hello old friend

The way it goes is this:

I break down.

And I don't blog for a while.

Then, I think about blogging for a long while. But to come back from the breakdown is like the change of the seasons, when it's turning from winter to spring and I realize I've forgotten that it can be warm.

I spend time thinking about how to bridge the gap. Blogging is my good friend who probably isn't mad that I haven't called in a while but still seeing her for the first time after that break is sort of awkward and I feel like I need a funny story or something to break the ice.

I think it's because usually my breakdowns follow posts on Big Important Life Stuff and after that I'm not always sure what to say. I mean, Big Important Life Stuff is, well, important and all, but also sometimes you want to post about Paul Boerem because he's just funny.

Which is exactly what I intend to do right now.

The other night as I attempt to drift off to sleep, Paul reaches over and grabs my arm.

"Mmmmffffphhhfffrrrruuuudoingyrnails???" He is both muffled and extraordinarily loud, since he sleeps with earplugs on account of my teeth grinding which I feel very bad about but which I have no control over whatsoever.

"What?"

"Are you doing your nails?"

I want to be mad, but when Paul asks you in the middle of the night in your darkened bedroom if you're painting your nails, it's kind of hard.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Oh. Great, I probably have a tumor."

And he falls right back to sleep. And I should fall back asleep too, but instead I lie awake for a few more minutes chewing on the funny story in my mind like it's bacon or something else delicious.

the time i give myself

I am looking at hairstyles online when Paul finally gets off the phone.

He's always so happy after talking to Kevin. "How is he?" I ask, and Paul smiles and moves his hand in a curve over his belly.

"Kevin got fat?" I ask, and Paul smiles again and shakes his head.

"Ryanne's pregnant again." His smile is the smile of a proud uncle, of a proud brother. And I put on the smile I wear to match his, the smile of a proud aunt, the smile of a barren woman grieving something never lost.

"That's so great!" My voice sounds canned to me, like a recording.

"Wow," I say, "wow."

I walk into the bedroom, and I sit on the orange rocking chair I got Paul for our anniversary. I look out over the rooftops. Before my empty uterus reached up and smacked me in the face I was thinking about doing my Spanish homework, but it is impossible for homework to exist amidst so much pain.

This is stupid, I think. I am happy, I am happy, I am happy. I repeat the words over and over as tears blur my glasses.

There was a talk in General Conference a couple of years ago and it was all about how the Lord remembers us, how we need to hold on, to have faith that we will be blessed. And he quoted the scripture about Rachel, about how God remembers her and she conceives Joseph. I sit in the orange rocking chair and remember that talk. I want for God to remember me, too.

I want to believe that the Lord is preparing something amazing for me, that this is the reason so much time has passed, that this is the reason I am sitting in the orange rocking chair wiping mascara streaks from my face.

Paul walks in, stands beside me, places his hand on my hair. "Are you sad because Ryanne is pregnant?" He asks this in the voice he uses when he is ready to listen, but I remain silent.

He stands beside me for a long time, not pushing my silence.

I don't have an answer to speak, at least not one that's necessary. Paul has been a witness to my waiting. The cat climbs on my lap, and shoves her cold, tiny nose against mine. Paul rubs my neck, and walks back into the living room to watch T.V.

And I sit, in the orange rocking chair I gave Paul for our anniversary. I make a list in my mind of the work to be done, work meant to be done today that I will push to tomorrow. And I give myself this time. This is the time when I can feel the pain. Tomorrow I will tell myself enough now, and I will wash my mind clean of it.

I move from the chair to bed, where I remove my socks and change into my pajamas. As I look up, I can see Paul in the doorway, watching me.



***I wrote this just to witness what I experience, but I really, REALLY want all of you mothers to know how genuinely happy I am for you when you produce a new life. I am especially thinking of my wonderful sisters-in-law who are expecting. Waiting to be a mother is challenging for me, but I never want any of you to feel any guilt on my account. Nothing is better for me than to see women rejoicing in their motherhood.***

society as we know it breaking down

Paul: Can you put more soda in that thing?

Andrea: That thing? Do you mean THAT GLASS?

Paul: Yep.

so deliciously figurative

You can make the scrambled eggs your own.

That's a sentence I heard uttered in my Fiction and Personal narrative course on Tuesday.

I was delighted.

It is, of course, true. You can make scrambled eggs your own. You can do this in a literal and delicious way, and you can do it in a figurative way, which is the way we were discussing in class, because in a Fiction and Personal Narrative course most everything is figurative. Figurative and delicious.

On the first day of class I had the moment I have at the start of any writing class which is the moment where I wonder IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.

I wondered that because I seemed to be the only one who hadn't spent the summer doing immensely important things like backpacking through southeast Asia or living in a commune in Russia or teaching English to orphans in Germany or the like.

And when it was my turn to tell how I had spent my summer months and I proudly bellowed "I WATCHED REALLY BAD SUMMER TV!!! ALSO I HAVE CATS AND I LOVE THEM!!! ALSO A HUSBAND AND I LOVE HIM!!!" that's when I had it, the moment of wondering IF I REALLY BELONG THERE.

But that doesn't really matter, does it? I AM THERE. I am there because I wanted to be there. Because when the girl who spent her summer at the commune in Russia talked about the piece her friend wrote about scrambled eggs and the professor was like "that's so great, because unlike some huge dramatic issue, you can make scrambled eggs your own" I immediately wrote the sentence down, and simultaneously laughed and pondered.

It was figurative and delicious. And I suddenly find myself famished.

the glamorous life of cats

One time in high school I was in my psychology class and we were supposed to say what animal we would be if we had to pick and I totally picked a cat because they they live so luxuriously, you know?

I mean, eating, sleeping all day, being groomed, fed, stroked, and, if you happen to be our cats, having your glamour shot taken....

I can explain. (Should I feel like I have to explain?) I needed a headshot for work, so our buddy Jake (who also did my blog design and is kind of a genius) did me a solid and took my picture. And then he took pictures of our cats.

And when Jake emailed me the pictures I totally went "GHAAAAAA OUR CATS ARE SO CUTE!!!", totally not realizing that I had just uttered the secret password inducting me into the Crazy CatLady Club and this morning I woke up wearing a sweatshirt screenprinted with their faces.

I'll be much more careful next time I get emailed pictures of our cats. Words are powerful things, you know?

a changed woman

I'm growing my hair out.

Again.

I do this every couple of years, this hair-growing-out thing. I mean, I love short hair and all, but something just comes over me, this immediate and all consuming need for a luscious blanket of hair that can be tied back or braided or pulled up or left swinging down my back.

And so I decide to grow my hair out.

Again.

The thing is, I'm a compulsive hair-cutter. And just as surely as I will feel the need for a ponytail, I will also feel the need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.

It's a vicious cycle.

Paul's been so patient. Deep down he's a long hair man, but he puts up with my ever changing locks like a champ. Every time I announce my intent to become a Rapunzel, he dances a jig, and every time I come back from Reagan's salon with an adorable short 'do he tells me he likes it, even though he's never understood my compulsive need to CHOP CHOP CHOP.

But this time is different. I'm a changed woman, I swear. I'm on my knees here, with flowers and chocolate and a jar full of mea culpas and stuff.

You're probably wondering why you should believe me. And I don't blame you. The thing is, Reagan has been given strict instructions not to CHOP CHOP CHOP. And Paul has been advised as well. And I have thrown away all my scissors and I'm strictly forbidden to look at cute short cuts on InStyle and WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME, PEOPLE?

Geez. I said I'm growing it out already, alright?

Oh, uh, sorry. I get so cranky when I'm going through hair-cutting withdrawals.

sunday looks like this

 

 

 

 

Yesterday in nursery was awesome.

Two words:

Toilet.

Naked.

Yep.

So, our adorable Ella has graduated to the world of toilet-trained humans (an achievement worthy of fanfare, to my mind)and after snack time she proudly announced that she had to, um, go.

So, she went.

We have a little bathroom in our nursery with a kiddie-sized toilet. And I think this must have been Ella's first time using it, because the minute she closed the door she yelled out "HEY GUYS THIS TOILET IS JUST THE RIGHT SIZE!!!"

Which was fantastic.

I mean, spread the word, right?

And then later it was time to color and so I handed out papers and was like "Okay, you can draw a picture of anything! Maybe make it something you're thankful for, like your family, or something like that...."

And as Ella carefully selected her allotted two crayons she stated "I AM GOING TO DRAW A PICTURE OF MY MOM NAKED."

Which was fantastic.

So, Ella drew a picture of her mom, naked. And when her dad came to pick her up, just to make sure he appreciated her artistic vision, she said "THIS IS A PICTURE OF MOM NAKED."

I. LOVE. NURSERY.