Hi KuKd Strong Mommas and Inquisitive Guests! It's me again, your jaw-aching KuKd Momma.
I know I promised this wouldn't be another boo-hoo pregnancy loss blog. But allow me to indulge for a brief moment in sappy sentiment. Go ahead and pull up a chair, kids, put on your comfy slippers and grab a steaming mug of whiskey-spiked hot chocolate for the ride (is that a real drink, by the way? or did I make that up? should I patent it?)
Here goes: I had a Good, Snotty Cry today, the kind where I was wiping snot on the back of my hand (skin is not very absorbent of snot, for the record) and making loud sounds. Altogether unsexy, unbecoming, not at all in line with the Strong Momma persona I put forth on this blog. To be totally honest, I don't really do that so much anymore - only under special circumstances, such as the women's "healing retreat" I had the pleasure of attending last month (that's a whole 'nother story, so stay tuned!)
It had to do with writing a chapter in my book about calling my parents to tell them we were about to lose the baby. Such a simple detail I'd forgotten about, how it felt, how it hurt.
Dad said "hello?" in his relaxed way, and I could totally picture him standing there at the sunny kitchen counter in their big house in St. Louis, reading the paper and sipping Starbucks. Standing and not sitting, because of the nerve damage he's got in his groin from a bad bout of shingles. He never, ever complains about it unless you ask him directly how he's feeling, but my mom and brother and I know it causes him agony, and wish more than anything we could make it stop. My dad is such...a nice, beautiful person. Intelligent and soft-spoken and the best listener in the world. He doesn't deserve that kind of pain. He's hot, too - totally handsome with his dark hair (now turning silver) and Irish, angular face. He teachers folk dancing and all the ladies love him Pushing seventy, he was excited to be a first-time grandpa in just six short weeks, and until twenty minutes before this particular phone call, I was damned proud to be FINALLY doing something to distract him from the pain. Giving him a baby.
I know, how village farm-girl of me to think that way. But that's how I felt.
But I knew the bad-ass truth, and I was about to ruin his morning. When I said "Dad? Um, something's wrong with the baby" in a taut voice, about an octave higher than my normal tone, he covered up the receiver and called up the stairs, "JUDY! It's Monica! Pick up! TROUBLE!"
Instantly, I heard an audible click and my mom's voice. "Honey? What's wrong?"
Ahh, my mom. You have no idea how motherly she is, how nurturing, how perfectly awesome a grandma she would make. She's young at heart, fun and wacky, and so unbelievably caring, it almost hurts.
Once she picked up, I kind of babbled a bunch of stuff, can't remember what now. Like a kid who had just been beat up at school. I felt like a ten-year-old.
Anyway, there's more to the story, but that's the part that got me going. There's something about the hurt in their voices, steeped in shock and sadness, that makes me "feel" every time. My parents deserve a grandchild, and my hot-ass brother who has women flocking around him isn't going to help out with that (ARE YOU READING THIS, PAUL??), so it's kind of up to me.