Panorama of San Bernardino

Friday, May 18, 2012

Hit Me Baby One More Time

I had a miscarriage once.  Probably about sixteen years ago, I was working at a steakhouse and went into the bathroom.  After I went to the restroom, I saw a red blob in the toilet.  My jeans were soaked through with blood.

The week before the incident, Adrian's mother (who more than a decade later would become my mother-in-law) had a premonition and told Adrian that I was pregnant.  We laughed it off.  We were always careful, super careful.

Did God punish me?  Did he think in his infinite wisdom that I would be a horrible mom or that my childhood was maybe too rough?  Or maybe it had left me too scarred and doomed to repeat my parent's mistakes.

Maybe God saw me for who I was at the time and knew I wasn't ready.  An over drinker, immature and unappreciative of Adrian.  Someone not appreciative of life.

I think of that blob and wonder who it would have been.  Would he or she have had my curly frizzy hair and Adrian's soft brown eyes?

Adrian and I have been trying to get pregnant for over two years and it is almost too late.  I know it is almost too late for me.   After all, I am forty. 

I have been praying for a miracle.  Sara in the Bible got pregnant at ninety so the precedent is there.  The probablity is not so clear.

The thing is, once you want a baby, and yearn for a baby like you once yearned for a nice boyfriend, babies are everywhere.  I was never the little girl who played with dolls or wished to be a mom. 

That has changed.

A couple of weekends ago, I went to the Crystal Cave, a new age shop in Claremont.  Crystal Cave is one of those places with lots of crystals, incense and books about chakras.  The shop is owned by a wiccan (aka a white witch).

I usually don't mess with magic, not because I don't believe in it but because I do.  But this time, out of sheer desperation, I made an exception and had the owner make me a special candle.  She put some oil and a moonstone in a long candle the color of cotton candy.  She said a short chant as she handed the pink candle to me with a slight, knowing smile and said,

"Light it at eight p.m. but not after eight-thirty.  Tonight is the super moon."

As I lit the candle that evening, I tried to will it into being.  Will a being into being.

I tell myself that if it doesn't happen, I will be ok. 

I have to be ok.






Monday, May 7, 2012

Heartburn Part II

Marriage is hard.  So hard.  I struggle to be a good wife.  Truth be told, I don't even know what the term "a good wife" means.  Does it mean a good housekeeper?  If so, I am fucked.  If it means a good cook, again, I am screwed. 

If being "a good wife" means being independent and self absorbed, I am golden. 

My childhood provided me little to model myself on.  My mom and dad fought loud, hard and often and if you drove by our house in Ontario, you would often see red and blue lights swirling in front of our house to signal our dysfunction to the neighbors.  Plus, on the housekeeping front, my dad cooked and the house was a mess. 

If I compare Adrian and myself to my mom and dad we probably come out well in the wash.  I rarely scream and yell and we try not to let our arguments turn to fights. 

Most days, I am just trying to keep my head afloat.  It is all I can do to deal with Adrian, the two moms, our three dogs, my job as a public defender and my mandatory workout regime.  Lately, I have been selfish I admit.  I have to be.  Being unselfish and giving it all at work and home resulted in me gaining one hundred pounds.  I have lost most of that weight and look fabulous (note: humility has never been my strength). 

If I have the choose between being a happy fat wife or a trim and healthy divorcee, I will choose being the divorcee.  But the questions is, does it really have to come to that?  I think not, but who knows?

Truth be told, there is no one else in the world for me.  But, sometimes, I think Adrian would be happier with someone else.  He says no but there are times when I think yes,  Yet, if  Adrian is masochistic enough to want to put up with me and my crazy family, then who am I to stop him?

It may be a cliche, but it is truth to say that marriage is full of hills and valleys.  The last weeks have been hills if hills are rough and valleys are smooth (I can never quite figure out that analogy) but yesterday Adrian looked at me with tenderness in his eyes as opposed to annoyance and I could see the valley emerging.

Whew.