Pink Asparagus

You know Joss, right? You don’t? Well, she’s a fantastic author and blogger. We’re both pisces, so clearly were meant to be BFF. And one of these days I will see her at a book reading. Even if I have to schedule a trip to visit family around it. I loved her first two books and cannot wait to get my hands on this one.

About the book (from the author’s own website)

Laurel Gray Hawthorne needs to make things pretty, whether she’s helping her mother make sure the very literal family skeleton stays buried or turning scraps of fabric into nationally acclaimed art quilts. Her estranged sister Thalia, an impoverished Actress with a capital A, is her polar opposite, priding herself on exposing the lurid truth lurking behind middle class niceties. While Laurel’s life seems neat and on track–a passionate marriage, a treasured daughter, and a lovely home in suburban Victorianna–everything she holds dear is suddenly thrown into question the night she is visited by the ghost of a her 14-year old neighbor Molly Dufresne.

The ghost leads Laurel to the real Molly floating lifelessly in the Hawthorne’s backyard pool. Molly’s death is inexplicable–an unseemly mystery Laurel knows no one in her whitewashed neighborhood is up to solving. Only her wayward, unpredictable sister is right for the task, but calling in a favor from Thalia is like walking straight into a frying pan protected only by Crisco. Enlisting Thalia’s help, Laurel sets out on a life-altering journey that triggers startling revelations about her family’s guarded past, the true state of her marriage, and the girl who stopped swimming.

Congratulations, you’re having a boy! My gift to you: everything I know about raising boys – as told through witty anecdotes dribble.

When I was pregnant with E, my first, I was told how different boys and girls are. And I was all “well just because you raised your children with societal stereo-types doesn’t mean I will” – all in my head of course. My internal monologue dialogue is very active. E’s first bike was pink. And, oddly, I really struggled with whether or not to purchase it. Finally, I realized I would buy the blue for a girl, why shouldn’t my boy have pink. Already I was falling into society’s trap. I did however, love that E would take his purse with him when he rode away.

Fast forward many years, E’s little sister gets a Little Pony for her 2nd birthday. E pours over the marketing collateral in the box and chooses one he’d like for his birthday. I dutifully order it and it arrived nearly a month late. But he didn’t forget. And when Christmas rolled around and A received more ponies E was heartbroken. He really wanted one. Finally, we had cause for reward and he chose a white, glittery, pink haired flying pony. He loves her. She also has to do battle with TIE fighters.

I wouldn’t say E is “all boy.” But there is no mistaking that he is different than his sister. He’s much more physical; he must be running ALL. THE. TIME. His sister? She’s more of a saunterer. Boys are wonderful. And exhausting.

Oh yeah, some actual advice: when potty training, teach him sitting down. You’ll have less mess.

In the interest of not hijacking Miss Zoot’s comments, I’ll use my own damn blog. One supposes that’s why I have it and all …

Lily Allen has had a miscarriage. I don’t know who she is, or maybe I do and I don’t know it? But now I have this piece of intimate knowledge about her and I feel so … sad for her. To lose a pregnancy that you were happy about is horrible. I hate to say “lose”, it’s not like you misplaced it. You don’t wake up one morning and say, “hmmm, I wonder where I put that fetus.”

I had a miscarriage in my first pregnancy. We saw the heartbeat at 7 weeks and I assumed I was in the clear. And then the day after returning from our honeymoon I was standing in a co-workers cube when I felt a gush. And I knew. I had someone drive me to my doctors office. Crying the whole way. Praying the whole way. An ultrasound confirmed it, no heartbeat. I was just over 10 weeks pregnant.

People in our social circle didn’t have a lot to say. I heard through the grapevine that they felt bad for us but didn’t know what to do or say. So most did nothing and said nothing. Except B – she called and said, “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. But ask anything of me and I’ll do it.” Acknowledging my pain was worth so very, very much.

I was told it was for the best. That these things happen for a reason. That it’s nature’s way. I’m a smart girl, I get natural selection. But really? Not what someone that’s been planning a life with a baby wants to hear. We were choosing names. We were planning a nursery. And then we weren’t. I was told there’d be another pregnancy. That in three months we could start trying. And we did. And seemingly everyone around us got pregnant before we did. It took 13 months of trying to get E. It hurt every single day. For months, I couldn’t remember our wedding date because it was so close to the miscarriage date that I had to purposely remember which came first (and no, we didn’t get married because I was pregnant – we decided to get married, I got pregnant as a bonus).

I hope every woman that suffers a miscarriage has a support network. It’s shocking to me, that once you do volunteer the information that you’ve had a miscarriage you hear dozens of “me too” stories. You’re now a member of a not very exclusive club.

I agree with Miss Zoot that our society doesn’t know how to mourn this sort of loss. There’s no funeral. There’s no announcement. There are a lot of hushed acknowledgments not to ask about the pregnancy any more. I didn’t want to be pitied when I had my only (and I thank my lucky stars for that) miscarriage. People acting as though nothing had changed, or trying to justify the miscarriage didn’t make me feel better. It’s not like not acknowledging what had happened was going to make me forget. Having the loss acknowledged helped. Hearing “I’m sorry” helped.

I love my son. I really, really do. He’s my first born. And he’s becoming a lot of fun. But it wasn’t, and isn’t, always rainbows and puppy dog tails. J’s post eloquently and elegantly (as usual) reminded me that we too have our tough times. I’m not always the best mommy to E. There are days that I am positive that he’s pushing my buttons merely because he can. That he’s not listening because, well … because he’s being a pain in the butt. But he’s not. He’s four. I have to remember that he’s only four. He’s a great four-year old. He’s empathetic. He’s nice to his little sister. He tells me he likes my shoes. He also complains. And whines. And sometimes whiningly complains. And sometimes I think I won’t survive one more second of it. And sometimes … sometimes he sits on my lap and tells me that he loves me. Without me asking. In a moment of quiet, I can see that I have it pretty good. And I need to savor that. Find a way to bank it for later. I think I’ll need it in the teenage years.

Thanks to the Internets, I finally understand the Iowa Caucus process. And hooboy, it’s a doozy.

J tells the nicest stories about her family. And poignantly talks about the still ravaged Gulf Coast. If you already read her, then you are indeed a cool kid. If not, well now is your chance to jump on the band wagon.

She’s honestly talented. And sentimental. I suggest having some tissues ready if you’re going to read this or this.