Our Life in Music

“Bohemian Rhapsody.” Kati, Anna, and I had wondered: How much of our weirdness would it take to scare you away? How crazy would we have to be before you said enough? But that night I began to realize maybe you would always match us crazy for crazy. Was I already falling for you then? Or was there magic in watching you stroll, suitcase in hand, across our makeshift music video stage to the line “carry on, carry on”?

The entire Best of Kansas CD. You mentioned, in passing, that you liked Kansas. I went home and bought the CD. I listened to it a lot that summer, in between the more typically me music: OMD, Erasure, Enya, the American Graffiti soundtrack (though I’ve never seen the show). It was a subtle form of stalking, and I convinced myself, for a few months at least, that I really loved Kansas.

“Green-Eyed Lady.” Sugarloaf. I’d never heard this one. You mentioned it via email after one of our late-night campus rambles. You said it reminded you of me. I looked it up, of course, in those days when it was still somewhat difficult to find lyrics online. Did it mean what it sounded like? Did you like me? From the lyrics, the implication seemed obvious, but I still couldn’t manage to believe it. It was still months before we admitted how we felt.

Bon Jovi. “Always.” We danced, and it felt like the first time, the most important time, and I sang the lyrics quietly and thought it might be true—that “I will love you . . . always.” Minus, of course, that poorly rhymed bit about (ironically) rhyming words. That moment changed us. It changed me. And yet, even then, as always when I hear this song, I couldn’t help but wish that they’d come up with a better rhyme.

 

“Breathe” by Faith Hill. “Amazed” by Lonestar. Our first kiss.

“Via Con Me.” Watching Mostly Martha (the German version, not the American remake) in our first apartment and dancing in the kitchen.

“Run” by Snow Patrol. It was playing in the car as you dropped me off at work that one time.

That mix of about seven songs for childbirth. I kept meaning to make a brilliant, perfect, relaxing mix of songs for labor with our third child, but then I kept not getting to it. For months. Finally, about ten hours into labor, I put the songs together on our computer. They played, over and over again, for the next six hours.

Anything by Radiohead. Our irreconcilable difference, that you think their sounds count as music.

“High and Dry.” Though I admit it sounds more like music when I listen to you practice it on your guitar.

“Daydream Believer.” “I’m a Believer.” Both the Monkees versions, of course. Sitting in the dining room, reminiscing about the music of our childhood. Playing YouTube videos for the kids. Occasionally in our lives, I just stare at you and remember. Where we’ve been. Who we’ve been. The fact that here we are, that you love me, that we’ve created this life together—it just takes my breath away. And I think I couldn’t possibly love you any more than I already do.
But then the music starts to play, and we both burst into song, and we smile, and the children laugh at the silly outfits in the music video, and we laugh along too, and I find I was wrong. I love you even more.

Happy anniversary to my fantastic husband.

Was It You?

February 2000. We dance, awkwardly, my palm sweaty in his, his hand no doubt sticking clammily to the waist of my dress. The friendship is old, but the dancing is new. We are close enough that looking up into his face kinks my neck, so we just shuffle, the music playing, the heat of nervous skin radiating between and around us.

A gentle shove from invisible hands in the middle of my back propels me forward, and my head is suddenly resting on his chest. His cheek comes down to settle on my hair, and I am trying not to hyperventilate. The feeling is so right, it makes my head float. This is the closest I have ever stood to him, and I can barely understand how I got here.

With the hands, I feel-hear the echo of giggles from someplace in heaven. If we left them to their own devices, I can almost hear a voice say, it would take them absolutely ages to get together. I think there may be an eye roll somewhere in there. Wait a minute, is there really eye rolling in heaven?

Apparently.

***

August 2005. We kneel facing each other, grinning. I am finally his; he is finally mine. I’m too nervous, too excited, too happy to notice it, but I suspect that somewhere up above there is a collective sigh of relief. See? They took ages anyway.

***

February 2007. He knows immediately. “Something is different,” he tells me, and naively I laugh. “No way. All the leaflets say it takes three or four months for the body to come down off the pill. We’ve still got a while to wait.”

***

March 2007. I stare at the stick that I’m holding as the little positive sign grows clearer. But . . . but I was expecting a little more time to get used to the idea! And I feel the brush of a soul against my own, so impatient, so excited for life. And I remember those ghostly hands.

Was it you? I wonder.

Yes, definitely me.

But there was more than one set of hands.

And the moment passes, the time passes, and I know this soul has been waiting for her chance.

***

October 2010. I am caught up in this birth, the perfection of this moment. And I suspect that here too is an owner of ghostly, nudging hands. Another impatient child who knew her parents needed a little shove. Waiting for the first opportunity to jump to this earth life. And here she is.

***

May 2012. More nudging, but we’re not ready. Just wait, please, just wait.

***

October 2013. I didn’t know those words would make the waiting so long. The discovery of this child’s existence is a relief and a wonder, a little miracle in a world of miracles—but our very own miracle, which makes it special.

Was it you? I wonder again. I don’t know this time. I feel a little sadness in not knowing what happened to that May soul, not knowing if that soul will become my July baby or if it’s gone somewhere else for good. But the sadness is swallowed in the joy of this new life, coming whether or not I have ever felt this soul’s hands pressing against my back, nudging me to the future.

***

September 2015. I stare at myself in the mirror, my hand on my abdomen. Absolute terror and quiet peace do battle in my heart.

And the question comes again, and I laugh because really? How many of you were really necessary to get the job done? Was it you? I ask again.

And I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.

Expecting the Unexpected

Day 31 (or maybe 28?): Sore and crampy. Blech.

I stretch and climb out of bed. I’m giving it three more days. Three more days and I’m taking a test, just to get it over with so I can accept that my body has just come up with a new way to torment me. I mean seriously, I don’t think I’ve ever in my life prayed that my period would actually come sooner, but it’s getting a little old sitting around and waiting. And I can’t even count it right, what with that weird, stuttering period last month. Did it start on Tuesday or Friday? What is going on when I can’t even figure out when my period started?

Maybe this month I’ll get a 33-day cycle or something fun like that, just to mix things up a bit. I’ve been trying to be not cranky, to just be grateful that my body works, at least fairly well. To be glad that the endometriosis (maybe) and tiny fibroid (or is it a polyp? or just a mysterious shadow on the ultrasound?) are not cancerous, are not even remotely serious. All they do is cause me some annoyance, some pain (how bad on the scale of one to ten? they ask; well, I’ve done natural childbirth, so . . . not that bad).

Oh, and apparently they make it kind of hard to get pregnant.

My daughter strolls into the room as I’m getting dressed for the day. I hug her tight and give her a good tickle. Life is good. I’m just tired of the doubt.

Day 32 (29?): Sore and crampy. Blech.

I’m beginning to doubt that keeping a log of my menstrual cycle every morning is going to do anything for me other than make me crazy. Do I really need to analyze every sneeze-induced muscle cramp? (Note to my round ligaments: You’re only supposed to feel this way if I’m like six months pregnant.) It’s not like taking notes is going to magically change anything (except, apparently, my sanity).

I looked in the mirror last night, and my cheeks were rosy. Another pregnancy symptom. Just like everything ever—every weird twinge, craving, gastrointestinal event, sore spot, and whatever else is someone’s pregnancy symptom. And they’re pretty much all PMS symptoms too. Still, the rosy cheeks—never had that before. But I’m freezing cold. I mean, really really cold. That’s definitely PMS talking. Really, I’m just tired of the months of wondering, overanalyzing, thinking maybe everything could be a sign. Thinking maybe this time. And always being wrong and feeling dumb. And let’s not forget cranky.

Stupid period, please just come and put me out of my uncertain misery. I know I’m not pregnant. Just come confirm it.

Day 33 (30?): Sore and crampy. Blech.

Okay, that’s it. The moment I wake this morning, I decide that it’s ridiculous to stay on this little merry-go-round of wondering for the three bucks it costs to buy a test. I’m just gonna buck up, do it, and then when it’s negative, I can wait patiently a little longer. I can schedule that “elective surgery” to maybe clear out whatever gunk is causing problems, and most of all I can go back to knowing I’m not pregnant, this time with no doubts.

So I head for the bathroom.

I dip the little stick, try not to think about what’s in the cup I’m holding. Oh for not having to think about pee. Some days it feels like it’s all pee. Reminding my older daughter that she needs to go pee. NOW. Dealing with my younger daughter’s pee, with her still deciding whether she wants panties or diapers. And now mine.

Count to five. Done.

The instructions are always so lovely and specific. Dip. Set down on level surface. I wonder briefly how slanted the surface would have to be to skew results. Now I watch. “DO NOT READ RESULTS AFTER THREE MINUTES,” the box always yells at you. So my husband’s trusty watch sits beside the stick, also watched. Har har har. Watched.

Oh good, there’s the little line creeping across the results window. There it is, crossing the test line (that shows that you haven’t completely screwed up the test). Crawl crawl crawl, up the stick.

I blink.

I squint and blink again. Something like a gurgle of amusement, hysteria, and disbelief exits my lips.

Oh.

Day 34 (weird that it counts as the same day, even though it’s completely different): Sore and crampy. Hooray?

Daughter's Review: Two Princesses of Bamarre, by Gail Carson Levine

 

The front of her "book report"
we did for homeschool.

I recently read this book with my two daughters (ages 5 and 2) over the course of a few weeks. I had read it before myself, and I loved the story, but I was curious to see how they would take it. Daughter #2 was, as predicted, not particularly interested—but it turned out good for getting her to fall asleep during several nights of bedtime reading. Daughter #1, however, was inspired by this novel. Shortly after finishing it, she rediscovered a pair of boots we had (that are too small for her at this point) and started calling them her seven-league boots. She would put them on, then prepare to step carefully—because once she stepped, she would zip away quickly in that direction. Shopping trips were very interesting for a few days there.

Next she determined that she needed to carry around her adventure supplies. First she was carrying them all in a little purse she had, but I finally took pity on her (because not everything would fit in her purse) and gave her one of my old purses to use. The contents of the purse are as follows: a spare pair of shoes (for wearing when she’s not traveling seven leagues per step), a change of clothes (you need spare clothing for adventures, of course), some moily herb (a healing herb from the book, representing by a couple silk flowers we had), a few odds and ends, and my personal favorite—Bloodbiter (the sword from the book, represented by a small stuffed Ewok). Now she was ready for adventure.

Answers to questions dictated by my daughter.

She carried the purse around with her just about everywhere for a week or two, calling it her “adventure sack.” She still has it hanging in her room, and it comes out once in a while. This is my daughter who is ready for everything. I love the way this book became included in her rich imaginary world. (Believe me, she is full of imagination. She is currently determined to invent both magic and a flying car that doesn’t require a driver or seat belts. These are merely her latest ideas.)

What I love most about the book, though, is the idea of this timid little Princess Addie discovering that other things—big things—were more important than her fears. What a fantastic message for my daughter (who probably doesn’t need it much, as she is not inclined toward ridiculous worries) and for me (who totally needs that message on an almost daily basis).

Wielding Bloodbiter.

Being strong and awesome, like Addie.

The book is fun, wholly grounded in items and creatures and ideas of myth and fairy tale—while playing with them in its own ways—and in my opinion, inspiring. It is a book that I would call “wise” (I hope to get to that idea in another blog post sometime soon, but we’ll see).

P.S. As per usual, Blogger’s formatting has defeated me, and I give up. 

Six Words

At a getting-to-know-you activity a while ago, I played a game called “Six-Word Eulogy”—essentially you sum up your life and how you’d like to be remembered in (what a shock) six words. And you only have five minutes to do it.

You can see here the piece of paper I wrote on, complete with the many alterations and edits required to polish it.* Even at the end, I was still trying to choose between “mess” and “chaos.” However, I think that I’m overall pretty happy with it. If someone used this as my personal eulogy, I would look at it and say, “Yes, that’s (mostly) how I want to be remembered.”**

Things I created: stories, children, chaos.

*Fortunately, when editing a book, I don’t spend almost a minute on every single word.

**I do feel like it is incomplete for not mentioning my husband or my faith. Also, I’m sure someone would take the “creating chaos” far too seriously. But ah well, that’s life (or, I suppose, in this case, that’s death).