Until it happened to me, I thought I was one of the lucky ones. Miscarriage rate goes down if you’ve already had a healthy pregnancy, right? And what are the odds that with such a BRIGHT pink line, the crazy nausea, the boobs that feel like they’ve been used as punching bags, and the overwhelming emotions that my baby isn’t strong and perfect?
I have had miscarriage happen at different stages of pregnancies. And every time, it hurts just the same. But I find myself minimizing my pain and loss because I never felt my babies kick. I never even heard a heartbeat.
And so I can’t possibly compare my experience to the strong women out there who have seen their babies in their full form on an ultrasound, who have watched the flickering black and white heartbeat and heard the accompanied galloping thumbs through the speakers. I can’t compare my loss to someone who has felt the flutters of a baby kicking, the growing baby that they saw swelling their bellies, and their hearts.
Can I?
I’m not sure it’s fair to compare my pain that was only in the early stages, a missed period to a few short days after starting to spot. Had I not taken that test, I probably wouldn’t have even known. And that really doesn’t compare to someone who has felt the intense cravings for ice cream and pickles that come along with actual pregnancy.
I feel it wouldn’t be fair to measure my grief of going in to an appointment, to lay on the white sheet, sans pants, to feel the cold goo and the anticipation, followed by the letdown that something was amiss. There isn’t, in fact, any heartbeat to see.
And maybe…. come back in a few weeks. You might get lucky.
Except someone else was “lucky” They heard that heartbeat. Saw the flicker! That’s supposed to mean you can breathe easy now. You can TELL family and friends. You’re so much closer to a healthy baby than I ever was, I can’t measure my grief to that. It’s not the same.
I can’t pretend I know what it’s like to tell a child who knows better about their future sibling and then later have to explain to my innocent child that life is not guaranteed. The brother or sister they were promised was already too much for this world, and went on to another, without saying hello on her way.
Even though I have fantasized what kind of brother my child would be. Pretended I could picture what the two of them would look like next to each other for their first photo shoot. Wondered if they would get along famously, or not. How their first introduction would go, if my son would be a good helper, if my new baby would be a terrible sleeper like my last, or if my delivery would be as easy, or worse.
I start thinking about my versions of loss and how many other, more devastating tragedies there are in this world when it comes to miscarriage and infant loss and I start to think I didn’t have the traumatic experiences that I’ve heard and seen others have and so I can’t really feel as deeply the pain as they do.
Can I?
Infant loss, miscarriage, in any form is a crushing event. Whether you only just found out or you grew to love the baby you had already begun to bond with. Whether you had only seen a blip on the screen or you had the opportunity to meet your little angel before they found their place somewhere else, it hurts.
And you don’t forget.
As a mom I remember many milestones. As a mom who has experienced loss, I can tell you where I was when it started, what I thought, and where I was when I came to the realization that this baby I had wanted so bad (or maybe hadn’t been sure I wanted yet, because it was such a surprise but I knew I wanted it NOW) was not going to make it into the world. It wasn’t going to make it to my first doctor’s appointment. Or my second.
I’ve spent weeks agonizing, waiting (impatiently) for my final chance to walk into the doctor and show them they were WRONG. That my baby DOES have a heartbeat and it’s perfect and strong. Only to get there and be heartbroken for the second time, even though this time, I knew. I knew all along. But that didn’t stop me from praying for a miracle.
I’m not sure if I can really compare my loss to that of another farther down the road.
I know that my pain was so deep. So raw. That had I been farther along in my pregnancies I’m not sure I would have made it through that kind of loss. Those women are the strongest women I know. My loss… it doesn’t compare.
And yet, it binds us together as a group of women who know a very unique and kinship kind of pain. Who understand what it’s like to love someone you’ve never met with every ounce of your being and to pray with every ounce of energy in your bones that you will get to meet that person. Hold them, kiss them, take them home. Spend one more day. One more year.
Loss is loss. Whether it’s mine or it’s yours, it’s our battle wound to carry. So, as I carry mine I’ll try not to minimize it if you promise not to hide yours.
Sincerely,
Another Mom Who Wonders Every Day About The Child That Could Have Been
So Many Parts Of Parenting I Did NOT See Coming
When I was a little girl I had a dream. A dream of growing up and being free of the know-it-all but know-nothing-at-all dorky, embarrassing parents of my own. Little did I know I was on my way to becoming them….
I had visions of never having to share any of my shit with anyone ever again, playing whatever song I wanted in the car, or putting whatever the hell I wanted on the TV because I was a damn adult and I could do what I want. When I want.
It’s almost endearing to think how wrong I was.
If someone told me years ago I would be arguing with a toddler about how to put a sock on (I’m doing it all wrong, apparently). I would have laughed in their face. Adults have it all under control.
So many thing I did NOT see coming as an adolescent with aspirations as far as the eye can see. Such an idiot. The list of experiences with children that have hit me like a torrential downpour on a sunny day are literally endless and growing by the millisecond. You can still feel the sun on your skin but you’re suddenly soaking wet and wonder, “where the fuck did that come from??”
That’s basically the narrative of my life now.
If I would have been warned that no matter how much I protested, I 
would listen to the Frozen soundtrack OVER AND OVER AND OVER until my ears were bleeding just because it was a more pleasant emotional assault than screaming children, I would have said NO WAY. Not in my car.
Paw Patrol is the new Jersey Shore, in my house. I can sing the lyrics to pretty much every children’s animated show just by hearing the first note. And don’t even get me started on the viral shark family. I’m ready to do my own rendition including homicidal shark, no fucks given shark, and perpetually exhausted shark.
Who would have thought that as an adult my new life motto’s would be #getyourshoeson #thisisMINEDAMMIT #becauseIsaidso or #areyoukiddingme?
I q
uit a job as a server at a restaurant shortly after I found out I was pregnant with my first. I did a whole Half Baked eff-you exit pointing fingers and cursing the staff on my way out the door because I was about to be a mom and EVERYTHING would be different now.
The owners must have felt so smug with their little kids and parenting experience thinking “God bless her, she really has no clue”. I didn’t. Here we are, years later, and I’m an order taker, short-order cook, AND bus boy and I do it all for disdain. Or hugs…. If I’m lucky.
Getting anywhere on time is like a unicorn sighting. There is absolutely 
no speed my kids are capable of moving in other than sloth. Even on a good day when the sock isn’t tickling their foot and they were able to locate BOTH shoes quickly, it’s still an episode of Frazier (slow, boring, mildly humorous) getting to the car.
Showering used to be something I looked forward to. My daily release where I could feel renewed, fresh, clean. If I chose not to shower it was because I was being progressive and “hip”.
N
ot because I was unable to lock my kids into an episode of some mind-numbing cartoon long enough. Or I hadn’t put thought into charging the tablet to a percentage that would “babysit” my kids until I finished.
Now I have to plan my showers. If there is any part of my life that resembles a successful business executive, it is the way I schedule a shower. And that’s about it.
“Bedtime” used to happen for me after a night of dinner and drinks with friends. I would reminisce about the hilarious events that had unfolded while I brushed my teeth and set my alarm. Now, I haven’t used an alarm in eight years and doubt I’ll need one anytime soon considering my little refusers-of-sleep are up at the ass crack of dawn (or before) every.friggin.morning.
This includes the weekend. The time when I swore as a teenager when I “grew up” I would mosey around the house all day and lay in pajamas on rerun binges if I chose to, because adults have that option without someone hounding them to get up do something productive. Ha! Yeah, right. It’s almost cute how stupid I was in my visions of the future.
Bedtime has become a complete shit show charade of song and dance, stories, and endless excuses as to why it’s not that “time” yet. Begging for snacks and back rubs while someone sobs (usually me, sometimes them) because we are all exhausted and if they don’t go to bed soon I’M GOING TO LOSE MY SHIT.
Parenting is like a domestic partnership. Only you didn’t walk into it agreeing to share anything and everything from this day forth, till death do you part. You are forced to or all hell breaks loose.
This includes your belongings, your money, AND your sanity. What’s yours is theirs and what’s theirs is theirs. Forever and ever, Amen.
Honestly, I love my kids with every ounce of my being. I would be lost and devastated if anything changed in our family. But there are days where I wonder how I keep it all together. And that’s what chocolate and wine are for. Cheers.
I’ll Support My Direct Sales “Friends”, Even If They Can Be Annoying AF
Ohhhhh trust me. These women sometimes kill me with their “you won’t BELIEVE this!!” stories of weight loss, magic pills, perfect mascara, or ass firming miracle cream. I know they can be annoying AF sometimes. I. GET. IT. But guess what? Imma try to be supportive anyways.
Girl, even if we haven’t talked in ages, you don’t have to push your children’s books or buttery-soft leggings on me. When I need it, I’ll come find you. Whoever you are, and wherever you are. Because I know that you are busting your ass trying to make something of yourself and it. is. not. easy. I am aware that you are trying to do something for yourself and your family and I also know that someone along the way conjured up these mind-blowing success stories that sucked you in to this vicious world and now you at least need to make your money back, and hopefully a little extra.
I know that you have a dream of staying at home with your kids, working from your couch on your phone or computer and doing it all through social media.
I realize that you have been advised to friend request all of your old acquaintances and convinced into send them all cold messages by someone you consider to be a pro at network marketing. Ask them if you can share with them a short video, right? Five minutes of their time. And then ask them when you can follow up to discuss this amazing “opportunity”.
You are just doing what the successful people have told you will help you launch your “biz”. You see their success and you want a piece of it. And, shit. I do not blame you one bit. I hope you make it in this cut-throat world. I really do.
Don’t you worry about me judging your Facebook wall of sales promotions, new “hot” items, or team shout outs. I may not follow you every step of the way, but I won’t bat an eye. And if you do win that trip you’re working so hard for, I’ll be cheering from behind my own screen. You deserve it.
The world of direct sales will swallow some up 
and spit them out. And others will walk out unscathed with a trunk of new skin care (and a little debt they were at least able to pay off). A very select few will actually succeed in a way that makes up for the insane amount of time and money they have spent investing in their businesses. And those are the ones that everyone in this game aspires to be. The road it takes to get there is one that demands a lot of confidence, demands immense self-control and the ability to let criticism roll off your back without scarring your spirit. It means there are times you’ll have to swallow your pride and do a lot of defending yourself and these oils or wax or supplements you feel so deeply about.
And to all the naysayers I have this to say….
Have you ever put yourself out there and been rejected time and time again? Been treated like absolute scum just because you tried to sell your friends on some amazing protein powder or pressed “natural” eye shadow that they could buy in the store for fractions of the price and they were “kind” enough to point that out to you? (But t
hat’s not going to help you pay your kids way through preschool). I have. And it is a soul crushing experience. One that is not for the weak or the timid. Until you have experienced what it’s like to bare your soul and be completely out of your comfort zone over some damn candles on a platform that is open to the public in ways you wish you could take back at times, then you have no idea. Try showing intense excitement through a typed post about party dip powder that is catchy and fun and not cringe worthy. It’s not easy. It’s excruciating at times. But these women push on, because they hope one day it will all come to fruition and their labors will all be worth it. Hopefully.
I give these women so much credit for being confident enough to post selfies of themselves all day long. Even if it is in terrible lighting. Who am I to judge? Anyone that can take half naked pictures of themselves and expose every wrinkle and roll to show YOU that a wrap really has helped them change their body for the better, deserves a friggin medal if you ask me.
We all have bills, we all have dreams, 
and if selling lipstick that stays put for the whole day is yours…. girl, you do not have to explain yourself to me. Go get it. I’m rooting for you.
8 Truths Only Women With Curly Hair Will Understand
Today I expertly straightened my hair in the air conditioning of the house only to walk out of the bathroom to hear the slow drizzle of raindrops on the rooftop. Awesome. What a fucking joke.
If you are like me and were born with a wild lion’s mane on top of your head that must be carefully tamed with the utmost precision every day, then you get it. We live in a state of perpetual frizz and are constantly searching for the next serum, oil, or cream that will turn our Einstein mess into the beautiful locks we see in the media. The absurd ways we have attempted to dry our hair (upside down and to the side and off on an angle, and {later} why is my neck so sore?) just to attempt to get it somewhat consistent and *maybe* look decent for a change. The struggle is REAL. And I don’t mean that in a sarcastic or funny way. I mean that in a “seriously, this is the absolute fucking worst” kind of way. My curly haired soulmates understand because they have been there, they have lived it, and 30+ years later they still have NOT figured out how the hell to get their hair to do what they want it to. We’ve tried it ALL, amiright, ladies?
1. You will buy any product someone says worked for them. Even if you are pretty sure you can smell a scam or the ingredients read as such that might make your hair actually fall out. It’s worth a shot. And every time you try something new you wonder how the FUCK the person that told you about it got it to work, because for you, it’s either too thick, not enough, or your hair is crispy and stiff.
2. Dry shampoo? We can’t use that shit. We have to wash out the 103985 products we attempted to use yesterday to keep our hair in check, or at least try to.
3. Just a trim, to get the split ends off. 7 inches later and you’re proudly sporting an clown wig style bob haircut because your ends begin splitting the second you walk off the salon’s chair after your last hair cut.
4. Or worse yet, you wanted a short cut, HAAAA! Good luck, curly sue. You bring in a photo with someone with the perfect/short/curl tamed cut and want it recreated. And it might just be done…. by your hair dresser. That’s the only time that is going to look good is when your she blows it out and styles it for you. There is no way you’re going to recreate that look ever again. You’ll spend hours trying to remember just what she did at the salon to make your hair turn out the way it did. And once your hair is so long, thick, and you can no longer stand the weight of the products making you pour sweat directly out of the shower, before you’ve even left the house…. you’ll forget all about how catastrophic it was and you’ll do it again. (and again, and again) It’s basically the definition of insanity.
5. Some people with wavy hair (like me) try to straighten their hair. Which is great, 10% of the year. The other 90% of the time it’s either raining, too humid, or too hot and your hair does a quick cinch back up to your scalp literally the SECOND you walk out of the house. For 9 months out of the year you basically live in a hat or a pony tail because your hair just won’t cooperate with the weather. Ever.
6. Speaking of insanity, wispys are cute. Unless you have curly hair. When people with straight hair show those little baby hairs and wispys framing their face they are cute, sexy even at times. On women with curly hair? It’s like you have a halo of frizz surrounding your face making you look forever frazzled, even if you had a night of 9 hours of sleep, 2 cups of coffee and couldn’t feel more refreshed. Your hair tells a different story. You look like you just escaped the local behavioral health unit, and the stains on your shirt from your kids spilling their juice on you in the car and your mismatched shoes because you were in a hurry and lacking sleep…. that’s not helping your case.
7. You see someone with tamed, beautiful curly hair and you instantly hate them. How the HELL are they pulling this off? So, of course, you ask them. And expertly write a list of their regiment only to go buy all 40 products the next day and find that they don’t make your hair look like theirs. At all. And now you’re out $200.
8. People with straight hair will tell you they wish they had your hair. Ummmmm no, ya don’t. You want CURLED hair. Curly hair is not the same. Don’t minimize my pain. The grass is always greener and in this grass, it needs a serious maintenance.
Curly hair is God’s inside joke. Like if you leave a little note for your kid in their lunchbox, but the content is to remind them they are grounded from the PlayStation when they get home from school. It’s a curse 99.9% of the time. Hours and hours of masterfully attempting to curl, lift, pin, cream, soothe, and domesticate the wild beast on our head, and if we are lucky we can count on one hand the number days in the year we were actually pleased with the outcome. But when it does happen to work out, we couldn’t love the rat’s nested mop on our heads more. Until we walk outside and see the clouds coming in…..
