall of honour.

Q: Why do I have to add that bit of code to my sidebar?

A: The code is the latest icon (the icon changes colour every month so you know that you’re on the right list). This month, the icon is orange, the next month it will be green, etc. The reason is two-fold: (1) it enables more people to find out about IComLeavWe and (2) it gives you easy access to the current list once the commenting week actually begins and better ensures that you’ll use it. Too many times, people sign up and forget to actually do IComLeavWe and this icon gives you a daily reminder (with the dates on it) every time you open your own blog. The icon is linked back to the current list. On the 28th, remove the icon from your blog. A new one will be created for the next month.

Q: It’s the 23rd and I just saw this for the first time on my friend’s blog! I want to join the list–why can’t I?

A: Because IComLeavWe happens every month, once the list is closed, it’s closed. If you’re finding out about this on the 23rd, you can’t join the current month. But leave yourself a note to check back in a week on the 1st and you can sign up for the next month.

Q: You said the list closes on the 21st. Well, it’s still the 21st where I am. Why aren’t you moving my information onto the list?

A: All dates and times are U.S. Eastern Standard Time (UTC/GMT -5 hours). The list closes around 11 p.m. EST on the 21st.

Q: What if no one comments on my blog and I have no comments to return?

A: Well, that really doesn’t happen for the most part, but in that case, simply choose another blog and add an additional comment. The goal is to hit 6 comments daily as a minimum. Going over that is fantastic and encouraged.

Q: Mel, my question wasn’t covered at all. What do I do?

A: Email me; I’m quite friendly. It helps to place “IComLeavWe” in the subject line. You could also check this post which contains the history of IComLeavWe and see if you can glean anything there.

Looking for the comment section? It has been closed on this post. Use the form in the directions to add yourself to the list.

Yom Kippur ended tonight.  To me — more than any other holiday — you see the variety in traditions.  In Judaism, we have laws (halakha) which are the same year after year, regardless of where you go (pretty much), and then you have customs (minhag) which vary depending on the community.  For instance, I don’t wear leather on Yom Kippur.  At all.  Which means that I throw on a pair of chucks with my long black skirt for shul.  Though the woman next to me last night for Kol Nidre services was wearing a stylish pair of three inch pink leather heels.  She stared at my shoes and I stared at her shoes, because that is what happens when minhags clash.

Every year, I debate the leather thing with Josh because I feel self-conscious wearing sneakers into shul, especially if people don’t know why I’m doing it because it isn’t part of their minhag.  Josh and I came from a shul where people wearing leather shoes were in the minority, and then we moved to a shul where we were the ONLY ones wearing sneakers, and then we moved to a shul where it’s about a 10% leather-free/90% bring-on-the-high-heels population.  So we’re certainly not the only ones in sneakers, but most people are dressed in regular shul-going clothes.  And I have to tell you that while I find it difficult to wrap my mind around the idea of letting this tradition go and wearing leather on Yom Kippur, conversely, wearing sneakers makes me feel strange too and I wonder if the people around me think that I have no sense to wear proper clothing to shul.

Another custom is whether you stand until the end of the silent amidah, a long prayer (it goes on for many pages) that people recite to themselves.  I was taught that like waiting for everyone to be served at the table before eating, one doesn’t sit when they finish the amidah because it’s impolite.  If people sit down, it can make people feel self-conscious if they’re the only ones still standing because they’re a slow reader.  So I’ve always finished the prayer, and then closed my book, keeping my finger tucked between two pages as a bookmark while I waited for everyone else to finish.  This way, the rabbi knows when the majority of people are finished, and the people who are finishing up don’t feel awkward that they’re still reciting what everyone else finished reading five minutes ago.

But at this shul — and at many of the other ones I’ve been to — it’s tradition to sit once you finish saying the amidah.  And yet I continue standing because I think it’s impolite to sit down.  Which means that towards the end, I am the only person standing in the shul.  Which is ten kinds of embarrassing because everyone is staring at me, wondering why one woman is standing up in the middle of a random row, especially since she’s clearly not reading and is instead smiling awkwardly while she holds her finger between two pages of her book.  And yet I also can’t bring myself to sit down because I don’t want to embarrass that last person who just sat down who would have been the only one standing if not for the fact that I am standing too.

And there are twenty other small discrepancies that pop up during the holiday from the choice of niggun (the tunes that are used to sing the prayers) to whether you remain in the room during the yizkor service (a section of the service to remember the deceased).  And beyond that, Yom Kippur makes me miss our old shul where they trotted out a special tune for Adon Olam at the end of the service.  Our current shul does a traditional Adon Olam, but our old shul had this gorgeous melody that was only used this one time a year.  So you’d drag yourself to shul come hell or high water in order to hear it because you’d have to wait 365 days for a chance to hear it again.

While I am standing self-consciously in sneakers after the silent recitation of the amidah, I always wonder if other religions run into these same weird clashing of traditions.  Are you ever in your church or mosque or temple (or wherever you go for communal worship) and finding your traditions differ greatly from the people around you?

We went to the funeral for Great-Grandma over the weekend.  She was cremated, which necessitated a discussion about cremation with the twins Saturday morning because I didn’t want them asking at the cemetery how Great-Grandma could fit into such a small box when they interred her ashes.  I felt fairly cringe-y about having the conversation and opted to throw it out there the second they woke up, hoping they’d be bleary and sleep-confused so the information could pass over their tiny heads.  But, of course, they were wide-awake and inquisitive — the worst combination.  In the end, cremation, it turned out, made perfect sense to second graders once they got past the mental image of someone purposefully on fire.  They really liked the idea of scattering ashes in special places.

Every time I’m worried about a conversation, they absorb it without incident.  And every time I think something won’t be a big deal, they fall apart.  Either they were malformed at the child factory, or I was malformed at the parenting factory, but either way, things seem to always happen in the inverse.

There was no question in our heads that the twins would go to the funeral.  They had already been to two other funerals — one when they were toddlers and obviously didn’t know what was happening, and one when they were five and did.  They’ve also been to three weddings.  We’re of the mindset that if they can behave in a way that doesn’t disrupt anyone around us (within reason), they should be there to experience life: the great moments and the not-so-great moments.  We want them to always feel included; they may be small but they know when they’re being shut out of something.

A case in point.  The ChickieNob came home from school on Friday and told me that her friend said that she was lucky that she got to go to the funeral.  The other child informed her that when her great-grandmother died, her parents left her at home.  The ChickieNob was trying to wrap her mind around the word “lucky,” but agreed that it would be terrible to be left at home and know other people in the family were doing something that you’re invited to do but not permitted to do.  In other words, they can understand when they’re not invited to a wedding or a cool meeting I’m having or a dinner party.  But if the possibility exists that they could go, they hate the idea of being left at home.

So we brought them to the cemetery so they could say their goodbyes too.

Right before the service began, the ChickieNob whispered suddenly that she didn’t want to hear it.  She wanted to stand back from the crowd and not listen, until I took her aside and explained that there was no magical realism to get her out of this moment.  Even if she didn’t listen, it would still happen.  Funerals are not like trees falling in forests that you can remain in ignorant bliss about provided you don’t look into the woods.  When she realized there was nothing she could do to stop this train, nothing she could put off to delay the event, she stepped back to the group and I held her through the service and speeches, her cheek pressed tightly against mine.  The Wolvog alternated between pressing his face into Josh’s body or mine, hanging onto his sister’s hair and then my hair; a filamentous security blanket.

She had a long cry, and then while walking back to the car, we saw a praying mantis, and she moved away from that pile of grief as if it were dirt that could be left behind in a cemetery, musing on what form her great-grandmother might want to return as if she were reincarnated as well as what would be the best animal for each of us to return as in our next life (for me, we settled on a squirrel).

And that is maybe why we take the twins to the cemetery with us; because while we lose the ability to get closure with death later in our lives, when our brain can comprehend loss on a deeper level and grief has a tendency to unspiral like an onion, the emotions lingering around indefinitely, children seem to be able to reach a modicum of peace by the time they drive through the cemetery gates.  Maybe as an adult I need to see that peace each time to remember that life has to go on, and maybe as a child, if she builds enough muscle memory in finding that peace, she’ll be able to find it again when she grows up.

At the same time, in the back of my brain is always this knowledge that a lot of parents don’t bring their children to a funeral.  I didn’t go to a funeral until I was 12, even though there were three funerals prior to that point that I could have attended.  I also didn’t go to a wedding until I was older — maybe 15? — though that comes down to invitations.

I know a lot of the decision rests with the individual child.  There are some who can shape their behaviour to fit expectations and some who cannot.  I feel like the twins fall into this category of people who both can shape their behaviour to fit expectations and work hard to do it so they aren’t left behind.  I would say that one of their life mottoes is “bring me.”  So we bring them: to art museums and restaurants and trips and dinners with authors and weddings.

And funerals.

I guess I am curious about what others do (or would do) and why.  I don’t know if we’d change what we’re doing (and we certainly can’t unring the bell on those three funerals since they’ve already experienced them), but the question is always in the back of my head about why or why not to include children in these adult moments.

Please vote.

Please make sure you’re registered to vote by going to Gottavote.com and clicking on your state.  The site is run by the Obama campaign, but you do not need to be a Democrat to use it.  In the spirit of fairness, if Romney’s campaign had a comparable website created to ensure that every person in America could vote, I would link to it too.  But they don’t.  So, Romney people, if you create one to make sure that all people are able to vote (and this offer goes to every other candidate for president), let me know and I’ll link to it*.

If you’re not registered to vote, please register to vote.  You can go to Gottaregister.com, which is an open voter registration site run by the Obama campaign (again, if there was anything like it out there for the other candidates, I’d link to theirs too).

Once you know you’re registered to vote, go to your state on Gottavote.com and see if you have early voting (which will ensure that you’re not scrambling to vote on Election Day).  Look and see what you need to bring with you to the polls.  Find out what time the polls open and close in your area.

Which brings us back to that simple request at the top of this post: please vote.

It’s something we get jaded about, that we sometimes think of as a burden, that we think doesn’t matter, that feels like a waste of time, that we take for granted.  Do it anyway.  It is a tool you have right now to get your voice heard; don’t throw it away.  And no, I’m not going to guilt you by pointing out all the places in the world where people are fighting for the right to vote — a right you have.  Instead, I am simply going to implore you, in my big girl voice, in the most serious tone one can muster when they are writing this at the kitchen table in lime green sweatpants and a mismatched greyish blue March of Dimes sweatshirt.

Please vote.

Tomorrow is National Voter Registration Day in the United States (apologies to all outside the US).  You’re going to hear this message a lot in the next 24 hours (the “please vote” part; not the apology to all outside the US).  Please don’t tune it out.  Regardless of your political affiliation, please take the time to educate yourself and make the commitment to vote.

I’ll see you at the polls**.

Okay, I know that I said I wouldn’t guilt you, but as you go through late October when early voting begins until we hit the time the polls close on November 6th, I want you to imagine me hovering behind you as you go about your day, breathing on your neck as you try to read the nutritional information on a label in the food store, staring at you while you try to type a blog post, lying in bed between you and your partner, turning my head from side to side so I can give both of you my guilt-inducing look.  All the while, a single request on my lips that will haunt you until the election is over.

Please vote.

* But in my very biased opinion, the fact that you don’t have something comparable out there speaks volumes.

** I probably won’t see you at the polls unless you live in my neighbourhood.  And even then, I’ll only see you if we go at the same time.  And even then, once we disappear into those tiny polling booths, we won’t really be able to see each other.  But I’ll figuratively see you at the polls.

This is how I feel when I lose something or misplace something.

The world suddenly shifts, and instead of orbiting the sun, my mind begins rotating around that object.  It starts casting light on everything else in my path, pretty much blinding me until my sole focus is the missing object.  Even when the missing object is something as inconsequential as a button.

Okay, maybe not a button.

Actually, yes, I’ve probably reacted this way to a button.  But only after I convinced myself that this button was extra special and irreplaceable.

This happened last Monday morning.  We were completely on-time to get to shul, and I went to grab my black dress purse.  I own two tiny fabric purses — one black and one white — that I purchased at least 12 years ago.  They’ve had a good run.  My sister got me two new purses a few years ago that I love (red casual dressy and black so fancy) so I’ve been using these dress purses less and less, but I needed the black one Monday morning because I needed a simple, cloth, dressy purse to serve as a tampon holder.

I store fancy purses and hats in an armoire in the ChickieNob’s room.  I opened the door and there was the white purse, the red purse, and the fancy black purse… but no tiny black fabric purse.  Which was odd.  I started shifting things around, expecting it to pop up from under a sweater, and it wasn’t there.  So I started to take things out of the armoire, place them on the ChickieNob’s bed, comb through the contents of the armoire — even shelves where I would have never in a trillion years placed a dress purse — and I couldn’t find this purse.  I turned out the lights in the room and repeated the search with a flashlight, believing that sometimes you see things differently when you change the light source (stop snickering… this has worked on other occasions).

At this point, we were now late, but I was immobilized in choosing a plan B because I couldn’t stop focusing on the fact that I didn’t know where the tiny black fabric purse was.  Was it even in the house?  When did I last use it?

I was supposed to be shifting my focus to coming up with a plan B so we could leave the house, but I couldn’t untangle myself from the tiny black fabric purse’s pull.  I couldn’t use the white purse because I was wearing black shoes (I think the last time I used black tiny was at a rehearsal dinner for a wedding this summer), and I couldn’t use the fancy black purse because it was too fancy for day time (No, I used a different purse because I remember needing a tampon there and checking a side pouch for one, and black tiny doesn’t have zippered side pouches), and I couldn’t use a ziplock bag because that would just be odd (Was it at our friend’s kid’s Bat Mitzvah?  Was that last year?  It had to be last year.  Have I not used this purse in a full year?), so I had no plan B.

In which Josh told the kids to get their shoes on and told me to get a plan B, reminding me that we’re talking about a purse.

The rational side of my brain told me that (1) it was just a purse and I could use my regular, every day purse and the earth would still turn, (2) I tend to be somewhat invisible, so it was unlikely that anyone would even notice my purse much less me, (3) I could look for it later, (4) the purse probably cost about $15 and it had a good run, so if I never saw it again, life would go on.  The irrational side of my brain screamed over the quieter rational side of my brain that MY PURSE WAS MISSING!

I ended up taking a purse with a broken handle, held together with a safety pin.  Why did I opt for this one?  I have no idea.  It should have gone in the rubbish bin years ago, and yet here I was, taking it out to be the first purse of the new year.

As we drove to Rosh Hashanah services, I continued to obsess.  I wore a red necklace to the wedding.  Had that gotten back home or was that missing too?  I own one tube of lipstick — Rum Raisin by Bobbi Brown — and it usually gets carried to occasions when I’d use said black purse.  Was that in the house, or had I left it behind at an event along with black tiny?

The second I got home, I returned to searching for the purse, looking in absolutely ridiculous places (under the bathroom sink) and not-so-ridiculous places (under the ChickieNob’s bed).  I asked the ChickieNob if she and her friends had borrowed it for a game.  I looked in my desk, my sock drawer, inside other purses.  Black tiny was still missing.

I wished I could mentally move on.

I knew that after enough time passed, and something else got lost, my brain would release black tiny and start orbiting around the new missing object.  The new lost item that would occupy by brain didn’t even have to be one of my things.  It could be one of Josh’s things, or the twins’ things (the ChickieNob long lost interest in looking for her missing doll whereas I took apart the whole house until we found it), or any of my family member’s things.  Tell me that you’ve misplaced your keys, and I will started looking at plane fares so I can come there and help you look.  I hate the idea of not knowing where something is.

I wished I could find the attitude of “easy come, easy go,” especially when it came to objects with no sentimental or monetary value.  I had the means to get a new purse, and while I liked the one I had, there was nothing special about it.  The white one was the one I took to my wedding.  The black one had just gone to a bunch of random parties.  It wasn’t an expensive purse; losing the object didn’t translate into losing a lot of money.

And yet, I couldn’t help but think that my obsessive nature surrounding lost objects tied in somehow to missing not-yet children, ghostly remnants to lost life plans.  Perhaps when it always feels as if someone is missing from the room, it intensifies the reaction to something missing, no matter how small, like new skin rubbed raw by even gentle contact.

*******

On the day before Great-Grandma died, the twins and I went to the mall to pick up winter pants, and while we were there, we swung through the handbag section at a department store.  The Wolvog, ever helpful, was pointing out various black purses, but none were like black tiny (especially not the one that inexplicably had a huge bronze fox head sticking out of the front of it like a hunting prize).  “It can’t have any leather on it,” I explained, because I use the purse on Yom Kippur, and on that holiday, you cannot wear or carry leather.  Black tiny, in all of its cheapness, was made entirely of fabric.  I gave up after about three minutes, my heart not really into the idea of purse shopping.

The next morning, we got the call that Great-Grandma was gone, and after everyone left the house, I went upstairs with my coffee and took apart the armoire again.  I took out these tiny figurines my mother gave to me after the twins were born, a little tangible reminder of a wish I made during my first injectibles cycle.  I took out the piggy banks my grandmother painted for the twins in one of the art workshops at her nursing home.  I took out our painting outfits — the clothes the four of us wear when we go do messy community service projects that involve house painting, — a velvet top, a half-finished scarf I’ve been making for the Wolvog for years, my maternity clothes.  It’s an armoire I rarely enter unless it’s to grab the sheets on the lowest shelf.  It contains everything I don’t want to look at on a regular basis.

And there, somehow tucked in the middle of a pile of clothes, with no explanation of how it got wedge between items that haven’t been moved in years, was black tiny.  There was no fanfare, no huge sigh, no angels singing hallelujah as I finally got closure with the find.  I just held it for a moment and thought the words “of course,” and then repacked the wardrobe, leaving out black tiny for the funeral.