Peace Be With You

Sometimes I tire over the constant chatter about fitness and nutrition. I get the importance of being healthy, but the mania and pressure of “high school skinny” - ehh. Been there, tried that, I’m ready to coast on common sense. I want to eat delicious, healthy food, as opposed to choking down powdery mixes, and I want to do workouts that make me happy, not the ones I dread more than a dental drill.

We all know it’s hard to fight off the pressure and comparison. In my life, I have been cursed, blessed, whichever, to have a slew of close friends who are inexplicably thin and fit. They work out like fiends and eat super clean every day. Explain that to me. There are no double chins, not even during their pregnancies, and bikinis always, even during their pregnancies. As if a fit exterior isn’t enough, these friends of mine are thoughtful, funny and supportive. I hate them.

I wonder if you are truly bonded with a friend if you can’t occasionally lament about the challenge of choosing kale over the #1 combo. If you’ve never muttered expletives at a scale or identified with a classic “Cathy” comic strip, you may not understand. My friends and I who have weathered Weight Watchers, paleo, keto, boot camps, wasted gym memberships, from couch to 5k programs and glorious binges followed by guilt - we’ve been through the trenches. “I’ll start Monday” is our battle cry and sometimes we really do start Monday.

No matter shape, size, cravings or physical prowess, something all my friends understand and agree on are leggings- follow me here, I have a point. We never thought we’d see leggings circle back from the 80s and become a wardrobe staple, but here we are with drawers full. The obvious reasons we wear them are that they are comfortable, much more so than jeans, and they’re versatile. They’re the antithesis to the bridesmaid dress that “you can totally wear again.” We wear leggings all the time: to bed, to work, to the gym, on a date. They’re as varietal as underwear, offering cuts, colors and fabrics to fit your fancy. They’re Superpants! Spandex by day, pleather by night! Note to user: Please bend over to test the transparency of your Superpants. The great Leonard Cohen once said “there is a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” He is exactly right.

The athleisure variety of leggings is a fan favorite. We know them as “yoga pants.” Though we may be unsure if a chaturanga is a Mexican dish or a pose, we reserve the right to call our leggings yoga pants. That name implies promise and intent, as if yoga is where we’re headed right after the Chick-Fil-A drive through. The Catch 22 with yoga pants, and most leggings, is that they’re like the friend who doesn’t tell you the truth for fear of hurting your feelings. Maybe you wonder if your constant snacking during the Great Quarantine of 2020 has taken a toll. Maybe your favorite shirt feels snug…is it time to wind down your Wine Wednesdays? But the leggings, bless them, they still fit! They’re as forgiving as priests, stretching to accommodate you just as you are, “come on in, extra 5 pounds, peace be with you.”

Leggings are our uniform, our go-to for comfort, style and fitness. They are fashion in 2020. It’s the biggest trend I can remember since low-rider jeans, when our butt cracks were on display for a decade. In a time when body image and comparison is such a constant, perhaps we should lean (or stretch? bend?) into leggings as stewards of acceptance. They’re really on to something- that bit of common sense we all need. They’re as much a symbol of fitness as they are of the “all bodies are beautiful” movement. Whether you’re 5 pounds up, 5 pounds down or could care less, leggings, like good friends, are supportive. Nutrition and fitness are so important, but so is sanity. Always remember the Superpants credo: “Get moving, give yourself grace and don’t worry…we’ve got your crack.”

A Spoonful of Juice Newton

I’ve always been big on singing. I sing to my kids, I sing in the shower, and in the car. I sang to my dogs when I was a little girl. I’d stand in the backyard and belt out “God Bless the USA” like a tone-deaf Miss America. In college I constantly serenaded my sorority sisters. No one ever said so, but I believe my renditions of ‘NSync and Shakira songs were paramount through the perils of freshman 15’s and Greek life mixers. These days I have a magnet for my minivan that reads “I’ve got the music in me!” It’s flair from my sons’ music class, but the message speaks to my soul.

My favorite time to sing is when I’m baking. I bake at night after my boys go to bed. I throw on an apron; I whisk, I measure, and I bust a lung, harmonizing to Pandora Radio. While my husband Dan supports my baking endeavors, he isn’t enthusiastic about my singing career.

When it comes to music selection, I admit my favorites are an obscure (slightly embarrassing) mix. I know lots of my girlfriends indulge in rap. While I’m not opposed to rap, I’m not hip to it either.  My wheelhouse is a blend of old country music, 80’s rock, and musicals. Give me Bonnie Tyler, give me Pat Benatar, throw in a hair band ballad and let’s fire up the oven.

I’ve been enthralled by musicals, like Bye, Bye Birdie, since I could talk (Ann-Margret, bless her, is her very own essay for another day). Though I know every song and blink in the movie, I really hit my stride with “A Lot of Livin’ to Do.” I just need you to know that. I usually follow Bye, Bye Birdie with another nostalgic soundtrack: Grease 2. Stephanie Zinone, my alter-ego. She is everything I’m not, until, of course, I start baking. When Dan asks me to lower my volume a touch, he sees his wife in flour-dusted pajamas, a knot of hair atop her head, but in my mind, I’m doused in black leather, tossing my mane wildly as I sing about my badass fantasy boyfriend. My most recent “Cool Rider” performance before an audience was after my baby shower in February 2015. I was 8 months pregnant. There was a kitchen barstool substituting as a ladder, laborious breathing, a cameo by Braxton Hicks, and cankles. The following night, I was in the hospital on oxygen for two hours.

As I continue amateur hour in my kitchen, I perk up when I hear my homegirls: Bette, Dolly, and Cher. My dream team. Years ago I had to choose between seeing either Bette or Cher perform live in Las Vegas- it was my very own “Sophie’s Choice.” I ended up at Cher’s show and was in such awe, I was rendered mute and couldn’t sing along. I watched her prance across the stage in leather and fishnets, my eyes glistening with tears, wishing I could turn back time and be a singer, or at least a glorified groupie. I would’ve been great at that.

While bouncing around my favorite Pandora stations a few months back, I discovered Juice Newton radio. I was instantly transfixed. One minute I’m Dolly, singing “I Will Always Love You,” (The original and best version. Let’s not make this a thing.), then I’m belting out a jaunty duet, “Islands in the Stream,” with my dear friend Kenny Rogers, wishing my apron had sequins and perky, umm…microphones. When a song ends, I eagerly anticipate what’s coming next and then - oh yes- “Lookin for Love” from the Urban Cowboy soundtrack starts to twang. Now, not only am I singing, I’m quoting the movie (Fine, forget it!), two-stepping, and sifting. Look at me multi-tasking! Dan passes through to grab a snack and I ignore his smirk. I am a country idol slash Betty Crocker goddess. Let me live.

Then, like an answered prayer, Juice Newton’s “Angel in the Morning” is humming in my ears. I float around the kitchen, checking to see if the cake is rising as I sing “just touch my cheek before you leave me, baby…” I have so much conviction, you’d wonder what I’ve been up to when not corralling toddlers. Yes, it’s a risqué song about a one-night stand, but I’m a performer - maybe not a method performer, but I embrace my lyrics. Do you think Reba McIntyre knows what it’s like to be a hooker named Fancy? Probably not, but that gritty ginger nailed it and so do I. That’s how legends, and my Snickerdoodles, are made.

Singing is my stress reliever. It’s my way of tuning out the junk that clutters my brain. It makes me happy and keeps me productive in the kitchen. Juice Newton is the secret ingredient in all my baked goods.

Almost

Maybe it doesn’t feel real because it happened during the quietest hours.  Like the tree falling in the woods when no one is around…if a miscarriage happens while everyone is asleep, did it really happen?  Maybe it was just a nightmare.  But the hospital bracelet was the first thing I saw when I opened my eyes.  Maybe it’s surreal because I latched on and allowed my brain to swirl off in a million directions, planning and delighting in every detail.  And even though there was a shadow cast from the start, maybe it’s surreal because I had forced myself to think that something miraculous would happen.

Surreal or not, I did have a miscarriage.  Only a few even knew I was pregnant, around 8 weeks or so.  I wanted to hold the news close until we had our doctor appointment, but once the appointment came and things went awry, I held the news tighter. 

The doctor said the timing could just be off.  I thought I was 7 weeks, but maybe I was 5 and that would explain why they could only see a gestational sac.  I couldn’t wrap my head around how that was possible, but I tried not to over-think it.  I just hoped and prayed they’d discover a heartbeat at the next appointment.  So, two weeks later, we returned. 

I prepared myself for the worst and was nearly stunned when the ultrasonographer told us what she found. There, deep inside me, was a tiny baby, the size of a grain of rice, with a strong heartbeat.  My hand covered my face as big, happy sobs escaped my body.  I looked to Dan who had a huge smile and a steady stream of tears.  Everything was fine.  A new baby would be born in the fall. 

But it was only minutes later when Dr. McDaniel told us that there was a subchorionic hemorrhage.  He said it could dissolve on its own, or it could be a sign that the pregnancy wouldn’t stick.  The pit in my stomach throbbed and a familiar wave of nausea overwhelmed me.

We left the appointment with an ultrasound picture, a due date and a million emotions.

I knew I was pregnant for a long time.  I took the test back in February, the morning we left for our trip to Kiawah.  Dan and I had just decided to start trying and I was amazed that it happened immediately.  Instead of blurting the news out like I did with Max, I decided to wait to tell Dan.  I wanted to share the news in Kiawah and make it a bit grander than shining the bathroom light in his face at 5 a.m. and sobbing uncontrollably.  

I waited until Saturday night when we went to a beautiful restaurant that overlooked an oceanside golf course.  When the three of us were seated, Dan suggested we take our time and start with a cocktail.  Unsure of what to say, I told him I had diarrhea and should avoid alcohol. Smooth  So, when the server arrived with my sweet tea and Dan’s beer, I immediately suggested we toast. 

We raised our drinks, Dan looked at Max, then at me and said “to our amazing family and this awesome weekend together in Kiawah…” I butt in, clinked my glass against his and said “and to Max becoming a big brother in the fall.”  To say it was a perfect moment doesn’t really do it justice.  Dan was stunned.  We were both laughing and crying, kissing each other, kissing Max, who was extra adorable that night. It was more than I could have asked for.

We went to the beach the next day, wrote “big brother” in the sand and I took a million pictures of Max sitting next to it.  I was in heaven.

Even when the doctor appointments followed Kiawah and cause for concern persisted, I let myself get excited.  I couldn’t refrain from picking out bedding, thinking about paint colors, and baby names, fantasizing about how amazing it would be to have another baby.  I kept thinking about this great gift we were giving Max. I kept thinking about how happy I was that they’d be so close in age. I kept thinking we were so, so lucky.

I tried to stay calm when the bleeding started. I told myself it could be nothing big. I read stories online about others who had bled and everything turned out fine. I called the doctor and was told not to worry too much unless cramps accompanied the bleeding. I hadn’t cramped at all, but I bled for days. I just kept thinking how unnatural it felt to bleed during pregnancy, but I dug my fingers into the sand, grasping at hope.  

Easter Sunday was a difficult day. The bleeding increased and I didn’t feel well. I wasn’t cramping, but I was uncomfortable. I kept my feet up and stayed in sweats all day.  I was relieved that I had a doctor appointment scheduled for Monday, but that appointment never came to be. 

I woke up around 1 a.m. with back pain.  At first it felt like part of a dream, but then I sat up and realized what was happening.  I took long breaths to see if I could make the discomfort go away, but it only grew stronger.  I went to the bathroom and knew I was in trouble.  When I returned to the bed, I felt just as I did when I was in labor with Max. I was having contractions that made my back and lower abdomen burn. I started to cry as Dan’s hand cupped my shoulder.  Eventually, I gained enough composure to say it out loud, “I’m losing the baby.”

For the next 20 minutes or so, I writhed in pain and begged my body to fight.  I can will myself  to do so much. My mind can push my body to keep running when it’s fatigued, or go from asleep to alert when Max needs me in the night. But, much as I pleaded with my body to hold on to this baby, it let go. 

The pain was gone by the time we got to the emergency room.  Our wait was minimal, as we were the only patients in sight.  While I knew what had happened, I prayed over and over on the way to the ultrasound. I turned my head away from the screen and closed my eyes, praying I’d hear that beautiful heartbeat, strong as a galloping horse. There was nothing, but “I’m so sorry.” 

The doctor told us that, if a miscarriage has to happen, this was the best kind to have.  My cervix had closed and there was no evidence of a pregnancy.  I was numb and fatigued and empty. No evidence of a pregnancy.

When we walked out of the hospital, I thought back to a day in July, 2011. Max had been in the NICU for a week or so. I was living with him in a private room, unwilling to leave the hospital. After some prodding by the nurses, I stepped outside to get my first glimpse of the sun and breath of fresh air in more than eight days. Instead of it being a refreshing experience, I suffocated.  I was consumed with thoughts of how it was supposed to be, how I dreamed it would be and all the questions that had yet to be answered. I watched nurses escort new parents, giddy and proud, out of the hospital, their new bundles snuggled up in car seats. I thought of my baby upstairs, hooked to multiple cords and machines, and I thought of the car seat, the one I spent so much time picking out just for him, and I sobbed.

I was supposed to leave the hospital with this baby in the fall.  I wasn’t supposed to walk out after just 8 weeks, at 6 in the morning, with a pamphlet about miscarriage. 

Mom was at the house watching Max for us, so I went upstairs and told her the news.  She held my hand, stroked my hair and my mind was empty.  She told me to get some rest and she would stay and watch Max.  When I climbed into bed, I looked at the clock.  7 a.m.  I was pregnant just six hours before and now it was all over.   

I woke a couple hours later and walked out of the bedroom to find my boy, squealing and smiling the second he saw me.  I went to him and held him for a long time, listening to his laugh and kissing him over and over.  It wasn’t long before I was singing “The Wheels on the Bus” and “Itsy Bitsy Spider.”  I felt self-conscious a couple of times.  Should I really be singing right now?  I had a miscarriage just hours ago.  But then the greatest thing struck me.

One of the many reasons I want another baby is because I hoped it would heal us.  I hoped we would have a healthy baby and a typical hospital experience.  I thought that might heal the wounds that were left from the overwhelming months of fear and sadness that surrounded Max’s birth. 

But while I was laughing uncontrollably with Max, clapping my hands and blowing raspberries on his belly, I realized I didn’t need another baby to be healed.  Max heals me every single day.   

That child may have come with some surprises, but he is the greatest thing that has ever happened to us.   He is beautiful and happy and funny and smart and he’s ours.  There are so many women out there who, like me, have wanted to be a mommy since they were little girls, and some of those women will never get the chance to know how amazing it is to be a mother. The thought of that is suffocating and so heartbreaking.  Having a miscarriage is certainly a sad, unfair situation and, while I’ll definitely take time to feel my feelings, I can’t be consumed with sadness, it’s just not possible, when I get to love and hold my son every day.  Losing this pregnancy will always feel surreal.  It’s been nearly two weeks and I still can’t believe that it happened, but I’m not left in a dark place.

I’m still sad, still disappointed, but I’m also filled with so much hope.  We want another baby one day and it can still happen.  Those names I love and that bedding I’ve picked out, it can still be a reality, and I pray it will be.  And not because we need that baby for healing, only because we want that baby so very much to add to this precious dynamic of ours.  But, if that dream doesn’t come true, I’ll remember what Dan said to me in the ER when I told him how sad I was by the thought of never having another baby. 

“If we don’t get our way and it’s just you, me and Max for the rest of our days, we’ll spoil him like crazy and continue loving each other and enjoying every second,” he said. “I think that’s a pretty great life.” 

Though I pray I read back on this one day with Dan and our two or three children sitting next to us, I know Dan's right.  Life is so good and there’s still so much to come. Max is ours, we’re Mommy and Daddy, and I’m so thankful.