We just got a potty chair for Z a week ago. He seemed to know right away what it was for. Today, my son came running to me pulling frantically at his pants and doing the tantrum dance. I thought, “Okay, I’ll play along, he wants to pretend to use his potty chair.” Because, really, he’s only a year and a half and we just put it out to get him used to it. So, even though it’s right next to the toilet and we explained what it was for, I sort of thought it would be a hiding place for his toys for the next few months.

You can imagine my surprise when I pulled off his pants and diaper and he ran like a bat out of hell straight for the potty chair streaming a fountain as he went. He sat himself down and squeezed out the last few drops into the potty chair. I was so impressed and happy for him I went to the kitchen to give him a jelly bean. My sweet little one thought I didn’t see his accomplishment, so he dragged the potty chair out to the kitchen to show me! I would have taken a picture if he weren’t half naked and trying to stick his finger in the chair and saying “See? See? See?”

As I type this, he’s so pleased with himself he’s running from room to room, arms flailing like a humming bird and squealing his little head off. I’ll admit it could be in part to the fist full of jelly beans he pulled out of the bag. I’ll trade a sugar crash with a potty trained boy any day. I wonder if this is the start of repeat behavior or if it’s a one time wonder. Regardless…What a good little boy!

Reflections on miscarriage.

Disclaimer: probably disturbing


Dark Thoughts…

She was about the size of a mouse. I knew what had happened immediately. For a several horror struck heartbeats I just stared at the wrongness of the situation. Then, in my mind, I thought she’s cold. She’s dying and she’s cold. This was wrong, of course. She was already dead. Weeks ago, the doctors told me when I went to the hospital, but it took my body time to give up hope. And in my mind I was alone in a dark empty room and the silent whisper of dark wings ripped her in baby form from my arms and I stood screaming her name over and over as the black winged angels carried her back up to heaven. I love you! I loved you! Tell her I love her! I scream after them, hating her dark escorts for stealing her away from me. All in my mind, of course. In my hands is a container in a box that is growing cold. And I want to hold on to it, and wrap my arms around it, careless of blood and tissue and gore. In my mind, I do this, arms and hands red with blood and staining my clothes as I cling to her. And then in my mind I’m alone again in the dark room with the raven tipped angels far, far above me and she is gone. Betrayer of hope, this body of mine, betrayer of miracles. Broken body. Flawed woman. Incomplete. Nonsense, I know. Still, I cannot seem to cry or scream or get mad. I want to. I need to. Everything is wrong and on its side.

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It is always the way; words will answer as long as it is only a person's neighbor who is in trouble, but when that person gets into trouble himself, it is time that the King rise up and do something.
- Personal Reflections of Joan of Arc

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