Letters to Myself

Dear Six-Year-Old Me, 

I know that people think it's adorable when you answer the phone singing "Somewhere Out There," but it's not going to jumpstart your singing career. I know you'd like to think you're a "prodigy" (thank you, Oprah, for the term), but you'll learn pretty soon that you're pretty much average. But you keep doing your thing and having fun! Dream your dreams and soak in that imagination!
I'm glad you love Godzilla. In fact, you love him so much, he's your imaginary friend (though you'll rename him "Gadzilla" so as not to be "blasphemous" by your definitions). Sadly, the other children on the playground aren't as in awe of him as you are (meaning you can't threaten to have him eat them--they won't believe you). Don't say I didn't warn you. They also, tragically, will not appreciate your ten minute bathroom renditions of "Part of Your World." Sweetpea, just because the stall door is closed doesn't mean it's soundproof.
Also, just a sidenote, the boys your age do not want kisses. They enjoy them even less when you decide to use it as a weapon. Just a thought.

Dear Ten-Year-Old Me, 

I'm not sure if you've picked up on this, but the other girls your age do not drop everything to chase lizards and frogs.  Of course, you won't pick up on this for like three more years, but whatevs.
You've become obsessed with Star Wars and that is awesome. Keep up those action figure games with your brother. You'll be joking about those seventeen years later. "Bail out! Bail out! BAIL IN!! BAIL IN!!!!!"
Also keep writing those stories but avoid the blatant Disney ripoffs.
Oh, and, um P.S. Contrary to popular belief, middle school is going to be awesome. Seriously, they'll be your favorite academic years before college. So don't be afraid of turning into a teenager--you don't turn into a jerk. You just get super nerdy and have fun with it. It's fantastic, seriously. You won't have that much fun being a geek for a long time afterwards. Embrace it and enjoy it, kiddo!
P.P.S.  Use the talking storm trooper to barricade your room. Catherine hates it, and the two of you will share lots of laughs over it later. "HEEEEELP!!! THERE'S A STROOM POOPER!" Yep. Just like that.

Dear Fifteen-Year-Old Me,

Boys are stupid.
High school hierarchies are even more stupid.
Really, really, REALLY stupid.
I'm sure you've started to figure out that high school is not like those ridiculous Olsen Twin films you binged on over the summer, but, allow me to reiterate: high school is not a fairy tale.
At least you've stopped stalking lizards in the church landscaping. That's a plus.
Eventually, you'll cut your hair, get your braces off (then partially on, off, partially on again), and you'll ALMOST learn to not dress like a homeschooler. You will, however, keep on singing, playing the piano, scribbling, doodling, and you will soon have your life changed FOREVER in more ways than one:
1. You start reading Lewis again, and HOLY CRAP SO GOOD
2. You read Lord of the Rings for the first time. HOLY CRAP SOOOOOOO GOOD. Obsession material, even.
3. You decide you absolutely MUST study in London and visit Oxford because um, Eagle and Child pub, and um THE INKLINGS. And accents. Yes, definitely accents.
4. You'll finish your book, spend a year editing it, and then leave it alone for eleven years debating on whether you'll actual rewrite it or not (the jury's still out on that one . . . )
5. You meet your future husband.
No, it's not who you think it is.
Be ye warned: if male classmates ask for help with English homework, they're not doing so because they sincerely want a conversation for like the first time ever. They just want you to explain the symbolism in the poetry assignment they didn't read. You are being used. Smile coyly and ignore them.
But you won't.
You'll be too excited to be noticed to care.
And I suppose that's okay.
Oh! And you get to be a big sister again! Next year, you'll meet the first of your two new sisters. It's amazing! And, just a plus, they're pretty stinkin adorable. If you can, find an age-defying solution now. They just keep growing up . . .

Dear Eighteen-Year-Old Me, 

Well, now, we've had some adventures, haven't we?
You found the alcohol stashed in your roommate's dirty clothes pile (that's the last time you surprise her by doing her laundry, isn't it?), read Harry Potter, got your ear cartilage pierced (Dad argues he never gave you permission to do that but you know he TOTALLY DID), skipped classes, spent weekends on the beach in Pensacola without adult supervision, and have found yourself one of the few sober almost-adults on campus.  You've also discovered that there is way more of a culture gap between Florida and Mississippi than you ever expected.
Sure, your new experiences are mild and, all-in-all, fairly harmless. I mean, you don't do drugs, smoke, drink, or even date, but the fact that you're even in the presence of alcoholic beverages is such a scandal for you.
Keep up your gig, though. Your standards are weird, but, as much as you get teased for them, your friends adore and respect you. You'll be pals for ages. Plus you're getting a bunch of awesome stories you'll remember even if you wish you didn't. 
Also, take that link to your Xanga blog off Myspace. 

You know, the one with all your angsty, pubescent rants?
Mom finds it.

Most awkward Thanksgiving break EVER.

Dear Twenty-Two-Year-Old Me, 

Welp, you did it.
You studied in London (life goal! CHECK!)
You got your Bachelor's a semester early (life goal! CHECK!!!)
And you married that man. ( CHECK CHECK AND CHEEEEEEECK!!!)
HUZZAH!!! WHOO-HOO!!! HECK YES!! and all other cheering sentiments.
Don't worry--you guys will figure out how to work out the stuff that seems impossible. You'll go to counseling for it, but you'll make it. In fact, you learn stuff, get better at that communication thing. It's all good. It gets better.
Keep track of all those crazy library incidents--they make great stories. Like the woman who cast out the demons who stole her DVD, the fellow who wouldn't read the Bible because he'd seen the movie, the cockroach in the DVD case, the gentleman who told you that you should model for Black Man magazine, the flasher, and many more. Also, remember those ridiculous romance novel titles: From Here to Paternity and The Playboy Sheikh's Virgin Stable Girl especially (I mean, REALLY?!?)
Also, stop buying pregnancy tests.  Just because your period is two days late does not mean your birth control failed. Stop peeing on that stick! No, not another one! STOP IT!!!! You're ridiculous.
But don't worry about it right now.
Also, when Chris recommends hiking Lake Jessup instead of Blue Springs (because, um, MANATEES), tell him you will hike Blue Springs and ONLY Blue Springs.
Five miles is only a small number on a computer screen. Also, fourteen-foot alligators. Like lots of them. AVOID LAKE JESSUP.

Dear Twenty-Seven-Year-Old Me, 

Well, we've made it this far. Now what?
It's been the most challenging and rewarding year so far.
Sixteen-year-old Sarah, I hear you whining and I will kindly remind you that your hormonal teenage crap ain't got NUTHIN' on my twenty-six-year-old crap so SHUSH.
Maybe it doesn't get easier.  Maybe Chris's job never quite fits, maybe his ears just keep getting worse, maybe you never get this whole maybe-one-day pregnancy thing figured out. Maybe those relationships you're struggling with are never resolved, maybe you never get to say everything you've ever wanted to say.  Maybe there's never a house, never deep roots, never the standard American Dream nuclear family thingamabob. 
But you know what? That's okay. Who ever said you're defined by those things anyways? That they make you valid and valuable? They don't. 
Because life is an adventure, and any adventure worth its salt has tears and dark tunnels and the kind of uncertainty that makes you sick to your stomach.
But it also has sunshine, and a Hero who comes to your rescue, because, really, as hard as you try, you just can't save yourself.  Your swords are twigs and your battle cry is a whimper.  But you've got that Hero at your side, and He's holding you up, making you of sterner stuff that no dragon can withstand.
So drink in the sunshine.  Breathe in the beauty around you. Treasure the good relationships blessing you. Take the sweet, laughing moments with that hubs of yours and hide them in your heart. Pocket all these shining things, take them out when the road is dark, and marvel at them. Aren't they lovely? Isn't it worth it all just to hold these things a little closer? Oh, so very, very lovely.
The road is long and hard, but you've been given such gifts. There are always good things in the bad.  There's always light in the darkness, even if it's peeping through the cracks. 

Because God is good, so good, and He is so much bigger than all of life's question marks.

On Infants

I have a confession:

I don't know what to do with babies.
Does that make me a horrific bearer of ovaries? Am I disqualified?

They're adorable and I think they're great, but I have no idea what to do with them.
So I sit here while the people around me talk to babies, entertain babies, hold babies, change baby diapers, all that jazz, and I feel as awkward as a teenybopper at a middle school dance.

No, really, I kinda sit in the corner and watch, waiting for someone to, I dunno, toss me the child.  I DESPERATELY wish I were good at it. I wish I were that woman who begs to hold babies, who can't keep her hands off them.  Who breaks into song just at the sight of them. Who squeals over the tiny shoes and the gurgling smiles.
I wish I were all that because babies deserve that.  They are sweet and precious gifts, and I ADORE them. Really, I do. None of this is that I dislike them. I just don't know what to do.
I get all nervous and I have this sudden nagging fear that I am a clumsy bother, that it's best that I sit back and let the experts do their thing.
 

Chris's nephew, Reilly, was here for a visit with Chris's mom and sister
Yeah, I don't typically think about how to handle babies until I have one right in front of me.
He's a completely chill and adorable child . . . I just had no idea what to do . . .

Mostly, I just watch.
You see, everyone ELSE is playing and caring for the kiddo. He's peeking and booing with three different people at once, and I sit there thinking, "There is absolutely NOTHING I can contribute to this. Nothing I offer can improve on the fun he's already having."
The child begins to cry, and, as everyone else consoles him with toys and food, I sit quietly because I feel like one more pleading voice adds to the noise. Does that make me a terrible person? I'm not trying to just let the child cry. I just don't know how anything I do could possibly make it better. Four people calling your name instead of three? Would that really fix it? I want him to feel better, I don't want him to be unhappy in the least bit. I just don't know what on earth I can give that could add to the good things everyone else is giving.

I remember being really shy at first with my baby sister, Davie, who was nine months old when we brought her home.  I don't remember the transition between being shy and being her sister. I remember feeding her, changing her diapers, and playing with her like it was nothing at all.  She was mine. My mom gave me directions, and I followed them to a tea. I don't remember it being hard.  By the time Ellie came along, I was good to go.

They were mine. Maybe they weren't my children, but they were my sisters. I knew what to do. They needed me--my siblings and my parents. If Mom was momentarily unavailable, big sister Sarah was there to fix it. I had a place and a purpose.

Other people's babies? No clue.  I need like step-by-step instruction. I try my best, but I feel ..... I feel like I'm doing something wrong.

Toddlers I can handle. Adore, even.
Heck, I can even do teenagers.
But a wide-eyed, speechless, breastfeeding infants?
I have flashbacks to when I was fourteen and trying to talk to boys.
Oh, peeps, it's totally the same thing.
You go up to this adorable little stranger with baggy pants and try to start a conversation and all they do is gawk at you like you're insane.
SAME THING.

The hubs on the other hand . . . .

The man needs a baby.
I mean, for real, folks. It's freakn beyond adorable.

Canoe Beast

Peeps, I think we're finally getting there.
I mean, I'm like one step closer to thirty.

 Not that it matters to me, really --except that I've noticed these two permanent creases between my brows. Chris says it's because, whenever I'm thinking or focused, my brows furrow. He says that now they're stuck that way. I say I need wrinkle cream. STAT.

I mean, I'm only 27 now, folks. Don't the wrinkles wait another few years?
Oh, well.
No use fighting it, right?
 
To fully explain my birthday, we have to go back to our anniversary a year ago during which Chris bought a fishing pole which he used for our anniversary weekend at Sanibel Island and then never again.
Until this Christmas when he decided he needed a new hobby.
But you can't just have a pole, oh no. Fishing, apparently, requires a great deal of random stuff necessary tools.


People, you know that book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie? Or, my personal favorite, If You Give A Moose a Muffin?
If you give a hubs a fishing pole, he wants a tackle box to go with it.
If you buy him a tackle box, he wants lures to fill it.
And once you buy him lures, he wants a license so he can use it all.
Then he decides fishing by himself is lonely, so he buys his wife a pole and license so she can come to. The lures he's willing to share, but only after he's bought one or two of every kind after deliberating for hours.
And once you have ALL of that, he decides he wants a Craigslist deal CANOE to put it all it.
Once he has said canoe, he realizes he wants anchors, ropes, and wheely things for moving and using the canoe beast that only fits in your townhouse "backyard" on a diagonal.
And once he has ALL of that, you will inevitably never use the canoe because it's too much of a hassle to get it through your house and onto the car, so you just stand fish from the shore instead.

My husband is Grumpy Cat.
For real.

Well, darn it all, folks, I was not about to have that money wasted.
So I asked for an adventure for my birthday.  I wanted to go canoeing, a childhood favorite, down the Elkhorn Slough--a marshland where freshwater and saltwater meet.

 It wasn't until we were attempted to haul Canoe Beast on top of my car that I realized this could bite us in the butt.

BEHOLD THE CANOE BEAST
This took us an hour, folks.
An hour and a lot of blood, sweat, frustration, and trail and error.
BUT WE DID IT.
AND NOBODY DIED.

 I hadn't requested a birthday adventure in four years because the last one resulted in my screaming  nonstop as we "hiked" through a "trail" next to a lake and flooded riverbed that was famous for housing fourteen-foot-long alligators. I don't mind sharks, I love snakes, heck spiders don't even bother me, but crocodiles? They scare the crap outta me. It's the eyes. They just look deep fried in pure evil. That and the whole death roll thing . . . ANYWAYS, as we battled the Canoe Beast, I worried that our canoe's "maiden voyage" down the Elkhorn Slough would turn into another "Lake Jessup."




Peeps, I am thrilled to say that it was a delightful success. Even getting Canoe Beast off then back onto the car wasn't so bad the next go-around.
We had tons of fun.  The weather was PERFECT--sunny but not hot--and we saw sea birds, seals, and SEA OTTERS!!!
We did between 5-6 miles round trip and learned Canoe Beast is sea-worthy.  Trying to cross the slough from one shoreline to another?? Big waves. Like this fun "up and down" movement suddenly got so intense we thought we were going to broadside/flip/ruin my camera (come on, that's all that really matters . . . forget the freezing water and attempting to right Canoe Beast, it's all about the Canon, folks). Peeps, I have never paddled with more purpose and fervor than in those desperate, bouncy, damp and terrifying moments.

Just a tip: guys, if you ever want your woman to paddle faster, start shouting sexist comments about her uterus. Even if she knows you're joking, she'll get so furious she turns into a flippin paddling MACHINE.

We were almost ready to give up and turn around when we found OTTERS!!!
We found a group of roughly six otters (maybe more). They were so cute! If you were really quiet, you could hear them smashing rocks against clam shells to crack them open :]

Can I just say that it is SO difficult to take in-focus pictures while your canoe is bouncing on the waves? Because it is.

Those lumps are sleepy seals!
We tried to get closer, but that was when the waves got too intense and we thought they were going to tip us.
We did, however, see a couple swimming on our way back. One kept peeking over the waves to watch us and then followed behind us a bit. It was so CUTE!!!

This little guy got close enough for me to get a decent super-zoom picture.
His mustache whiskers, peeps.
I can't handle it. I wanted to squeeze him and cover him in kisses!

Adventuring

Peeps, despite the weird deal that is adult life (am I seriously one of those?), we've actually been having a lot of fun.
For instance, in January, Chris took me for a weekend in Yosemite. Heck to the YES.

The only thing that makes hiking more fun? Hiking with buddies!
I totally said that last bit in Emmet's voice from the Lego Movie.
Yes, I am an adult.

Meet Jesse and Sharon.
I knew they were awesome when they picked "Shaun of the Dead" for movie night.
Nerd friend test SUCCESS

What makes a trip like this even more fun for this former Florida girl?


SNOW!!!!

 

Yeah, there wasn't very much of it, but it WAS there.
The waterfalls, however, were slightly less exciting only because good ole California is going through a drought.
I mean, it doesn't rain here much as it is, but there's been even less this spring, apparently.
Not that I would know--we've only been here a year.
The point is, the waterfalls were dry and still gorgeous.

I think there was a drought in Florida when I was like eight or something . . . otherwise, winter showers and summer thunderstorms every day.  For real. Between three and five o'clock every afternoon, the sky turns black and the heavens tear open with buckets and buckets of wet. It's end of the world kinda weather, peeps.
But that's Florida. We're used to it. In fact, if it doesn't show up, we kinda miss it. 

Not California.
I can't figure the weather out. Some days are gray and overcast, and I sit there, at the edge of my seat, waiting, waiting, WAITING for the downpour I know just HAS to be coming . . . and . . . . Nothing.
Nada.

Zilch.
Not even diddly-squat.

It's such a tease -_-
Then, oh THEN it's super sneaky and just drizzles all night. The only sign of its visit? The fact that my dog absolutely REFUSES to step outside. Drives me bonkers.

Anyways, one of the upsides to the drought was that the dry riverbeds made for great rock climbing. Take a girl with absolutely no coordination and have her scramble up and down boulders without breaking her neck? CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.
Okay, I confess,  I was a bit of a wuss at first (and understandably so--if you've ever seen me attempt to walk in a straight line . . . well . . .), but I figured it out soon enough. It's one of my favorites, now.

Benefits of a dry riverbed with a bridge: YOU GET TO PLAY TROLLS!
Because we're totally adults.
And because "Troll Hunter" is awesome. If you haven't watched it, you should.

Day one, we wandered.
Day two, we wandered some more but set out to hike Vernal Falls.
Peeps, I confess, I was a party pooper. I didn't aim to be, but, doggone it, it was STEEP.
Uphill.
As in against gravity ("Oh gravity, thou art a heartless b*tch").
And, you know, Chris is kinda like the little engine that could--he sees a hill, thinks, "Ah-ah, a hill! A challenge!" and he decides to beat it by pure momentum.
You know how I tackle the battle against gravity?
I STOP, people.
I stop, gasp for breath, think, "Holy crap, all this cardio work and I'm still THIS outta shape?! Or is it just gravity? Can I choose to believe it's gravity's fault? Yeah, we'll do that."
Recover, then move forward ten steps.
Repeat process.
Take all day.
Yell at Chris to SLOW THE CRAP DOWN because he's half a mile ahead of me.

Favorite pic of our trip
We set up the tripod to actually get a group shot with Vernal Falls in the background (it was barely there . . next to my head, you can KINDA see it).  The gang thought it would be fun to do a mushy couple shot.
We were tricked.

But then the trip got better!
How?

Proposals make everything more exciting. :] 

Yay for romance and weddings and all that lovely jazz!
Congrats, you guys! 

So that's our Yosemite trip. We can't wait to go back!

We return after these brief messages . . .

Or something.

Seriously, peeps, the times when life is full of change and chaos, what do I drop?
YOU.
It's not fair, really.
I mean, if the only side we saw of the Kardashians was the let's-all-get-along-and-do-nothing-outrageous side, they still wouldn't be on cable.
Disclaimer: I have only ever seen TWO episodes of the Kardashians . . . I tried . . .  you know, to be on top of pop culture . . . I can't do it, folks. I can't.  I was bored and bewildered, and my I.Q. was dropping.
Give me Bridezillas any day.
I don't know if that's better or worse, but roll with me, peeps.

I don't try to hide the drama.
If you've read this for any amount of time, you know I don't shy away from showing you my dirty laundry.
My life isn't perfect. I'm not perfect. Heck, even my furballs aren't perfect.
Probably.

But, I mean, seriously, look at that face!

I sat down several times to write about things. To just get it all out, fighting back tears and fear and rage and everything else.
Then I'd second guess--would I just be whining? Were my problems even that bad? Would this be disrespectful to the people involved? How do I write it? What words are there?

I'm likely to make them sound worse than what they were.

The bottom line is this: we were faced with a major decision, one that could change so very, very much.

Chris's position at work had been shaking from the beginning--not that he did poorly or didn't like his boss or anything.  It was not as advertised. That wasn't anyone's fault, but Chris walked into work every week  and had something change, something he wasn't sure he could deal with.  For the first nine months of our new lives in California, he came home, depressed and defeated.
Looking back, it felt like I was in the middle of some sick love triangle that was almost more of a hate triangle--me, Chris, and work.
He held on, hoping it would get better.
It never did.
He'd leave for work and return a bitter, withered up shell.
He'd talk about doing something artistic working from home, and I am ashamed to say that I panicked. We didn't have the funds to start a business.  I had surgery coming up; we couldn't afford to be without insurance.  This job was all we had right now. Please please please please make it work.

First world problems, people.
FIRST WORLD PROBLEMS.
Children are dying of starvation, and I was terrified that I couldn't pay rent.
Maybe, in our first world country, it's a legitimate concern. Sometimes I don't know.

 The worst was Chris's tinnitus.
Oh, you've never heard of it?
Many people have no idea what it is despite the fact that so many are afflicted.
Essentially, your ears ring.
Or buzz.
Maybe they hum.
Sometimes it's only in quiet moments, sometimes it's nonstop.
Sometimes it's no big deal, but other times it is absolutely maddening.

No one REALLY knows what causes it, and there's no known cure.

Chris's started six years ago when we were dating.  Since then his ears have gotten worse despite all of our efforts. We've changed our diet, we don't go anywhere loud, we make sure there's always "white noise" to help Chris cope. We've seen several specialists and herbalists and dietist and ever other "-ist" you can think of.
And the stress of his new job was making it worse.
Some nights he had panic attacks, the ringing was so bad. It scared even me.
And then there was the miscarriage.
And the loneliness of it all.
We spent so many months all by ourselves, alone in our living room watching Doctor Who or in the kitchen--me scrubbing dishes like a shield--arguing about careers and life choices.


I was watching my husband slowly disintegrate, and nothing I did made it any better.
That was the worst part: the helplessness of it all.

His boss noticed Chris's steadily plummeting morale, and, after much discussion with the higher-ups, Chris received two months PAID leave to try to get to the bottom of the problem. We saw more specialists, and he did notice a difference for the better.
He concluded it was being away from work.
So he emailed his boss with a question. You see, the company had always assured Chris that he always had a place there, even in a different position.
So he asked for one.


He came down the stairs after a phone call and looked at me without a spark.  I had been expecting good news, but the moment he said, "Well . . . "
I just knew. I swallowed, pushing back fears, and waited.
"They have a position . . . in Florida . . . There's nothing else out here. I don't want to go back to Florida," he said.
My stomach knotted, my heart pounded. I was having flashbacks to the time I hit a bumper in a parking lot, a brand new teenage driver pounding on her steering wheel sobbing, chanting, "This does NOT happen to me! This does not happen! No! No! No! No!"
Here's the truth: I hit that bumper. I dented in the corner.
We all hit bumpers.
No one is exempt.
Some of our bumpers just look differently than others.

I began going over our finances--how much did we spend? How much could we not spend? How much did we have saved? How many months did that give us to find work?

Two months, I calculated.
Maybe three.
To find work in one of the most expensive states in the nation.
Or else we move back to Florida, if we could even afford that.
Leave our new friends, new church, new favorite places, new hobbies, our NEW HOME. All behind. It felt like some bizarre sort of defeat.
Now, I see it wouldn't have been defeat--it would have been change. That's all. Adaptation. Isn't that what we're supposed to do? Survival of the fittest? Pack up and move on, new chapter.
But the thought of it broke both of our hearts.

I'm ashamed to tell you that I shut down.
Like, peeps, I literally laid in bed for a day and would not get up.
Would not speak to Chris.

The thing that finally snapped me out of it? My cat sat on my head.
The smelly cat.
With her dirty smelly butt on my head.
The butt whose farts qualified as chemical warfare.
On my head.
Because I was being a poo-poo head.

For two weeks, we searched, found nothing, and then Chris had conversations with someone from the company.
He came to me the next night and said, "I want to try again. I want to try to make it work until we for sure have something better. This is the best I have to take care of you right now."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."

And he did.
Peeps, I can't tell you how proud I am of him. He's been back for a month, and, while his ears aren't great, he's doing really well.  We're trying new things to try to help make them manageable.  The job is a little better, but we continue to just work at it together.

Also, I apparently freaked out over nothing.
It's still an adjustment. I still find myself afraid we will fall back into the hate-triangle. But we have friends, now.
Hobbies we love.
Resources.

I've learned to hold plans loosely.
So loosely.
You live one step at a time and keep going.
We don't know if this job is Chris's life-time career. We don't know if he will stay there forever or if we will be in California for another year.
Maybe.

I realized I'm afraid.
I was afraid of the money. I held on to it too tightly. It wasn't a lot of money, but, crap, it paid the bills. I like bills paid. And I cared too much.
I was a jerk about it. I let my fear--my irrational fear--drain me of my humanity.
"Oh ye of little faith."
And it was over a flippin dollar.
Not a life, not a faith, not the fate of humanity.
A flippin dollar bill.
I felt smacked upside the head.
Idiot.

In the midst of all this, Chris came to me, asking if I wanted a family again.
We had been waiting since September to get that greenlight. To get passed the surgery, the blood tests, the doctors, the maybe/maybenot job, and see if we could stay pregnant.
And, peeps, the thought suddenly terrified me.
To think of miscarrying again.
Of sitting alone in that bathroom with the blood and the heartache and no where to bury it.
Of knowing that my body did this. It's not genetics or accident or illness. It's my blood. It chokes out life. All of that came rushing back.
Yes, there's medicine and injections and methods, but they're not 100%.

But nothing mortal is 100%.
Not even failure.
And aren't the greatest rewards sprung from the greatest risks?


So, this is me, trying to come back.
Trying to record things.
Even the insignificant.
The unimportant.
Because life is made up of all those little blips.

And they are glorious.