It’s summer, August maybe, and our family’s boxy purple Peugeot is parked at a rest stop gas station. My father pumps gas in his leather sandals. My 13-year-old sister, Rachel, slumps in the backseat, listening to her Walkman with her hood up over her ears. My mother, in a billowy fuchsia sundress, stands next to the passenger’s side of the car with the door open, one sandaled foot propped up on the runner, one palm resting on the top of the car, waiting. Her gray hair is cut very short. Her oval glasses take over much of her face.
I’m five, and have gotten out of the car to dance around on the cement for a few minutes, my white Tretorns, striped T-shirt, and shorts glistening in the sun. I skip over little puddles of oil between the cars, making a game out of not getting my feet wet.
There are several adults clustered around the pumps, filling their cars. I hop over to one of them, look up and say, “My Mommy had babies that died.” Then over to another: “My Mommy had babies that died.”
My mother did, indeed, have babies that died; so did my father, of course. I guess my sister did, too — baby-siblings. But these babies — a boy, a stillbirth at 23 weeks, and a girl a year later, at 24 weeks, both big enough to swell my mother’s belly but small enough to fit in the palm of my father’s hand — died seven and eight years earlier, respectively. I came next; I was the one who made it.
Read more at Modern Loss.
It’s October! Which means that two years ago (!), right around this time, I
thought I had the stomach flu found out that I was pregnant. It was a pretty miserable miraculous time; I felt very confused about the fact that I wasn’t supposed to share the news until I hit 12 or 13 weeks, when the pregnancy was deemed “viable.” So between watching serial episodes of The Good Wife trying to teach my students without puking, I wrote about it.
This week, the Archipelago on Medium published my essay, I’m Pregnant. So Why Can’t I Tell You? (How’s that for a direct title?) This is a subject that people have wildly differing views about (SHARE! DON’T SHARE!). The discussion about it out there in the cyber world is already mind-blowing.
(I e specially love the comments made by people who clearly don’t read very closely.) I’m always curious to hear what you think. xo
This is how most mornings go around here these days: The baby wakes up between
let’s be honest, one never knows 6 a.m. and 7 a.m.. We play for a few hours and then we she goes back down for a nap.
The truth is that now that she’s sleeping better (every parent will tell you that now that I’ve written this down, she will
proceed to TORTURE US FOR THE FORESEEABLE FUTURE continue to do so), I have the energy to take a shower and watch American Idol write while she sleeps.
The other day, while she napped, I decided to send out some essays, and they were quickly picked up by two literary sites I like very, very much.
I’d be absolutely delighted if you
shared them with everyone you know read them:
I wrote about growing up in the shadow of my parents’ two stillbirths for The Morning News.
And, on a lighter note, I wrote about being a modern dancer in New York City for The Nervous Breakdown.
Have a lovely weekend.
I forgot this blog existed I’ve been so absent! I’m so sorry. Mea culpa. Je m’excuse. I’ve missed you.
I can explain. I swear. I’ve been
doing absolutely nothing very busy.
Also, I’ve been
unfaithful writing for another blog. You can read the whole explanation for my absence here.
Now that this news is out in the world, I’ll be
puking without shame writing more about it.
I’ve been so touched by the comments on the site and would love to hear from you, too.