I was at the grocery store with my baby today and inevitably a stranger starts goo-goo-shmoo-shmoo-poo-poo-doo-doo-moo-moo-coo-coo-cuckoo at the baby. And then, right on cue, I start talking. Through the baby. Except my voice isn't my voice. It's really, really high. Like only dogs should be able to hear it. And I don't speak in complete sentences because, you know, I'm a baby. Except not. I'm the baby's mom. But the baby doesn't talk. So I am doing a really bad impression of the baby talking to a stranger as the baby sits there making no noise.
And then, as my voice reaches a fevered pitch -- so high I am positive the cantaloupes next to me are going to explode -- I drool. Like on myself. Like down my chin. Right in the middle of my baby talk/impression/puppeteering.
Our children are what brought us together as they are the same age and often play together. But, beyond the children, we message, talk and email about motherhood, husbands, work...life. We laugh at the sheer exhaustion of it all. We think the same things are funny. We think the same things are unfunny. We are more than just playdate pals. We are friends.
Lately, we have spent afternoons talking excitedly about the baby -- her third -- growing in her rapidly expanding belly. She asks me if she's crazy for having a third. I tell her "you get used to it." We laugh. I touch her belly and my heart dances remembering my own belly, swollen with our third...just a little over a year ago.
She is excited. It's not easy to get pregnant. The pregnancies themselves aren't easy. But there they are: beautiful, challenging, funny, joyful, inquisitive and sweet. Her children. Her blessings she calls them.
My friend called me this morning. I already knew.
The baby at almost 16 weeks...gone. No heartbeat. A routine ultrasound. No heartbeat. My friend had been sick this winter -- pneumonia. And then a UTI. "I should have taken better care of myself," she cries into the phone. Tears stream down my face. My voice catches in my throat and I cover my mouth to muffle my own crying.
"I woke up this morning thinking it was a dream. A horrible dream."
I tell her she is not to blame. But, every mother knows and feels every day with every fiber of her being that she is to blame for everything. The weight of her children rests squarely...
She was to deliver the baby tomorrow. Induced. But, instead they have moved it up. "We will meet our baby tonight," she writes me. Her poor, still baby. Filled with hope, promise, and life.
I will make her a baked ziti and bring it to her home. I will feel like a moron walking up to her house with my pitiful offering meant to ease the unthinkable. It will be the absolute stupidest thing I have ever done for someone. The most ridiculous gesture of help I have ever made. But I don't want to do nothing. Yet nothing is pretty much all I can do. So, I will show up at her house with that shitty baked ziti, which she can freeze, thaw and eat with her family.
So she doesn't have to think about making dinner.
It's been a rough week. It's been a rough couple of weeks. Middle kid. Pneumonia. Hospital visits. Last one. Overnight. IVs. Antibiotics. Blood. Vomiting. Hospital gowns. Xrays. Like I said. It's been rough.
We got home today and he's feeling much, much better. But the house is chaos. Ok, it's not chaos. It's just chaos to me.
In a nutshell...I haven't had time to do laundry. So, I've cycled through all my favorite comfy, cute cotton panties. I've then gone through my second-tier cotton panties -- a little threadbear, but still acceptable. Then, I've cycled through my panties that should just be completely tossed. Like one has a huge hole right in the front crotch area. I am not sure a.) how that hole came to be in that particular area seeing as I have no penis and b.) why I still have them. To answer the b. question because the a. question is simply unanswerable, I am positive it has something to do with my genetic makeup. In particular, being related to my father, a man who has no problem wearing tshirts, socks, sweaters, pants and shoes that have large, gaping holes in them ("What? It's still good.")
And so, with the crotch-hole underwear not even an option, I glance for a second at my husband's boxer briefs. My husband is 6'2" and 200 pounds. I'm 5'2" and 110 pounds. I would be akin to wearing oversize athletic shorts. Grossly oversized. I'd have to roll them up three times to even attempt to keep the waist from resting at my knees.
So, I'm left with the compartment of undergarments that gets pulled out only, only, only if I need a bartering tool. Like I want someone , like the-father-of-my-children someone, to put away the laundry.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we have lace. And satin. Together. In one very small garment that basically makes you feel like you are flossing your vagina.
What choice do I have? I suppose I could go commando. But I'm just not a commando kind of girl. Need something to protect her from the elements. Ya' know? So here I sit, exhausted from the week of health-related drama. In my sweats. Ready for bed. With lace up my ass.