After months of pampering my plants this is my harvest. Max got excited when I started picking things and so picked my OTHER tomato a little early. Oy! I’m so glad my family is not relying upon me to feed them.

I woke up with so much energy this morning I would have embarrassed the energizer bunny. I threw Max in the stroller and we WALKED. It felt great to get the body moving and although my original intention was to walk straight to the donut shop (because, after all the cardio would have canceled out any donuts I ate) I decided instead to circle the park. I was so proud of that accomplishment I cleaned out the playroom and donated a large box of toys to the church. Riding the emotional high of good deeds and good cardio I took Max for a long overdue haircut. Although he clung to me like a baby orangutan, he didn’t cry. I consider this a victory and even though the side is a bit uneven due to his desire to bury his head into my armpit, I’m not complaining.

I have so much momentum I’m wondering if I shouldn’t call the UN and see if I can help them with the world hunger problem, or perhaps I should contact Iran and see if I can negotiate some sort of deal over their nuclear program. I really think my super mommy powers cannot be matched.

Max is slowly discovering the glory of not having his sister around and so far the best part is not having to watch “Barbie Rapunzel” for the twentieth time. Instead, Max has discovered “Thunderbirds”. His dad could not be more proud. Remember “Thunderbirds”? It was that old 1970’s puppet show that apparently only boys between the ages of 5-10 enjoyed for a really short period of time? Well, Max LOVES them and would like to watch them morning, afternoon and night. He calls them “Funder Flies” which makes them sound far more interesting. At 2 years old the bad special effects and the obvious puppet strings don’t seem to hinder his ability to transport himself to a place where the risk of radiation exposure seems to be everywhere. The cartoon is so genuinely and whole-heartedly boy that I don’t know how he’ll give them up when Lucy returns from camp.

I knew it was coming. As a matter of fact it was the one thing I was dreading more than having the D&C in the hospital. The hormonal and emotional upheaval that comes after you’ve had a baby. Only this time there is no baby. There is just the emotional carnage that is left behind. At least when you have a baby you can blame the not sleeping, the fact that your body hurts, the adjustment to being a new mother, really, the excuses are endless. But when you miscarry your emotional capsizing can only be blamed on hormones and that’s pretty weak. I cry. I cry about nothing. Intellectually I know I will feel better in a couple of weeks when my body regains its hormonal equilibrium, but for now I’m a captain with no compass.

Everything bothers me and nothing bothers me. David can’t utter a word right now without me misinterpreting it and his sheer existence is enough to throw me into tears over absolutely nothing. I know he’s trying really hard to tell himself that this emotional wreck of a human is not his wife but an alien that came in the middle of the night. He’s biting his tongue so much lately that I fear he will have permanent scarring.

As mothers we all have the same goal in mind, to raise healthy, moral people who contribute to society and don’t mooch off of us in our retirement. We all have nuances, or personal additions to this list, but at a fundamental level this is the list. Nobody plans on raising a psychopathic, drug-addicted, murderer. And yet, why as women are we so critical of each other and the individual choices we make, as if there is only ONE, SINGULAR, PERFECT WAY TO RAISE CHILDREN.

Before our little ones are even born we are bombarded with the pressures to make “the right choice”. Really? There is such a thing? Because unless all mothers and all children are the exact same I don’t know how that is possible. We are berated into questioning where we are going to give birth, how we are going to give birth, what we are going to feed our kids, what kind of music they will listen to, books they will read, toys they will play with, etc.

Motherhood is difficult and we are each doing the best we can to make the best decisions we know how for our children. Why do we need to make this so much more difficult by judging and criticizing each other?

Jane, from “What About Mom“, said this in her post today and I couldn’t agree with her more;

“If the only way to be modern and a feminist is to follow the herd of working women to the office, then count me out, Gloria Steinem. My feeling unworthy as a woman for choosing to stay home would be just as unfeminist as a woman feeling unworthy for choosing to go to work. Feminism is (or should be) all about choices — women being able to make their own without worrying whether other women will consider the choice modern or hopelessly old-fashioned, progressive or lamentably traditional.”

I AM a feminist. I AM a mother. I AM making the best choices for MY children. Please worry about your own family and stop worrying about mine.

Yesterday was a rough day for Max. Max faced a tearful separation from Lucy early in the morning. He was crushed to discover that you had to be 3 years old to attend “Nana Camp” and as a result he would not be joining his sister for the long journey to Nacogdoches. He cried at length after Lucy left and spent most of the day wandering around the house like a boat without a captain. His whole world seemed to be crumbling around him. Then later in the evening he ran into David’s office to tell him that dinner was ready when he slipped on the wood floor and went face first into David’s Aeron desk chair. The result was a black eye that any boy could be proud of. Let’s hope his week improves.

Two weeks ago David and I went for our first ultra-sound. That first ultra-sound is always kind of weird since the baby looks more like a caterpillar than a baby. It’s hard to feel romantic about something that resembles an insect. However, you can usually see the heartbeat and that is an amazing thing. We were excited to meet the third Morley. I laid back and prepared myself to be medically violated by the ultra-sound “probe”. And then something happened we weren’t expecting.

Doctor: hmmm, I don’t see anything
Me: hahaha (nervous laughter) is it hiding?
Doctor: um, no I don’t think there is a baby in there
David: What?
Doctor: Well, either we’re too early or this is a miscarriage
Me: Serious?
Doctor: Yeah, but don’t worry yet, we could just be too early, come back in a week

I was optimistic. I had felt so bad for several weeks that I confidently told David that we had nothing to worry about. I HAVE to be pregnant. Nobody feels this bad and isn’t pregnant. David, being the more practical, was less optimistic but was happy that I gleefully ignored him. We went out of town. We had a good time. We only told a couple people of the initial set back. Nothing to worry about. No reason to get the whole world worked up over something that would end up being nothing.

We went back in on Tuesday. David joked that maybe it was twins and they both were so small that is why we couldn’t see them. I told him he was crazy and he wasn’t allowed to mention twins ever, ever again. I laid down. The probe was administered. The doctor declared; “Sorry, it’s a miscarriage”. I was dumbfounded. How could this be? I had morning sickness, I gained weight, I was miserable.

At this point I’ve been told all the platitudes. You know “It was meant to be”, “God will send you another”, “it is for the best”, “it is nature’s way”, blah, blah, blah. Not that those things aren’t nice, it is just that they don’t really fix the problem that even though I feel pregnant I am not. Friday I went for my D&C and now that all tissue is removed my life is supposed to return to normal. Hmm, yeah, let you know how that works out.

The silver lining in all of this, is my husband. David is the most awesome, supportive, amazing husband in the world. (sorry ladies, I really did get the last one). When I am my most scared and upset, David is their to shelter and protect. I’m sure he’s disappointed and I’m sure he’s upset, but at every step he has made me the priority in this situation and I could never thank him enough for doing that. The beauty is that he wouldn’t want me to thank him anyways.

One of the hardest things to get used to when I moved to Texas from Michigan was the hibernation pattern. In Michigan you stay indoors starting in October when the temperatures start getting cold and you don’t emerge until Spring – sometime in May. This is normal hibernation for most animals and as a northerner you get accustomed to baking, sorting, cleaning, doing puzzles, etc. You don’t leave your house unless absolutely necessary.

Well, in Texas it is the opposite. In Texas you begin hibernation around June and you emerge around mid-October. Why? Because currently it is 93 degrees outside. When I woke up this morning it was 88. By July I’ll be starting the mornings at 90 degrees and ending my afternoons at well over 100. We will get the required news story that involves frying eggs on the sidewalk, and the cautions about air pollution, and leaving children and pets in cars with the windows rolled up. (Yes, like idiots, somebody does it every year). So, I will be entering my cave for the remainder of the summer. I will only emerge if necessary or if the activity involves a large body of water. Trust me when I tell you that I don’t care how “dry” the heat is, 100 degrees is miserable, and the difference between 90 and 100 is not enough to talk about. I probably won’t even look at another weather forecast until early October because I can tell you the forecast; sunny and hot.

special editor’s note: my tomatoes have officially died. I predicted all my plants would be dead by June and outside of my strawberries I am right on target. Ugh! I hate gardening.