Mommy Wants Vodka

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Color me confused but something didn’t translate over when I transferred the list of the babies I’m honoring. I KNOW I included CLC’s daughter Hannah here, and for some reason my Mac hates me. A lot. This is nothing new. So I beg of you, please, please, PLEASE holler if I knocked you off the list for some reason. I ASSURE you that I didn’t forget any of you.

*sighs*

Computers totally hate me.

Back in March I begged all of you, my sweet and faithful blog readers to perform random acts of kindness in honor of all of my friends who had lost babies. The turnout was, in a word, incredible. Between my blog and all of the other blogs that followed my lead, we had a huge amount of wonderful kind deeds that were done.

My heart was warmed and touched by all of your support. I think of it daily whenever I need a little mental pick-me-up and it always does the trick. I know that the world is populated by some incredible people, and I’m fortunate enough to have so many of those people who have found my ickle old blog.

I promised back then, after Alex turned one that I would turn every holiday I could think of into another reason to celebrate the lives of children who should be with us today and the families who are left with only memories where their children should have been.

One of my least favorite holidays is looming on the horizon, and although I initially had planned to do this earlier in the week, other things have gotten in the way.

Mother’s Day is on Sunday, and rather than spend my money on some stupid stuff for my mother and my mother-in-law, I am making a donation here:

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep.

And here: Aodin’s Mom, Heather started Project Flutter. Go read about it.

As before, I am not asking you to give money that you do not have. Hell, I’m not asking you to give money at all if you don’t want to. I’m only asking that you do something good and kind for someone else in honor of this brutal holiday. And if I think the holiday is brutal, one can only imagine how it must feel for the parents who will always be missing one from their family.

I will remind you once again of those children and families that we are doing this for:

Hannah

Caleb

Baby JP

Kalila

William

Isabel Grace

Maddy

William Henry

Aodin

Callum

Sarah

Connor

Liam

Samuel

Caden

Masyn

Olive Lucy

Seth Milton

Abigail Hlee

JoeJoe Sherman

Baby Nick

Gabriel Anton Salava

Ryan

Jonathan

Devin Alin

Jacob and Joshua

Now, I’ll be happy to add to this list, as I know I haven’t even begun to properly pay tribute to all of these lives, so if you’d like me to add your child’s name, please don’t hesitate to email me becky (at) dwink (dot) net or leave me a comment and I will email you.

And as for those kind souls who will join me in celebrating these lives by performing kind deeds, please let me know what you’ve done and I will put YOUR name down here. A week from today I will randomly select a name and send you some kick ass stuff. It might even involve….GARBAGE PAIL KIDS. Remember those?

Party of 5 is getting in on the action. Go see.

My dear friend KBreints is making a donation to Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep in honor of her still brother, Ryan.

You’re all amazing people, seriously, you are, and I’m honored to know you all. I can’t wait to hear what good deeds have been done this time around. Your Aunt Becky fucking hearts you all.

One of my best friends in the world, KC at Sarcasmatic is going through something that I’m pretty sure that we call can relate to: a nasty break-up. We’ve been chatting about it and I’m reminded of one of my own personal favorite break-up stories. And it even involves black eyes! And ass ugly chicks!

———–

When I was at the tail-end of high school, I was dating a guy named Tim*. We’d been dating for ages in high-school speak, which translates approximately to about 2 years, one during high school and one while I was in my first year of college. I guess you might call it puppy love, but I’d be more inclined to call it teenage codependence at it’s finest.

We were a decent couple, I guess, but I don’t think that either of us ever imagined that we’d be married or have much of a relationship after those two years. He had a party house, I liked to party, so we had a good time together and got up to some crazy crap. Honestly, I look back on those times pretty fondly; he was a good guy and he cared for me very much.

It was during my first year of college that I became acquainted with a girl named Molly* I’d gone to high-school with (since my high school was so large, it made perfect sense that I wouldn’t have really run into her before) and she, well, she liked me a lot. I was annoyed by her completely as she had no discernible personality but she had a car with gas in it and was more than willing to bum me smokes and money whenever I needed it, so I chilled with her out of laziness and greed more than anything else.

It goes without saying that she was also one of the most UN-attractive girls I’d ever laid eyes on. She was built roughly the same size and shape of a dude, had a long fleshy face with two slits for eyes, and a gigantic scar on one of her cheeks. Honestly, she looked like a dude in drag. But, since I wasn’t in the market to fuck her, I didn’t really care that she was ugly.

She called me all of the time, always wanting to hang out, and since Tim and I often chilled at his party house, she was more than welcome to come over and hang with us.

The last summer Tim and I dated was going to be the last summer that we dated period, because we were both going away to school that fall. Rather than try to maintain a long distance relationship, rack up major phone bills, not enjoy college as much as we could’ve, we’d made the decision to go our separate ways.

A couple of weeks before we were scheduled to break-up we started having those ‘I’m annoyed with you fights’ that you have when you’re really, really sick of someone. I remember having a fight over paying a toll on the tollway, apparently one of us was not doing this properly enough for the other. But we slogged on together out of shear will, knowing that it was simply a matter of weeks before it was all really over.

We decided to take a day apart from each other, mainly so we could not be hen-pecked to death for a whole day long, and I chose to go out to lunch with Molly* and dinner with Steph. I spent a lot of time telling them each about my annoyances with Tim* and how I was glad as hell that we’d be leaving for college and breaking up soon.

After I caught coffee with Steph that evening, I realized that I had a ping of discontentment in my belly coming from…somewhere, so she drove us by Tim’s* house so that I could pop in to say something nice to him. But parked happily in the driveway was not just Tim’s* car, but Molly’s* as well.

I’d known that Molly* thought that Tim* was hot, and that she was ultra-jealous of my relationship with him, but I thought it was pretty funny. I mean, seriously, the girl was ugly as fuck.

Steph and I parked on the street in front of his house and we both got out of the car to go inside. We rang the doorbell and were greeted by Tim* who looked pretty shocked to see me, but invited us in nonetheless. Molly* sprung up from the couch to explain that she and Tim* had been shopping for school stuff for his dorm room, and that wasn’t this supposed to be my day off from him anyway?

Warily, I agreed to go home for the night and left them together as Steph dropped me off at home. But when I went to bed, something strange happened with me: I couldn’t sleep. I’d never not been able to sleep before (this was obviously before I had children), and I’d taken a mess of sleeping pills a couple of hours beforehand, so it made it even weirder that I couldn’t sleep.

But the more I laid there, the more uncomfortable and wide awake I became. It appeared that I wasn’t going to be able to sleep this off, especially since this ping of discontent in my stomach had turned into a gong. Call it whatever you will, but I knew that something was amiss.

So I did what any mature 19 year old would do in my situation: I got up, got dressed and took a drive past Molly’s* house (which happened to be two blocks from my own) to see if her car was there. It wasn’t, even though it was 3 in the morning.

The gong blaring from within, I became nauseous and dizzy as I made my way to Tim’s* house, knowing exactly what I would find, but not pleased by it at all. Even though we only had two weeks left of our relationship, even though we were fighting like a couple of crotchety old women, I didn’t want it to end like this! Talk about an unclean break!

About 10 minutes later, I was in front of Tim’s* house, Molly’s* car still unmoved from hours before. Rather than take it laying down, I decided to beat some ass, so I made my way to the back room, which was accessible from a back door to see what was going on. If it looked innocent, I’d turn around and go home, if not, well, no one wanted to see my fists of fury in action.

What I saw when I turned the back corner through the floor to ceiling windows was not innocent in any way shape or form: Molly* was on top of my boyfriend, and it looked to be a more than friendly embrace. I could have turned my tail and gone home but that just wasn’t my style. He was still technically my boyfriend and she still technically was my friend. Albeit an ugly one.

So I flung the back door open and stepped inside, moving at lightning speed to the couch where I pulled up Molly’s* ugly head by her stringy greasy hair and punched her squarely in the face. Then I pummeled Tim’s* face with my other hand. Maybe I didn’t look exactly professional while I did it, but the sentiment (and the bruises) were there.

Molly* took off for home yelling inexplicably, “Thanks for the black eye, BITCH” while Tim* began to apologize profusely. This of course was the end of the end for our relationship.

I think what hurt me the most from this was not that he cheated on me, because whatever, that sort of stuff happens, but that he cheated on me WITH SOMEONE SO ASS-UGLY. While it sounds like I’m calling her ugly because I’m bitter, I promise that’s not the case. I call her ugly because, well, she was ugly. She was ugly and she had the personality of a wet blanket.

Maybe I’ll never understand why I got cheated on with a chick (I didn’t check her gonads. I may have been wrong about this whole “she’s a girl” thing) who looked like she could have had a dick, and maybe that’s what I don’t get about cheating.

See, if she’d been a supermodel, or one of my sexxy other friends (Molly* was the last ugly friend I had) I’d have probably understood it a bit better. Yeah, it would still hurt, but I can understand the draw of hot chicks. Does anyone get this phenomenon?

So let’s hear YOUR worst breakup story. All that your Aunt Becky wants to do is to forget about the rest of the weekend and practice a little escapism, so let’s go ahead and indulge her. Besides, I could use to direct my anger at something other than the Universe.

—————
*Totally their real names.

Last Friday, I was sitting here at my Mac marveling at the positive pregnancy tests that I had in my pockets as sort of a good luck charm. I’d pull them out, smile to myself the kind of “I have a delicious secret” smile and put them back in my pocket. Occasionally, I’d pat my pocket to reassure that yes, indeed the test was really real.

And here I sit, one week later, having thrown out all of my pregnancy tests and feeling…empty. Just so very empty.

Happy Mother’s Day, indeed.

The Internet has been a-flutter this week with talk of how Heather Armstrong of Dooce fame was treated on The Today Show, and I didn’t catch the segment, mainly because I don’t really give a shit about The Today Show. My mother watches it and the format is exactly the same every day, just with new people talking about the same damn subjects ad nauseum. But enough people were ranting about it that I finally broke down and watched it on YouTube last night.

And I have a bone to pick, although not with Kathy Lee Whatsherface (seriously, what is UP with her face? It looks like a melting candle). Sure, she was a bit dismissive of Heather, and that was pretty rude, but I’m sure Heather had her big girl pants on and is laughing her way to the bank. Good for Heather, I say. Good for her.

My beef is with another thing entirely. See now, I’ve been blogging since 2004 and it’s something I enjoy very much. I genuinely like to write, I love to meet new people, and I enjoy feeling like I’m not alone in this crazy mixed up world. I’m also incredibly bored as my only conversation during the day tends to go like this:

“Ball!”

“Yes, a ball!”

“BALLLLLL!”

“Yes, baby. A ball.”

“PEEENIS!”

“Yes, you have a penis”

(gurgles happily while playing with his junk).

I don’t tend to read most of the Big Time Bloggers out there for two reasons:

1) Since their readership is so incredibly large, I never, ever get a response. And let’s face it, if I wanted to write only for myself, I’d keep this private and not on the public domain. But these bloggers are so busy with whatever it is that they’re doing that you never feel like you can connect with them. So I don’t bother trying. This makes me sound much more like a petulant teenager than I really am.

2) I’m so sick of going to their sites only to have them try and pimp products out to me. I’m all for making a bit of cash (Like I’ve ever gotten a dime for being a blogger. I’m pretty sure I’m in the negative here, and that is a-okay with me) and I have no beef with that, but when every other post is hawking some new product or directing you to their paid gigs, I get annoyed. Maybe it’s my own immaturity talking, or maybe it’s just because I despise adults trying to pimp out products I’ll never buy.

See, I’m down with pimping out YOUR OWN products, ala Etsy, but I don’t really want to hear so-and-so’s opinion on some new-fangled product. I totally dislike that blogs are quickly becoming marketing tools for big name corporations. If I wanted to be courted and advertised to, I’d flip on the television. I read blogs to get away from that noise, and I guess it annoys me when they’re trying to do the same thing.

It sounds like I’m bitter here because no corporation asks me to review their products but I’m not. Not really. The last thing I want my readers to have to do is to actually look for the stuff I write amidst the product placements.

I love reading new blogs, and I love meeting new people, provided that what they do on their site is actually writing or photographs. This I can get behind.

I don’t even mind the ads on the sidebars (which some people freak the fuck out about), unless they cause the page to take a day and a half to load, in which case I click away never to return again. I doubt I’ll put ads on my site, primarily because I’m a vain bitch and absolutely hate clutter on my blogs sidebar. Besides, I’m fairly certain no one would take me anyway, since I talk about such disgusting stuff and refuse to stop using the word “fuck.”

Am I being too critical here? I’m all for people making cash from doing something that they love, but I don’t really appreciate people starting to blog simply to make money, which is what I’m pretty sure will happen after that Today Show segment, where they talk about ‘word of Mom’ as the hottest new advertising strategy. And this is not to say that ALL of the Big Time Bloggers do this, don’t get me wrong.

God, I sound like such a crotchety old bitch here, like I sit around on a park bench all day trying to trip people with my cane (which is precisely what I plan on doing when I’m old) and talking about how in MY day, I walked to school in the sleet up hill both ways with rags for shoes.

What do you think about blogs becoming a marketing tool? Aunt Becky is dying to know what you think.

So first and foremost, I’d like to extend a “howdy” to anyone popping by from that list that’s making it’s way around the blogs. I like meeting new people, so leave me a note so that I can come and visit you. This goes for anyone I’ve neglected to say “What’s up?” to lately; I’ve been a little pathetic and preoccupied lately, so holler and I’ll holler back this time.

Scout’s honor.

Yes, I was a Girl Scout. And yes, I sucked at it. Sucked majorly. Selling cookies door to door has turned me off cookies in general (something my ass is most pleased by) and causes me to throw money at any kid trying to go door to door and sell me stuff I don’t really want. Although the adults coming door to door do kind of freak me out.

Tomorrow morning I’m heading to Ben’s school for a Mother’s Day Tea, and to be completely honest (when am I not?) I’m ridiculously nervous about it. I don’t really know any of the other parents aside from knowing that they’re probably much older and wiser than I, and would therefore KNOW not to send chocolate to school with their children. I, on the other hand, am often tempted to upend a 5 pound bag of sugar into Ben’s lunch and empty a Mountain Dew into it. Just because I’m highly mature. And not the slightest bit vindictive.

I guess the simplest distinction between us is that they are crunchy and I still happily listen to Britney Spears. And maybe, JUST maybe I am hoping for her comeback. A lot.

*sighs*

What makes you insanely nervous for no real reason?

When I was younger, before I was your Aunt Becky and before I had a Ben, an Alex or even a Daver, and especially before gas cost the equivalent of a mortgage payment I used to unwind by taking an aimless drive. I’d fill up the tank of my del Sol, grab a pack or three of cigarettes and hit the road, listening to my CD’s and letting it all go.

There was, and still is, something magical about driving aimlessly to nowhere in particular, nothing on my mind but whatever song was playing on the stereo, and just existing. Just complete peace. It’s something I dearly miss about my old life, and something I hope to get back into when my kidlets grow up. I love them both tremendously, but having them squack at me from the backseat would lose a bit of the luster, I imagine, so I don’t take them.

Since I live in the northern part of Illinois, the easiest place for me to follow country roads is down South. It’s crazy how much difference in attitude there is down there and that always makes me desperately yearn to move down there. It doesn’t matter if I leave the state or not, the South is just so much more welcoming than the North is. I’ll never know if it’s the last remnants of the war or the vast amount of moonshine, but people down South are just different.

Now, the Midwest, where I lay my head at night is great, don’t get me wrong, but it conjures up images farmland, cows, and girls with thick ankles.  And I’m flanked by the most boring states in existence: Wisconsin, Indiana, and….Ohio? Iowa? Not sure, as my geography skills are sorely lacking (along, truth be told with my spelling, punctuation, and fraction skills). Either way, none of those states make me go “YES, let’s go to…INDIANA!” not because they’re bad or anything, but just because there’s not much there to be pumped about.

Down South, there are plenty of exotic locals: Georgia, Tennessee, Louisiana, each with something new! and exciting! for a Yank like me. It’s alluring to me somehow, all of these locals, each full of nice people who may talk a bit slowly for my liking, but sweet and interesting nonetheless.

I’ll probably never understand the allure of Sweet Tea and probably always get a little sick from Barbeque (especially BBQ Spaghetti. What.the.fuck?), but since the North isn’t holding much in the way of appealing to me these days, I’m going to take a mental road-trip down South, past the Mason-Dixon Line (where that is, I’ll never know).

Who knows, maybe I’ll actually go down South one of these nights after The Daver is home to watch the sleeping kids and revisit my glory days when nothing much mattered except for the song on the radio.

Right about now, that sounds phenomenal.

Rather than sitting around in a Tylenol 3 haze (yeah. Tylenol fucking 3. They might as well have given me snake oil and Skittles. And boy, OH BOY, were they harsh about handing that out) and feeling acutely sorry for myself, which is actually what I have been doing since Saturday, I decided to turn that frown upside down, motherfucker, and take care of some motherfucking business.

Even I have my limits of feeling so sorry for myself and I hit it yesterday in the ER while I wept openly and loudly as the poor insurance dude tried to extract the handy Blue Cross from my grubby hands. I was unable to get it for myself as the nurse practitioner thought it fit to elevate my shame level to Extreme Shame by inserting a foley catheter into my delicate bladder. WITH NO PAIN MEDS. If you’ve had one before while you were able to feel it, you’ll know the excruciating pain that this causes.

This was before they realized I had a massive bladder infection.

So yes, if you were sitting in the ER in the room next to mine (you’d know mine because it had one of two bathrooms on the floor entrance in it. Which made things EVEN better. Nothing says “I LOVE life!!” like having to sit writhing in pain WHILE LISTENING TO SOME GERIATRIC BLOW ASS!) I apologize for the weeping and moaning. You see, I was ALONE and IN PAIN and full of THE SHAME.

I’m still fairly under the weather as far as pain and general malaise goes, but I refuse to sit around moping and groaning. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I hoisted my swollen guts up from the computer (I look about 5 months pregnant right now), I planted some patches on the lawn and once the sun goes down I’m going to plant me some motherfucking roses.

The people that we bought our house from appeared to be allergic to any yard work, something we didn’t realize when we moved in during February (not this year, thankyouGod), and left us with some awesome chores. Like a rose bush so overgrown that my next door neighbors put up some trellises to block the view. And massive patches in the back lawn from a trampoline and rabid (I can only imagine) dogs that I could safely have moved my queen-sized bed into. And bridal bushes so wild that they killed the grass for 7 feet in front of them.

The latter is what was taken care of today and I feel pretty pleased with myself (when don’t I?).

I’m not going to call this a comeback or anything, well, maybe I am, but it looks like the Universe is righting itself again for me. Must have been the bourbon and hot dogs I promised it.

What do you guys do to make yourself feel better when you’re down in the dumps and feeling rather pathetically pathetic?

I am shocked and honored to know each and every one of you.

Maybe we’d never recognize each other on the street (well, you’ve all seen what I look like), and maybe I’ll never meet any of you face to face (also doubtful because I have high plans to meet most of you. Sorry, preemptively for my crashing on your couch. Oh, and I like orange juice for breakfast–freshly squeezed), but I consider you all to be my friends.

You’ve proved it to me before, and you’ve solidified it with this most recent miscarriage. I’d love to thank you all and give you big sloppy kisses and hugs, but it wouldn’t be enough.

It just wouldn’t.

Nothing will ever say thank you quite the way I want it to, so I’ll try and tell you how much each and every comment that you made, every email and IM that I got lifted my burden. Things are lighter now.

It reminded me of how fortunate I really am to have people prop me up, dust me off, and remind me that I’m going to be just fine. That past sentence is precisely what I’ve used in the past to describe what I feel is true friendship, and I think it fits here, as well.

Cornball as it may sound, you are my friends, and if you know me at all, you’d know how strongly a bond I consider that to be. Thank you for reminding me of all the good that has sprung up around me (even during a time of garbage and crap) and how blessed I am to have each and every one of you in my life.

I’m not implying in any way that I’m completely recovered from this miscarriage, nor will I always be peeing roses and sunshine, but you’ve shown me that it doesn’t matter one bit if I’m being funny and self-deprecating or honest and true. That somehow you like me anyway WITHOUT BRIBERY.

I don’t think that there is anything I can ever do to truly show my appreciation to all of you for listening to me whine about this latest miscarriage, and believe me, I will be wracking my brain to try and do something nice for you all. If any of you were local (I’m looking at YOU, LAS) I’d invite you over for cookies that I MIGHT EVEN COOK MYSELF and Diet Coke. The offer stands for anyone willing to swing by. I WILL COOK FOR YOU (maybe not very well, but I will do it anyway).

As for the Uterus Monologues, I ended up with my ass in the ER today and was diagnosed with…wait for it, wait for it, A BLADDER INFECTION TOO! Wonders never cease to amaze me. I’m following up with my OB on Wednesday and hopefully he’ll have some insight into what the hell is wrong with me. Or not.

And as for my mental health, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fine. I’m just going to channel all of my energy into my due date buddies: Doc Grumbles and Niobe. If my critters won’t grow properly, well, then Universe, you’d better make DAMN sure that theirs do or You are going to have an appointment with my fists of fury.

Thank you all for everything. Thank you so very much.

In a stunning fit of personal irony, The Daver and I were called upon to serve on a jury of our peers on the same day.

That day is tomorrow.

One of us is going to perform his civic duty, while I have to call in sick so that I can go back to the doctor. Again. And trust me when I tell you that I wish like hell that I was going with him.

Going to the doctor for this latest miscarriage is only going to dig the old nail in a little deeper and remind me that hells yes, my body is expelling yet another ickle and well-wanted critter. And then I have to suffer the indignity of another ass shot performed with the sterile equivalent of a ball-point pen. It’s going to be AWESOME.

It’s weird, I never really knew how I would react to having a miscarriage. On the logical side of my brain, I am pleased that it didn’t happen any later than it did: having it happen at all is sad, but having it happen at 4 months, 7 weeks, or 9 months is far worse. The emotional side of my body is telling me that this is yet another loss of something I really had wanted. I would have loved the wee critter as much as I love my not-so-wee critters and I wish this had a different outcome.

The hormones aren’t helping matters one tiny bit, but I think ultimately I will decide that this is neither here nor there. In the end, I suppose it all comes down to the idea of luck. I hate the concept of luck. If I am lucky because I have a truly wonderful husband and 2 hilarious kidlets, that makes someone who doesn’t have these things unlucky.

But what did I do to deserve these wonderful things that I do have? And what did someone who doesn’t have these things do to not deserve them? Should I feel lucky to not be those people, or should I have survivor’s guilt and feel terribly for them? (I’ll let you guess which one I feel, and it’s not the first option). I’d love for The Universe to shower good fortune and luck onto everyone in the world, but it’s just not the way it works, and I don’t know why.

I can accept having one early miscarriage, hell I can accept having two, although it seems a bit careless. In the grand scheme of things, I’m still pretty blessed and I don’t forget it for a moment. Honestly, I never do. But to have two of these miscarriages/chemical pregnancies within 30 days just seems cruel and unusual to me. I comforted myself by telling myself that I cannot be so unlucky so as to have two in a row, but it seems that my luck has changed. And I am beyond devastated.

Despite my devastation, I refuse to subscribe to fear, though, and let that overrun my life. I’ll have another baby, or I won’t. I’ll go back to school or I won’t. I’ll paint the kitchen or I won’t. But I won’t not do something (hello double negative!) because I am afraid of a bad outcome. That’s a stupid way to live my life, and I refuse to do it.

Maybe I’ll never get to the truly peaceful place again, and maybe I’ll always be a little afraid of things outside of my control, but that’s okay. It’s what makes life interesting and us humans.

It happened, I’m suitably wrecked, and I’ll survive. It’s what we all do.

I’m not a huge believer in signs, nor am I a fan of using magical thinking (although there was a time when I used it frequently and with gusto. Before you judge, I was a teenager, and I think this is a pretty common teenage thing). I don’t tend to look below the surface for much at all, instead I try and understand what is in front of me.

But I can’t help but feel like maybe this is just sign that I don’t need to have more children. The quest for Baby #3 isn’t something either of us are pursuing with as much vigor as we had with the creation of Baby #2. I like having 2 kids, and I think I’d like to have 3, but maybe 2 is enough. Maybe I should just focus on the 2 that I have, assume that they are more than enough and move the hell on with my life.

A life that doesn’t include midnight feedings, more stretch marks, chapped nipples and the avoidance of lunch meats. The 2 I have came fairly painlessly, I had no known miscarriages before I had either of them and I love them fiercely. Maybe that should be enough for me.

Maybe I should just quit while I’m ahead and save myself any future hopes and subsequent heartaches. Having another child would just be the icing on an already iced cake, and although it might taste good, it’s not completely necessary for my continued happiness.

When I look around at my blog friends, I’m constantly reminded that the Universe is simply not a fair place, and that maybe I should just be grateful for what I do have and stop trying to pursue a dream that may not end in a happy way for me. Why push the envelope for something I don’t know that I really want?

The one stipulation that I had for my “last” pregnancy was that I try to relax, let go and let God and enjoy my last chance at gestation. I spent so many days and nights worrying with the other two (especially Alex) that I made myself ill and I didn’t want to do that to myself or my family again. But now I don’t see anyway that I won’t worry should I get knocked up again.

And I have to ask myself, is it all worth it? Sure it’s just a blip on the radar as far as Very Bad Things go, but it’s my second blip in 2 months, and the hormones are certainly going to kill me again.

Is any of this worth going through again?

I guess I just don’t know anymore.