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I’ve been sent out for donuts again. I would like to thank those of you who nominated me for the blog awards at One Woman’s World. It is very thoughtful. I love discovering new blogs to read, which is the best thing about blog awards. Go vote for your all favorites. I voted. It wasn’t easy. There are eleven diverse categories. Good luck to all the awesome nominees! Today is not the most romantic day of the year. I think it was a Tuesday last summer when hubby got home from work and told me to sit and relax, he would take care of dinner. Or maybe it was on Halloween night, after the sugar-jammed kids were twitching in their beds. We sat outside on the starlit patio and shared a beer while shivering under a Denver Broncos blanket wrapped around our shoulders. Driving away from the title company after closing on our first house was one of our most emotional moments, ever, electric and illuminated by the heat our teamwork accomplished, hands held tight. On random weeknights he rubbed my tired feet. In mid-January, for no apparent special reason, he bought an electric blanket for me and secretly put it on our bed. He sent Aidan and I to Chicago. He prays for me. The getaway he planned entirely on his own at the posh hotel was utterly romantic. Dairy Queen on a hot Thursday night. Dairy Queen on a cold Sunday afternoon. He washes our dirty, dirty dog. Pancakes—Alton Brown’s recipe—upon request. He cries with me, laughs with me, conspires with me, dreams with me. Today is not the most romantic day of the year. My heart isn’t pitter-patter-pittery-pattery-powing any more than usual. I’m not zinging to the moon, high on teddy bears and cheesy lingerie and chocolate. Those things don’t do it for me, anyway. They never have. A man who loves his wife? Zing. This past Sunday the Steelers beat the Seahawks in the Super Bowl. The outcome didn’t matter to me, but I welcomed the distraction the game brought. My second due date was Sunday. Rather than giving birth, I snorted at big budget commercials and ate tater tots, which I cleverly dipped in guacamole. It wasn’t an easy day as I imagined happier scenarios involving a newborn baby and what-could-have-been. Here I am, riding on a Wednesday and checking out what’s ahead for the end of the week. February 10th is when I learned of my first pregnancy loss.  February 12th—the procedure. February 14th, Valentine’s Day, hubby and I bought my amethyst ring as a memorial and commemoration of what we had just been through. I can’t help it. Anniversaries demand reflection and consideration. I can look back and know I did smile again, I laughed again, I had hope again. A year ago I wouldn’t have believed it—I was in a pretty dark place. Some of those same feelings flood back as I remember those days. Wouldn’t it be something if I could travel back in time and hold my own hand as I lay on the ultrasound tech’s table? I could whisper in my ear, but I struggle to imagine what I would say to myself. Perhaps you will survive this. I would have jerked away and snorted something mean. I would have screwed up my own comfort. There is nothing, nothing you can tell yourself that is perfectly comforting and perfectly wise. Thankfully, I have a Comforter far wiser, bigger, kinder, and more tender than I could ever be with myself. While I did startle at His suggestions of my survivability, and especially my resiliency, the assurances meant far more coming from the God of the Universe than from Magic Time Travelin’ Me. |
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