A Beautiful Day

you'd think I'd be good at awkward by now

A few nights ago my neighbor hosted a little ladies-only wine/cheese/jewelry soiree at her home.  I didn't bat an eye as I left S home with the kiddles and scurried down the street.  I was excited to go not for the jewelry, maybe for the cheese and definitely for the wine.  Whatever.  I was happy to get out and spend time with the really great women who live around me.  

We all have kids, we women here, and that's part of what we share together.  Our children come up in conversation at least 60% of the time and it's fun and good to learn and vent with those who know.  I will admit that though the scars of my infertile years have greatly diminished over time, I am permanently sensitive to issues of having/not having children and loss, and, because of my experience, alert to words and conversation (otherwise innocuous to a regular gal with a healthy brood) which very may feel like broken glass to a woman who has suffered in the motherhood department.

Have I ever told you about the family (not the house hosting the party) on the corner of our street who, two years and three months ago lost their 4 year-old boy?  One day he spiked a fever and, because of a chronic heart condition, never came home from the hospital.  He died a week or so later.  The neighborhood was shocked.  It was heartbreaking.  At a loss as to what we could do to help, we contributed to a fundraiser in his name.  We'd rarely see the family after that...they had an daughter in elementary school, and now and then I'd pass the mother walking in the street.  She never looked at me nor said hello.  One such time, I was hugely pregnant.  Almost embarrassed and not wanting to intrude and not having a clue what to say, I left her alone. How, I thought, does a person go on after such a loss?  How does one cope?  I couldn't even imagine the depth of her pain - the ache she must endure on a daily basis.  I wonder if it must be similar to the way I felt when I'd see other people and their babies while I was waiting to miscarry, only on an entirely far more insanely intense level.   I wonder if part of her hates women who've spawned a bunch of healthy kids.  Because if I were her, I probably would.  Because come on.  

The family planted a tree in their front yard and placed a stone there in his memory.  Every holiday, the memorial is decorated.  On his birthday, balloons fly. They miss him.  They grieve.  Last year, they got a puppy.  And during one of the several near-blizzard noreasters we had last winter, I went to check on my next-door neighbor's son who was sloppily shoveling my walk when I bumped into her and her dog.  There they were.  There was no ignoring each other.  The snow was coming down, making the night light and quiet in the odd and beautiful way that it does.  We said hello.  She was nice.  I wanted to tell her that I think of her; that I don't know what to say to her but that I am sorry for her pain.  But the words didn't come, mostly because I saw the joy her new dog has brought her and because I chickened out.  And because I feel guilty for the abundance we enjoy, for my healthy kids, for having the loud and happy and messy house I once never dared to be so bold to dream and I really have no idea what to say.  We chat some more; she asks how the babies are doing.  I tell her the truth and keep it simple: they are a handful, but it's good.  We both feel awkward and know it.  She finally says goodbye and I go back inside.  After this, we never talk again.  Sometimes she doesn't look at me when she passes.  One time I see her going by and wave from the window.  She looks away.  Sometimes she'll wave when I'm outside, but never stops to talk.

I don't expect anything from her.  How could I?  Maybe for her, on some days it's all she can do to get dressed and make it outside.  Some of the neighbors talk of her depression.  Then rumors around town whisper of her marriage failing.  People are put off by her coldness - her quietness seems haughty, condescending, almost mean.  I feel badly for her in that first the universe wallops her and then those around her do it too.  The poor thing.  Then I hear she hired a nanny to look after her daughter this past summer because she was so depressed she couldn't.  She needs time.  And understanding.  She's not doing so well.  Could you blame her?

She was there the other night, and I hated how her presence made me feel - sad and awkward.  The others?  They chatted away about all their kids, about this and that and sibling rivalry and how boys will be boys and yada yada.  And the whole time I'm cringing because I'm thinking how can this woman sit here without wanting to cry or at least scream or walk out the door?  How does she force herself to keep a smile on her face and listen to our stories?  Does she feel numb?  Does she hate the universe?  Because as an infertile I used to feel that way at baby showers - and I was mourning a being I hadn't even met yet or known I could have.  I can't even imagine her situation.  I realize I barely know her and yet there are times I want to sob for her. 

Part of me really wants to ring her bell one day with a, I don't know - a pie or something - and just say hello, I know we don't know each other, but I hope you're okay and I never know what to say to you but just want to let you know I wish you good thoughts.   Or something along those lines.  But then I think how coming from me how obnoxious that might seem.  I mean, she doesn't know that I'm nice (or at least try to be) or anything about me really, and I'm just some neighbor that moved in down the street a few months before her son died.  And let's not forget I have three boys, one very close in age to hers when she lost him.  It's weird because normally I would always choose to just say something in such circumstances, but this time I'm mysteriously mute.  

Perhaps it's because her situation is a reminder of the fragility of life - of the unnerving reality that no matter how much you protect and love them, children, like all of us, are subject to the whims of the universe.  And that's a damn scary thought sometimes...one that is much easier to forget or deny.  Or maybe it's guilt -my guys are healthy, happy, really good...there but for the grace of God.  

She left early that night - quietly and quickly.  I am ashamed to admit I felt relieved.  How horrible is that?

What would you do?  Ideas?  Advice?

Better

It's good to be home. We've all grown a bit this trip - the boys are bigger and, well, different. S and I learned a bit more about each other and got to spend some time alone on my birthday - my mom and sister agreed to watch the littles overnight while we enjoyed some adult time here, where we met up with my BFF Lo. Speaking of birthdays, I am now 43. And it feels good.
J adored the ocean and on his first day rushed into the waves with arms outstretched proclaiming to the world HEYSHHHH! The beach thrilled him to no end - he couldn't get enough of it. Z, on the other hand, clung to me and wailed whenever I tried to dip his toes in the clear, warm, beautiful water, crying often and being uncomfortable in the sun. His idea of fun was the boardwalk, where the lights and smell of funnel cakes and sounds had him upright in his stroller, begging to get out and explore things up close. Smacky bonded with the sand and spent most of his time pushing toy construction trucks around and carting buckets of water to fill the moats he'd make every day with his cousin Daniel, who, if you ask Smacky, walks on water and must be emulated at every opportunity.

We watched a fisherman catch a baby sand shark and felt its sandpaper skin. We caught starfish and sandcrabs and fiddler crabs, threw them back and then made sandcastles and then destroyed them. We ate fried fish, broiled fish, steamed fish and had ice cream every night. We watched the olympics and peed our pants while playing Balderdash. We rode the rides and played arcade crane games and ski ball. We golfed (miniature, of course), shopped, went to the zoo and rode bikes and ate outside. It was a blast. But the highlight of the vacation, hands down, was this. If you've never been to an air show (which I hadn't until now), I urge you to find one and get yourself there. Pronto. There is nothing like it. S asked me if I felt any testosterone when the F22 Raptors put on their afterburners and the answer is a resounding YES. Those are some badass planes people. The boys loved every deafening minute of the show. You read about these jets and see them on tv and the fact is you have no idea how amazing they are until they're flying 300 yards away from you.

So after yesterday's eight hour trafficky ride, we're home now. And settling in. It's good to be back in our own bed. There is work to be done and a garageful of bags to be cleaned and organized and put away. The twins are running and climbing and are relentless. When he's not asking when he can go back to school, Smacky is asking when we can go back to the beach house. S is already planning his flurry of September business trips to faraway lands. And I'm just trying to feed everyone and get some laundry done. But it's good. It's nice. Things are better. Things are way better.

Postpartum PTSD and traumatic birth

Galloping Cat kindly brought this Wall Street Journal article to my attention today and I'm so glad she did - I've created a link and also pasted it here:

Birth Trauma:
Stress Disorder
Afflicts Moms
Study Suggests That PTSD
May Be More Common
Than Previously Believed
By RACHEL ZIMMERMAN
August 5, 2008; Page D1

Amid the debate over how to effectively manage maternal mental-health disorders, a new type of postpartum illness is gaining attention: post-traumatic-stress disorder due to childbirth.

PTSD is most commonly associated with combat veterans and victims of violent crime, but medical experts say it also can be brought on by a very painful or complicated labor and delivery in which a woman believes she or her baby might die. Symptoms can include anxiety, flashbacks and a numbness to daily life. Even as medical advances have resulted in many more lives saved during high-risk births, extreme medical interventions can leave a mother severely stressed -- especially if she feels powerless or mistreated by health providers.

PTSD is much less common than postpartum depression, which has become better-understood by the public as celebrities like actress Brooke Shields and former CIA agent Valerie Plame have spoken out about their experiences. The National Institute of Mental Health estimates that postpartum depression affects 15% of mothers.

The incidence of childbirth-related PTSD hasn't been widely studied. But a new survey suggests the disorder could be more widespread than previously believed. Of more than 900 U.S. mothers surveyed, 9% screened positive for meeting all of the formal criteria for PTSD set out in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or DSM-IV, a handbook of mental-health conditions. And 18% of respondents had some signs of the disorder. The survey, which included an established PTSD screening tool, was conducted by Harris Interactive for Childbirth Connection, a nonprofit maternity-care organization in New York. Separate earlier studies outside the U.S. had estimated the prevalence of childbirth-related PTSD at between 1.5% and 5.9%.

Shari Lusskin, director of reproductive psychiatry at New York University Medical Center, who wasn't involved in the survey, cautions that many aspects of PTSD still aren't understood, especially as it may apply to childbirth. "We don't want to overmedicalize a normal part of human development," she says. "Just because you had a traumatic birth, doesn't mean you'll get PTSD."

Still, the survey results are likely to add fuel to a debate about how to better identify and treat maternal mood disorders and whether widespread, systematic screening is warranted. New Jersey in 2006 passed a law that requires every new mother be screened for risk of depression prior to discharge from a hospital and again at her first post-birth doctor's visit, although women can decline the screening.

'Drugging of Mothers'

Other states, including Illinois and Texas, have passed laws to promote greater educational efforts about postpartum mental illness. And now the first federal law on postpartum mood disorders, which would fund research, treatment and public awareness, is working its way through Congress. Opponents say the law would lead to more "drugging of mothers."

Gena Zaks, of Baltimore, became suicidal with violent nightmares after the premature, emergency birth of twins in 2004, one of whom faced life-threatening respiratory problems. Ms. Zaks was diagnosed with several postpartum conditions, including PTSD and depression. "I was crying nonstop for six days in the hospital," says the 34-year-old mother. "Nobody said anything to me about depression."

Monica Bristow, a clinical psychologist in Redmond, Wash., who counsels mothers with PTSD, says one key to treatment is sharing the story of the trauma with a professional who can understand and validate the experience. Medication can be used to alleviate symptoms like insomnia and anxiety, she says, but nondrug techniques, like relaxation or gradual re-exposure to the trauma through memory in a constructive setting, can be more long-lasting and effective.

A history of sexual abuse or other trauma can also put women at greater risk for PTSD from childbirth, says counselor and childbirth educator Penny Simkin, of Seattle. She says discussing such information with a health professional before giving birth can help reduce the risk.

Maternity-care providers say the increase in the number of medical obstetric procedures in labor and delivery, like Caesarean sections and premature births, could be contributing to PTSD. These providers also note that childbirth-related PTSD became more of a focus of study only after 1995, when the American Psychiatric Association broadened criteria for the disorder.

PTSD, whether brought on by childbirth, natural disaster or some other trauma, can happen immediately, or months after the event. It may occur when someone has experienced an event that involves actual or threatened death or serious injury, and responds with intense fear, helplessness or horror.

Cheryl Beck, a professor at the University of Connecticut School of Nursing who researches birth trauma and was an adviser on the Childbirth Connection survey, says the mothers who reported signs of PTSD in the survey appeared to have a higher rate of medical interventions and describe feeling powerless in a threatening environment.

The survey also found that African-American women, those without private health insurance and women with unplanned pregnancies were more likely to have PTSD symptoms. The survey, called New Mothers Speak Out, available at childbirthconnection.org, also covered a range of other post-birth issues. Executive Director Maureen Corry noted the majority of mothers with PTSD and depression symptoms didn't seek professional help.

In 2003, Liv Lane spent 29 hours in labor. After a painful, vacuum-assisted delivery, she gave birth to a son whose lung had collapsed and whose heart had moved to the right side of his body, a condition known as pneumothorax. Ms. Lane, 33, of Shorewood, Minn., says the baby was whisked away and she was left alone, scared and unsure if he would survive. She says the hospital staff also ignored her calls that pain medication wasn't working. The baby, Ryder, eventually recovered.

At her eight-week postpartum checkup, Ms. Lane told the nurse practitioner she'd been sobbing every day and "fantasizing about driving off a bridge." She says the nurse suggested reading some parenting magazines. "I felt ashamed that I'd even asked for support," Ms. Lane says.

Flashbacks

A therapist later diagnosed Ms. Lane with PTSD. She began a year and a half of treatment that included psychotherapy. Ms. Lane says she then felt ready for a second baby. But when she got pregnant, her flashbacks, anxiety attacks and panic about her son's safety resurfaced.

She took measures to make this birth different. In consultation with her doctors, Ms. Lane switched hospitals and opted for a scheduled C-section, believing that a vaginal birth might re-trigger the trauma. Her doctor prescribed Zoloft at the end of her pregnancy to alleviate anxiety. She also made sure that her husband or another support person would be with her through labor. The experience was "wonderful," she says. Baby Truman is now 3 months old.

Bill in Congress

The proposed federal legislation on postpartum mood disorders, called the Melanie Blocker Stokes Mothers Act, named after a woman who jumped to her death from a Chicago hotel with postpartum psychosis, was approved by the House of Representatives in October. Last week, the proposal got caught up in a package of bills that failed to reach a final vote on the Senate floor. Democratic supporters say the measure, which doesn't include mandatory screening but does authorize a study about its benefits, could be back later this fall.

Amy Philo, of Frisco, Texas, is using her Web site, uniteforlife.org to help galvanize opposition to the measure, which she believes is designed to enrich pharmaceutical companies. "This bill will result in an increased number of women being referred and treated with drugs," Ms. Philo says. Ms. Philo, who calls herself a "Zoloft survivor" because of the adverse reaction she experienced after being prescribed the drug following a postpartum panic attack, believes antidepressants are unsafe and sees mental-health screening as an invasion of privacy.

Susan Stone, a clinical social worker in New Jersey and past president of Postpartum Support International, a nonprofit proponent of the Mothers Act, says the law's intent is to provide effective care, whether it's talk therapy, medications or some combination, to suffering mothers. "Every woman needs to be assessed individually," she says.

****
To say I feel validated is, uh, quite the understatement.

I'm doing better, by the way. My therapist has been spot-on about this since day one. We're working hard on hashing through the details of the memories and it's far tougher than I imagined it could be (I leave sessions feeling absolutely spent), but I feel like it's working. The flashbacks have subsided and, as you can probably gather, I am more motivated lately. My mind has been back to considering possibilities and not limitations. Right now my main challenge is being kinder to my husband. The therapy, designed to help me purge the "horror" feelings I get when I think about my deliveries, has brought out my otherwise neatly-stifled rage and I've really been lashing into him. Having been on the receiving end of depression before, I know it's a very sucky place to be (sorry Hon. I'm working on it. I really am.). But I'm hopeful. I know I'll learn to process this and come out shining on the other end.

I've been considering sharing more of my experience with this here on the blog, especially in light of this article - it may actually be of some help to other women who have been suffering out there, including myself. But I'm not sure I'm ready. I still feel too raw, too vulnerable, too angry to really get into it in such a forum.

All that said, thanks GC...knowing I'm not alone in this is a big deal.

Chipping away at the anger

I suppose it's time for a brief update here -
first, thanks to all of you who offered words of support - they were (are) very comforting and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. Second, thanks IG and KT and Gleyse and LEEEEZ!!! and everyone who has so generously donated money so far for the PNH Walk...your kindness and willingness to help is uplifting and moving, even moreso considering the state of the economy. Thank you, thank you, thank you! My little red cells want to hug you!

I'm doing okay with this therapy thing...it appears I'm coping with some post-partum depression (yes, even now, a year out from the twins' birth) combined with some post-traumatic stress stuff. For now, we're going to try to avoid the drug route - my current strategy to drum up some serotonin is regular exercise. I'm walking regularly (and briskly) which, given my health, seems like the safest way to get back into some sort of routine. S has been a gentle, big teddy bear about all of this and I don't feel alone or afraid at all, which is pretty nice I admit. It's been interesting though, to peel through the layers of my psyche to find out what I've been shoring up inside. It took my therapist less than one and a half sessions to ask, "Where is your anger?" I've never been good with anger. I'm not a yeller, or a screamer. I really hate conflict. So I rarely confront, choosing rather to "take the high road" in situations and let it all bottle up inside me. For a long time now, I've believed expressing anger demonstrated a lack of control and/or a lack of grace. Anger was for haters, for the less evolved, for the victimized, for those who couldn't grasp the zen of things. And here I'm just realizing that by denying myself any space to feel mad at anything, I've been doing myself a gross disservice (perhaps my in-laws, who regularly lay into anyone randomly and without warning, screaming and carrying on when the feeling hits, are actually on to something ?- okay, that's extreme - I know - I take that back. They actually thrive on anger = not a good thing). Because as humans we simply need to feel pissed off now and then. We need to vent and let it out. We really do. When you don't do that, you, um, can really do a number on yourself. Anger itself has nothing to do with how evolved you are - how you act upon it does.

So my first lesson is to figure out a way to constructively let myself feel my anger. And start cleaning it out.
Even the anger stored way back in my mind's attic - the anger I've stored away so long ago that it's got cobwebs - has to go. I've got to clean it up and get rid of it. I have been an anger pack-rat. It won't be easy work. But it's important.

How do you show your anger? Do you store it away like me or are you okay with conflict? How do you let it out?

It's not like I ever held back anyway

I am depressed.
There.
I finally said it.

It's been creeping up on me - this feeling of, well, feeling numb and listless and worried a lot. I figured it would pass but when I noticed a "lack of interest in my usual activities," I made the call and booked a therapy session. It got bumped due to Gram's funeral. And after I finally met my new therapist this morning, as I heard the words leaving my mouth - as I described having flashbacks to last year's hospitalization and not being able to sleep and how it's kind of odd that my mind has almost been working overtime to find new things to worry about, I realized that yeah, I'm kind of depressed.

I don't fear for myself or the safety of my kids. I'm functioning. I still laugh. I even have some good days. But overall I'm blue and I've been a while and it's time to do something about it.

So I think it's a good time to take a brief break from the old blog for a while - I may pop in now and then for a brief update or pic but I do feel like it's a good time to retreat inward to regroup. In private. You know, without airing ALL my dirty laundry to the world at large. I'll be back. And I'll be better.

Enjoy your summer everyone ;-).

This is Spring?

Though it was rather chilly for Easter Sunday, spring was in our hearts. Smacky caught on to the whole point of the egg hunt very quickly and we had a very sweet family morning.

Later on we got dressed and spent an uneventful and dare I say enjoyable day at the in-laws where I ate. And I ate. And I ate some more.

He looks like such a little man...and he's talking like one too.

I owe you a belly shot and I have what I want to do in mind but I need someone to take it, and S has been busy preparing to leave on a business trip so I'll hold off until he gets home. Suffice to say I am HUGE. Or at least my belly is - Smacky alternates between complete fascination of it and insisting I cover it up...I wonder if on some level he feels a bit like we do - at times so blessed it's hard to imagine; other times, not at all ready for what's to come.

How Did I Get Here? - or, why didn't I marry and have children when I was younger?

Oh how I wax existential this week.   I do believe that the prospect of bringing Monkey Man into this world and being wholly responsible for his entire foundation for life is what's been driving this whole reflection thing lately.  I mean, all I hear is what hard work he's going to be and how he'll change everything and I'll never be myself again.  Just how that will make me think or feel, I suppose I'll have to wait to see.  I know I'll be overwhelmed and exhausted and feel love like I've never felt.  But having not yet been there, I just don't know.   And perhaps making sense of my past and tidying it all up before he comes is part of some kind of necessary emotional nesting.  Or maybe I'm just kidding myself and it's all hormonal.

My friend Sue asked me the other day if my ex knew I was pregnant.

I told her I didn't think so - to which she replied, "he's going to die when he finds out."

I thought more about that and no, he won't die at all.  He may find the fact that I'm pregnant interesting, and, being the self-possessed individual he is, will find a way to congratulate himself again on dodging that commitment/baby bullet.  The ex she refers to is a successful lawyer, the on-again-off-again relationship that defined intermittent parts of my romantic life during my 30s.  Said lawyer is gorgeous and accomplished, fairly intelligent and career-motivated.  He also, in his own words (after we broke up for good), "enjoys the company of women," and has been known as of late to spend time at uber-trendy nightspots trolling for young women with his friends.  Yes, he's 41 (42?) and becoming that stereotype.  He proudly states he will never marry, although will, in a calculating lawyer way, appeal to your soft side now and then and ask if you think he'd make a good father one day, giving the vulnerable just enough reason to think he might go all soft at some point and you could be that "lucky" woman.

Then I think about the one before him...the gentleman with whom I own a joint business but for the past 8 years remained a silent partner.  He hasn't sent me a check nor a breakdown of how the business is doing since last July, when he got married.  I have driven by our business and have not seen his car there nor the lights on in the building.  I do know he quit his full time job, supposedly to pursue the business full-time.  But I suspect that now that he has a working wife, he can freely spend time at his condo in Florida with his friends.  (While we were together he took countless vacations alone with his friends).   Because he is good-looking and gentle and easy-going, it would be fairly easy for him to arrange to be in FL indefinitely while his wife suddenly finds that she's the only one working and taking care of things here.  She is 15 years his junior.  Would he care that I was pregnant?  Probably not.

Let's go back some more, to the alcoholic.   Oh he was good-looking and so fun to be with when he drank.  But he drank. And drank.  And he left for NYC for a job, asking me to move into his house up here and watch it along with his dog for him while he was gone.  And I did, for a while.  Would he care that I was pregnant?  Hell no.

Then I go back again - there was a good one before the alkie - he is now an oral surgeon somewhere in Maine.  He gave me a ring but I turned him down.  "Too young," was my reason.  I was 28.   He'd probably care.

Before that was my first husband.  He was scary.  I was abused and had to escape, get a restraining order - the works.  He had control issues - I knew when he began locking me in the bathroom I had problems.  And with the help of my friends and family I was able to break free.  It was a horrible horrible time and it was the love of my family and friends that allowed me to emerge from the situation fairly sane and able to function again.

Then let's go waaaaay back...back to my biological father.  He left when I was 2.  And stopped visiting when I was 6, signing over parental rights when I was 8.  He never said goodbye, never wrote, never tried to find me.  I found him and wrote to him in 1995 when I discovered blood problems, trying to find some family history.  He wrote back, offering to be typed as a marrow donor.   He called and left a message, but I never called back.  I didn't want a relationship with him. 

However, it was this abandonment which has essentially driven all of my adult relationship behavior.  With the exception of the oral surgeon and now my beloved Sal, I subconsciously felt more comfortable with emotionally damaged and unavailable men - men who I couldn't possibly really fall in love with, because they couldn't love me back.  I could obsess about fixing them or blame them and their problems for why the relationships weren't working or didn't last.  But at it's core, it was all about me.  I needed the safety valve - the thing that allowed me to escape and not become too attached so as not to endure another abandonment.  By choosing these flawed men, I was abandoning myself before they had a chance to do it to me.  I was in control.  It was by no means a healthy way to guide oneself in relationships, but it kept me in a familiar zone which was of comfort to me.  Unhealthy, unhappy, but in control.  I could fool myself and everyone around me.

One day I finally got it.  The lawyer stood me up for dance lessons to go to a Red Sox game.  With OTHER PEOPLE.   I remember looking in the mirror.  Here I was, thin, tall, pretty, educated, athletic (early on I generally denied my blood problems), smart with a good job.  I was a nice person.  I volunteered doing overnights at the women's homeless shelter and tutored English to Yugoslavians after work.  I had nice friends and a cute, cozy apartment.  I could sew and cook. Why was I constantly in and out of poor relationships?  WHAT WAS I DOING WRONG? Clearly, the problem rested with me.  My friends were marrying nice guys...what was I doing to make sure that I didn't?   Why was I doing this to myself?  I started to figure it out.

When I met Sal, I was ready.  I was ready to let go and be loved.  It worked because when we met, he was in the middle of an ugly divorce, and ready to be loved too.   I attended therapy to help me through periods where I felt so out of control in love with him it scared the daylights out of me.  I had to learn to trust my instincts that he would not abandon me; I had to learn it was okay to feel out of control at times and that that feeling is far preferable to the general unhappiness and confusion I had felt for most of my life with other men.  I stuck it out, and it worked, and now that we're married, it all comes naturally.  I am happier and more in love than I could ever have imagined.  And he doesn't drink, he'd never vacation without me or choose a Red Sox game over our commitments.  He smells really good and hugs me while we sleep.  He shares everything without reservation.  He sticks up for me and makes me his queen.  He deserves to be the father of my child.  I just had to be ready for him...it just took me a while.  I had to get past all that crap I was stuck in.

You see?

So that's why we started trying to conceive when I was 36.  I didn't put off children on purpose; I actually felt badly about my ticking clock for a long time.  I just didn't know how to fix nor how to break the patterns I was engaging in.  I was busy blaming the idiots I was dating for the emptiness in my life. I had to become fed up, had to grow up and take responsibility for what I was doing to myself.  And as soon as I did that, Sal came into my life.

And truthfully, looking back, all the hurt feelings and poor treatment I put up with -it was all good, because it finally led me here, and this is a damned good place to be.  I understate it when I say I scored in the husband department.  And if I had to do it over again to get right here, I'd have to admit I probably would.

And that's why I "waited."