The Novel

Today I actually had a few hours to myself (I know, what??? CRAZY!) and I promised Eric I would blog. Instead I worked on the novel. For those of you who don't know, I've been working on a novel about Lucy for about, oh, six years. Anyway, Lucy's mom experienced infertility when Lucy was a kid, and then Lucy and her husband go through infertility. That's the premise. So, anyway, I'm working on it, trying to find an agent, working on it, ignoring it, trying to find an agent, working on it. You get the picture. Thus, today's blog is the first ten pages of the novel. That's what most literary agents ask to see. That, therefore, is the MOST IMPORTANT part of the novel. Plus, let's be real, if I don't like a novel in the first ten pages, I'm not reading the rest. So, looking for some good criticism here, people. Thanks for reading.

Your Little Hand in Mine

Laura Hall

Implantation: The Beginning

January, 1990

Dear Samuel,

I remember every detail of your room. Sunlight streamed in the windows, filling the air, setting the white walls aglow. I remember your pine changing table with stacks of tiny diapers, blankets, and t-shirts so small it would seem no real person could fit in them.  The scent of baby powder filled my nose as a breeze blew against the sheer curtains, ripples like the ocean on a clear, blue morning. I remember peeling back your chenille quilt, picking you up from the crib grandpa made you, carrying you to the center of your room. A white rocking chair waited for us, the focal point, all eyes on stage. I remember finally rocking you, my baby brother, and singing you your first lullabies.  “Your sissy loves you,” I remember singing as I stroked your arms, skin like silk, and kissed your miniature feet. The whole earth was still, sunlight upon us, as we kept the beat back-and-forth, back-and-forth...

All of this I remember, though it never happened. It never will, because you were never born. It is this I must accept.

Your loving sister,

Lucy

The First Trimester: Infertility

1.

I’m four when Mommy and Daddy get home from their trip, and lots of things change. We all move to Daddy’s house in Massillon, where he was living with his State Trooper buddies. I get to call Daddy “Daddy” ‘cause now they’re married. And, Mommy is gonna have a baby.

When their car comes, I don’t know who to run to. It’s always been just me and Mommy, and I didn’t sleep good at Aunt Mollie’s ‘cause I missed Mommy at night. But, now Daddy will be around to play with all the time and I like that. When Daddy gets out of the car, I jump into his arms first. “Daddy!” I yell, as I squeeze his face and he looks happy like Christmas. Mommy comes around the car to hug us both–-and pukes in the bushes.  

“Mommy,” I say. I get down and put my arm around her back, “You okay?”  

Mom looks at me and smiles so big, I back up a little.  “I’m great, Lucy. I’m wonderful. I’m pregnant. I’m going to have a baaaaabbbbyyyy.” Mommy sings the last word and we all scream and jump up and down.

Mommy says you lived in her belly that first time for seven weeks.

2.

When I first started dating my husband, I told him that I wanted to have kids. I probably should have been honest. I was--am--obsessed with having kids. I wanted to have kids more than I wanted to get married. If he’d said, “We could start tonight,” I would have been on board.  

I know, I know, other people want to have kids, too. Maybe somebody and her husband tried for a few months and it was hard. I get it; I do. But, seriously, you have no idea. I have wanted a baby since I was FOUR. I faked being pregnant in second grade for a whole week--wearing rolled up towels under my T-shirt--until my teacher called me in at recess and told me to knock it off. For several months in fourth grade, I would awaken early to feed and change my “Real Life Baby” who pooped and peed. I would rock her to sleep and check on her throughout each night. I started babysitting at 12, and didn’t stop until… well, I still watch friends’ babies for them. I talk to babies in restaurants, creep out their parents in the grocery store, and hog them at family reunions. Some people have passions like golf, painting, quilting. I have babies.

Being a smart, sensible, reasonable guy, my hubby wanted to wait a year before we started trying. I didn’t want to scare him off, so I agreed. It was a looooong year.

But now, finally, the school year is coming to an end, and so is my first year of marriage. I glance at my desk calendar, see the little heart I’ve written and think, “Today is when we agreed to start trying.”  We’re trying.  We’re trying.  It’s the strangest phrase, but it sends off little fireworks in my brain.  I try to finish all of my end-of-the-year paperwork, but my brain keeps jumbling. What will it be like to be pregnant? Will I have cravings? Will I get sick? What will the baby feel like inside me?  I touch my belly over and over again and think, “Get ready!”  

I rub my stomach and say aloud, “Yeah, he’s a kicker,” “We just want a healthy baby,” and, in my Dad’s voice, “Huh, huh. Can’t believe my little Lucy’s gonna be a mom!” I look around my office, make sure nobody’s listening, and tell myself to get back on track.

Nothing goes right. I put all my files in the drawer backwards alphabetically, then have to fix it. I write the wrong names on five files and have to start over. I drop a stack of the files as I’m lining them up and all the papers mix. Finally, I’m finished, and I head home.

Phil has gotten home early and made dinner. He has a single, yellow daisy in a vase on our kitchen peninsula. Our framed wedding photo--my auburn mane somehow convinced to lie beautifully in ringlets, Phil’s gorgeous smile a blaze of white teeth, Silver Lake in the background--is the centerpiece of our refinished oak table. He’s made my favorite dinner–spaghetti and meatballs–and has baby shower decorations up in every available space in the house. Above the mantel to our gas fireplace, he’s hung a sign that says, “CONGRATULATIONS!” I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I do both.

“You know,” I say, “if you didn’t want to do this, you could have just said something.”

We decide to skip dinner and start “trying” on the living room couch.

3.

I’m four, and Daddy is out raking. He keeps raking the same piece of grass, over and over. I ride my bike down the driveway, go down the block, turn around and come back. Still, Daddy is raking that same grass. I ride down the street the other way, get to the house with the scary dog, turn around, and come back. Still raking, same spot. Now it’s starting to just look like dirt, with not much grass in it.  

I get off my bike and walk slowly over. “Daddy?” the word feels new in my mouth, like fresh bubblegum. “You want help rakin’?”  

Daddy looks down, sees the dirt, says something real quiet.  “Um, no, sweetie. I was just...” He doesn’t say anything else.  He stands there for a minute and his face gets really tight.  We don’t talk, we don’t move. The wind ruffles the pile of leaves.  

Suddenly, I hear Mom. She’s in the house, but I can hear her through the living room windows. Her noise makes my belly feel like it’s got bugs in it. I look at Daddy, but he’s still looking at the ground, not at Mommy, not at me.  Don’t you hear her crying?  I’m just sure Mommy’s hurt.  

I start running for the house, but Daddy calls me. “Lucy, why--why don’t you help me with the yard, okay? Let’s get these leaves all taken care of.”  

But, Mommy is crying, and I don’t care about leaves if she’s sad. I shake my head and keep going for the front door.  

When my feet are on the porch, Daddy calls one more time, “I could really use your help, Lucy. Just come on down here, would you, please?” His voice sounds funny and I just don’t know him that well yet. I have to help Mom.

I open the storm door and it slams behind me. Mommy looks up. She’s on the couch with her arms around her knees and there are mushed up kleenexes all over the floor. When she sees it’s me, she says, “Oh, my baby, oh, Lucy, come here, come to Mommy. Will you, please, Lucy?”  

Her crying is so loud and screechy, I can’t make my feet move to go to her. I just look and look, like I don’t know who she is.  

“Oh, baby, please come here, please, won’t you, Lu?”  

My feet finally decide to go. I stand in front of her and Mom opens up her arms, pulls me into her lap. She’s hugging my head so tight, I feel my eyes bulging, like my new black fishie.  Mom keeps hugging and rocking and crying, stopping to wipe her nose and eyes with a kleenex and toss it on the floor. I am stone still. Mommy has cried before, but only soft, quiet tears from a movie or a letter from a friend. With each big sob, her whole body shakes and with her, my head and neck. I wanna run, to push away from her and find my real Mommy, the one who always makes everything better for me. Instead I sit and wait, listen to her crying, and let her rock me.  

“Oh, Lucy, I have you,” she says, over and over, “I have you. I have you, Lucy, I have you.”

4.

Now, I like things I can control. I like to know there’s something I can do to make my dreams come true. This is why I drove to 50 different school districts to apply for social worker positions, why I went on every blind date anyone ever tried to set me up on, why I brush and floss every day. So, when Phil and I start trying, I get prepared. I get a basal thermometer. I wake myself up at 5:00 every morning, lie there for a few minutes taking my temperature and then record it on a chart. My best friend, Meredith, tells me about a website you can use to track your cycle, and I check it out. The website is right up my alley. You can enter your temperature, and a whole lot more: mood swings, headaches, cervical fluid, height of your cervix (whatever that means), softness of your cervix (I don’t want to know what that means), medications you take, when you have intercourse, etc. This is a control-freak’s dream–you can do everything except demand the egg come out. I print out some charts, join the website, and get all geared up.

The website recommends books to read, and I particularly like one called Controlling Your Own Fertility. It reads like a textbook, explaining all the steps of your cycle from developing bud to fertilization. I learn about all the nuances of how your temperature should change, the curves and peaks to watch for in my chart.

The book also has advice for how to really make the most of your fertility. It discusses foods to eat, drinks to drink, foods and drinks to avoid, herbs you can take, fertility oils to rub on your belly. I go for all of it. I drink raspberry tea, rub oil clockwise on my belly (definitely NOT counterclockwise), take expectorant to make my cervical fluid nice and slippery. I get a little crazy. Seriously, a little bit nuts. I train for trying like people train for a marathon, but I don’t realize what a long trek it will be.  

In the midst of the training, I get a period. Sweet.  I mark it on a new chart, excited to have “Cycle Day 1" to write in the title area. Let’s get this party started, I think. I track my temperature each morning, monitor fluid, moods, the whole gamut. Phil is eager to help, so we have sex every other day, and I mark it with a capital I with a circle on my chart. Phil is very proud.  I await the blessed day--maybe even cycle day 14--when the egg will arrive. I’ll throw a little “egg party” and we’ll be on our way.

Two weeks later, right when our little egg friend should show, I go pee in the morning, and there’s a toilet bowl full of blood. I look down, confused. That shouldn’t happen. I call Phil in.

“What’s that look like to you?” I say, and point into the bowl. Phil looks in, then jumps away, like there’s a baby alligator in there.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? What’re you showing me blood for? Geez, Lulu, I don’t show you my dumps; don’t show me your periods.” He walks out.

But that’s just it. It shouldn’t be a period; it should be ovulation. I decide to shake it off. We’re new at this, my body and I. We haven’t had periods in years, since I started taking Depo-Provera in college. I flush, and try to make any doubt or worry go with it. I go to my bedside table, pull out a new chart, and write “Cycle Day 1" at the top.

Again, in two weeks, I see the bowlful of blood. Phil is brushing his teeth at the sink this time. I decide he doesn’t need to see the evidence, but maybe I should tell him what’s going on.

“So, I think I, like, am having another period.” I wash my hands in my sink and meet his eye in the oval mirror above his side of the vanity.

“Wha?” he says, spits.  “Didn’t you just have one?”

“Yeah. The thing is, that doesn’t even really give me time to ovulate or anything. I think I should go see a doctor.”

Phil rolls his eyes, bumps my hip with his. “Lu-cy. Not everything in the world is going to go your way the first time. You don’t need a doctor to tell you that. Let’s just keep going at it,” here Phil tweaks my buttcheek, “and see what happens, okay? Don’t get your panties in a bunch. It’s going to be fine.”  

But I just know it won’t.

My doctor, the doctor I had gone to since high school, had retired from his practice the year before. So, I knew that, when I did get pregnant, I was going to have to doctor shop. I’d asked all my girlfriends, but no one really had someone she loved in the gynecology department. Of course, none of my girlfriends had really needed someone wonderful, either.  

I sit down at the kitchen table, eat my cereal, and look over the list of doctors. Maybe Phil is right. So I had two weird periods. That’s not a big deal, right?

When I awake in the night, two weeks later, my cramps are like a snake writhing in my stomach. I go to the bathroom, expecting diarrhea, but instead get a bloody mess. I really, honestly, would have preferred diarrhea. At least that I know how to treat.

“So, I really do think I’m going to go see that doctor Amy has been going to,” I say to Phil as he is pouring coffee into his travel cup that morning. I make my eyes wide and look at the dog, hoping to hold in any tears.

“You want me to go?” Phil asks, and I know some tears must’ve spilled.  He grabs my shoulders and makes me face him, looks intently into my eyes.

I nod.  I’ve watched my mother–this is not a boat ride I want to do solo.

Her Genetic Code

Genetic Code. Sounds like a scientific thingamajig that would be featured in one of Emma's sci-fy fantasy novels. I have always firmly believed in one's genetic code affecting his or her eye color, propensity for athletic talent, predisposition to certain diseases. What I guess I never considered much was how it may affect what a person likes, how he or she feels about things, his or her hobbies. I have always believed you could nurture the nature right out of a person. I regret that now.

I regret that because, in trying to nurture the nature out of a person, I believe I've also been communicating to her--however subliminally and unconsciously--that my way is right and her way is wrong. That she is, in fact, wrong and NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  That kills me to write. What kind of horrible parents have we been, making our daughter suppress her feelings all these years?

Well, honestly, we've been the kind of horrible parents who have always wanted the best for our daughter, and tried to give it to her. We've given her opportunities and encouragement and experiences, just like we should. But, it wasn't until a conversation with a friend of mine that I realized, maybe these weren't the right opportunities, encouragement, experiences--for Emma. Not because we were bad parents, not because she was a bad kid, but because we're different. We have different genetic codes.

Years ago, my cousin, who had been adopted at birth, gave me a book entitled, The Primal Wound (author Nancy Verrier). I read a bit of it, flipped through chapter titles and, honestly, thought it was a bunch of hooey. The parts I read were about how adopted children, even those who were directly placed with their adoptive parents, felt a sense of abandonment deep down. Well. I reasoned, there was no way that was a problem for Emma. First of all, her birth mother had played a cassette tape of my voice to Emma in the womb (I know, amazing lady). I had been in the delivery room and had been the very first person to hold Emma: skin-to-skin. I had used this crazy tube contraption to "nurse" Emma for the first six days of her life. No, this kid had no abandonment issues. Give me a break.

Well... Here's the thing. We had super special circumstances, I know that. But, recently, a friend of mine who had also been adopted at birth (now in her thirties) referred me back to this Primal Wound business. And I cannot deny the similarities between some of Emma's troubles and what this woman was saying. So, if you're an adoptive parent, I'm just saying, read the book or watch the lady's videos on YouTube. You may find good advice. I do, unfortunately, think there may be some truth to this wound for Emma. For other adopted children, even at birth, I definitely see now what the lady was getting at. Just good information to pack in your parenting bag of tricks. But I digress. (I know, you're shocked. Try to stick with me.)

So, the other part of The Primal Wound, the part I never even bothered to read, was genetic code. It is about how you are genetically wired to like certain types of foods, or hobbies, or vacation spots, or careers, or communication styles... So many things. I read this and just wanted to smack myself across the face. Let me give you an example.

When Em was six, we took her to Disney World. Every little girl's dream, right? We visited Ariel and Belle and had breakfast with the princesses. The whole time, Emma had this pained, rectangled-mouth, smile-attempt look on her face. The only things she seemed to enjoy were the safari (got to see a real, alive giraffe--her favorite animal), The Flying Carpet Ride (Eric drew the short straw because we both hate rides), and she LOVED "Soarin'" (a movie/ride that made you feel like you were flying over mountain tops and forests--I had to close my eyes so I wouldn't puke). Do you see a theme there? She liked the rides, we didn't? Yeah, we did not see the theme. We thought--to be real with you--that she should have been more grateful that she got to go to Disney. We know TONS of kids who would have wanted to go. To further cement that in our minds, we took Ben to Disney when he was three. We visited every character he loved and rode two rides (Toy Story and Buzz Lightyear). He loved every single minute of it. "SEE?" We said to our haughty selves. "That's appreciation!"

No, that's genetic code. Eric and I like the same things because we CHOSE one another. We knew going in that we both hate roller coasters, love sitting up late reading at the cabin, want to meet the "friends" we watch on TV. Ben liked the Disney trip we planned for him because his genetic code has channeled him to like the same things we like, and we encourage that. He felt RIGHT liking the characters. Poor Emma not only probably hated the trip, but also felt WRONG for enjoying the rides and not wanting to chat with the princesses.

I told my mom it would be like me being adopted by a family of daredevils. Every year we would go to Cedar Point on vacation. I would hate the roller coasters, The Demon Drop, and whatever else they have there. I would act miserable and scared and sullen. My family would say to me, "What is wrong with you? You never appreciate anything we do for you! There are tons of kids who would want to come here and you're pouting in line, saying you don't even want to go!" Worst of all, I would feel WRONG about hating roller coasters. I would be angry at myself and think, "What IS wrong with me? My brother and sister love it, why don't I? I really must be a rotten kid."

I cannot tell you how many times in her life Emma has said to me, "I'm just mad and I don't know why." Or "I try so hard, but I'm never right." Unfortunately, I have to own up to my part in those feelings, to communicating to her that "The Hall Way" was the only way.

The good news is, I read the stuff. I read it, I opened my mind, and I realized what had been happening for years. Then, Eric and I apologized. We said, "You need to figure out what's right for you. What DO you like?"

You know what we've learned? She doesn't like the cabins. She likes "stuff to do." She wants to live in a big city with tons of people around (my worst nightmare). She isn't even sure she wants to get a driver's license, because she has no plans to own a car. She doesn't like spicy food. She loves raw vegetables. She was crushed when, at age 5, she realized her big Christmas present was a giant dollhouse (the present of MY five-year-old dreams) and not a shelf on which to keep her Nutcracker collection. She's not sure she wants to go to college right after high school. She loves cheerleading and wants to focus all her energy on that in high school.

Just asking her, talking to her, letting her know that HER genetic code was just as valuable and "right" as Ben or Becca's... I really think this has made a huge impact on our relationship the past two weeks. I know it has completely changed some of my thinking.

I feel like I am finally getting to know my daughter, the REAL her, for the first time.  And now, I not only love her all the way to God and back. I also really like her.

Thanks, Tom Stafford, I Needed That

It was 1986. Picture the poof-in-the-front hairdo with a poodle perm. Peg-rolled jeans. Bright yellow or hot pink T-shirts pulled off to the side, one tank top strap showing. Blue eye shadow. Oh yeah, LOTS of blue eye shadow. In 1986, I was 12 years old and in the 6th grade. I went to a 6th and 7th grade middle school in a suburb of Lansing. The point of each day was to get by without getting mortified.

I would have said the point of each day was to go by unnoticed, but that would have been untrue. Because, in sixth grade, I had a horrid crush. I was madly "in love" with Tom Stafford.

We had several classes together, but I was pretty sure he didn't know I existed. He had chocolate brown eyes that sparkled, the grin of a super star, and could make EVERYONE laugh. I had notes I'd written to friends, homemade posters in my locker, scribblings on my journal cover: I Love Tom, Tom+ Laura = Forever, Mrs. Tom Stafford. Not that I had ever even gotten up the nerve to SPEAK to Tom Stafford. I just knew, somehow, that one day we'd bump into each other, he'd look into my eyes, and that would be the beginning of a beautiful love story.

So, 1986. April 1st. Yup, you know where this story is headed. On this particular day, one of Tom's friends came up to me--TO ME-- in the hallway and said, "Hey, you know, Tom really likes you."

"Whatever," I said, my heart so loud I was sure he could hear it.

"No, seriously. He wants to know if you'll go with him." (For those of you out there who are NOT in your 40s, "go with" was the term for dating way back then. My dad would always say, "Where are you going?" So funny, Dad. So funny.)

I could barely breathe. THE Tom Stafford had finally noticed me? He wanted to go with me? I thought I might pass out. "Um, okay," was all I could muster.

Tom's friend smiled, nodded, said he'd go tell Tom. All that day, I got little notes and messages from Tom. He may have even smiled and waved at me during class, although now I think that if that HAD happened, I would have required CPR, so I probably would have remembered it.

Near the end of the school day, the same friend approached me at my locker. "So, Tom wants you to meet him outside after school."

My brain went fuzzy. What would Tom Stafford want? I had to ride the bus, I couldn't meet him after school! "Um..."

"He said he wants to kiss you. C'mon, you'll meet him won't you?"

I had never kissed anyone. Kiss TOM STAFFORD ? What if I did it wrong? My brain was in overdrive, but I was able to nod. I didn't care if I had to walk home. If Tom Stafford wanted to kiss me, I would BE THERE.

The last bell rang, My wobbly legs carried me to my locker. I got my jean jacket (Oh, yeah, I had style!) and walked out the back door of the school.

There was a huge crowd. The popular kids. Kids who never talked to me. Kids who maybe brushed against me and said, "Move!" if I was lucky. I should have known. I should have figured out what was going to happen. For the last 29 years I have thought that. I should have known.

Tom Stafford was standing in front of the crowd of people, collar up, hair perfect. He was beautiful. As I walked toward him, he grinned that grin. At ME. It was all true. I was going to have my first kiss, and it was going to be with the guy I'd "secretly" adored all year. I walked all the way up to him, completely unsuspecting.

"Oh my God," Tom yelled and laughed. "You're serious! April Fools! I can't believe you honestly thought I liked you! You're such a nerd!" The crowd laughed, yelled things I don't remember. Time stood completely still.

I don't remember much else about the story. I know I cried. Did I walk the miles home, sobbing, or did I make it on the bus? Did I tell my parents? Did people tease me about it for days, weeks, or years later? I honestly don't know. I only remember walking up to him, seeing his face, watching the smile begin... and then hearing those words.

As an adult, I have told that story countless times. I've told it to friends, as a "I can beat your horrid April Fool's Day joke" story (I always win). Many, many times, I've told it to kids, as a reminder that words can hurt so very much. That middle school and high schoolers can be so cruel, just for the pure enjoyment of the power in that moment. But that these times, these moments, will pass. You will be stronger for having endured them. Those moments can be a reminder to you of how YOU want to treat others. You don't want to be the bully in that story. I tell the story both so kids will be kinder, and so they realize, hey, one day it won't matter what Tom Stafford thinks of me. I'll be happily married to a wonderful man with three great kids, a gorgeous house, and a job I love. Middle school is temporary. This adult life, it's what really counts.

So, today, 2015, my nephew and nieces are at our dinner table, and my nephew doesn't want to tell us "The Billy Story." Apparently Billy has hurt Gary enough that Gary doesn't even want to relive it in words. "Nope, I'm good," he tells his sisters, when they try to get Gary to tell us. My heart aches for him. He's twelve. We'd all just been dancing to a song in the kitchen and the lyrics hit me. For Gary, it's goin' down for real. So, I tell them the April Fool's story. I want Gary to know I've been there, Uncle Eric's been there. It's tough, but, in the end, it will be good.

And here's where my story gets crazy. If you've been following the blog, you know that 2015 hasn't been our best year. This summer goes in the books as our worst as a family (except our fantastically awesome trip to NYC). We've struggled with Emma, I've been hurt by people through work, I've been hurt by family members, Emma's psychiatrist berated me in front of her, and one crazy Jersey Shore chick tried to kick my ass at a Billy Joel concert. Basically, my faith in the human race has kind of gone downhill this summer. My old love, depression, has been pulling on my heartstrings, trying to lure me into bed, pushing my head under the water so I can't breathe.

After I tell the story tonight, Eric says, "What's Tom's last name? I'm looking him up." Gary, Emma (my niece), Gracie and I all laugh, hoot, make jokes. Suddenly, Eric turns his phone around and there's that smile, facing me again. My heart plops into my stomach.

"Yup," I say incredulously, "that's totally him. That's his smile."

Eric has found Tom on a website through his employer, and there's a link to "email me." So, being the man he is (found my favorite teacher and had him write me a letter for Christmas; got me on the pitcher's mound of Comerica Park; made me a fabulous 'writing shack' with inspiring posters and memorabilia, ETC), Eric writes this strange, grown-up version of Tom Stafford an email:

Hi Tom,
My name is Eric. You don't know me but you know my wife - Laura Hendricks.
I wanted to send this email to you to thank you. You may not know this, but through your actions, you defined my wife as a person, a teacher, and a mother.
You may not remember this, but when you and Laura were in 6th grade, you made a decision. You made a decision to embarrass and publicly humiliate her. If you forgot, it happened on April 1st. You convinced her that you liked her, told her to meet you after school for a kiss, and then, when that time came, called her a nerd and laughed at her in front of your friends.
Now this may be something you don't even remember, but it is something she will never forget.
So why am I thanking you? Well, we have three kids and she teaches second grade. Whenever a student bullies another or when someone says or does something mean, she tells that story to illustrate that bullying hurts and people can be mean.
Your profile states that you have three kids. I hope they never experience the humiliation that you put my wife through. However if they do experience that pain, please know that it is a great life lesson about how some people feel it is necessary to bring another person down.

Congrats on your success.

 I know, crazy, right? That's my man. He sticks up for me. Said he couldn't stand to hear the story one more time without doing something about it. I love him more and more every day. But here's the thing--there's more.

Later, we're watching America's Got Talent and the phone rings. Eric runs into the study, answers, then says, "Laura Hall, get in here."

Me, "Oooh, 'get in here.' What'd I do now?"

Eric shuts the door. He's holding his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone. "It's Tom Stafford."

Me, "It is not. It is NOT! Shut up, you're making that UP!"

We go back and forth for about a minute, whereupon I finally take the phone from Eric. When I answer, it is, in fact, TOM STAFFORD. He called to apologize. Who does that?

So, the story has this new, awesome ending. An ending where Tom Stafford the grown-up husband, dad-of-three, nice guy calls to apologize for hurting me way back in 1986. I, of course, accept his apology, and am basically flabbergasted. We chit chat for a little bit, him apologizing profusely and thanking me for being so gracious, me shaking my head and saying, "We were little kids." It is incredible. The kids had said at dinner that the story sounded like a movie and I told them, yes, like a John Hughes movie. Now, like most John Hughes movie endings, the story's ending restores my faith in decent, kind, honorable people. Apologizing sincerely for something you did nearly 30 years ago? That takes guts.

To the real Mrs. Tom Stafford, you're a lucky woman.

Really, God? Really?

My friend, I'll call her Katie, isn't pregnant. Lots of people aren't pregnant, and that's okay. But, Katie isn't pregnant, and that is FAR from okay. It is horrible.

It's not okay, because she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant on and off for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS. You can raise an almost-teenager in that time.

It's not okay, because they saved up all their money and made a GoFundMe account and went through invitro. She took a bunch of medications and had to have her pumped-up eggs EXTRACTED (and I know most of us have no idea what that feels like). Then they had to wait and see how many would fertilize. Waiting is impossible, if you don't know this already. Waiting, when there is not one damn thing you can do.

So, six fertilized. SIX!! And for a brief, beautiful, sunshiney moment, Katie could imagine having a baby, maybe having two babies, had the potential for SIX babies. She even posted a microscopic picture of them, her beautiful, fertilized embryos.

Then--yes there's more--she had to have two embryos implanted in her womb. Again, not many of us know the pleasure of this procedure. I'm sure it's uncomfortable, if not painful, and filled with both jubilation and terror.

A few days later, Katie found out that the rest of her embryos could not be saved. So, we all know what this means, right? Better work this time. No second chances.

Then more waiting. Sitting, trying to keep her womb still, eating healthy foods, trying not to "stress" over the what-ifs. Waiting.

So, I now have a bone to pick with God. Because, honestly, I just don't get it. Katie is a wonderful person, she works with kids with special needs, she is the friendliest, most spunky person you'll ever meet. Her husband is one of those quiet, slow speaking, kind, southern gentlemen. These people can't have a baby because...why??

It didn't work. Just like all of the other medications and procedures Katie has put herself through, this DIDN'T WORK.

I am so mad. And so hurt for them. And so irate. And beaten down by the futility of it all. I have been through this same junk, though not nearly to the extent they have. But just the few years, the minimal procedures we went through? Nearly killed me. Nearly killed our marriage.

As I am working on my novel, coincidentally about a couple's journey through infertility, I think about all the people I know, all the wonderful couples who go through this same nightmare. Let me say to all of you--we're here for you. There are more of you out there than you know. I don't know why people don't talk about infertility, why they keep their "trying" and miscarriages and negative pregnancy tests month-after-month a secret. Keeping quiet just makes us feel more responsible, like somehow one of us in the relationship is failing the other.

Those of you who've never been down this road: we don't hate you. Sure, we're a little jealous when you get "accidentally" pregnant on your honeymoon, but we don't wish you any of this mess. We don't curse you. Maybe we curse God a little bit; but we don't curse you. However, please, please, think before you speak. All you need to say, just like any other kind of senseless death or tragedy in someone's life, is "I'm so sorry." No pep talks, no advice. Just a hug, prayers, and heartfelt sympathy.

Katie, I'm so sorry, sweetie. I'm so very, very sorry.

Roller Coaster Ride

I hate roller coasters. You know, mostly because they do all those things of which I'm terrified, like going super fast, going too high, whipping around curves, and flopping you upside down. The other thing I don't like, though, is you are completely out of control. You're strapped into this little car with a bunch of other idiots who have decided to place their fate in the hands of a complete stranger. As you zoom and thrash and flip, you can't make it stop, or even slow down. You can ask nicely, you can yell at the top of your lungs, it doesn't matter. That coaster is going on its course no matter what you do.

Lately, "raising" Emma can be described as a roller coaster, even more than raising the other two, even more than raising HER a few years back. I feel that tightening in my stomach, I get slammed as we whip around. I'm terrified, and I don't know how to make it stop. I can't control it.

I feel like every decision Eric and I have made--all the counseling and psychiatrists and books we've read and plans we've tried, all of it--are mere side shows. They haven't made an impact. They haven't slowed things down or changed the course. This roller coaster of Emma's life is still swirling and thrashing out of our control, and we can't stop it.

Last weekend, we went to my parents' cabin, and we were going to take The Kids (our three, plus our nephew and nieces) rafting down the river. Emma was staying home from church so she could clean her room.  So, Eric and I drove to my parents' house to pick her up. She hadn't started cleaning the room--she was sleeping on the couch. When I walked into their house, I realized how much she was resembling her birth mother, not in physical features, but in her behaviors. She was sleeping all the time. When she wasn't sleeping, she was lying on the couch watching TV. She had little motivation to get off the couch to get a job, to help around the house, to even hang out with her cousins. We were streaking down the hill at breakneck speed, and I couldn't slow us down. When we woke her up, saying we were disappointed she hadn't started the job, there wasn't even much of a fuss from her. She had given in to the ride, too.

As I have felt a million times before, I wanted to grab her and shake her. I wanted to scream, "Snap out of it!" But, honestly, I'm not sure she's ever been "out" of it. She's always had trouble with getting motivated, staying focused, maintaining the energy to see a plan through. Is this her destiny? Is her DNA so strong that we won't ever be able to change her course?

I want to maintain hope. I want to believe in nurture over nature, as I so thoroughly did fifteen years ago. But it seems the closer we get to the adulthood I am afraid of, the more she resembles the person I'm terrified she'll be. She says she wants to work for NASA as an astrophysicist and, oh, she's so stinking smart I know she could. But will she make it through college? Will she graduate from high school? Will she have her own place? Or will she be moving from the couch of one friend to another? How do we get her off this terrible ride? How do we get HER to see the value in reading the assigned book, putting away her clean clothes, setting a goal for herself and accomplishing it?

This past week was the crèche of the mountain and, without violating Emma's privacy, I'll tell you that she is receiving some intensive help right now. All we can do is pray it is effective. Pray she gets it. Pray that she can see to exit the coaster, with a calmer ride in her view.

"Your Kids Could Be Normal!"

It seems fitting that the expression "I wear my heart on my sleeve" comes from my beloved William Shakespeare (Othello). I not only wear my heart on my sleeve, but I also generally bring along a large neon sign that points, "Hey, heart here. Feel free to break." It's a good and a bad thing.

It means that, if you are someone I care about, I will love you deeply. I will stick up for you, defend you, listen to you, love you--sometimes to an excruciating degree. When I watched Father of the Bride with Steve Martin, I felt like someone actually understood me. There's a part where the daughter, Annie, has fought with her intended, and her dad, George, goes to talk to him.

"You know, Bryan...Annie is a very passionate person and passionate people tend to overreact at times. Annie comes from a long line of major overreactors. Me. I can definitely lose it. My mother...a nut. My grandfather...stories about him are legendary. The good news, however, is that this overreacting tends to get proportionately less by generation, so your kids could be normal." 
"But on the upside, with this passion comes great spirit and individuality, which is probably one of the reasons you love Annie." (https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Father_of_the_Bride_(1991_film)

Exactly! So, yes, you may have to put up with some craziness from me from time to time (or, a lot of the time...), but you'll always know where you stand with me. My family, my friends, my students, my pets, my co-workers... These are people I care deeply about. I invest myself in my relationships. I take them all personally.

And while that is a good thing for others--meaning they will get all of my devotion and advocacy--it's not always the best thing for me.

I remember sitting at Baccalaureate next to my best friend in high school, bawling my eyes out as two girls sang "Friends Are Friends Forever" by Michael W. Smith (I know that dates me. That's okay.) Sheri turned to me and said (a phrase I've heard many times over the years), "Are you crying?"

Of course I was crying! We were going to different colleges! She was going to St. Louis for the summer! We hadn't gone more than two days without speaking for four years, we could finish each other's sentences, we were unbeatable at Pictionary... We were inseparable!

She calmly explained that we would write each other and visit each other's colleges. We would be fine. But I knew the truth then. I loved her more. She was ready to move on, for a myriad of reasons that had nothing to do with me, but she was ready. It was going to be okay for her, but I would be devastated.

This same type of scenario happened to me when I graduated from college, when my teaching partner of 11 years moved to a new grade level, when various friends have moved away. It's not that people are leaving me that hurts so much as the way they leave. It's okay for them. It usually takes a long time to be okay for me.

This week, it was work. What happened isn't relative, but the fact that it hurt my feelings. I could feel Eric itching to ask, "Are you crying?" I know he couldn't understand why something that should just make me angry could make me feel hurt. But it's that heart on my sleeve. I will give you all of me. I will protect you and listen to you and support you, even if that's not my role. Unfortunately, when I don't get that sort of treatment back, it feels. It hurts. 

Part of me wants to say, "That's it! I'm done!" I will wear a patch over my heart, keep it hidden, keep it all business. As Lloyd Dobbler said, "The rain on my car is a baptism. The new me, Ice Man, Power Lloyd! My assault on the world begins now." (Say Anything)

But, like Lloyd, I can't. This is me. My students will continue to go to high school and forget all about me, and I shall watch them lovingly from afar, remembering when they'd write me notes that said, "Best Teacher Ever!" I will smother my friends and nephew and nieces and co-workers with a ridiculous amount of cherishing affection while they develop and grow away from me. I will burn my teaching candle from THREE ends, because I fall for all those kids. I will give my all, and then cry in Eric's arms when I don't get it back. I'll be confused--where did I go wrong?--but I won't change. What I will need to hear is that I'm not wrong, but that doesn't mean other people are either. Not everyone operates the way I do. We can't all be labeled "a nut".

The good news is, I've watched Ben Hall. He's just as bad. Nope, no chance that my kids will be "normal."

My Selfish Grief

I am grieving a death. Not a physical death, and, as a parent who has lost on unborn child, I certainly don't compare this to the loss of a child. But, to me, it is a death. It's a death of my dream, of my baby girl growing up here, of spending Saturday mornings making pancakes for everybody, of the kids playing and reading and sparring and making memories together.

It's selfish, this grief. It's selfish, because she is in a better place. My parents are giving Emma the patience she needs--deserves--and the space she requires to think through her issues. She's able to take a time out, ponder what she means and what my parents are feeling, and then return to the situation in a better frame of mind. We can't give her that here. I know that, deep in my heart, I know that. She loves her new school, and has opportunities that her school here just couldn't give her. Right now, she is at DISNEY with the band. It's amazing. So, yes, I know, it's better for her there.

It's selfish, this grief. It's selfish, because the Littles are still recovering from what we've done to them, insisting that we could deal with Emma's issues. They still have fits like they've seen her, screaming and demanding and throwing. Not "age appropriate" fits, but the kind that verge on madness, and I know that they are trying out that manipulation, seeing how it feels to them, seeing if they can get what they want. It's selfish, because Becca has been sleeping on our floor for two months, sucking her thumb nearly non-stop, and Ben has had dreams where we leave him behind or send him away. We let them see too much, spent too much time trying to do the impossible, running the hamster wheel of Emma's moods, sacrificing two to save one. Now we have the time, the patience, to send them repeatedly to their rooms when they misbehave, the ability to say, "We don't yell in our house," and the tenderness to hold them when that's what they really crave. I have watched them running and playing, laughing and singing, living out the joy of young childhood, as they should have all along. They deserve this, they need this, they have earned this.

It's selfish, this grief, because our dinners are finally calm. We talk about our days and what we've done, instead of arguing and yelling and slamming doors. It's selfish, because we can take turns reading to the Littles and cleaning the kitchen, without one of us (or both of us) going round and round about who knows what with Emma.

Is this not what I was looking for? Is this not why I called my parents and said, "Okay, we've reached the 'boarding school' point. If you don't want her to go to boarding school, you'll have to take her." Is this not why I packed up all of her stuff, drove her to my parents' house, and left her there?

But driving away was so hard. I felt as though I was leaving part of me behind, and I was. My little girl. The one who used to wrap her skinny arm around my neck. The one who told her stuffed kitty, "It's not eyes, it's just a button. Now, GO TO SLEEP!" The one who wrote, "My mom always says, 'Be quiet, I'm trying to take a nap," in her kindergarten book. The one for whom I watched Pongo and Perdita's Sing Along Songs a thousand times. The one who didn't want a baby brother, then fell in love with him at first sight.

What do I say now, when people say, "Wow, three kids? That must be hard." I feel like a liar. I know they don't want my life story, but what do I say?

How do I make sure that she understands, this is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life? I am both certain it is best and regretful every single minute of every single day. When we have joy in this house, I think, "Why can't she be here for this?" though I know that when she was here, we couldn't have that same joy.

I feel like I have given her away, given up on her, given her the message that she was "too bad" for us to love.

And then, someone says, "She was your adopted one, right?" Yes... It is true, I did not carry her in my belly. But, really people, the buck stops there. Ask Emma, and she'll tell you, "Oh, she's not my birth mom, but that's DEFINITELY my 'REAL' mom." Adoption has nothing to do with this, and I hope she understands that, too. That she could have come from Eric and me, biologically, and we still would have had these troubles. That never, in all our discussions, fights, debates, ponderings, brain-storming sessions about her, never once have we thought about Emma being 'adopted'. We've thought about her being difficult, a giant pain-in-the-ass, stubborn, dramatic... But we've never considered her to be "not ours".

And so people ask, "How's Emma doing?" and I start to cry. She's doing great, really. It's the best thing for her. The Littles are doing well. But, me, well, I just don't know that I'll ever be okay. I just don't know if there will ever be a time that I think, "Yup, good decision. Good move, Mom, good move." I just want to hold her and kiss her and make it better. I just want it to be okay... here. It's selfish, this grief, I know. Because she's not sick and she's not dead and she's not gone-gone. She's just... gone. And I want her here. I want it all okay, good, happy, wonderful. But, here.

I miss you, Pook.