Quotes

Before spending large amounts of money on something at work, we are required to get at least three quotes from different vendors. Of course we compare lead times, quality, and customer service, but oftentimes the winning bid is chosen by price.

I must have been at my job too long because I requested three quotes for the granite gravemarker that wannabe dad designed. We didn't want to settle for the dollar figure quoted by the cemetery, even though they "discounted" the marker at the time of purchase. We'll go to the cemetery to discuss the carving options and the requirements for getting a marker from an outside vendor.

Wannabe dad included our daughters' footprints in the design, which we would like to have "pressed" into the stone rather than carved flat. I am ambivalently looking forward to having this marker installed in place of the temporary green-bordered plastic marker.

Notes

When picking out flowers for the weekly visit to the cemetery, I found myself having to pick out flowers of equal size and shape so I wouldn't show favor for one daughter over her sister.

My cousin said, "Because that's what moms do." I nearly cried all over the tri-tip.

***

I didn't realize how hard it is to be the 'outside-of-the-family' support person for the grieving mom/parents. My dear friend N works with me and during my 4-month absence, seemingly endless co-workers kept asking her about me, how I was doing on bedrest, did I give birth yet, were they boys or girls or both, how did it happen, when is the funeral, do they want calls, do they want flowers, when I was coming back to work, etc. She too wanted to be left alone, to grieve, but because this didn't happen to her directly she wasn't given the chance.

I love her dearly for that. Big, super-sized hugs to N.

***

I was to have lunch with two favorite aunties and a godmother last Friday. I cancelled because the godmother was going to be there. Protect myself first.

***

I made sure not to include any baby-related items in the garage sale (hand-me-downs from friends who were 'done'), so nobody would ask where the baby was. So the items are scattered in various closets in the house.

***

Speaking of garage sales, I parted with my 10,000 Maniacs 'Our Time In Eden' CD. Purchased in Rhode Island in 1992 while I was on national student exchange. Memorized all the lyrics. Sold it for a buck. Also sold my beloved cat figurine collection.

***

OMG I admitted I had a cat figurine collection. I'm not the stereotype, I promise. Parting with stuff is huge for me because I'm a semi-pack rat. Got it from my parents.

***

Is it tacky to give my cousin one of the blankets she gave the girls as a gift? She is expecting a boy in May. It's mint green. The blanket, not the boy.

***

I want to get pregnant. I want to wait. I want to get pregnant. I want to wait. I want to get pregnant. I want to wait until this year is almost over.

***

My cat is sick of me. All I do is sneak up on him and hug him and kiss him. I don't even play with him.

***

I was bugged because I can't talk about my grief to my cousins. But they are 26 y/o and younger; I will let them off the hook.

***

No call, no prior notice. She showed up at my doorstep one afternoon. Once I found out that she knew our daughters died, I let her in and softened my expression. She works for the county and meets with parents of babies that died, to get permission to review their medical records for research with a board of doctors and nurses to create programs for different types of prenatal care, but mostly to get the stories of the moms in order to help other moms in the making. She apologized for having come so 'late', as in 2 months after our babies died. Usually she is right there when the tragedy is happening and soon afterward to support the parents. (We had the girls in another county so the paperwork she normally receives took a while.)

She is the mother of 8 -- 3 living. She was my angel that day.

***

On Easter we plan to have a picnic breakfast with our daughters. Blankets and all at the cemetery.

Words

I wish that I could be better at being a bitch. In person. I seem to do just fine telling wannabe dad what I should have said, calling the person stupid, and feeling better. Here are some words that were thrown my way, via a work conference call, with two other people on the phone:

Stupid (a male, if that matters): So you work three days a week with one from home?

Me: Yup.

Stupid: Good deal.

Me: (silent)

Me in my head: Why don't you have two babies die and see what kind of deal you get.


He couldn't stop the words from coming out. He meant well. Whatever.

'Splainin

In the immortal words of Ricky Ricardo, "Lucy, you got some 'splainin to do!"

The fortune in the cookie simply cracked me up last Wednesday night as we wrapped up our Szechuan dinner. I immediately thought of m*sturbation. I am sick like that. After reading your comments I was reminded that fortunes in the cookies are like tarot card readings and horoscopes -- you apply them to the different aspects of your life that may or may not need help. You rationalize, apply, feel better, feel confused, it's up to you.

As I re-read that fortune, it hit me. Please yourself first. Today, for me this means:

• Don't feel bad about not going to the cousin's baby shower I was invited to.
• Don't feel bad about not seeing the pregnant wife of wannabe dad's close friend.
• Not calling people back right away if I don't feel like talking.
• Not faking happiness when I don't feel happy.
• Not feeling bad about breaking up with my counselor because I can't stand looking at her worn out shoes and her half-eaten-off lipstick and listening to her agree with me.

Actually, I think a more appropriate fortune especially for bereaved parents would read:

You will be happier if you protect yourself first.

(I didn't quit my job, although nothing would please me more.)

Please

And that's what I'm going to do.

Right.

Now.

Back

My first day back at work was spent hiding in my cubicle, attempting to avoid the well-wishers with big smiles on their faces (or pitiful frowns), holding out their arms in expectations of bestowing a comforting hug, welcoming me back as if I had been on a Caribbean cruise for the past four months. A few of them managed to find me, as I stealthily slinked to the bathroom, kitchen, third-floor errand. I don't know what's worse, the toothy grins or the sad dog faces?

I considered getting a shirt that said "Don't ask, don't touch me, and fuck off." Too mean?

I have no idea how to navigate this going back to work thing. I have lumped people into the same category of not knowing what to do/act/say. Unfair, whatever. Hell, I don't know what to do/act/say, I'm still figuring out this whole grief thing myself. To keep from going nuts, I have left copies of this brochure at my desk. Fortunately our society is very crappy at dealing with grief so I get to do this. Just wait until I bring in pictures of the girls.

My second day back at work started with tears. The night before we finally received our daughters' birth certificates. I was happy when I saw the envelope, then horrified when I looked at them; they each had DECEASED stamped on the front. Tears immediately gushed and continued as I got ready for work the next morning and during the 45-minute drive there.

At least my work week is 3 days with 1 from home, for a while. I don't know how I would do this otherwise.

Sunday

The 5 p.m. mass was sparsely populated. Strange for a Sunday in Nor.th Be.ach, but I'm merely a visitor to this Sa.n Franc.isco neighborhood. I'm sure the other masses at St. P.eter and Pa.ul were chock full of sinners today. We got there just in time for the offering and the Lord's Prayer (translation=we were very late and stopped in to pass the time while waiting for dinner with friends). I prayed for God to watch over our angels, told my girls that I loved them, and I felt a slight whoosh and tingle throughout my body.

The whoosh could also be explained by this unusually heavy AF. Pre-pregnancy, my period was nothing to write home about. Now it's definitely blogable. It's been 20+ since awkward teen years since I had to worry about leakage. This is my 2nd AF postpartum, the first one lasted 10 days, strange as they are normally 2 heavy days, 1 medium day at best. Good thing for the 3 for $7 Kotex sale.

I'm in the dark while wannabe dad snoozes, typing away in the posh Cour.tyard Ma.rriott in Fish.erman's Whar.f in Sa.n Fra.ncisco. It's 3 a.m. and we are on the heels of day 3 of our 2nd anniversary weekend which has been wonderful so far (but no sex yet or this place will look like a murder scene). Last night we walked through North Beach/Chinatown to catch the Chinese Ne.w Y.ear Par.ade, which boasts a half a million people -- more if you count all the people who are actually in the parade wearing matching jackets who are not on some cool float or under one of the 50 or so 100-foot long dragons snaking through the route. Anyone know where I can get those pants?

After parade and dinner and beer at Elep.hant & Cas.tle, we happily wrapped up the evening with plan C, Bea.ch Blan.ket Ba.bylon. You wait long enough and Mr. Ticket Scalper will crumble at your feet and sell you a set of two $49 tix for $20 a pop. A cheap and cheerful end to an evening of beautiful sights and sounds.

Tomorrow we take the ferry to Ang.el Isl.and for a short hike. I hope it's gorgeous like today was -- we skipped the museums to lounge in a bar between visits to second-hand clothing stores, grabbed some lunch and plopped on the Marina green to soak in some sun. I found some great pants that look good on my new, larger ass. Pre-pregnancy, I used to suck in my gut to pretend I had a nice, flat tummy. Now? Fuck it, I'm rounder and no amount of sucking in is going to hide the fact that I carried twins, plus I don't need to aggravate my already productive wind machine. Time, exercise, and not stuffing myself with Basque-inspired tapas, sangria and gelato (I love No.rth Bea.ch) will get me back to my beloved size 4.

Or not.