Hanging With the Fam

Yesterday, my step-brother Phil graduated from OSU with honors and a double-major. Mom and Gary made the trip from Texas to see him walk, and turned the drive into Road Trip 2009: they stopped at my grandparents' in Centerville, spent a few days in Columbus, and arrived here in Toledo yesterday evening.

We got them checked into a nearby hotel, had dinner at Olive Garden, and talked for a while at our house before they headed back to their hotel for the night. I'm not sure what all is on today's agenda, but I know that lunch at Zoup! will be a starter, probably followed by looking through some old photo albums they brought, and probably taking some photos of our own. Apart from that, I'm not sure what they'll be up for -- walking around the park, or just hanging out for a few hours before Aaron goes to work and we remaining three go to dinner somewhere. We'll see.

At any rate, it's nice to see the two of them. It's been a couple years since I saw Mom, and considerably longer since I last saw Gary. I'm glad they were able to make the trip.

The Quest For Inbox:Zero

My modus operandi with e-mail is to leave "pending" items in my inbox, then file them when I've done whatever it is that needs to be done with them. Reply to them, take action on them, whatever. While that works out well at my job, it only plays to my procrastinating tendencies at home, leading me to have e-mails in my inbox from literally five years ago.

It's fun interesting looking back at some of the stuff I'd intended to blog, but never got around to it, being that some of it ended up being mildly prescient / prophetic:

Fri 15 Dec 2006 | 4:47 PM

I’m not one to fall into the trap of blogging about specifics at work. Suffice to say that I have evidence that the high turnover rate in my department of late is likely to continue in the future. Our previous clockwork vibe is long gone, co-workers are complaining about one another, and our supervisor and her actions are unpopular in certain circles. The few people who have the best interests of the department in mind (myself included) are quickly moving toward just doing our jobs and the extra mile be damned.

Fri 29 Dec 2006 | 4:49 PM

I figured out last night why I'm so stressed about the possibility of losing this pregnancy. There will never be another individual exactly like this little one that's brewing right now. Even though it can't yet see, or hear, and doesn't even really have opposable thumbs yet, it has the potential to be a unique human being. If it doesn't make it, it's not only a child I wouldn't get to raise, but it's a person who wouldn't exist. It's like some weird wersion of It's A Wonderful Life or a Richard Bach story, thinking of all the people who haven't existed due to miscarriage or abortion. Who knows what potential leaders or philanthropists were never born, but were, in fact, meant to be?

Then, there are some slightly more recent almost-blogs that are more applicable to my life as it is today:

Mon 19 Nov 2007 | 4:21 PM

[My old job] vs. [my new job] is like marching band vs. drum corps - no one is here who doesn’t want to be here. Everyone is all business.

Also? Seniority is directly related to a person’s proximity to a window. At least in my dept.

(Incidentally? I will shortly be moving to a cube two spots closer to the window, after a year and change.)

Finally, there are some random goodies that are fun any day of the week:

Mon 27 Aug 2007 | 3:45 PM

[Heard at work:] "...teach them their prayers." Does God not listen to you unless you know the magic words? Mormons learn God's secret handshake in the temple, though, and that's no less ridiculous.

Fri 27 Jun 2008 | 11:30 AM

From a DBA [database administrator] at work, about a debacle he helped create: "Bah. That's part of the job. They just misspell it: should be DBAcle."

I still have about 80 e-mails in my inbox, dating back to January 2005 (the oldest ones are from genealogists and possible distant cousins looking to share research). Considering that I was way over 100 last week, I'm well on my way to zero.

Sesame Street and Sausage Cake

Earlier this evening, I posted to Twitter:

Busting out my DVD of Christmas on Sesame Street and preparing to make the annual sausage cake. Yes, there's really sausage in it.

Aw, Mr. Hooper! This is making me cry already. Not good. BTW, Big Bird ice skates about as well as I do.

Now, sausage cake is a regular Christmas tradition (whether I'm dieting or not), but I hadn't seen Christmas Eve on Sesame Street in years and years. So, when I decided to combine the two into a new yuletide tradition, I hadn't counted on the fact that Sesame Street would make me bawl.

I'm not sure why this happens. Maybe my 32-year-old heart just can't handle remembering what it felt like to be a wondering little four-year-old. When something hits me just right, though, like this DVD bringing back those memories of curling up with Mom and Memaw, watching my favorite Christmas specials by the flicker of pillar candles — I just lose it. I used to be such a rock, too.

Anyway, between wondering whether kids these days know that there really was a Mr. Hooper, and realizing that David really was pretty cute, and signing (and singing) along with Keep Christmas With You, I actually did manage to make some sausage cake.

I mentioned yesterday on Facebook that I'd be making sausage cake soon. Some of the responses:

Barb: sausage cake?

Me: it's a family tradition! it's like a spice cake, with raisins and cinnamon, but with sausage and chuck in the mix. supposed to be an old welsh recipe.

Manh: sausage cake?, i was thinkin' the same thing

Barb: Hmmm, sounds interesting but I think I'll pass...

Jess: I don't know about sausage cake... is it greasy or do you brown and rinse the meat prior to adding to the cake?

As I've mentioned before, the sausage cake is a Cook family holiday tradition. Since I'm sworn to secrecy about the recipe, I can't share with you all the gory details, but there are some parts of the baking that really hark back to my childhood, like mixing the ingredients with my hands (see above). It looks gross, but it's the perfect job for little hands, and it brings back great, giggly memories.

There are other parts that my mom used to do that make me feel grown-up now, like making the brown sugar topping. It's kind of a candymaking sort of affair, and it takes a strong arm to beat the syrup as it cools. It's also a challenge to pour the topping on the cakes before it hardens. I remember watching Mom making this when I was a child, standing nearby and smelling the spices and listening to the sound of the brown sugar syrup as it crackled and cooled.

I wonder if any of my more distant cousins on Grandpa Cook's side of the family make this recipe every year? I wonder if they have memories of it like I do? Wouldn't it be neat if I met or wrote to my cousins someday, and we had this in common?

I wonder how far back this recipe goes...?

Christmas Cards

I know I'm in the doghouse with the grandparents when my Christmas card, the card that usually includes a letter detailing what's been going on with Grandpa Cook's health and with family matters, says only, "Hope you are doing well."

o_O

I spent tonight printing out photos of Hawaii to send along with our card to them. Tomorrow or Thursday, I plan to write a letter detailing how much we loved Hawaii (in case I didn't already tell them), how my job's doing, what the latest genealogy finds have been (not much on his side, honestly), and what our future "family" plans are. I don't get to see Grandpa and Grandma Cook much these days, and I don't want to get out of favor with them, being that they're my only grandparents left.

I also spent tonight writing in the Christmas cards that needed written in — my cousin Michael, for one, along with a couple people who are getting their presents along with their cards.

I really do enjoy sending out Christmas cards; it's not a chore for me. Sometimes, it's nice to go all analog on life, to get away from the computer and the iPhone and actually write out my sentiments longhand. Slows things down. Makes things a little more meaningful and mindful.

These days, we could all use a little mindfulness.

Family Planning

It's been coming up more than usual lately, and in multiple places. I've been catching (and voluntarily watching) more of the maternity and childbirth-related shows on the Discovery Health Channel. On the one-year anniversary of my "new" job, my Mom reminded me that now I'm eligible for family leave. Aaron and I talked about it over sushi a couple weekends ago. And now Dooce is pregnant with her second child. Not only that, but after doing a little math, I figured out that, when she announced her latest pregnancy on her blog, she was right about at the place in hers that I was when in mine I had the worst damn experience of my life.

Whenever I write about that experience, it seems like I really dance around the subject. I don't often use the word "miscarriage," or say that "I lost the baby," but will instead refer to the emotions that surrounded that terrible weekend. You'd think that, almost two years after the fact, it wouldn't be such a tender subject. But it is.

Anyway.

Despite the fact that I can't get excited about subjecting myself to the possibility of that kind of tragic letdown again, it's something that we'll need to be thinking about relatively soon. We still have a few years yet before we need to really get on the ball, though. I'm 32½ right now — I'll be 33 in April. We won't be dipping into the *really* not-so-fresh ova until, say, the beginning of the next presidential campaign.

There are some things around the house that, if we're going to get them done, will need to be done before we procreate. Like painting, and getting new carpet and flooring, and replacing the window in the green bedroom (a.k.a. the cat's room, and someday to be Junior's room). Other things, like getting the leak in the tub fixed and installing a new bathroom faucet and replacing the garage door, those things could potentially be done with a small human being in residence, but the cash flow we have now may no longer be in effect. There are also some personal habits of mine that will need to change, like my housekeeping, and my health and hygiene (e.g. I'm way overdue for a trip to the dentist). I also want to reach my goal weight (about 20 more pounds to lose) before going and getting pregnant.

When I contemplate this laundry list of pre-partum to-dos, it occurs to me that we might just be stalling. Finding reasons not to try again just yet. That's a completely reasonable reaction, I think, for several reasons. Neither of us want to be in a place in our lives where we resent having had a child too soon, before we could discover who we were and experience the world and do the things we wanted to do. I don't want to be driving the family minivan to soccer practice in another ten or fifteen years asking, "What if...?"

That goes both ways, though. I also don't want to someday find myself pre-menopausal, without a child of my own, wondering what it would have been like to be a Mom.

Sometimes I feel like I'm too passive to be a Mom. Not responsible enough. Not selfless enough. But, every now and then, something comes up — say, Aaron turns pasty-white and clammy in the middle of a gaggle of people at the Ren Fair and needs to sit down before he falls down — and Responsibility Mode kicks in. And I'm reminded that I do have some innate something-or-other that can take hold when I need it to.

I've been easing myself back into the idea. The concept that the experience might actually be as joyous and fulfilling as people claim is starting to seem realistic to me.

But please pardon me if I remain stand-offish and skeptical for a while longer.

My Obsession With Photos

This weekend, Aaron and I spent an afternoon with his Dad and brother. We went out to lunch, then spent a few hours just talking at their Dad's house.

Of course, me being such a sucker for photos, and being curious about Aaron's family, I started off the requisite photo album viewing by declaring, "I want to see pictures of Fat Grammie!" (Referring, of course, to the brief period of time in the early 1970s when Aaron's grandmother was quite overweight. She went on Weight Watchers and lost it all, and kept it off over the years.)

We ended up looking though nearly a dozen photo albums from the late '60s and the '70s, and I got to see not only Fat Grammie, but Poppa with a beard, and Baby Aaron at two weeks — and Aaron's mother, who passed away just about five years before I met him. I kept being amazed by the people and places I was seeing in these photos — "Wow, you really do look like your mother," and, "Is that the same rocking chair that's still at Grammie and Poppa's house?" and just looking over toward the kitchen to be sure that the linoleum in that photo from 1978 is really the same linoleum that's still there today.

It wasn't until then that I realized why I have such an obsession with photos, and candid, unposed shots in particular.

They're a time capsule.

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Unsour Grapes

I was sitting at my desk today, eating some grapes and reading a training manual, when my mind started to wander. I remembered being about ten years old and visiting my Granny in Florida, and eating the grapes that grew wild on her property.

My extended-nuclear family (myself, Mom, Memaw, and Aunt Sammie) had moved to Florida, ostensibly to be closer to Granny and Uncle Charlie (Memaw's mother and brother). So, for a three-year stretch in the mid-80s, while we lived nearby, we would visit Granny and Charlie on a regular basis — maybe once a week? We'd make the half-hour drive south from Riverview to Ruskin, passing retirement communities and various small towns and orange-packing plants and long expanses of nothing but sandspurs, until we finally took a few turns down overgrown back roads in Ruskin and made the left-hand turn onto Granny's weed-choked driveway. I still remember the sound of the tall, dry weeds smacking the underside of Sammie's car as we rumbled up the long drive, following the tire tracks through the overgrown palmettos and vines and other various semi-tropical underbrush.

Charlie's old blue truck would be parked by the shack, and we'd pull into the front yard (which looked like every other front yard I'd seen in Florida: mainly sand, with a few sparse patches of crabgrass and prickers and sandspurs). Granny and Charlie were always glad to see us, and they'd come out of their shack to greet us with big ol' grins on their weathered faces.

Granny and Charlie's shack wasn't really appropriate for company — the floorboards were oddly spaced and rotten, and there was no plumbing — so we mainly stood outside and talked; looking back, I don't even really remember what we talked about. I was young enough that I still enjoyed playing with Granny's thick, leathery skin; and I spent lots of time contemplating her long wispy white hair, always pulled up into about half a dozen tiny buns, each flattened to her head with a single bobby pin. She and Charlie both dipped snuff, so our visits would be punctuated with occasional spitting, either in a coffee can sitting on the ground or just right in the dirt and weeds, and they both smelled of tobacco.

I always had to be careful not to wander off; not that I was really tempted to go exploring, since everybody always made sure to remind me about all the snakes that lived in the weeds. Sometimes, though, Granny would take us back to see her garden. I honestly don't remember much of what she grew, but I'm sure it was typical garden fare, with some southern stuff like okra thrown in for local color.

One day in particular, she took us a different way, opposite from the way to the garden. Just around the corner from where we'd parked our car in the yard, there grew a wild grapevine with ripe fruit. Granny picked a few grapes for us, and I remember how delicious they were, just for being wild. The skins were a silvery-lavender color and were thick; and there were seeds, of course. But I still remember those few grapes as being the best grapes I'd ever had, before or since.

We moved back to Ohio in the summer of 1987, and the last time I saw my Granny was during a summer vacation we took when I was in junior high, a couple years later. She died just after Thanksgiving, the fall of my Freshman year of high school, at age 79.

Funny, isn't it, though, how we can look back on something that seemed so normal and commonplace at the time, and find such joyous details in the memories?

Christmas Eve

It's a very quiet day at the office; even more quiet than usual. It's Christmas Eve, and I think that half of the building (or more) took a personal holiday today. The parking garage seemed even more deserted today than on the day after Thanksgiving.

The person who can answer all the questions I have about the business intelligence application I've been trying to learn is finally back from maternity leave — a few days early, actually — so I at least won't be stuck all day with no one to answer my questions and nothing else to do. She's pretty busy, though, so it's not like she's at my disposal constantly, like the trainers in Loan Corrections were. I guess I'll only be stuck for part of the day with nothing else to do, then...

I'll get to leave an hour early at 3:30pm today, since it's the day before a holiday, which is a nice perk. Go home, open presents, have some dinner, make the traditional Christmas sausage cake (yes, it's really made of sausage, and it's really a cake — I think we've been over this before), and enjoy a quiet Christmas Eve with my husband (who has today off of work).

Tomorrow, we'll be going to Cleveland for Christmas Day. We'll be bringing sausage cake and the zucchini-chocolate cake I made last night, along with presents for everyone. We won't be bringing the new video camera, though; we decided that we really don't need to remember Christmas as is it now. Grammie's Alzheimer's is getting pretty pronounced these days, and Poppa's having a hard time getting around. Aunt Elaine can't make it to holidays at all, due to her own medical issues. Better to remember the earlier years of Elaine's Christmas cookies and Poppa being all sprightly and Grammie fussing in the kitchen... and Pete and his family always being late. :-)

Christmas in Parma, OH - December 22, 1999

I'm not going to make a habit of posting my home videos to my blog, but I did want to post this one. This is the first part of a belated Christmas present for my family, wherein I'm taking the footage we filmed during Christmas 1999 and putting it together into a properly-edited DVD. I managed to take eleven minutes of gruelingly boring footage of me and Philip decorating the Christmas tree and edit it down into three fairly inoffensive minutes with a soundtrack. Granted, my video editing skillz aren't what they used to be, plus I have to get used to using Adobe Premiere, but I still had fun and turned out a decent home video.

Well, the first part of one, anyway.

Donald William Cook, 1953 - 2007

We just got the news this week that my Uncle Donnie died back in March. Apparently, his long-time friend had tried to reach Mom afterward, but didn't have her current contact info, and was fruitlessly searching for her in Ohio.

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Still Too Close To The Surface

Read a blog entry about abortion today, written by a pro-choice advocate. Chose to write a comment in response.

Received an e-mail from the one friend I hadn't told about my miscarriage yet. Chose to write a friggin' novel in response.

I hadn't realized this shit was still so fresh in my mind. I've been emotionally KO'd all evening. Didn't get much accomplished besides playing some Civ IV.

Now it's time to start getting ready for bed, and I have no idea what I'm making for lunch tomorrow, which is bad. I don't really want to put my lunch together before I go to bed, which is worse. God knows what I'll end up throwing into my lunch koozie tomorrow morning...

I know that these things smooth themselves over as time passes. I just wonder how long I'll have these random days of sadness in the middle of being perfectly OK.

Better Than Yesterday

Not as preoccupied. Can count on only one hand the number of times my day came to a grinding halt and I stared off into space in sorrowful contemplation. Smiled. Laughed. Am eating and sleeping fine. Made it through the follow-up consult with my OBGYN with no problems. Discussed future baby-take-two plans with Mom over the phone.

Still feeling odd about finally feeling like myself again.

I feel weird about feeling almost OK. I'm sure it's only temporary.

Not-So-Tiny Tragedy

All the associated magazines and freebies and bills and other accoutrements have been tucked away into a corner, as if the "out of sight, out of mind" methodology will work on this.

Not like I'm not reminded by every commercial, every slip of the tongue, every time one of my pregnant co-workers walks by. Not like I don't zone out and think about it, instead of successfully getting back into the daily grind.

The logical part of my mind, the part that's usually in control of how I live my life and how I present myself to others, says that grief is stupid. It's more useless than even regret, because at least, with regret, you have the opportunity to learn something and make changes in the future. Grief... it's like constantly reminding yourself that this situation sucks, and that there's nothing to be done.

The emotive part of my mind has been held in check for far too long — years, in fact — and threatens to take off with the rest of me.

I feel alone. No, not alone, because Aaron's feeling quite the same way I am, although he's trying to be strong for me. I feel... empty. I'm alone in my own skin again, and I'm not sure how to react to that, especially after having just gotten used to being someone's... home?

I tell myself, at least it wasn't really self-aware yet. Or even conscious. Not yet able to hear, or see, or feel. Still, it doesn't help. To see it grow from a barely discernable blob with a heartbeat to a small human being with wriggling arms and legs — then to see it lying horrifically still and lifeless, displayed on a monochrome monitor in a darkened room, as the poor ultrasound technician tried every possible way to find a heartbeat...

This is probably the single most gut-wrenching experience I've ever been through. Maybe that's a testament to how lucky I've been in the past 30 years.

I'll miss you.

Experiences In Birthing

Being that we're actively trying to conceive, I've been searching around teh internets a lot lately about, well, having babies. Not just having them, mind you, but HAVING them. Like, how does one successfully pass a bowling ball through one's hoodie-hoo?

I came across an interesting set of photos by snowdeal (a.k.a. Eric Snowdeal III, father of internet-renowned micro-preemie Eric Snowdeal IV). This subject of this set was his... sister? sister-in-law? At any rate, it was of a home birth. It hadn't occurred to me that a home birth could be more like a holiday or a family gathering than a private moment with one's partner and one's doula and/or midwife. But, sure enough, here was a woman inviting her family and friends into her home to hang out while she had contractions and watch as she gave birth to her daughter.

Watch.

Y'know, I love you all, but I don't know how comfortable I'd be with you all in my living room, seeing me squat down and produce the miracle of life right there before you. I think that takes a certain kind of person with a certain kind of social network. And even my closest friends — Amy, Sheryl, even my Mom — I don't know how comfortable I'd be with you guys RIGHT THERE watching my first delivery. Afterward, sure, come visit and meet Diana Junior. But during the process? I dunno.

There are so many options... home birthing (which I don't think I'm down with, even without the party), water birthing, hypnobirthing, lying down or squatting or reclining... I'm looking forward to eventually sitting down with a medical practicioner and finding out what the options are. And what Aetna will pay for. I'm guessing I'll be getting the standard Delivery Room, bright surgical lights, lots of strangers staring at my crotch, doctor not even there yet, WTF is going on right now kind of dance that is my impression of what The Big Day must be like.

Of course, I have no idea what any of this is really like. And I'm NOT asking my Mom until we're at T-minus nine months and counting.

Diana's First Christmas, 1976

[Posted on Flickr by dianaschnuth].


Thirty years ago this month, this was the scene somewhere in Medina County, Ohio. According to the captions in my baby book:

July 4, 1976 was your first holiday but I am saving this place for Christmas. [Page Title: "My First Holidays"]

You were 8 months old and you were in awe. On the 27th you got the croop and bronchitis and spent 11 days in the hospital.

Gifts: Raggedy Ann, dress and leotards [tights], two squeeky toys, and a teddy bear (at the hospital).

Santa was played by Butch's brother Bill.

Mom also wrote about Christmas Eve in the baby diary:

December 24, 1976: Just got back from Gramma Dobbins. Took a picture of your dad and his girl got real mad. Gean got you a Raggedy Ann.

Later - Everyone was fussing over you saying how cute you are. Bonnie got you a little dress and leotards and she got Grannie [Memaw] and Mom a juice set. It was after midnight when you went to sleep so I'm tired. I was going to watch "The Blue Bird," a Shirley Temple movie, but you have really worn me out.

I love you, good night.
Mom

In addition to all this, I'd just like to mention that the plastic Santa suit with the beard made of quilt batting is so trés 70's. Way to go, Uncle Bill! :-)

It's Thursday

It's been a few days since I wrote, so I figured I should spout off a few paragraphs before I turn in.

There's this woman at work who's pregnant — hold on, let me stop there. First off: is anyone else weirded out by calling your peers "women"? I mean, yeah, that's what they are. Late 20's, early 30's... you're not a girl anymore. You're a woman. I'd rather call my female peers "chicks," but some of them might not take kindly to that. And using the term "lady" is kind of weird, too. "Lady" always has the connotation of "bitch" somewhere in my mind. Like, "Hey, lady, get outta the way!" You know.

ANYway. There's a chick at work who's pregnant. There are a lot of them, actually, but I'm thinking of one in particular who's got a personality that jives with mine. Irreverent, cool, blunt, and totally floored that she got knocked up by her boyfriend. I mean, no one thought of her as the motherly type before — not even herself.

She had her first ultrasound this week, and brought in the "baby pictures" for us to see. Thankfully, the printouts were labeled with body parts, to give us a frame of reference. One was a full-body shot, with the head and arm labeled, and one was an image of the head, with the eyes labeled. What's really weird? This 21-week old fetus has teeth! Really visible teeth, obviously still in the gums, but still. I hadn't thought of such things before. It was kind of cool, seeing an ultrasound photo where I didn't feel all self-conscious about saying, "What IS that? What am I looking at?" Usually I feel kind of awkward about the whole thing.

At the ultrasound, she found out that her child is a girl. She told us all about how her unborn was doing friggin' backflips, and the nice ultrasound technician was having a bitch of a time getting all the images she needed. One that she did manage to get, though, was a total spread-eagle of the kid with her feet up by her ears. We all had fun with that — I made some sort of comment that we'd have to get her daughter some big hoop earrings.

The more pregnant people I deal with on a regular basis, the more comfortable I get with the concept of *being* one of those people someday. I mean, you guys know me. Candlemaking and wearing the occasional pink shirt is as girly and frilly as I get. Something about pregnancy just harks back to my days in church, where there was always someone pregnant, and all the womenfolk could make perfect pie crusts and sew their kids' halloween costumes and their favorite paint color was mauve. I'm not like that. But I guess moms don't necessarily have to be.

I'm really tempted to share too much about my private time with Aaron... but I'm not going to. There are some things that, although really fucking funny, are just a little too personal and weird to share with the entire internets. If, however, you want to know what Aaron says after unprotected sex now, feel free to ask privately. ;-)

I Miss That.

Time was when my Mom and I would go visit my Aunt Sammie, cousin Michael and Memaw every Sunday after church. We didn't always enjoy or appreciate the visits, but it just seemed like the thing you do on Sundays: go to visit family, eat the lunch they've prepared for you, listen to them complain or just talk, then politely excuse yourself to go home and get out of your Sunday clothes.

Thirteen years later, Mom lives with my step-Gary in Texas, Sammie and Michael live in Carolina, and Memaw's three years gone now. And I don't even go to church anymore.

Even though I'm all connected with the world and with my faraway friends via the magic of the internet, I feel isolated from my family. I don't understand how we were once so interdependent and loving and familiar, and now we're so far apart, both geographically and emotionally. I just don't get it.

Doctor's Appointment

Visited the OB-GYN's office today, for the first time since college. Don't worry, I won't give gory details — not that there are many gory details to give. Most of my time was spent waiting, either in the waiting room or in the examination room.

Let me say that I started out the day pretty stoked. I stepped on the scale, and it told me I weigh 201.5 lbs, which is continuing my downward trend, and is my lowest weight point since December 2004. When I got to the doctor's office (over my lunch break) and the nurse was doing her pre-exam thing, the scale in the examination room also read 201. Rock! My scale's not fubar!

Then, after a long several minutes of me chilling out on the examination table, the doctor came in.

One of the things I asked Dr. Okin was whether I should try to lose more weight before trying to conceive, or if I should just wait until after pregnancy to continue my weight loss. Predictably, she told me that a woman should be in her best physical shape before becoming pregnant. Sure, that makes sense. Then she continued to tell me things I already know: My BMI is 29, I should be around 21 to 23, and that means my ideal weight is around 160 lbs.

Right. So, considering the steady weight loss trend of .5667 pounds a week I've had since July (yes, I *do* have a weight-tracking Excel spreadsheet), and not discounting any lengthy plateaus, I should be in prime condition to conceive in... *does calculations* ...April of 2008.

*sigh*

She must realize I'm not inclined to wait, though, because she prescribed me some prenatal vitamins.

(The entry continues in a rambling self-pitying fashion, should you care to read on...)

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An Open Letter To My Father

Dear Butch,
Dear "Dad,"
Dear Robert,

Hello,

We've never officially met. Not that I could remember, anyway. I'm sure you know who I am, though.

You and my mom were an item back in 1975, until she got pregnant. From how I've heard it told, you offered to pay for her to have an abortion. I'm a little unclear as to whether that was before or after you two broke up. It doesn't matter at this point, though, since she refused, and subsequently lost a paternity suit against you.

At any rate, you know who I am, even though we've never met. I honestly don't know much about you, although your family is pretty cool and always accepted me as one of their own. Whatever. Like I said, it doesn't matter at this point.

I've thought over the years about what I'd like to say to you, if I ever happened to be in the same room as you, or if I could ever get up the nerve to look you up in the phone book and find your address to write to you. Since I think I'm fairly safe here on the internet — since hundreds of friends and strangers will read this, but the likelihood of you actually finding it is slim to none — I choose to make this my venue to say what needs saying.

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Sucked In

I can't stop reading this diary.

I don't want to go make my lunch. I don't want to watch TV. I don't want to exercise. I just want to keep reading.

It's not even about me anymore — at this point in the diary, Memaw and I (except Mom called her Grannie then) have flown to Florida to stay with Granny and Charlie for a while, and Mom is hanging around Medina, staying with friends until the paternity suit against my father.

That was my first plane ride, and was my only plane ride until a few years back, when I went with Mom and Gary and Philip to visit Gary's family in Fort Worth.

I love taking these one-page synopses of Mom's days and trying to imagine what her life was really like. Moving out of the apartment to a couple other friends' places. Missing me so much. Trying to get a job. Trying to "get her head on straight."

We've both come so far.

I love you, Mom.

Every Little Freaking Detail?

Are you tired of it yet?

I blew one of my weekly goals tonight: I didn't do my PUSH workout. Note to self: six almonds is not a sufficient evening snack if I intend to snack at 4:30pm and eat dinner at 7:30pm. So I ended up coming home and making dinner before my workout... which meant I never got around to the workout. No biggie. It's a learning process. I'm still going to exercise tomorrow and Friday; I'm not going to blow off the rest of the week just because of one off day.

Made it to work on time again today. Almost didn't — clocked in at 8:05am — because I had a minor emergency with my new seedlings. Had to flip them around close to the window because their grow light went out, and had to water them because I removed their cover, so they lost their little greenhouse effect. But I digress.

I've been doing pretty well with not adding extra snackies into my day, and sticking to my prescribed menu. Today I substituted spinach for the salad I'd scheduled for myself — mainly because I didn't want leftover spinach sitting in the fridge, and I know Aaron won't eat it. He hates spinach.

A lot of my evenings lately have been spent reading Mom's journal (ostensibly my "baby diary", but also Mom's "I'm lonely and want a man" diary, too). At age 22, she had all the guys looking, even with a baby at home. I don't want to air Mom's 30-year-old dirty laundry to the entire world, but suffice to say that it seems she was always lonely, but rarely really alone.

As a parallel: when I was 19, there was one semester when I went out with five different guys. That's the closest I can come to understanding what my mom went through in the late 70s. I really feel for her, as she was back then.

If I write any more on this, I may as well just write Mom's memoirs myself and post them to the internet. So I'll shut up now. :-)

Truth be told, I'm going to be disappointed when I get to the end of this diary. I'll be jonesing for Volume II. Guess I'll have to get Mom to sit down and actually write me some memoirs... although I promise not to post them to the internet.

Thirty Years Ago Today

Several years ago, Mom gave me the small "baby diary" she'd kept during the first year after I was born. She started it in July 1976, when I was 10 weeks old. It's really a fascinating look into my Mom's life as a single 21-year-old mother in the 1970s.

July 14, 1976:

Today Bonnie and I went to see the lawyer. I know it will be hard for you to understand why your father doesn't want to admit you are his. I hope it can have a happy ending for all of us.

Well, we took you to have your picture taken. And you heard a squeeky toy for the first time. And you smiled real big for the man. Mommy was glad you smiled.

Your Uncle Donnie held you and you talked to him. He played a harmonica, but you didn't like it.

Good night,
Mom

(It's a small book. That filled up the whole page for July 14.)

Actually, now that I'm older than he was at the time, I can understand. I don't agree with his reaction to the situation, but I do understand. He was 25, messing around with his 20-year-old girlfriend. He wasn't looking for any of this. When he found out, it was probably easier to deny all responsibility. Although I don't know if I can understand his offering to pay to have me aborted. (Sorry, abortion rights activists, but I am pro-life by default. No matter what I might have said when I was 15, I truly am glad to be alive.)

It's been interesting growing up fatherless. I don't think I was scarred by it — of course, I really don't have a basis of comparison. I learned at some point in my youth when it was OK to talk about my parentage, and when I should just let people draw their own conclusions about how I came to live with my Mom and my grandmother. As I got older and more open with people, and as single parenting became less of a stigma, I began telling more people in more situations. Now I'm to the point where I can discuss my bastard nature with co-workers who are younger than me — and who, surprisingly enough, share very similar stories of their own unusual parentage.

I've never met my father face-to-face. It would be interesting, if awkward, to have a discussion with him about that stretch of time in 1975 and 1976 when he so vehemently denied being my father. I'm just curious if he really believes that he isn't the one. I wonder if he ever thought about it, years later.

On a lighter note, I look forward to reading this while I blog about my own (still unconceived) child's first year of life. Or maybe I'll get a little diary and write a few words in my own hand after she goes to sleep at night. I know I'm enjoying reading Mom's (and Memaw's, sometimes) handwritten thoughts, thirty years after the fact.

Update, 9:40pm: Continuing to read through the diary. Some of these entries are making me all misty. Dammit. ;-)

Charles Mickler, 1930-2005

I got a call at work this morning, from my Uncle Charlie's case worker in Tampa. It seems that my great-uncle passed away earlier this month.

Charlie had no wife or children, and was living in a nursing home with no family nearby. He had lived with his mother, my Granny, until her death in 1990. His younger sister, my Memaw, died over two years ago. Myself, my mother, my aunt and my cousin are his only living relatives.

Uncle Charlie sold his land years ago, and the profits have paid for his care since then. He hadn't banked on needing to pay a nursing home for his care; he'd planned to give his $40,000 (or thereabouts) to me instead. As a poor college student, I had been flabbergasted at the prospect of being in someone's will. Now, though, I understand the funds needed to support the elderly, and I certainly don't begrudge him his care.

As the only relative who has kept in contact with Charlie's legal guardians in Tampa, it is now my duty to call the Medical Examiner in Tampa and give them the authorization to cremate him. He had no funds left for a burial; and neither myself, nor my Mom, nor my aunt will be able to travel to Florida to make any sort of burial arrangements.

I'm sad that he's gone, but I'm more sad that he was alone, and now has so few to mourn him. I'm also slightly beside myself at the bizarre and slightly morbid call I'll need to make tomorrow morning.

My Step-Philip's Graduation Weekend

On Friday evening before he went to work, Aaron asked me if I'd heard anything from my Mom or step-Gary about Philip's high school graduation. When did we need to be where, did we have tickets to the actual graduation, et cetera. I didn't know yet, as Mom hadn't called me to confirm the final plans, and I told him so. His parting shot was, "If I come home tonight and find out I have to get up at 10am," followed by some sort of consequence I can't exactly recall. Something like, "I'll be pissed," or "I won't be happy," or something along those lines.

Guess when we had to get up Saturday morning.

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My Memaw

My Memaw knew a lot. She wasn't particularly book-smart—I think she completed 8th grade—but she knew little, important things. How to keep my ballet recital costume from unravelling. How to french braid and how to do a french twist. How to make awesome fried chicken, and tuna croquettes, and dozens of other wonderful foods. How to grow an avocado plant from a pit. How to grow plants in general.

About plants: Memaw definitely had a green thumb. Not in that Jerry Baker sort of way, though; he knows all sorts of bizarre tips and tricks for keeping your plants and lawn green and healthy, like spraying it with a solution of dish soap and beer and ammonia and some other household chemicals. Memaw had the other kind of green thumb, the kind where she had only to stick a plant in soil (or in water first, to root it), then water it (from the bottom, always), and poof. Big, healthy plants. Or so I remember, anyway... I was still kind of young when Memaw's plant collection was in its heyday.

(Funny, isn't it, how we never seem to take pictures of everyday things, like our living room... but, years later, we find ourselves trying to remember details that we once thought we'd never forget. Like how many plants sat in our windowsill in Apartment A-13 when I was 7 years old.)

Anyway, I wish I'd been able to ask her about more of the little, important things. As I got older, and as she got older, I did write her letters and ask her about some of the little things. How to make tuna croquettes (which I still haven't attempted). How many different jobs she held, and where she worked (which I wish I'd written down, but I was in the car on the way to BG). And my Mom gave me the recipe for meatballs that Memaw had gotten from the Italian girl that worked with her at Bix's Restaurant.

How to grow plants, though... if she had a secret, I wish I could have learned it. I do well enough, and I certainly *have* enough, but sometimes I wonder. I think I managed to inherit some of that green thumb, but... you know.

Sometimes I miss her.

-----

Next Friday, I'll be participating in the American Cancer Society Relay For Life in Bowling Green. If you'd care to sponsor me, you can donate online all next week, until the event. Donations are, of course, tax-deductible, and will forward the fight against cancer.

Someday, I hope someone else gets more time to ask their own Memaw the questions I didn't.

Family Photos

Well, I've successfully managed to adjust, upload, and order copies of 27 family photos. And, for you Photoshop geeks out there, I've only just now discovered the magic and majesty of the Healing Brush. To think I was using exclusively the cloning tool for so long! My life has just become a lot easier.

Anyway, I will soon have actual 4x6 prints of my great-great grandparents on down, also including some rare photos of Yours Truly in the late 80's. Middle School was a scary time to witness. Maybe I'll post the pics sometime when I'm feeling particularly sadistic.

Growing Up

Oh my goodness. My little cousin Michael is an adult now, and has been for some time. He'll be 20 in October. Wow.

I never had a real sibling growing up, so back then, Michael was the closest thing I had to a brother. He's eight years younger than me, and has some psychological/behavioral issues—so, although I always loved and respected him, it wasn't until he was well into his teens that I felt I could connect with him in a "grown-up" way.

Of course, after Mom married my first stepdad, I had two stepsisters and two stepbrothers, but only felt even remotely close to my one stepsister, Dawn, who was two years older than me. And once I was in college, Mom married Gary, at which point I got Philip as a stepbrother. He's two years younger than Michael, but more socially well-adjusted. (Well, maybe I should just say he's not autistic like Michael and leave it at that.)

Anyway, I didn't really have the same kind of relationship with any of my step-siblings like I did with Michael, because I never really lived with them. I only lived with Michael until he was about four, but after Mom married Tom and we moved out, we still came over to visit every Sunday after church, and sometimes during the week. Then, when Mom divorced Tom, we moved back into the same apartment complex and would see or talk to the rest of the family multiple times a week. We were really a close family back then.

Now, look at us. Mom and Gary in Parma, me in Toledo, Sammie with her significant other in South Carolina, Michael nearby in a boys' home, Memaw dead and gone, and none of us really keeping in touch very much—except when Mom and I talk every now and then, and visit on holidays and special occasions. There's something kind of sad about that.

But I've strayed from my point, which was how much my little cousin Michael has grown. My goodness.

*shakes head*

Long-lost Relatives

Not long ago, I contacted my great-uncle's case worker in Florida to see how he was doing in the nursing home there. I'm not technically his next-of-kin (my Memaw was his sister), but I've been told by my family that I'm his sole inheritor (if he had anything left to inherit). So, I feel obligated to check on him every now and again, to make sure he's still hanging in there. He doesn't write much, and he could never hear well, and he was never really all that mentally cohesive, for that matter. But his case manager, Patrick, said he's doing OK. I told him that, if he ever felt the time was right and that Uncle Charlie could take the news, to go ahead and let him know that his sister died. Last year.

Man, do I feel like a dick.

Anyway, there's one other relative to inform yet: my Uncle Donnie. Yep, that's him on the left there. He's my mother's older brother—and he's only 50, though he looks pretty bad these days. Uncle Donnie is a carney: a basically homeless vagrant who works for the carnivals as they come around. Ever since I was a very small child, I've known that Uncle Donnie is a carney and sleeps under overpasses and hitchhikes to get where he wants to go. It seemed perfectly OK to me then, and only in ensuing years have I come to realize that no one else even knows a carney. This is not a normal career move.

Anyway, after thinking and thinking, I finally Googled the Hillsborough County Sheriff's Department in Hillsborough County, Florida. That's where Donnie prefers to spend his time, for the most part, having grown up there. And, whaddaya know, I found him in the online arrests database. That's where the mugshot came from. And, surprisingly enough, the most recent arrest report (from February of this year) gave a P.O. Box in Ruskin where he could be reached. I'll be damned. We can contact my homeless vagrant uncle!

I e-mailed the link to Mom and told her that it's her responsibility to tell her brother that their mother's dead. I'm not taking that on, too. I found him—the rest is up to her.

Christmas Aftermath

I came home this afternoon from my half-day of work feeling anxious... like I'm expecting something good to happen soon. I'm not sure what or why, but I'm enjoying the feeling.

While I'm trying to flesh that one out, I guess I'll make the annual list of Christmas goodies, first from Aaron:

• A 28mm wide angle lens + lens hood for my 35mm
• A dedicated flash w/batteries (again, for my 35mm)
• The Dark Crystal Collector's Edition DVD
• The Last Unicorn on VHS (there's no official release on DVD yet)
• The End of Eternity by Isaac Asimov
• A large stuffed plush Totoro
• A watering can for my houseplants

Then, from Mom, Gary & Philip:

• Candles and a snuffer
• Hair clips and combs
• A $25 gift certificate to Lane Bryant
• A DVD carry case

And from Aaron's family:

• A large black cherry scented candle
• A Christmas nutcracker
• A chess set
• A vegetable knife
• Gift certificates to Kohl's, Wendy's, House of Meats, and Value City, and cash from Dad

Our Christmas trip was quite similar to last year's: Christmas Eve at Mom and Gary's, spent the night there, and Christmas Day with Aaron's family at Poppa & Grammie's house 15 minutes north. Mom, Gary and I taught Aaron how to play Pinochle, and we played boys vs. girls. Of course, the girls won, although Aaron made a pretty clean sweep one hand by having a bit of a monopoly on the entire suit of spades. :-) Oh, by the way, if you and your significant other know how to play Pinochle, or would be willing to learn, Aaron and I would love to hang out and play sometimes... Hell, if you know Hearts or Spades, that would be cool, too. Cards are fun, but no one our age knows how to play anything but kids' games and Euchre (which
I'm not terribly good at myself).

I had to kind of let Mom down about the Denver trip she'd wanted to make with me in August. I decided I just couldn't afford to be spending $350+ on a trip with Mom that I really am not too keen on in the first place... especially if Aaron and I a.) want to buy a house soon, and b.) want to take our own vacation together this summer. She was obviously really disappointed, but I just had to come clean and tell her I couldn't go. I'm compromising, though, and promising to go on a one-tank trip with her somewhere we can take pictures. Maybe somewhere in Pennsylvania
or something.

Aaron's grandparents' house is a completely different experience than mine. At any given holiday, depending on who shows up, there's between 9 and 17 people around the table. I'm really unused to that kind of massive family gathering, but I'm growing to enjoy it more each year. It's like Aaron said: over at Mom and Gary's, it's kind of fun and relaxing, with lots of quality time with just them, but after a while you get bored — especially if they're watching TV or talking on the phone. At Poppa and Grammie's, though, it's exciting and fun to be with so many people at once, but after a while you get frazzled and just need to leave. :-)

We're all worried about Grammie, though. Her Alzheimer's is becoming more pronounced — she still remembers everyone and can function fairly normally, but she forgets why she's gone into a room, what she's looking for, what she did five minutes ago, whether she's put the ham in the oven yet, etc, etc. She also tends to remind us that Uncle Pete got remarried, even though that's been at least a year or more ago, and we all went to their wedding, and they came to ours in May. She forgets where my family lives, and that my grandmother's dead. Things like that. She's almost 80 years old, and Poppa is well into his 80's himself. I'm afraid of what's going to happen when... well, just what's going to happen, period.

My homemade candles were highly upstaged by our wedding photos, which we gave to Aaron's family as gifts. Made for some quick and easy gift ideas, and everyone loved having them. Fine with me... :-)

I think that's a sufficient update for now. My random excitement has subsided, and now I'm afraid that when I stop blogging here, I'm going to be bored. So... I'm off to find something constructive to do. Maybe take more pics with my new lens.

Babies Babies Everywhere

Seems everyone's having babies these days. I guess we're just that age ("we" being myself, Aaron, our friends, and my blog readership). A few years ago, it seemed everyone was getting married. It's the next logical step.

I used to have a "thing" about pregnant people. Even when I was eight and my aunt (who lived with us) was pregnant with my cousin Michael, I was uneasy around her. It just makes me feel... weird. Like I'm witnessing something that should be more private and less obvious than hiding a watermelon under your shirt. Or like they might break. Or like something's wrong with them. All of which I know is slightly ridiculous.

Since I've known more people who have become pregnant, had to work with them (half a dozen in my building), and socialize with them (mainly Kathy Fries), I've become less stand-off-ish about pregnant people.

Now it's the baby thing that unnerves me.

Babies and I just do not get along. Especially little ones. It's like they can feel my trepidation and awkwardness, and start to cry for Mom not two minutes after being plunked into my arms. Again, I feel like I'm going to break them. And I'm afraid to be too obviously taken in by the marvel that is Life. Someone might be watching, after all, and I can't show that I'm a softie, now can I? Especially not around my Mom, who I'd like to think I have convinced that I am an emotional rock.

But at the same time, I'm getting this feeling... this knowledge that I'm going to do this someday. It's akin to another feeling I've had, one that will require some backstory.

In the Mormon Church, the first Sunday of every month is set aside for the members to share personal experiences and bear testimony of the Gospel as they know it. It's known as Fast and Testimony Meeting, because members are also encouraged to fast for two meals, and donate the money they would have spent on those meals to the Church welfare fund. (Mom and I made use of this fund several times — the Church has a Storehouse of food for the poor, funded by these donations).

Anyway, at this particular meeting, there's no set agenda: after the standard opening song and prayer, and passing of the sacrament (This is My Body, This is My Blood... you Christian-types know the drill), the pulpit is open to all in attendance to come up and speak. It's kind of funny, too, because so many people are poor public speakers, but they want to let everyone know they believe... so there's kind of an unspoken ritual opening that all Primary children know, but all adults try to break away from: "I'd like to bear my testimony that I know this church is true. I know that Jesus is the Christ, and I know that God lives. I know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet, and that [insert current Church President here] is the prophet today..." Then the child or stumbling adult stammers through why they felt the need to bear their testimony. Usually something happened that week to particularly affirm their faith, or something happened to them that they feel the need to share, in order to reaffirm someone else's faith.

So, as a member of the congregation, you either sit and listen quietly and pensively (or not so pensively), or you start to wonder what you would say, if you got up there. If your case is the former, then Testimony Meeting is either entertaining and uplifting, or boring and tedious. Either way, no stress on you. If your case is the latter, though, the most interesting sensations come upon you. You can't seem to listen to the testimonies, because your adrenaline starts up. A feeling of inevitability wrenches your gut. You know you're going to have to get up there and say what's on your mind. It reminds me of knowing you're going to puke, except this feeling is supposed to be much more warm and fuzzy, coming from the Holy Spirit and all. (It usually isn't, though.)

It's that feeling of inevitability that I'm talking about. That knowledge that you're not sure you want to do it, but you're driven to it anyway. Something is compelling you to do this thing that you're so apprehensive about. You know you'll feel better afterwards, and you'll regret it if you don't.

That's the feeling I have about procreating. Aaron and I are comfortable with the fact that we're going to do it someday, so that's a step in the right direction. But we're also agreed upon not having kids for another few years, preferably until we have a house. It's not like my internal clock's a-ticking... though it kind of is, although I'm choosing to ignore it for now.

There are so many things to look forward to about having children, and so many things to be apprehensive about. For right now, though, I can't even keep my fucking room clean, much less raise a child. But I'm inwardly jealous of all the new parents I know, while outwardly snickering at their sleepless nights and new responsibilities. Without waxing all emotional (I am a rock, after all), suffice to say that the bond between parents and child intrigues me, and I'm looking forward to experiencing it someday.

I'm 27 right now. OK, 27-and-a-half, but who's counting? I used to think I should have kids by age 30, and I know that fertility becomes an issue at some point (right now, I do believe). I don't know, though. I don't know if we'll be ready by then. I'd wager we'll never feel totally ready... but Aaron's too careful to have an oopsie, and I'm perfectly OK with that. :-) I've just got that feeling of inevitability, and it comes and goes. I want to, but I don't, but I do... but my crotch tells me in no uncertain terms that it is not looking forward to pushing a watermelon through a straw.