Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Baby Steps

Remember my dear sweet hubby who has zero interest in adoption?...

I think we may have had a small breakthrough. A crack. Just enough to let the slightest sliver of sunshine peek through.

It happened over dinner last night when Mr. Thompson told me about the latest saga with one of our work associates. This friend has had a lot of problems through the years and the latest is a daughter who, as it turns out, just delivered a baby despite her addiction to crack. Our friend will most likely be raising the baby herself since the daughter has no idea who the father is.

That news made me get something in my eye again. Something in both eyes.

And as the water was leaking out into my baked potato, I commented for the zillionth time about how it just doesn't make sense to me. At all. I would be a good mum. YOU would be a good mum. So why does God choose that....when he could choose us? (Minus the crack and fatherless children. Minus the dysfunction and child abuse.)

I just don't get it.

So I flippantly said, "why don't you just ask ___ if we can have the baby?!"

And this is where he surprised me and gave me my sliver....

Mr. Thompson was quiet. Really quiet. And then he said..."maybe something like that would be an option for us in the future. You would be a great mom and things like this just don't make sense. Those babies deserve a chance."

A breakthrough people. It appears that we have a breakthrough!

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

Mr. Thompson just looked at me and asked me why I was crying.  I lied and said I had something in my eye.  Something in both eyes.

And then I walked away.

About 5 minutes later he walked into the bedroom and gave me a big hug.  As he was hugging me he whispered, "you don't have to tell me what is wrong.  I already know because you're my wife."

So much for pretending that I only had something in my eye.  Something in both eyes.

And that the tears pouring down my cheeks weren't from the wonderful day that I spent with my two very pregnant sisters.  I love them so much...but only a childless woman can really understand that pain I felt in my chest as I toured their nurseries, touched all the baby cloths and marveled over the million hair bows, baby "legs", receiving blankets, and burp cloths that they have both been busy sewing for the last 7-8 months.

They are the best sisters that I could ask for and I would never want either of them to think that I'm anything but over the moon for them and their families.  I'm really proud of their hard work and excitement as they settle their individual nests and get ready for what Stork has to offer them in April and May. 

It just makes me get something in my eye.  Something in both eyes.

I know you understand.

Friday, March 23, 2012

Finding Bigfoot

Mr. Thompson's birthday is coming up.  43rd birthday in one week to be exact.  As usual, he's not very excited which is tragic in my opinion.  Coming from a dysfunctional family, birthdays and holidays have always been hard for him.

Until he married me. 

After all, I'm big on birthdays and holidays.  Every year he gives me the "bahum-bug!" birthday routine while secretly anticipating what I'm going to do next.  He's like a kid in a candy shop and it's always immensely fun for me to "un-Scrooge" him.  Love is amazing like that. 

This year - I've decided to go with a 43rd birthday show stopper. 


You see, Mr. Thompson is obsessed in love with that stupid silly "Finding Bigfoot" show on the Discovery.Channel.  It's a huge disagreement in our house because I hate everything about it.

It doesn't help that they keep running Finding Bigfoot marathons either!  He of course has to watch all of them.  For hours.  And hours.  And hours.

It also doesn't help that half of Salt Lake City calls him on the telephone when a new episode is airing only because they know that he loves it...while I hate it...and fireworks are sure to erupt over our house as a result. 

I don't get it.  I've watched a few episodes with him and all I see are a bunch of fruit cakes roaming around the mountains at night with military night-vision goggles strapped to their dirty faces.  One team goes one direction...while another team goes in the opposite...with both teams eventually stopping to give"Sasquatch" calls (which sounds more like howls).  Everybody then freaks out when "something" answers back.  That "something", in my humble opinion is just the other group of people who by that point are on the opposite side of the mountain.

Rocket science.

But not to Mr. Thompson.  He's positively sure that it's Bigfoot and he's enthralled by it all.  So back to my show stopper birthday plans....

I stumbled upon an announcement (which was really sent to me by one of the people who keeps feeding him episode information) that Finding Bigfoot is coming to town.  Apparently, we have a Sasquatch problem in the mountains of Northern Utah (who would have thought!) so they are putting a four-day backpacking expedition together in June.

As a birthday present, Mr. Thompson is going to be part of that expedition.

I couldn't help myself when I read the "FAQ" (fact) page that is required prior to registration.  And I quote..

"To help people deal with the terror of a first experience, BFRO is making public a particular chapter of the 50-page BFRO expedition handbook. The chapter is titled "The Little Green Men Analogy". That chapter was written to help newbie expeditioners understand encounters with humans from the perspective of Sasquatches. It provides insight into their motivations. That helps you anticipate what they will do on their own turf, and helps you understand why they do it. It teaches you what not to do if you are trying to draw some close to you, and what not to worry about in those situations.

You need to read through this more than once to get a functional grasp of the dynamics of these behaviors. Once you have that grasp, then everything that happens around you will make more sense, and not shock you as much. You will be much less likely to panic, or vomit, or defecate, etc., during your first encounter."

If there are a bunch of adult men running around the woods at night and pooping themselves in fear...I figure that Mr. Thompson needs to be a part of that.

Only then will I get my television back.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

All In A Day's Work

Last night I came home from work dead-dog tired.  As Mr. Thompson and I were chatting over a back rub he asked me what I wanted to do this weekend.  I replied, "Sleep in really late and be exceptionally lazy all weekend long."

So I of course woke up at 4:00am and had the house cleaned by 6.  Insanity if you ask me. 

Especially since Mr. Thompson slept until noon.

Amidst all of the hustle and bustle, I decided to tackle a project that I've put off for almost five years.  The one room in my house I rarely visit.

The green room.

When we moved in, it was Pepto-Bismal pink.  It belonged to a little one-year old and had princesses painted all over the walls.  It was the first room to get a makeover.

Soothing green.  The nursery.

And for four years, it has looked like a nursery.  Colton's things eventually went to the top of the closet but Noah's Ark stayed.  All those beautiful things that I've collected over the years (with the help of friends/family who support my love of all things rainbow and Noah's Ark related) have quietly been gathering dust.


Last week Mr. Thompson and I had a cuddle conversation in bed and I explained to him that I needed to get past all of this.  Infertility has made the infant loss drag painfully on because there hasn't been anything else to fill that empty space inside of me.  I explained to him that part of getting past it, for me, is to stop thinking of that room in our house as the nursery.  To stop treating it like the nursery.  He gave his support and told me to do whatever I needed to do.

So after my house was clean at 6:00am this morning, I tackled it.

I took everything down.  I moved everything out.  I put everything away.  Everything.  Gone is the big beautiful painting of Noah's Ark that I bought in college.  It's now wrapped in a sheet and sitting in a closet.  Gone are music boxes that my dearest friend from Afghanistan, mom, sister and grandma have bought me over the years.  They are bubble wrapped in boxes, along with all of the other ceramics that I've collected and been given.  The furniture is in my garage waiting to go to goodwill.

The room now sits virtually empty which was a big emotional step.  But I must say, it feels good.


When Mr. Thompson woke up he peeked in and asked me if I've gone mad.  I laughed and told him I'm converting the room into a library.  Complete with a wall of books and a Lazy Boy recliner which will replace the (ugly) futon and lamp that I moved in. 

In celebration...he took me to the furniture store.  Love that man.

Think he'll help me paint the walls again? 

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Early Bloomers

A pretty little tulip peeking through the soil.

This is a very good thing...except when the forecast calls for snow.

Which is what my forecast looks like after a week of near 70 degree temperatures.


And just for the record, I don't have just one pretty little tulip peaking through. I have over 100.

Because I planted Holland in my backyard.

Viva Holland! (and my pretty little tulips. Vive! Please, oh pretty please, vive.)

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Step 1

Deep sigh.

I love my peeps.  You helped me regroup in a major way.  You reminded me that I can do this and helped me take a small step forward today. (Because you're right, these things should be done in steps!)

Step 1:  Order pattern online.  Done.

It's still a doll pattern...and I have no idea how my mother made what she made out of this pattern because I don't remember Colton's simple little white gown (that was more like a cape) looking like anything pictured above... but I'll figure it out with her modifications.

After reading the last post my mom (Maggie B) called me to give me direction on Step 2 (buy material) and told me she would be traveling 6 hours to help me with Step 3 (sew it). 

I can do this.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

Battle Scars

Whitney Houston is blaring on my iPod right now.

Just so you know, it's never a good sign when Whitney is playing over my speakers. (A sign confirmed by Mr. Thompson who just came to ask if I was all right before he shut my bedroom door). It's a tradition that started during my first year of college following a nasty breakup. My roommate, who was also licking her wounds after love gone wrong, decided that we needed to turn up our dorm room radio and cry it out.

Whitney was our tape of choice.

And it stuck. If I'm troubled - give me some Whitney. If I'm mellow - give me some Whitney. If I feel like a good cry - give me some Whitney.

So why the tears now?

Well...I had such a good idea with that last post. The best of intentions to smile this April 3rd, celebrate and pay the goodness I recieved four years ago forward. I felt like it was finally time. Wounds that were scabbed over finally felt healed enough for me to take that next step forward.

Which was true until the fabric store made a liar out of me and a big hot mess out of my plan.

I started at the pattern table when I called my mom frustrated because I couldn't find the pattern she used to make Colton's burial gown - the same pattern I want to use. She quietly asked me if I was looking in the doll cloths section...and I lost it right then and there over the Simplicity pattern book.

Doll cloths. For my baby. Because he was just that small.

But I finally dried my eyes and persevered on. Intent. Until I went to purchase the material which is where I got tripped up on Round 2 of the melt-down. I had no idea how much material to buy....and that's where the reality of my project struck me like a wrecking ball into the stomach. I am actually going to be making these for other parents! How many parents, I haven't the foggiest idea...but even one is one too many.

Other people who will begin to suffer as we have suffered. Another mom who will lay in a hospital bed and close her eyes on a nightmare with the silent plead to never have to open them again. Parents who will feel our same anguish over losing a little one, which they will feel in every hidden nook and cranny of their soul. An anguish that nobody will truly understand because of what society teaches us about miscarriage, stillbirth and infant loss.

Needless to say, the only thing I left the fabric store with that day was a tear streaked face...and I've been trying to regroup ever since. (Hense no online activity for the last 12 days.)

It doesn't help that AF is coming to twist the knife a little deeper. Or that I'm planning a baby shower for the sister that I love ever so much...even though I feel like a total smuck for the twinges of jealousy I let creep into my heart as she innocently rubs her baby tummy during our sister chats.

And I feel like even more of a smuck because we've been fighting about the family name "Maggie" for twenty years now. I've only won the argument this far because her two daughters (luckily!) didn't look like "Maggie" when they were born and my brother-in-law put his foot down on my two nephew's names. But I fear that I've lost the battle with this fifth child.

So I cry.

And then feel guilty for crying.

So I cry some more...

And on and on it goes, with Whitney by my side.

Maybe Margaret Thatcher (another Maggie, sniff-sniff) knew what she was talking about when she said, "you may have to fight a battle more than once to win.

Frankly, right now I'm just tired of the war.