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February 2004

Marmot

Oh- blog me.

As I have walked around the house this week, alternately sniveling and snarling, it dawned upon me that I am somehow familiar in this role.

A good person, well a person like you for example, would return from her weekend in San Francisco refreshed, rejuvenated, and sloshing over with the milk of human kindness. She would whistle, if she was able to do so.

Me, though, I have been in a full-blown funk since that first San Franciscan raindrop splattered the homeward bound plane. I didn't want to go home. I wanted to stay suspended in time, perpetually on vacation in California. And now that I am home I am overwhelmed by how boring it all is: the laundry, the never-quite-clean kitchen, the groceries that have to be acquired, put away, taken out, converted into food and then acquired all over again. Yes, yes, disclaimer, disclaimer, love love, motherhood, yes, joy, Patrick, etc, but...

Chronologically, and briefly, my adventure went like this. First I panicked. Then we got to the airport and I leaned in the back seat to tell Patrick I would see him later and his face crumpled like aluminum foil and he started to cry. Shaky, I made it to my gate and through a series of small miracles got upgraded to first class. Things were improving. Our flight was 45 minutes early and I negotiated the whole rental car-highway-directions fear with great success. I checked into the beautiful Claremont in Berkeley and the 20-something desk clerk flat-out flirted with me. Things were most definitely improving. I played prima donna and switched rooms a couple of times (sure I used to smoke but that doesn't mean it isn't still gross when the room shimmers with 90 years of other people's tobacco.) I called my friend Fernanda about forty times for restaurant suggestions and to rub in the fact that I was having a glamorous adventure while she was home with children/husband/dog. I was meeting strange women from the Internet at the bar so I went down early with a book and fortified myself with a salad and a bottle of champagne. Actually, I was pretty suave about it. I asked the waiter for the wine list and he flipped the menu over saying, "Our wines by the glass are right here" and I arched a delicate brow and replied, "And by the bottle...?" "Just a moment, madam." MADAM, I ask you. So I had a glass of champagne and read my book and eventually Kristina showed up. I had no idea what she would look like and she was so tiny and cool-looking that I decided there was no way she was somebody's mother. In time we got it all sorted out and I promptly knocked over a champagne flute, smashing it to bits and drenching her in sparkling wine. Not so very suave after all. Then sweet JK arrived and finally astonishing Brooke who is absolutely totally and completely delicious. Delicious, I tell you, and we had a very nice time indeed.

The Ex, Julian, arrived at a moment when Kristina and Brooke and I were just settling down to a good gossip. This was as spectacularly awkward as one could possibly imagine. I felt rushed and embarrassed and prefer not to think about the ass I made out of myself in the process.

Julian and I went out to dinner and it was... perfect. He was perfect.

And then there was the baby shower and dinner with Carrie and her husband and a slow Sunday morning that I spent like I would have under the same circumstances if I were, say, 16 again.

Which brings me to the rain-splattered tarmac and the wholly misdirected sense that I somehow deserved to stay there forever, indulging every little whim.


Ack!

What have I done?

Why on earth did I think it was a good idea to abandon my child and go to San Francisco this weekend?

I don't even know this guy, this Steve. Not really. Not well enough to entrust the welfare of my darling beloved baby to his unsupervised care. I picked him up in a BAR for godsakes. Would you trust your very heart incarnate to a bar pickup?

And what will Steve do without me for three days? He'll pine. He'll grow fretful and moody.

They'll starve to death. They'll get eaten by bears and then the bears will starve to death and the cats will be disturbed by all the death and decay around them and express this disturbance by pissing on the bed again.

And I have to get my own rental car and drive it on unfamiliar interstates. I am meeting women I don't know for drinks and they will hate me and form an exclusive clique- a No Julias club with just 3 members.

Carrie will look at me in surprise and murmur, "But I specifically wrote on your invitation that we would be sorry you WOULD NOT be here to celebrate with us." And everyone at the shower will tell me one-by-one how wonderful it is that people still get pregnant the old-fashioned way without draining our country's valuable resources on costly, selfish infertility treatments.

Finally I will get lost down by the wharves and shanghaied by a whaler causing me to devote my life to the sea and incidentally miss my flight home.

Oh, what have I done?

-Thanks to all of you who wrote such nice things to me after my post yesterday. I intended to respond today but I have been busy confronting my wholly rational fears.


Company Town

My mother arrived last Thursday and stayed until yesterday. Patrick has always been partial to her and this time made it immediately clear that he is madly, madly in love with her forsaking all others. Within moments of her arrival his little voice could be heard piping, "Nana! Nana!" all over the house. I am not going into the whole He-doesn't-say-Mama thing again, but... I don't know how to finish that sentence. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking: what the hell Julia? I watched that video. I heard him say "Mama" about fifty times. The truth is, the sad truth is, that 'Ma' is his word for "more." So we can all close our eyes and PRETEND that he was saying Mama, why don't you finish singing the ballad and stop trying to fob me off with early cross-over hits, but he wasn't. He doesn't know me from a nesting black swan. As Steve said to me as Patrick flung himself at the baby gate in a vain attempt to follow her upstairs during a three second bathroom break, sobbing brokenly, "Nana, Nana": third out of three ain't bad. Meaning, of course, that in Patrick's preference hierarchy I fall squarely third. Whatever.

In other news, we have an RE appointment scheduled for April 12th. I STILL haven’t called the Sperm Guy back, which clearly indicates that I have some ambivalent feelings about it. Ha! Psychology is easy!Actually, I think it is just that I am shy and I hate complicated phone calls and I am no longer fueled by my murderous Steve-directed rage. I just this second vowed to pick up the phone and call and I just this second heard Patrick mewing from his crib. Oh well. It has been almost five weeks since the D&C and last time it took a well-documented (I kept complaining) eight weeks for my cycle to start again so I feel like I have some pleasant, non-procreative downtime to work with. This must be what the off-season feels like for football players. I mean, if playing football was like pregnancy and getting tackled was like miscarrying.


Coming Soon to a City Near You

I was going to write about how I completely funked doing anything useful today. I should have called the Sperm Guy again and I left a weak message for my OB saying that unless he has a better idea I guess we should rustle up an RE referral. I completely forgot to remind him that we needed to schedule an Hsg for me. I didn't mention this in the last entry, but I did ask my OB at my appointment last week whether I should be concerned about scarring after four D&Cs. He said that from what he could tell while performing the last D&C everything looked, excuse me, FELT fine. In fact, he said that he couldn't have told that I have had three prior D&Cs done. I simpered modestly until I realized how sick it all was. He went on to add that we should definitely check things out though, so Hsg Ho! I think he was just so relieved to be on solid ground with me, Hsg stuff rather than chromosomes, that he would have agreed to anything.

Anyway, I was going to write about that, but I am now all fluttery because I just booked a flight to San Francisco for next weekend (uh, next weekend after this one.) Steve spent three hours tonight plowing our driveway (we have apparently gotten about a foot and a half of snow in the past 24 hours, who knew) and eventually made it down to the mailbox and back again. At 10 tonight I received a soggy invitation to my maid-of-honor, childhood-junior high-high school best friend's baby shower, and by 10:30 I had booked my flight. This sounds like an I-wouldn't-miss-it -for-the-world story, but it is more complicated than that. I will admit freely to you that if Carrie lived in Indiana I would send a thoughtful gift and my regrets but I LOVE San Francisco. I love it so much I want to crush the whole city into powder and sprinkle it with cinnamon on my toast. I am going to fly out on Friday morning and get a really nice hotel room and moon about and read and drink wine and eat wonderful things non-stop. Did I mention that Steve and Patrick will be staying home? C'est la...

Patrick and I spent a ridiculous 30 minutes this afternoon with the video camera. If I have the chance I will try to put up a snippet of me singing and Patrick telling me where to cram it. Maybe you had to be here, but I think it is amusing.