Work, Part II

Let me say that I really like where I work. Our school isn't perfect, but we have some committed teachers and a strong, fair, and caring principal and vice-principal. We have a very heterogeneous community of students, ethnically and socio-economically. We are really making some terrific gains in our test scores . . . there is a lot about which to be proud. I decided -- after about nine years at a different school -- to move to the school that I am at, and I have never regretted that decision. The first year was rough, though. It was my tenth year teaching, but it felt like my first in some ways.

For one thing, I had to get used to a new grade level's curriculum. There were worksheets and graphic organizers to make up and new projects to plan out, because the ideas that come with the teacher's edition are just that -- ideas. There's no handout that comes with all of the materials that really explains this terrific idea to the students--what's expected of them, how to complete the assignment, how they will be graded. At least, I've never really found the handouts that come with a new textbook adoption adequate, so I spend a lot of time adapting them or innovating them to fit for my students, my management style, and our district's grading rubrics. So I had to do all of that, and reacquaint myself with world history from roughly the Fall of the Roman Empire to the Age of Enlightenment (Africa, rise of Islam and Muslim Empires, medieval Japan, Tang through Ming dynasties in China, feudal Europe, etc.), and bone up on what language arts standards my students were to master at that grade level. (I teach both language arts and world history.) And everything I created was new; since I was teaching a new grade level, I couldn't simply open my file cabinet and take out last year's organizer and tweak it a bit for a new group of kids. It was all brand new.

Also, I would be piloting a new program at our school -- a technological component. Technology doesn't scare me, and I looked forward to working with the program. I love my computer and my gadgets . . . ! (What did p*** me off, though, was that the district wasn't giving me a lot of ideas about how to implement this program. Their idea of support was to tell me how to work the applications on the computer -- which I already knew how to do -- not give me some good ideas about how to integrate these programs with curriculum and standards. So I had to come up with these ideas on my own . . . but that's a long other story.)

Thirdly, of course, I needed to teach and assess. The assessing can take a LONG time . . . imagine 90 to 100 essays to grade with comments on each. It's a drag.

So I was doing all three of these concurrently . . . it left me working twelve-hour days sometimes, guilty for grading papers on the couch rather than playing with my kids at night, too tired to have sex with my husband, dead exhausted on the weekend.

BUT I WAS DOING A GOOD JOB, I thought. I really felt like I was being effective as a teacher, competent . . . I was having those good teaching days I talked about in the last post.

So imagine how assaulted I felt when a group of parents decided that I wasn't doing a good enough job! That I didn't know what I was doing on the computer, that their child wasn't doing enough writing, that I was not "challenging" their student(s) enough -- their child was bored and hated coming to my class! -- and that I was the most disorganized teacher they'd ever encountered. (The last accusation, that I was disorganized, was particularly wounding to me because I take pride in how clean and orderly my classroom is. The Type A teacher that I am, I put other teachers to absolute shame with how organized I am.) And did they confront me with these comments? No, they went straight to my new principal, who, upon hearing all of these comments, I felt sure was regretting she'd let me come to her school.

My anxiety started to rise. I was really worried. I thought I was doing so well. I felt like all was fine. It was a challenge, but I was meeting it all. I stewed and worried all weekend. (One particular mother, the straw that broke this camel's back, ranted for nearly 25 minutes at me on a Thursday evening, and we didn't have school the next day.) As the anxiousness increased, my eating and sleeping decreased. I probably even felt sick to my stomach and thew up a few times. (That's my MO.) I cried. A lot.

These parents touched a raw nerve in me. I felt so inadequate and caught completely by surprise. I hate being caught by surprise. [My HC was the mother of all (horrific) surprises.] At least let me worry about a few possible scenarios, so that if one of them happens, I at least have already thought out in a rudimentary way how I can cope. Couldn't they see how hard I was working? Obviously they didn't, so I would just have to work harder. Want challenge? Okay, I'll give you challenge. But then they complained it was too much. They were never satisfied. BUT, by the end of the year, I think I had proven myself. One mother, who wrote me a scathing email in October -- I burst into tears when I read it -- said, at the end of the year, "Thank you. You have really worked hard. I'm sorry we were so hard on you." But she was the only one.

It turns out that my principal has never regretted having me come to her school for a second. She never did, even when those parents were so vocal. She realized, I think, that they were a tough set of parents, because they were tough on her too, and not just tough about me. As the year progressed, we were almost able to joke about it: "Mrs. X called me today," she'd tell me, kinda rolling her eyes a bit. "Oh yeah? What am I doing wrong now?" I'd retort.

The thing is . . . and this is the second major reason, besides the HC and a school year abruptly cut short three months ago, that I am anxious to return to school. Because those students have younger siblings . . . and some of them will be in my classes again this year. Which means I will be interacting with those parents again. And that doesn't make me especially excited to return to work. I already feel like not only do I have to be "on guard" with my feelings at work concerning grieving my HC, but also I will have this constant defensiveness around them. Are you going to ask me snappy questions again? Will you greet me icily or will you deign to smile at me as you say hello? Am I still going to have to prove myself to you?

I knew these students were coming up through the grades. That's one of the things that excited me about being pregnant and due in September. I knew that I would be able to come back to school, introduce myself, and then take half of the year off and not have to deal with them until January. And then I'd be so blissed out by having a cute baby, who cared? I would only have to face them for half a year. I could do half a year. Now I have to do a whole year.

Ugh.

Work, Part I

So I start work again soon. For me, work means "school" as I am in education. It is the last facet of the life I had before my HC that I haven't resumed. Picking it up again is causing me a little anxiety. I'm not having a full-blown panic attack about it, but I' worried that I could. It's just been on my mind a little bit more than I'd like it to be. Sure, knowing that I have to go back to work after a summer off never inspires the "jolly" side of me to come out, but I never usually think about it as much as I am now. I'm making sure to be really good and not to forget to take the Lexapro . . . because that will help prevent a high state of anxiety from completely debilitating me, rendering me non-functional just when I need to be functional.

On May 6 (the day I had my 20 week ultrasound), my doctor called me in the evening to let me know things looked bad. That's it. I haven't been to work since. In the beginning, I simply took the rest of that week off work so that I could attend the myriad of doctor and further testing appointments that come with a poor prenatal diagnosis. Then after that was all said and done, and our decision was made, I spent the next week anxiously at home, waiting for those appointments to be made . . . the ones that would separate me from Michael. I was trying to be optimistic, thinking that I could go back to work for the last two weeks of school. My thought was that work would be good for me, that it would bring structure to my days and keep my mind from going into the dark neighborhoods it has a tendency to frequent. (And it went there even before our HC.) The Nazis had this horrible phrase in the entrance gates to all of their concentration camps, "Arbeit mach frei," or "Work makes you free." And for me sometimes it does. I can get so drowned in the tasks that I need to complete, and I begin to work at almost a maniacal rate, that I am temporarily "free" from all of the other painful things that normally occupy my mind. The work drowns out my other sorrows.

It became clear, however, that going back to work was a ludicrous idea. I'd have to face students who remembered me round and could so clearly see now that I wasn't. I didn't want to answer any questions from the kids who didn't have tact enough to keep their questions to themselves. As for the kids who did have a sense of decorum and privacy, I didn't want to see the questions in their faces, even if they were never, ever going to give voice to them. They were there and I didn't want to confront those yet. I didn't want to see any co-workers, except the one or two that I absolutely trusted in my department. Only they could hear me cry on the phone as they called to check in on me. The rest I would see when I came back to work in the fall. I would get a fresh start in the fall. I would have the summer to grieve and to heal, and I could come back to work -- different from the person I was before -- cracked -- but less raw. So, instead, I began to work at home . . . on house things, almost like I was nesting for the baby I would never have. If school work sometimes set me free before, housework would now, damn it. I began to clean, clean, clean and paint, paint, paint . . . it helped me function and focus instead of sit on the couch and think too much. And now all that has to end because the other work beckons.

Did I mention that I think I'm a workaholic? Because I think I am. I can't decide if I just have an all-consuming job for ten months out of the year, or if I just work really, really hard and get really compulsive about it. But I'm good; that much I know on some level. I was teacher of the year at the school I was at previous to this, and I get lots of students who look me up as they are graduating or now that they're in college to say "hi" and let me know how much they learned, and colleagues like me and my principals have all said that I'm great. But I also worry tremendously that I'm not . . . that's the outward part of me that you don't see. The part that is suspicous of myself. That part of me that knows I can still do it better. I can reach another student, or figure out a better way to help make a connection, or maybe finally say the magic word that will inspire another to start turning in assignments (at all, much less on time.) Will you find out that I'm not really "all that"? Because I don't really think of myself as all that. But I do have great teaching days, and I love those days where I think that my lessons are going well, and I made that connection, and the kids were enthusiastic--even the ones who aren't normally. I'm thankful for those days.

I was speeding along like that, having pretty good teaching days two years ago, when I got sideswiped. In light of the poor prenatal diagnosis and HC -- now that was a KO -- no sideswipe will ever compare to that. But I took this one hard. And that's another of the reasons, aside from going back to work after a HC, that I am anxious. I will explain in Part II later.

Lazy Today

It is Saturday at 12:25 and I am still in my pajamas and still in bed. I feel so guilty, but I have nothing I have to do. I could clean my kids' bathroom, or I could move some of the laundry that's on the couch up to its proper place. I could go run errands, but there's time enough for that tomorrow or Monday. So I'm indulging in watching some of my favorite crime shows: "Snapped" and "FBI Files" and "The Investigators," which I shuffle through randomly trying to watch all three at once. The reason for my laziness has to do with the fact that I woke up early this morning and couldn't fall back asleep. I got up and moved into the room in our house we call the playroom, because it has all of the kids' toys, to watch TV and (hopefully) fall back to sleep. No dice. I ended up watching all of Freedom Writers, one of those inspirational teacher movies that reminds me I will never be one of those teachers, much as I'd like to be. M got up and watched the ending of the movie with me, and we lay there together on the couch, her little body snuggled into mine, until it was time to put cartoons on and get chocolate milk. After chocolate milk we lay down again and snuggled and she watched cartoons. I dozed and she would periodically wake me up asking to change channels, but I am left with this lethargic dozed feeling that a good nap would shake. Instead I lay in bed and channel surf.

In about an hour, Dear Husband and I will take our Dear Children to Grandma and Grandpa's house. Both are excited to be going. Normally, they visit each Sunday, but tonight they are spending the night. This means they get spoiled: all the TV watching, video-game-playing, popcorn-and-ice-cream-eating they want. They'll probably go out to dinner, and maybe make a trip to either the toy store or the book store. My dear husband and I get to be two adults who go out to dinner and don't have to worry about if the restaurant also has a kids' menu. We don't have to play tic-tac-toe with crayons on a paper place mat. No, the restaurant we're going to has white table cloths! Afterward, we're going to see a movie and we get to go home and go to sleep -- well, some adult fun first (TMI!) -- without having to remind DS to change into clean underwear and cajole DD to brush her teeth well, not just suck on the toothbrush bristles. Yes, it will be a nice evening, our first alone as two adults since our heartbreaking choice in May. And tomorrow we might make it to church, or we might not, before heading back to my parents' house to pick up the kiddos.

As far as doing this whole Baby Dance again? Well, we are slowly and cautiously moving forward again. I'm still on The Pill, but I've started taking prenatals and an extra dose of folic acid. I have a call in to my OB/GYN to see if he wants to see me for an appointment first, or if we can just go ahead and start trying. And have we waited long enough, or should we wait longer? In case he says he wants to see me for an appointment, I've already made it for about a month from now. I'm exercising and watching what I'm eating, checking my blood sugar levels because I want to try to avoid the gestational diabetes that developed with Michael's pregnancy. W is getting ahead of himself (I think) talking about getting a bigger car for when the baby is here . . . I dunno . . . I think (the pessimistic one, I am) that we should wait until we have the baby at home before we go out to get a bigger one. Just cautious, I guess.

The Plan in Action

I forgot to make this posting last week . . . here's how I put it on support site:

"On my way to Los Angeles International Airport today (LAX) to pick up BIL, I snapped this shot. Okay: (1) I know we're not supposed to talk on our cellphones while driving in California now, but they never said anything about snapping photos; (2) It was a little tricky and the driver was probably like, "Why is this flash going off in the car behind me?" -- it was my Canon, not my cell phone -- but OH WELL; (3) I couldn't drive AND flip the bird AND take the picture at the same time . . . SO I took the picture, and then I worked a little Photoshop magic tonight by taking the finger out of my first picture and putting it onto the new picture of the car and its bumper stickers. Also, I added a PINK arrow commenting on one of the stickers."

And to whomever the anonymous poster was before who told me that pink duct tape was vandalism: I know. That's why I personally will not use it. Ultimately, I am a total rule follower personality type and don't want to break the law. I carry it symbolically in my car, and I find flipping off the sticker and taking a picture more expedient anyway. It was just an idea that hurting women came up with, and how we each decide to carry though with The Plan is up us.

Willing to Try Again

I had a dream last night (one of the few that I ever remember because my sleep is pretty crappy still) that I got pregnant accidentally, and it was sooner than the "three or four or five" cycles that my doctor said should pass before we tried again. And I was panicked because it was too early. I don't remember much else from the dream other than the anxious feeling of being pregnant. Not joyful. Apprehensive.

In the surreal three days that it took to complete my HC, I was already thinking about the possibility of trying to conceive again. Frankly, it scared the living s*** out of me, the possibility that I could get pregnant again and have to make another HC. (Because, of course, the way I think, it would happen again.) I sat there in the clinic, in my papery disposable "gown" waiting for unspeakable things to be done to my body. There were other girls in the room with me, waiting. One of them broke the uneasy silence of the room -- well it wasn't completely silent; there was a stupid TV on showing an episode of "Reba" that none of us were watching -- and voiced the question, "How long do you need to wait before you can try again?" I looked at her like she was nuts, and I said that I was done. "I'm not doing this again. I don't want there to even be a chance that I could experience this again." Pitifully, this was her first experience with pregnancy; her first go at it and the baby's diagnosis was Trisomy 18 (very non-compatible with life). I, with two living children, at least took solace in that; I could go home and hug them like I was never going to let them go. And I did, believe me.

I was surprised when, probably a day or two after my procedure had been completed, I had changed my mind! Should I try to conceive (TTC) again? And, if so, when? I was desperate for a baby. (Of course I wanted Michael.) Does DH want to try again? I tried to bring it up casually, but we both agreed that it was too soon to think about it. I dropped the subject, but I thought about it constantly. I prayed about it in church to God: Will you let me know when (and if) we should try again? I thought about going to see a medium; maybe she could say something that would give me some insight into what we should do. I kept my eyes open when I was out and about: when I encountered cranky kids or screaming toddlers I thought maybe God was telling me the two I had was enough. I noticed how restaurants just seemed to be set up for fours, not fives. Booths seat four comfortably; the rides at Disneyland seat four to a Alice in Wonderland gondola; Rockband is set up for four players . . . but my mind would fight back. "Yeah, but, we have room for six at our dinner table. And the kids wouldn't fight in the backseat of my car if the car seat with their cute brother or sister was put in the middle of them." Gradually, my maniacal mind settled down a bit and I even thought I would be okay if DH came back to me and told me he didn't want to try again. That would just be it. I could live with all of that.

But DH surprised me last Saturday night.

He had just returned from a week away from us. When he is away, he misses us (especially me) terribly. He is very "clingy" (in a good way) when he returns, so we spent much of the night talking in bed after the kids fell asleep. He said he had done some thinking, and he believes we should try again. He misses Michael a lot, but he thinks a baby would be good for us. He thought about what I had said, about wanting to experience a pregnancy together from beginning to end without having to be deployed or worrying about being deployed, as it happened with DS. He wanted to experience our child's life without having a deployment interrupt it, as it had for 18 months shortly after DD was born. The whole enchilada, so to speak . . . Michael was supposed to be the baby that helped that dream come to a fruition, except that the dream got dashed and all the other dreams that came with Michael were cut abruptly short. The threat of deployment is no longer in the picture--although with the Army I've learned never to count on anything too much, but DH has said he'll retire if he sees a deployment down the line. I just want that experience with my husband: a pregnancy that he's there for AND a baby to raise with me afterwards without having to take a hiatus for months at a time. He wants that, too. That and we just didn't want to end our childbearing on a sour note. A true bundle of joy, one more living child . . . that's the way I want to end. On a more positive note.

To say that I was very happy is an understatement. My mood was lifted. There is something to plan for and to look forward to, even though I know I'll be a nervous wreck. A naively blissful pregnancy is no longer an option for me. There's a lot to do to plan for this next one. A preconception appointment with Dr. OBGYN, which I've never done before. I always got pregnant and went in afterwards. I need to bulk up on Folic Acid. I need to lose weight and get healthy, which I've already started to do in case DH said he was willing. (And I'm doing it for myself, too, of course.) There's the grief to process . . . we're going to wait a bit, but at least we're on the same page as far as where to go from here.

Am I Guilty?

I started seeing a new therapist today. It was our first session, and she asked me about what brought me to her, which -- right now, least -- is baby loss. One of the questions she asked me was whether or not I am feeling guilty. A good question, deeper than any my other psychologist asked me about my baby loss. Hence, why I decided to try a new psychologist (that, and some other reasons, but I digress).

So the answer is YES, I am carrying a lot of guilt around with me. In the session, I told the psychologist (let's call her Dr. P) that I was feeling guilty for feeling little pleasures lately, like enjoying listening to music loudly in the car as I drive and singing along. I don't often get to drive around sans kids, and when I do, I love to blast my music. It gives me pleasure, especially when it is summer time, a balmy night, and I get to drive around with the windows down with the music up loud (but not so loud that it bothers people in other cars -- I hate that!) It makes me feel good, but as soon as I realize I'm feeling good, a wave of guilt passes over me . . . like I should be mourning. I lost a baby. What happened was sad. It isn't right to feel good yet -- or is it?

I feel guilty that I didn't take my prenatal vitamins faithfully; they made me sick. I couldn't take them in the morning, or I'd be sick at work. Try barfing in front of teenage students -- mmm, not so good. I moved them to my bedside, trying to remind myself to take them at night before I went to sleep instead, but my bedside was so cluttered I often forgot. Or I was just so damn tired from being pregnant, I feel asleep at 7:30 p.m. and didn't wake up to do anything, including wash my makeup off and brush my teeth, let alone take a vitamin. Did that cause the Dandy-Walker, which led to hydrocephalus? I don't know. I'll never know, but I'm guilty that I didn't take that vitamin because maybe that was a cause.

I feel guilty I drank that Diet Coke -- the caffeinated kind. They say you're not supposed to have caffeine when you're pregnant, you know, but I had some. After I was through the first trimester, I switched from decaffeinated to caffeinated . . . it helped me wake up in the morning. After that during the day I drank sugar free Crystal Light and water . . . but the Diet Coke. I just couldn't stay away.

And I got my hair dyed . . . you're not supposed to do that, either.

But the choice itself? The choice to terminate? It is complicated. Given our disastrous diagnosis, the fact that our son would not live, or that if he did, he would have no quality of life, I do not regret our decision. There was no gray area with our diagnosis; it was not "iffy." It was pretty clear, according to the pediatric neurosurgeon, that there was no hope. (They have to leave a little window open to cover their butts, but we could read between the lines.) After all the diagnostic testing was done, it was evident to DH and I what our decision would be. Given the same scenario again -- God forbid! -- I would do the same thing. DH and I thought about the quality of life issue for Michael, about the lives of our living children and how they would be impacted, and about our marriage. We knew it would take a toll on our marriage, if not kill it, and neither of us wanted that.

No, I don't have any guilt that way . . . and yet I do. In my most forlorn moments, crying deeply in the shower -- which is the only private place for me to do so with two small kids -- I have cried out to Michael to forgive me. Way back on a really, really bad day (June 12) I posted that question on my support site: Does my dear angel son forgive me? I don't have an answer to that. That is where my guilt lies. I think so, if what I've heard and read about angels, spirits, and those who have "crossed over" is true. But I haven't "felt" his presence, in a dream or otherwise, so . . . I just don't know.

Does God forgive me? (I am almost certain so, but then convert-Catholic guilt factors in . . . I haven't been to Confession yet? So technically, I'm not absolved.) I still have to resolve the spiritual issues that surround my HC. I will; I'm working on that. It's almost like I'm "shopping" for a priest I can confess to . . . "Mmm, homily was a little too conservative today -- you're off the prospective Confession list!" And then again, do I really need to "confess" something that I know was the right thing to do? Weirdly, I feel like I do. I don't know why. Maybe it has to do with the sanctity of life, because it is sacred, you know? I never willingly wanted to make that HC. I was a good person with no good choices.

AF, Baby Loss Blogs & and an Earthquake

The three of these combined do NOT make for a good day. Oh yeah, add in some ornery kids and a husband gone on business again, you've got the recipe for an emotional mine-field of a day.

Summer routine: Wake up, read news, read Heartbreaking Choice threads, check email, get ready to (1) go to Mass and/or (2) do a "project" around the house and/or (3) clean house and/or (4) do errands, etc. Tuesday was really no different, except that morning I was feeling especially lazy and the kids hadn't started acting up yet, so I navigated over to Glow in the Woods. I read one achingly frank and brutal account of one woman's loss, and I was off on a crying jag. I got up to take a shower, because it is in the shower that I can cry, off by myself alone, without having to have DS and DD see or hear me. I just looked up at the ceiling in the shower, crying more bitter tears, and whispering how much I hated being a part of this club--the baby loss club. I hate it. As the administrator of the HC site often says to newcomers, "Welcome . . . it's not a club that anyone wants to belong to, but we're glad you've found us." I'm glad I found them, too, but as many have said in response to a posting I made that day about how much I hate to be in the club -- and this is a response I agree with too -- I'd trade all of the new friendships I've made there for the chance to have my baby back healthy and not riddled with anomalies.

Nevertheless, after a good cry in the shower, I got out, toweled off, and began to get ready to take my kids swimming at the pool at my mom's house. Aunt Flo arrived, so that probably accounts for all my emotion this morning, too. F***ing hormones are just a force of nature that I constantly underestimate. I just couldn't stop weeping, though. I felt like Two-Face, the Batman villain . . . weeping quietly as I blew dry my hair in the bathroom, but then hastily wiping away tears and putting on a cheery act whenever DD or DS came around the corner to visit me for a minute to check on my progress. They already had their bathing suits on. What's the hold up, Mom? They're aggravating each other by this point, and pissing me off because I'm having to stop and go settle petty arguments. Sometimes in summer, we forego the naps. But not today, I think.

So finally we're all ready. We go downstairs to get sunscreen. I send the kids to get towels as I quickly make my "I hate being part of this club" rant post to HC, and then we leave. Except I forget the keys to my mom's house, so we need to come racing back to our house to get the keys. Serendipitously, DH calls at that same time and we are all able to talk to him while he is taking a break from a "war" simulation. The kids take the chance to act up "in front of him" on the phone, which I secretly enjoy, because there's always some part of me that says, "See? See how hard it is to be a single mom when you're gone?" And I'll be the first one to admit that I have very good kids and it hasn't been all that bad. But still. He talks sternly to them from wherever he is in Kansas, we say goodbye, and then we're off again.

EXCEPT now instead of forgetting keys, I get caught in our earthquake, said epicenter of which is only about 10 miles from my house. I was driving to my mom's house; I've never been driving when a bigger earthquake hit before. I thought that all of my tires were blown out, except when I looked down at my dashboard, there was no light showing I was having pressure problems. I slowed to a stop. The steel signal holders were shaking. An earthquake, I thought. I was afraid to drive through the major intersection I was approaching; I didn't want any signals toppling down onto our car. Things settled down; I continued driving, but I pulled into the shopping center on the other corner, where I saw numerous people standing outside, and asked, "That was an earthquake, right? There's nothing wrong with my car??" Yes, we had a temblor.

I proceeded to my mom's, and I checked her house for any fallen objects. Nothing, really, but some crooked pictures and a few toppled things. The family's heirloom clock on the mantle was okay, but I took it down in case of aftershocks. My brother gets that; I get my mom's sparkly (big) wedding ring (and other jewelry). We went swimming. The whole while, though, I tried to make contact with DH to let him know we had an earthquake and we were okay, but the system was overloaded. I couldn't get anything more than a random text through. The kids swam off some steam in the water, we went home, and they settled in for naps.

During naps, I took the time to search through my insurance network for a new psychologist. Before everything happened that led to our HC, I was musing on changing therapists, anyway. I felt like I wasn't accomplishing much, and I thought I needed a new, more directive therapist. Then, when our poor prenatal diagnosis came, and we made our HC, I thought, "Better to already be seeing a therapist rather than have to find one right now." It was just too overwhelming for me to face the day at that point, much less to think about trying to research someone new. But just the previous night, I was answering a 6-by-6, a series of questions posed by the moderators from Glow in the Woods, and I realized the questions I was answering were better than the ones my current psychologist was asking me. (See my answers here.) I want one who will give me "homework" and all that. One who is even more resourceful than I already am. One who will ask me questions I haven't already ask myself, or at least some one who will ask me what questions I'm asking myself and talk through the answers with me. So I spent the afternoon cross checking names of psychologists in my insurance network against those that are certified to perform EMDR, a form of therapy many on the HC site have tried and have found beneficial, and then making sure those psychologists that matched have experience with grief or postnatal issues. Then, I made calls to make sure they were accepting new patients and that they weren't philosophically opposed to abortion. (Because my current psychologist, even though I think she understands our choice, I'm not sure she fully supports it, being a full on Christian. Not that I'm NOT Christian -- I am -- but she's that kind, more evangelical and born-again.) I have an appointment with someone new on Aug. 5.

The kids slept late, so we ran errands late. We went to our NEW Target to get things, then to Home Depot to get paint (because one of my "projects" includes repainting the kids' bathroom). At Home Depot I texted DH that I was "buying paint, buying beer next" which immediately elicited a phone call.

"You okay?"

"Sure," I replied, because the kids and my nerves really had settled down by then. "I'm just going to finally get that beer we meant to get at the store this week and kept forgetting."

"Oh, okay, because I told the sergeant here that the kids have finally really pissed her off or they had another earthquake."

"No, no, they're better now . . . I just need to have a beer because it has been that kind of day."

And so I did.