88 Keys

Election Day and my first OB appointment are a week away. I’ve never looked so forward to a doctor’s appointment, especially one that involved stirrups. However, all I know at present is that I’m pregnant. I have no idea how the baby is doing, how I’m doing, if everything is proceeding as it should… I want and need answers, and it seems that first appointment will never get here. I believe the reality of the pregnancy is finally starting to sink in a bit. The other night when I should have been sleeping, I was rearranging furniture in my head, trying to decide what will stay and what will go. The big debate is over my piano.

My grandparents purchased the piano in the 1950s, my mother learned to play on it, I learned to play it. When I first moved into my own apartment, my grandmother gave me the piano, and I’ve moved it around with me since. There are scars — a cigarette burn from when my dad was dating my mom, a broken (but repaired) leg when the piano was moved back to my grandmother’s house which I lived in for a spell, candle wax from a party. The piano wasn’t an especially expensive or even good sounding instrument, and is still horribly out of tune. I rarely play anymore because other things always seem to occupy my time.  And it takes up a lot of valuable space. Some of my friends and family insist I can’t get rid of it because I could teach the baby to play. Others think it’s no big deal.

Regardless, in thinking about the piano and trying to make a decision, something snapped. Reality decided to step out of the closet and smack me on the head. Your life is not your own anymore, it said. Decisions will now be based on what is best for the baby. Your time will be spent caring for the baby. None of this is bad, or even new news. It just is what it is. But as reality sank in, sleep flitted away. How many other ways will our lives change? For the better? For the worse? Of all the women with children I’ve spoken to, only one has admitted that she would not have children if she could do it over again. The rest insist no matter what, it is absolutely worth it. I tend to agree, but still don’t know what to do with the damn piano.

I’m still nauseous, though I’ve been fortunate and not had any vomiting. The dizziness seems less. My hair has become that of an uncultured bush woman. My boobs are growing ever larger, and I’m scared they may suffocate me in my sleep. My belly is pushing out of my formerly comfortable pants. I pee, drink and eat all day long. And I want to bite people’s heads clean off for no known reason. Apparently all of this is normal.

All Knocked Up

Yes, the rumors are true — Adam and I are having a baby. Several weeks ago, I started not feeling so well — a little nauseous, a little light headed, a little tired. Around the time I should have gotten my period, I felt the usual swell of crankies and slightly swollen, slightly sore breasts. None of this was overwhelming, so I ignored it.

The subject of one day having children worked it’s way into our conversation one night when I realized my period was late, and I decided to do some research on vasectomy reversals. In his early twenties, Adam had a vasectomy. He had a child, Teddy, with his high-school sweetheart, and then they parted ways. He didn’t want to have any more children until he found the woman he was going to spend the rest of his life with. At the time, the doctor had indicated the vasectomy was reversible. During my research, however, I learned that reversals can cost upwards of $25,000, and only work about 3% of the time. In addition, only about 1 in 250,000 vasectomies heal themselves, and that’s usually in the first few months. I was devastated. While I understood and respected Adam’s decision to have the procedure, I felt the chances of us ever starting a family of our own was slim to none.  For two days, I cried and nursed a broken heart.

I confided in a friend, who asked, “Are you sure you’re not pregnant?” Adam had the car and was in class, so I had no way to go to a drug store, besides, I was quite sure I wasn’t pregnant. Then, I remembered an E.P.T. home pregnancy test in the back of the bathroom cabinet. I pulled it out, checked the expiration date and decided to give it a whirl. I barely peed on the stick, and the little blue plus sign popped up in the window. I was shocked; that had never happened before. I frantically called a friend, who suggested I make a doctor’s appointment right away for confirmation. He could see me that afternoon, but it meant borrowing my dad’s truck to get there. I called Adam while he was at school and simply said, “I’m going to the doctor.” Fortunately, his eight years with the Army instilled don’t ask, don’t tell, so he didn’t ask any questions.

My family physician is a wonderful doctor, and I’ve seen him for years. The nurse took what she needed, and left me twiddling my thumbs over five year old issues of Country Living. Dr. Fravel finally came in and said, “You’re pregnant!” He began listing off things — see an OB around the tenth week, you’re due June 5, take your prenatal vitamin every day. My head swirled. Holy crap. I really am pregnant.

I drove home, and Adam greeted me in the living room. He kept asking, “What did the doctor say? Is everything okay?” All I could say was, “Well…” Finally, he started to glaze over like the proverbial deer in headlights asking, “You’re pregnant aren’t you?”

We’re both thrilled, excited, happy and scared shitless, which seems about right. Adam had a child before, but because of his time in the Army, wasn’t there for everything. And this is my first pregnancy. So we’re completely new to this, though we are convinced that we’re going to be great parents.

We told my dad first. He was thrilled, but asked that I hold the baby in until June 13, his birthday. My strange little mother congratulated us, and then quipped, “Better hope Adam doesn’t leave now!” Adam calmly replied, “I’m not going anywhere, Linda.” I love that he handles her the way he does. We told his mother; she was so happy, and politely requested a girl. A visit to his grandmother’s was next. She congratulated us, but wondered, “When are those bells going to ring?” And then we broke the news to his aunts and close family friend, who, let’s face it, is really his sister. They were excited, too, and were filled with stories, advice, wisdom and support. I couldn’t ask for a better family.

And, yes, Adam and I have discussed marriage. I was ready months ago, but Adam needed time to work through some things. After the visit to his grandmother’s, I told him again that I would love to spend the rest of my life with him, but I need to know when he asks the question, he’s asking because he wants to spend the rest of his life with me, too, and not just because I’m pregnant. It can’t be about the baby, it has to be about us.

So we’re settling into the idea of being parents. I’ve bought a few books, some really comfy stretchy pants and lots of saltines. I’m working on quitting smoking, and Adam has cut way back, too. We’re discussing rearranging the house, cleaning the walls and the carpet. Baby names are sputtered like Tourettes. And I see the OB on election day. I’m nervous and scared, but this is the most thrilling thing I’ve done to date.

Stuff Your Sorries in a Sack

I am participating in the Art House Gallery’s “Stuff Your Sorries in a Sack” exhibition. (If you’re in Atlanta, you should go on Friday, October 24!) This project has given me a wonderful opportunity. The instructions were simple, “Put your apologies, missed opportunities, attachments, regrets or anything else you need to get off your chest into the sack. Get rid of your baggage – this project is all about letting go.”

I started with a list of things I need to let go of: expectations, fear, blame, worry, perfection, anger, my mother, my father, Sanders, people pleasing, hurt, smoking, control. Later, I moved on to a list, I’m sorry:

…I wasn’t a perfect child.
…I cheated on that test.
…I forged your signature on a bad grade.
…I was addicted to drugs.
…I was an alcoholic.
…I didn’t get help sooner.
…I didn’t write you letters like I said I would.
…I wouldn’t return your phone calls.
…I broke your heart.
…We never made out.
…I never said I loved you.
…We didn’t meet sooner.
…I hated you.
…I ever met you.
…I couldn’t love you more.
…I’m not sorry.
…I didn’t listen to your stories.
…I called you names.
…We didn’t run away together.
…I sold that acre of land.
…I tried to kill myself.
…I didn’t succeed.
…I didn’t study harder.
…I didn’t become a pilot.
…You’re so miserable.
…You can’t see it.
…I lied to you.
…I wanted to kill you.
…I didn’t.
…I still want to see you.
…I still think about you.
…You killed yourself.
…You couldn’t talk to me about it.
…You weren’t happy.
…She made you so sad.
…Your son doesn’t know you better.
…Your son won’t get to know you.
…I never left home.
…I smoke.
…You don’t see me.
…You never will.
…You wasted my time.

These were all random things I thought about when thinking about my life – directed to different people and different times. But then last week, the “evil-ex,” Paul, replied to one of friend’s posts on Facebook. I never expected to see him there, but there he was – on my monitor, in my studio, in my house. And all of those hateful feelings about him and our time together rose to the surface again. Why? I have no idea. They were just there. I looked around me, at my wonderfully happy life with Adam, and realized it was time to let go.

Our divorce was finalized seven years ago after a year and a half of marriage and after five years of living together. Yet, I’ve been unable to let go. For seven years, I’ve referred to him as “the evil ex,” and let the shadow of our relationship haunt me. I learned so many lessonsm and while I want to and need to carry those lessons learned with me – they made me a better person in the end – I don’t want the fear and hurt any more. And so, I’m laying him to rest — along with my anger, frustration and hurt – in a little wooden box I’ll never see again.

CLICK HERE TO VIEW THE BOX.

Life is Good

Yay, fall! The weather turns cooler, and it’s as though my spirits are lifted and carried with the tumbling leaves. I noticed the dogwood tree in our yard is starting to turn red; it’s always the first to go, the first to remind me that fall is here.

I have lots of things I need to be doing right now – a new Web site client, art submissions for several upcoming shows, articles for several upcoming deadlines. Spooky, the new kitten, is crying from her playpen – the over-sized garden tub in the bedroom. Adam is in class, and won’t be home until around three. Pork tenderloin is unthawing for dinner. Good jazz is floating from the stereo.

There are so many good events coming up – the Unearth festival thingy at Saluda Shoals Park, The Return (a Beatles’ tribute band) playing at Art in the Garden in Lexington, Shakefest (a Shakespearian festival) in Winnsboro and, of course, my favorite holiday of them all… Halloween. AND on top of all that, several friends are in town in the coming weeks, and I get to see them, too.

My parents leave this weekend for a week-long camping trip to Cades Cove, Tennessee. I’m happy they get to get away, but I’m jealous, too. What I wouldn’t give for a week long camping trip in the mountains right now… I also get the pleasure of babysitting Shorty, my mother’s newest dog. Dad decided he was NOT going to take five dogs camping. I would point out that he has bigger problems, but he knows.

Life is good.

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PLEASE NOTE: Blog entries dated Thursday, September 11, 2008 back to Friday, August 4, 2006 can still be viewed by visiting my MySpace blog. Thank you!