Everyone is pregnant

I worked in a very small school for kids with special needs. ADHD, Asperger's, dyslexia, etc. kids with learning differences who needed alternative ways of learning. Not special ed, but special needs.

As a small school, there was a small staff. Early in the 2014-15 school year, a friend who shared my classroom with me for a class period while I was off came running in. "Why isn't he answering? He always answers! Just because I need him to answer, he won't!" She meant her husband. I asked what was wrong and could I help. She said "Nothing is wrong. Everything is right!" And I knew. She had a scare right before school started and ended up disappointed when she got her period. They had two kids already. She didn't even have to tell me.

A side effect to being pregnant and secretive so many times is that you get really good at knowing when other people are hiding it. You're not as good at it as you think you are, for sure. The wording of posts. The sudden drop in coffee consumption. Things you start to complain about. You stop wearing make-up. You suddenly "like" pages like Similac and Toys R Us and your local Moms Blog. You like old posts of pictures of you with friends' kids as babies. I see you. I know. And I hid you from my timeline. I was only wrong once. The big secret wasn't a pregnancy, but a move to France. I only found out when I went through and put those pregnant people back into my newsfeed. But all of the other people had babies or were about to have them. Because yes. Even though I had a successful pregnancy, I hid people while pregnant. Just in case. Once he was here, I brought them all back.

Anyway, when someone miscarried, no matter how many times, please don't be like this friend. She talked about it and complained about it constantly. She never picked up on my body language. I left my desk abruptly the day she told the class that used my room. She never noticed. And it was like a knife in my heart every time.

One day soon after she told me, she came in my room. "I'm not the only one around here! L is also pregnant!" So her next sin was telling someone else's news. But guess what? Had she not told me, I never would have known. This coworker and work friend never once told me she was pregnant. She also knew I'd lost. In fact, she was the one who made me go home that day when I returned after my d and c. So she knew very well. Don't do this, either. Leaving me in the dark hurt almost as much as oversharing.

A couple months later, my best work friend Melissa came to my room. She could barely meet my eyes. She very gently told me that she, too, was pregnant. She wanted to let me know so I could be prepared when she posted it online. She also struggled with infertility before having her first daughter. Not loss, but typical PCOS struggles. She was gentle and kind and almost apologetic. She was sensitive to my situation and needs. This. This is what you should do to share your happy news with someone struggling with infertility.

So that made three coworkers pregnant. Our staff was about 50 people. There were six married women of childbearing age at school. Hold onto your butts, because all six of us had babies that year.

Those three were due in June, July, and August.

About a month later, Melissa told me to carefully open FB because my other closest work friend, Michelle, who struggled with infertility and had her two sons through IUI, who was also the friend who was pregnant with her second four days ahead of my second loss (the d and c), posted an announcement for her third baby, due in late September.

Three friends outside of school posted pregnancy announcements. One due in June. Two due in October.

Then Jessica asked me to be her bridesmaid and told me she was due in early November.

Not long after that, an unmarried friend whose girlfriend lost a baby earlier announced that they were expecting again. This one due two days after Jessica.

I was due December 8. If the baby didn't make it, I wasn't sure I would be able to handle this.

That summer, another work friend, recently married, leaving to teach at a different school, posted an ultrasound. She was due at the end of December.

When I went to work in August, a new teacher was due the week after me.

The good news was that I had people to commiserate with in my personal life and my professional life. The bad news was that if this baby didn't make it, I would probably become a hermit.

So two babies were born in June. Two in July, because I found out another friend I don't see in person anymore was also due then. One in August. A former coworker posted photos of her adopted newborn in August. One in September. October went nuts. I had three people with due dates not close to each other have babies three days in a row. One was four weeks early (the friend who ended up marrying his girlfriend during this pregnancy). One was a scheduled C-section. One was one week overdue. And then Jessica was induced a week early, bringing her son into the world in late October. A friend we don't see anymore got a girl pregnant, and they were due two days after me. She delivered early, so there was a November baby.

When the people due after me had the baby four weeks early, things got too real haha. I was next.

The new girl at work was scheduled to induce December 1. Then my doctor scheduled an induction that same day. The other teacher went in the morning, and I got an overnight slot. More on that later, but our babies ended up born a day apart as a result.

The former coworker had her baby on Christmas Eve.

One of the other bridesmaids had a son in February. A small break, and babies were born in April, May and June. It was crazy. I don't know what was in the water in 2014-2015, but we all drank it.

Second trimester for the first time ever

Crossing into the second trimester was huge for me. I'd never been there. I'd been close a few times, but no cigar. Could still fit in my own clothes if the shirts were baggy and I skipped a belt. Melissa gave me her Bella Band, and I wore my clothes a bit longer.

Nausea kept me from eating, so I lost seven pounds off the bat. I was slowly starting to gain a little again.

I was afraid to buy maternity clothes. It was summer, so I was home. Didn't need to put on real clothes if I didn't want to. I didn't want to spend money and lose the baby. I'd be stuck with wasted money and clothes I couldn't use. My cousin and another friend also gave me some things. I bought some baggy shirts because I figured if it worked out, I could wear them until I lost the weight (Spoiler: it's still hanging around) or I could just wear them to be comfortable.

My dear friend Jessica got engaged and asked me to be a bridesmaid when I was what would be considered one week pregnant and she was six. Her wedding would be July 4. I met her to go dress shopping at probably three weeks pregnant without knowing it. She was eight. I ordered a normal dress. Her wedding would happen when she was 22 weeks and I would be 17, if I made it that far. If I made it, it would be so much fun. If I didn't, I didn't know how I'd get through her wedding.

The dress thankfully was a style that would work with me if I'd popped out a bit. It was long and almost empire waisted with room for ample boobs, since all four bridesmaids were busty.

I accepted the fact that she was pregnant and was happy for her. I love her dearly, but it didn't mean I wasn't hurting about it. When I found out I was pregnant, it was both exciting and terrifying with regards to this wedding. I didn't tell her I was pregnant until the week of the wedding.

When I went for a fitting at 12 week, I had to ask the seamstress to give me a slight bit of room. I was so afraid that if I lost the baby, I would not fit. But if I didn't say something, and I kept the baby, I also wouldn't fit.

The wedding was wonderful, especially as a pregnant bridesmaid to a pregnant bride. Always mocktails available, no unpasteurized cheeses, no deli meat sandwiches, half-caf coffee... and lots of salty munchy items. No crazy bachelorette night. Just a nice bridal luncheon and a shower with a tea theme.

I finally told her that I was pregnant while shopping for a dress for the luncheon and the rehearsal dinner. I'd procrastinated to make sure I could fit in whatever. I waited until my doctor's appointment for the week (more on that in a minute) to see that everything was still good. Then I shopped and told her.

She was adopted, and when I got there, her mom gave me the warmest wishes and the most understanding kindness. It was the first time, other than "my pen pal," who had losses before her daughter, that anyone was so accepting and nonjudgmental about my need to stay private. I do not know what her history was, and it was not my place to ask. My PP - I know you're reading this, and I hope you know how much I appreciate you.

At her rehearsal dinner, we took a back-to-back bump picture. It's the only one I ever took. I have pictures where I happen to be in there, but it was the only posed belly picture I ever took.

I regret that now. But I didn't want visual reminders if things went wrong.

Once I saw my doctor at nine weeks, she wanted me weekly, at least into the second trimester. The maternal-fetal medicine specialist wanted me if I made it to 15 weeks.

She and my OB/GYN are friends. She terrifies me. My doctor said she would because she is so thorough. But thorough is what I wanted and needed. They ran genetic tests that came back fine. They wanted to monitor me again for the growth scan around 20 weeks and again around 30. Once more after that, too.

The MFM would not do delivery. I would be able to have my own doctor. She's crazy and wonderful, ridiculous and has a Cajun accent. She talks a lot and never discouraged me. Not even once.

She also knew how I felt. Since I was off for summer break during the bulk of the second trimester, she kept me around and had me pop in once a week. I have so many ultrasound pictures as a result, but once we hit the halfway point and once I was regularly feeling him move, she let me come in once a week for peace of mind. When they told me to stop the progesterone, and that terrified me, she was reassuring without being condescending.

My summer was spent on the couch, for the most part. I also worked orientation week for our incoming eighth graders. I did not say a word to the two coworkers who also worked this week. The rest of the time was obsessively making sure I wasn't bleeding, reading books, and going to the two doctors. I eventually let my mom take me shopping. But I didn't remove tags until I wore the clothes. Everything stayed in the bag until I needed to wear it. Most of it stayed there until school started.

One day, my inlaws came to town because my brother-in-law and his wife were coming in for a concert. We had brunch downtown. While we were waiting for our table, they walked up. Hugs. Kisses. And then it happened.

My FIL reached out and patted my stomach.

I froze.

No one has the right to touch anyone for any reason. I should have slapped his hand. I should have rubbed his 400-pound gut and asked him the same question: "and how are WE doing?" But I froze. My husband did the best thing he's ever done.

"Don't do that. She hates that."

I've never loved him more.

It got uncomfortable for everyone. My SIL's eyes were wide with horror when he touched me.

I loathe his parents.

Don't touch women. Of any kind. Of any relationship to you. For any reason. Don't. Touch. Women.

I also went to a Bernie Sanders rally. It was awesome. He should have won the nomination. Baby's first political rally!

As summer wrapped up, I was nervous about going to work. Once there, everyone would know. For better or for worse, everyone would know. It was obvious.

At book day, a few parents were very excited. I don't know that all of the kids knew. None of them asked me about it, but mothers did. From that point on, everyone would know if something went wrong.

During teacher prep week, I didn't say anything, except for a few people. I needed to prepare those who would have to take over my millions of responsibilities if I went on any leave: either for grief or for maternity leave. My principal didn't understand why I didn't want to announce it and even passively-aggressively attempted to get me to say it.

On the first day of school, I wore a maternity dress with a cardigan. Cardigan to hide it. But dress didn't lie. I didn't say anything. I waited to see if the kids would.

My juniors were one of my all-time favorite classes. I taught them Louisiana history in 8th, English I as freshmen, English II as sophomores, and now speech as juniors. I also had most of them in at least one extracurricular activity. They are an amazing batch of kids I love dearly.

One of them, A, once asked another teacher if she was pregnant. She was not. She also wasn't married. Yet. So if that became a rumor, it would have cost her her job (because Catholic school). So she tore him a new one.

He was in the second junior class group, and when the first class came in and asked me about it, they were very excited and then mischievous. They thought it would be hilarious if they pranked him. They would tell the other group that I was pregnant, but no one would be allowed to tell A. They tipped off anyone in any grade who would possibly mention it to him. No one was allowed to say that I was pregnant to him. Then they decided to talk about how they thought maybe I was and how someone should ask. He refused to do it. The other teacher had him terrified. This went on for a few weeks. He not only wouldn't ask me, he wouldn't make eye contact with me. And as each week passed, I grew bigger and more obviously pregnant. They finally caved and told him. He was so relieved. It was hilarious. But boy, did they make him sweat.

I am the perfect type to be a teacher based on my ability to "hold it" all day. Suddenly, I was constantly in the restroom. It was a terrifying new development. There was a teacher, new that year, due the week after me. We had a revolving door to the faculty restroom. Everyone was so annoyed with us haha.

The previous school year and current one proved incredibly fertile for my coworkers and friends. But that's for another day. This post is long enough.

Sixth time's the charm?

I definitely can't move to the present on here unless I hit recent past. So yes. Let's hit the tumultuous first trimester.

I wish I'd written everything down at the time. But my repeat losses stole so much from me. I definitely lost the ability to enjoy my pregnancy. In retrospect, I'm one of those odd birds who actually LOVED pregnancy. But at the time, it was terrifying.

As usual, I was experiencing the "PMS or pregnancy phase." Happened every few months. It was almost always PMS. It was occasionally pregnancy. Early April 2015's phase seemed to lag a bit longer and feel more intense. When you've been pregnant six times in less than three years, you get very in-tune with your body and what it says to you. Sunday, April 5, was Easter. I went to a family crawfish boil. My dad grabbed Abita Strawberry Lager for me. It's my go-to crawfish boil beer. Every time I was pregnant, I faked drinking. Or just didn't. I faked it one NYE with black disposable champagne flutes full of Coke. People could see bubbles though the cup and I made sure not to let anyone see the top. Things like that.

Whenever I abstained, there was a lot of lying and subterfuge. I knew from a friend who did IUI twice that the doctors said until you can get a positive test, drinking in moderation won't hurt. So I decided to Hell with it. I'd drink a single beer slowly all day. No sense in skipping my favorite seasonal beer because I'd more than likely lose this one, too. I hadn't tested yet, but planned to do so the next day. It had me officially very late if I woke up period-free. One beer wouldn't hurt. Either I'd be not pregnant in the morning or early enough.

I know this seems terrible. But my cynicism reached new heights during these three years. I know it probably makes me seem irresponsible. Or like I have a problem. But when you do everything right and still keep losing babies, you basically quit hoping for the best. So don't judge. I know many readers aren't drinkers. And I respect that. But when turning down a caffeinated beverage will get "What, are you pregnant?!" from people, refusing a single beer at a crawfish boil would be the same. And that's the last question you want to be asked when you're trying and failing or trying and succeeding or making the choice to never be or... any situation, really. Because it's no one else's business but yours.

Anyway, I nursed that last beer all day. And bought a fresh pack of tests. And said nothing to anyone.

The next day, April 6, was our 13th wedding anniversary. Mark works in evenings. I was off of school. We had plans to have lunch because we couldn't do dinner.

I woke up first, as usual. Wanted that good FMU. Positive. Woke Mark up. Let him be up a bit. Grabbed the test. Showed him. We gave each other faint smiles, hugged, and went to get lunch at a Mediterranean place. Did I want feta on things? Yes. Should I get it? Probably not. I was pregnant. But, like the beer, it would be a short-lived pregnancy again. Why deprive myself of something enjoyable? I got the feta.

There was no celebration. No tears. Just a neutral reaction. We'd been here too many times before.

Losses rob you of so much, least of all your joy and innocence. They take away the ability to relax. The ability to enjoy the ride. At my point in life, I lost a fun announcement. I lost the bravery to take belly pics. I lost the ability to just pee without fear for nine months. There are other things that will pop up later, too.


We made a game plan. I had progesterone pills to take to help sustain a pregnancy. I also had pain pills left from a previous loss. Both were well before expiration dates. I was set. I would only call my doctor at eight weeks or at the sign of bleeding. I had meds to help no matter which way things went. No need to involve her early on.

Four weeks later, I was still not bleeding. I made the appointment. My doctor always squeezes me in as soon as she can the day I get a positive test, which is around four weeks. She's the best. I will say that a million more times. I made an appointment during my planning period that afternoon. She could see me the next day. I asked for afternoon so that I could just say I had what seemed to be a normal doctor appointment and no one at work would suspect anything.

The next day found tornadoes around the metro area. I drove all the way out to the doctor, and the parking lot was empty. The trees on the street were obliterated a block down. Electrical poles were down. A tornado hit half a block away and they had no electricity and didn't know when it would return. They lost the phone lines, too, which is why I didn't get a call. A few days later I was able to rebook the appointment.

At nine weeks, I saw a bouncing blob with a strong heartbeat. I didn't believe it. I also wasn't out of the woods. I wouldn't tell anyone yet. My doctor was cautiously optimistic. We had never made it to a moving blob with a heartbeat before. I got a copy of the picture. It was only the second time I'd been able to do that.

They didn't get why I had gone so long without calling. But I did. I just couldn't take the false hope. Again. She told me to keep taking my aspirin and progesterone pills. Go back in one week.

Stepping back for a moment, April 29 was a date I dreaded. It coincided with a previous loss time period. I was also stuck on a whole school field trip in Mobile, Ala., that day. If it happened again, I knew that would be the day. I made it through, and went to the doctor for that positive appointment.

My mom's birthday and Mother's Day were close together. We decided that we would tell my family in person after dinner. My dad suffered from ulcerative colitis and was about to embark on his worst bout with it. It was eventually so bad that we thought we would lose him. In October, he ended up with an ostomy bag.

We got there and my parents had ordered a bottle of wine. I declined. No reason given. I didn't want to say it in the restaurant. We made it through dinner and my dad was getting to the point where he needed to get home quickly. So we told them in the parking lot. Dad was hitting a critical point and hurried them away so he could be home. I understood.

They called later for more information. Up until that point, I told my boss because I needed to keep leaving every week to see my doctor. I told my friend Melissa, who struggled with infertility and was five months with her second daughter. And now my parents and brother knew. But that was it.

His parents learned when we went in to see his youngest cousin graduate from college. We also told his brother and his sister-in-law.

We planned to tell the rest of my in-laws if and only if everything was still fine in June when we went to his grandfather's birthday dinner. I was fine. We bought an ultrasound frame and put a copy of the most recent one in there. He opened it at dinner, but only after a quick trip to restroom confirmed that I was not bleeding.

I let my mom call family in June. Everyone we told was under strict orders to keep things off of social media.

Jumping back to May, as senior adviser, I was in charge of graduation. The faculty gowns were brought to my room. Two heavy boxes. I knew I couldn't lift them, so I shoved one box off and caught it a little to ease it down. I figured I was safe.

The next day at work, I went to the restroom and found blood. I panicked. Why was it happening again? I found a quiet spot in the empty cafeteria and called my doctor. I waited for the return call by pacing school slowly and blindly, stopping at every faculty restroom to see how bad the bleeding was. It was slight. The nurse called back and said the doctor wanted me immediately. I arrived at her room full of big pregnant patients and fought back tears. Blood pressure elevated, but they knew why. Internal ultrasound showed a bouncing baby and a strong heart rate. Bleeding mostly gone. Only a slight dot on her wand. Gave me instructions to rest up, but cleared me to do graduation that night. Just don't overdo it. I'd had a voicemail from my principal, a nun, who was wishing me luck and praying for me. I kept that voicemail. I told my doctor about it and she said "If you've got nuns praying for you, everything will be fine." My principal loved that even if I found it silly.

I had her bring my graduation robes from my classroom and met her at church to run the show carefully. The secretary was concerned because I was pale and ran out in such a bad state. I decided I could trust her and told her what was going on. She kept it secret.

Apparently, several people, including my assistant principal, were very concerned. I was evidently very pale and looked worried or concerned or sad, depending on who you asked.

That weekend, we rented a camp with friends in Bay St. Louis, Miss. We had a blast. I faked drinking beers by bringing Abita Root Beer and a tall koozie to conceal the label. No one noticed. By this point, only our best friends knew. The circle widened probably once a week. They helped hide the fact that I couldn't lift or carry things and made sure we had one of the private rooms so that I could nap when I needed to because damn, first trimester sucks.

My nausea was subsiding at that point. I can no longer eat ginger things because I lived on ginger candy. That and Coke Icees were the only things that helped. The nausea was intense but never productive, haha. So hashtagblessed.

I didn't want to seem useless in the camping trip as we cleaned the camp. So I offered to sweep the house. That night, I was bleeding again. I went to work hoping that it was just the overexertion. I went back to the doctor. She said I had placenta previa, so I needed to seriously limit activity. Absolutely no lifting or carrying. Rest when possible, keep an eye on it. Hopefully, it would migrate up. Spoiler alert: it did, eventually. But I was on pelvic rest and limited activity until after giving birth.

I had always said that if I could just be successfully pregnant, I wouldn't complain. I would comment about nausea. I would comment about the round ligament pain. Both needed to be brought to people's attention simply because both affected my ability to move and do things. But it wasn't a complaint, though.

I continued weekly visits and ultrasounds and rejoiced when I graduated to the trans abdominal ultrasound wand. I'd never made it that far.

But my guard would never drop, even after he was in my arms, safe and sound. My history stole that from me.

Directionally challenged

This blog has had two different purposes since it began. Well technically, three, because I technically started it almost as a joke. It moved into a place to tell my story, to keep me sane, and to be where I could document a major portion of my own life, as well as my city's life. But what now?

It disappeared while I drew into myself, got pregnant, had a baby, and parented for two years. I've resurrected the blog now, but the description seems to not fit any more.

I don't want it to be a Mom blog. I guess it can just move into observations again, with some other posts. My previous post was so very heavy. I need it to lighten up. I suppose I could start with the successful pregnancy, because I feel like that needs to go before I can discuss anything else. But then in order on Mom Blog. It will probably end up being my next post, though, simply because I feel like it can serve as hope for those still in the infertility trenches.

Confession time

The main reason I stopped blogging? It had always been a source of comfort when dealing with tough situations. But suddenly, it was a reminder of terrible things and failure.

You see, since my post about my grandmother dying, we adopted two cats and had a child. He's two now. But while those things, plus a few job changes, ate up my time, it was the impossible road leading to parenthood that was the true issue.

I'll say it here, semi-publicly, for the first time ever: My son is not my first child.

In fact, his siblings all fit on one hand, and he's the finger on my other hand.

They call this a rainbow baby. I shy from the term, but only because it seems too schmaltzy. But he is quite the definition of one: a terrible rainstorm with a bright and lovely rainbow.

In 2012, you may have assumed that my big news would be a pregnancy announcement. It would have been. But while evacuated laterally at my parents' house during Isaac, just one day after heading to the entire in-laws clan to share the news, I started bleeding. I spent hours in the ER. A friend who worked there saw my name on the list and came to see us. He didn't know. Very few people knew. He tried to be encouraging. But I knew. I was 10 weeks

There was the invasive ultrasound and the silent technician. There was the long wait until my room was ready. They called us back. I spent an hour standing in the hallway because the room wasn't actually ready. They finally stuck me in a room. I waited again. They finally admitted that there were no rooms with tables capable of a pelvic exam. A doctor finally came in. They stuck a bucket under me to lift my pelvis to a better angle. The unfeeling man who saw me coldly said the pregnancy was ending and they would call my doctor to let her know. I hadn't even been in to see her yet. My husband had to go to work. My mother was with me. A nurse brought me an awful packet on grief and they sent me on my way. There was calling my husband to tell him and his boss letting him leave. My parents gave me their bed until our power was back following the storm. There was buying incontinence liners to sit on and giant pads for more than a week. I missed a week of work.

The process itself was... excruciating. I will never forget it and can never speak of it. When I was finally in labor for real, I knew that I knew labor already. I'd passed my almost 12-week fetus naturally. I vowed never again.

I missed another week of work. I came back different. Foggy. Joyless. Faking every step and smile and move. Coworkers who knew brought me food and flowers and gifts. Those who didn't know kept me at arm's length

That was September 2012. I was pregnant again right before Christmas. My friend was also pregnant, with her second. We were four days apart. My doctor always wanted me early to keep an eye on things. When she saw an empty sac, she wasn't too concerned. Come back next week! Repeat for 11 weeks, schedule a D and C. Agonize over it. You're pro-choice, it's not really an abortion. But you feel nausea and breast tenderness and exhaustion and bloat. Your body thinks it's doing its job. It's not. And pro-choice means you should be able to choose to carry the child. My choice was taken from me.

The night before the procedure, you go to the NFL experience. The Super Bowl was in town that Sunday. You walk in a daze and clutch your husband tight. The next day will be bad. You did pre-op earlier. They made you do a pregnancy test. You explain why you're there. The one nurse seems to want to convince you to wait because maybe the ultrasounds, the ones you had every week and twice that morning, and maybe the blood work, which shows high HCG are not correct. You cry. The sac is empty. You failed again.

You hear excited med students in the waiting area. They are on the ob/gyn rotation. They watched births that morning. They were reverent. You let tears pour down your face.

The day of, you silently ride to the hospital. You check in. Your doctor is late. She's not a morning person, but you love her and wait. They roll you out. When you come to, you can't stop coughing because your throat is irritated from the tube. They bring you, totally fucked up, to your room. Your husband doesn't seem well. You're bleeding for more than a week. Only pads allowed. And it's time to bring back incontinence liners again. This first weekend in February, 2013, is awful. But you're glad you opted for surgery. Easier to push forward and no laboring Just... sadness.

You go to work Monday because you need to be busy. You're probably anemic from blood loss and feeling extreme depression. The counselor passes by and sees you propping yourself up on a cabinet, pale and blank-faced. She goes to the office and arranges a sub. Sends you home. Offers to drive you. You make it home and cry.

You never are able to look at your friend's son. You constantly imagine the life you should be living you can't ha doe swing him grow up. It's nothing personal.

In June, you're pregnant again. You told many people about the first. You tell less people about the second. You've been embarrassed. People get uncomfortable. You tell minimal people. Most find out when you decline 4th of July plans. No one knows what to say.

No one, except your in-laws. Your husband waits until he can say it and calls them. He tells them bad news when they didn't even know about the good news. They tell him it's because you don't go to church. They say you need to go so you can receive blessings. They tell him he will go to Hell, and that makes them sad that he won't join them in heaven. Sorry, assholes, you've got it backward. You're not supposed to know their reaction. You secretly hate them for three years until you explode and confront them. They gaslight you. You excommunicate them from your life unless you're chaperoning their visits with your son.

You find out the next June that you're finally pregnant for a 4th time. It's 2014. Almos a whole year has passed. Surely, your body will get it right.

Your whole family goes to Philadelphia for your cousin's wedding. Well. Not everyone. One cousin had twins a month before and another cousin gave birth while you traveled. Everyone you know gets pregnant quickly and easily. You start hiding profiles from your social media timelines. You skip every baby shower and christening and kid birthday party. You become reclusive. But you're pregnant with number 4. You feel nausea and tire easily. The doctor thinks it will be good. You finally get an ultrasound printout. It's too early to see a heartbeat. You go on your trip. Doctor calls with blood work results. It's not great, but it's in viability range. You fly home and use the restroom at the airport. Blood. You give up on joy. You curse the powers that be. You meltdown when a former student announces a pregnancy. Unmarried. No degree. Bar tending. Kind of a screw up. A lovable one. But you can't look.

It's over before you can call the doctor. No time to schedule a procedure. Just like last time. June of 2014 is all despair. You're a shell of yourself.

Those are the "official ones." But there was one more in January. You were at the "PMS or pregnancy" stage. You pick a day. If I'm not bleeding by then, time to buy a test. So you start to bleed one morning. The next day, you're at work. You get what you think are the worst "day2" cramps ever. You bum pain meds off a coworker. You go home. The tampon slides out with a cascade of blood. You wipe. What is this? You know. You've only seen that one other time. You almost pass out. You are inconsolable. You know what has happened. You hate your body. You resign yourself to a different life than what you planned. You bitch online to a friend who lost three before her daughter. You're grateful for each other. No one else knows what to say or do. Number 4 was known to your doctor and your spouse. Number 5 was known by you and your husband. Clearly, it ran its course. You never mention it to your doctor.

Early April 2015 you start to wonder. You go to Easter and half-heartedly drink a beer. You've always faked abstaining when pregnant. You say to hell with it. If I am not, I miss out. If I am, it will end in heartache and you'll have missed a free beer for nothing. You still feel guilty but know you're early enough.

The next day is your 13th wedding anniversary. You test secretly. It's positive. You show it with no emotion to your husband. You hug. You go about your day. You have progesterone pills and pain pills. You're covered no matter which way it goes. You've been to your doctor and your specialist a million times. They draw so much blood. They discover you have a single copy mutation of MTHFR gene. You learn your body throws out clots that choke out your babies. You have to take aspirin every day for the rest of your life. You need a special prescription vitamin in addition to prenatals. You take the progesterone. If you can make it to eight weeks this time, you'll call your doctor. You do. They schedule you for the next day. Three work friends are pregnant. You suspect another is. She is. But you don't find out until July. One friend never tells you. You hear through the grape vine. That hurts. Another friend over shares with you. That hurts even more. The third friend tells you in person in a delicate way. She doesn't share details or complain like the second did. Another work friend ends up pregnant. This baby better survive.

The doctor appointment gets postponed a week because the office has no power since a tornado hit that street. You finally go. There's no need to bring the husband. You get a heartbeat. It's strong. Your blood work is good. You go back every week, from week 9-34. You see the specialist at 11, 15, 22, and 36 weeks. At 34 weeks, you go twice a week for NSTs. You are close personal friends with the doctor and her staff. Two more friends are pregnant. Another friend's girlfriend is pregnant. Another friend you never see is pregnant. You get asked to be a bridesmaid in another friend's wedding. It's in a hurry. She's pregnant. You don't know it, but you are one week pregnant when she tells you. Her wedding is in 16 weeks. You hope you'll still be pregnant because she'll be at 22 weeks and you'll be 17. You hide the pregnancy. Family knows. But most find out in July. Some friends know. Most don't. If you don't see a person, they don't need to know. You insist no one post about it on social media.

You make it. They induce a week early. You hold him. He cries. You're finally breathing again. You're fiercely protective. You hate that. But you're glad.

A lull

So much has happened in two years and change. A major update is very overdue. Stay tuned.

An ode to my Dee-dee

Growing up, I felt robbed. I didn't have a grandmother.

Oh, by the pure definition, I had two. My mother's mother, Granny, was old, had 12 grandchildren, and preferred the company of her fox terrier and her stories to that of her rambunctious brood. Did she love us? Yes. But she wasn't cuddly.

My father's mother refused to believe that she was old enough to be a grandmother. I was born 20 days before her 50th birthday. Rather than have a name like most grandmothers, she declared that she would be called "Dee-dee." Her name was Diane. Scratch that. Diana. She changed it.

When we were sick, we usually went to Granny. Granny let us rest. Once in a while, we went to Dee-dee. Rest was not in her vocabulary. If she had errands to run, so did you. Fever and all.

You'd think that we would hate that. I'm sure there were some days where we preferred to curl up on the couch with a "sleeping buddy." But if you weren't extremely sick, or if you just had the day off of school, spending the day with Dee-dee was a guaranteed adventure. You might go to the cleaner's. You could maybe run through the car wash. Best case scenario, you got candy.

Vivid memory:

Running errands with Dee-dee one day, she told us "We're going to Kay Bee's. If you're good, you can pick something out." We assumed Kaybee Toys. We were so excited. Dee-dee and Paw-paw were NOT the toy grandparents. They were the clothes grandparents. (Something I didn't really appreciate at 5 years old, but grew to appreciate later.) We were wrong. Kay Bee's was KB's. Or K&B, as the rest of New Orleans knew it. The drug store. And since her favorite candy was Hershey's, that meant plopping us in front of the Hershey's section. Forget the other brands.

Her favorite candy was Hershey's Kisses. Or, as she called them, Silver Bells. She had a glass candy jar shaped like one. I broke it on accident while carrying my bags after spending the night at their house. I thought was going to be disowned. A few years later, we went to Hershey Park and bought her a new one.

That was really the only time I felt anger from her. She was the type of grandmother who wouldn't let you splash her in the pool because "I'm getting my hair done tomorrow." So if you splashed close to her in the pool, you would get snapped at. But never anger.

Growing up, I was more my Paw-paw's grandchild. When he died at the end of my junior year of high school, it was absolutely devastating. I felt that I wouldn't have a grandparent on that side. My cousin was "her" grandchild. Or so I thought.

She wasn't the type for mushiness. She was famous for flipping off my grandfather. She laughed when people got hurt. I inherited both her middle finger and her funny bone. This is why "Jackass" will always make me laugh. When I picture her, I picture her laughing.

Because she wasn't mushy, I don't know how often I heard her say "I love you." But when I got older, I heard her say something that I still think of and smile about to this day:

I'm proud of you.

I would trade a million "I love yous" for the chance to hear her say that again.

As a quiet, well-behaved, shy child, I shocked the hell out of everyone by doing school plays. My grandmother was always there to see my shows.

"I'm proud of you," she'd say.

She fostered my interest in theater. My first "Broadway in New Orleans" experience was with her. My aunt and uncle gave her two tickets to see "South Pacific." She decided, out of all of our family, out of all of her friends, to bring me. We went to the Saenger to see it. It was a magical experience for me, and I don't even like musicals. When I went to New York from the College Media Advisers/Associated Collegiate Press conference in college, she gave me money to be spent only on tickets to see a Broadway play. Not food. Not other entertainment. Not souvenirs. I saw "Jane Eyre," which was short-lived, but the most amazing play I've ever seen to this day. Because my Dee-dee wanted me to experience it. It is my only on-Broadway show to this day. I've seen "Wicked" in London. I've seen other "Broadway in New Orleans" shows over the years. But it was Dee-dee who gave me the gift of theater magic. Every year, as I direct my students in their production, I think of her. It kills me that she was never able to see them perform.

When they do perform, I always tell them what she told me:

I'm proud of you.

She was simultaneously the classiest lady in the room and the brassiest lady in the room.

She could burp with the best of them, flip you off, throw some serious side-eye at you, give you a threatening-looking up-down, crunch on ice, stick her fingers in whatever you were cooking and lick them, run her fingers around the icing on the platter where a cake was (we called this "Dee-dee fingers"), invent her own vocabulary, and suck the marrow out of a bone she grabbed off your plate. She literally sucked the marrow out of life.

But then her hair was perfectly coiffed, her clothes were pristine, her make-up was impeccable (she even had her eyeliner tattooed on, later). Her cars were immaculate but smelled like her perfume. She wore the best brand names. She was old New Orleans (5th generation Irish Channel) and wanted everything the family did to match her high standards. When I got married, my cake HAD to be from Swiss, for example. She had the best of everything and always looked like a million bucks.

She was no pampered princess, though. She worked in English Turn's real estate offices until she turned sick. She was well into her 70's. She drove for a while after that. She lived her life and lived it well.

Alzheimer's robbed her of many things. But it couldn't take the love of her family and friends.

Dee-dee, I'm proud of you for being you and for setting in motion the events that brought me to this earth. I love you dearly and will never forget you, my molette.

8

Am I over it? That's debatable.

In many ways, yes. I have a home. A car. I still have Lily. I've only lost one family member while Mark lost two. We've gained some in-laws on both sides, as well as watched the third/fourth generations begin. The Saints won a Superbowl, I'm still working my same job. Mark has a job.

But I still take my meds. I still am dealing with the worst year of my life, redux.

I should have been not at work and doing something drastically different today. It didn't happen.

I had to drive down Claiborne to catch the Interstate. Didn't really think about it until I could see Benson Tower, formerly the Dominion Tower. That was my front row seat to the roof blowing off of the Superdome. I still can't handle a certain entrance to Champions Square, which is by the door where we watched the water rise while we had our sanctioned looting of the downstairs convenience store.

I drove past our former lot. Apparently, our landlord sold it. There is a fence around our neighbor's lot and giant pilings in the air and the ground on our lot. Someone is building a home. I wish them more luck than we had.

I'm dealing with all of this alone tonight while Mark works the Saints broadcast.

I think I'll go to bed early.

I just couldn't bear that.

I know it has been almost a year since I last published here. But 33 was the worst year of my life, other than 26.

26 was Katrina.

33 was secret pains and public aggravations.

This blog started as ridiculousness. It became a tragic outlet. I didn't want it to always be that.

As I was turning 33 last year, an erstwhile relative-in-law told me, and I quote, "33 is your best year. It was my best year. It's everyone's best year. You're going to have the best year of your life."

What I forgot is that this person is essentially evil incarnate, and that her words were a curse, not a blessing.

33 was horrendous. I won't go into details, because then this blog slips back into tragedy, and there's no need for that. But here's a timeline:

August 9: Got great, surprising news. September rolled around, and by the 9th, that was no more.

Nov. 26: An idiotic neighbor caused a major problem to some property.

Nov. 30: Devastating news out of left field.

Dec. 22: Hooray! Redo of the August thing!

Jan. 3: Something could be awry, but probably all is well.

Jan. 17: Got my car back.

Jan. 31: Nothing is well.

Feb. 1: One-day surgical procedure.

Feb. 9: Another idiot neighbor caused worse damage, in several different ways.

March: Got my car back again.

June 19: Hooray! Another redo!

June 30: Hmm. That can't be good.

July 4: Not again.


And so, in all of the vagueness, I have had a horrendous life this past year. Very few people know what some of those things are. I'll keep it that way.

But that's why, for the past year, I've said nothing. I need something really good and positive to happen in order to overshadow how awful 33 was. 34 happened June 10, but the bad which followed all happened because everything was set in motion while still 33. I can only hope that the curse is finally over. I can't handle much more. I'll be back as things are good.

Great big fat never mind

You know how sometimes, life treats you like crap, but then it backs off and allows you to relax and enjoy the ride? But then the second you let your guard down because something really positive is happening in your life, you just get bitch-smacked and knocked back down to crap status?

Why does that keep happening to us?

I'd had plans to blog again in about a week about this thing that was happening that was going to make August 29 finally have a positive experience. But then with Isaac, that got rescheduled for a week later. Fine, whatever. (Hey, Isaac, nice of you to drop in on Katrina's anniversary, by the way. Way to have me celebrate by spending a week at my parents' house because a tree knocked the power and cable lines off of my house. Way to keep my dad's business shuttered again. Way to keep my phone, cable, and Internet down for two weeks and my electricity down for one. We didn't need that stuff in the freezer anyway. And so what that my online classes started, so now I'm playing catch-up in a totally overwhelming state of existence.)

But before this could happen, it was taken away. It has left in its wake despair and rage. So much pain. And there was nothing to do about it. There will be no happy posting.

I have been stuck inside for three weeks now: one week for Isaac, two weeks for what happened. To say the words, even to type them, is too difficult right now. You can probably figure it out, anyway. At some point, I may talk more. Right now, I just needed to put this down.

There is no justice in life. You work hard for other people, never saying no to anyone, toiling away and being there for other people, furthering your education, working in a career that is rewarding, frustrating, and thankless all at once, and something good should happen, right? You get drunk on trailer trash reality shows, cartwheel without panties, and end up in rehab, with no job, no purpose on this Earth other than taking up oxygen and space, and the class and intelligence of a grain of sand, you should get nothing. But that's not how it works. Oh, no. Those people get everything. They can keep what you cannot.

There. I got that out. But I still don't feel any better. Maybe the "Daria" marathon we've had this week has affected me. As if I wasn't cynical enough...

I need to go back to work. Work makes me think of work. I can block out reality that way. In fact, if it wasn't for my friends at work, the past two weeks would have been even more unbearable. I am lucky enough to work with and for some beautiful people. Monday can't get here fast enough. Somehow, though, as much as I look forward to it and need it, I am dreading it all the same. I don't want to put on the strong and happy face. They're just going to have to deal with me. My poor students. How many times will I be able to handle the "Where were you?!?!"s that get lobbed in my direction before I snap at some undeserving person? It's going to take every last ounce of self-control that I have left, every bit of my acting training, and every bit of my friends' assistance, which I have to take. I don't like having help. It's my best and most frustrating quality, if you ask poor Mark. Poor Mark. So good, so strong, so kind. Stuck with me and my negativity. I don't understand his strength and patience. I'm jealous, and I told him so tonight.

I just need the constant reminders to stop. The whole thing needs to be over. I can't move forward until the last bit is done. So here I sit, in neutral, spinning my gears with no results.

Maybe Life will get her shit together and stop pulling the metaphorical football out from underneath us for once. Life. She's truly a bitch sometimes.

Eyebrows raised

I'm on the couch, soaking up a/c while the wind starts periodically gusting outside. I'm not necessarily concerned, per se, about Isaac. He has no eye. He sped up his travel speed, so he isn't even due to hit on August 29. I'm not comfortable with the timing, to be honest. Moreso due to him canceling something I had planned on Wednesday, but it is creepy. I guess I'm just annoyed. Mark has to work. He's bringing a sleeping bag and should be staying for two days. I'll laterally evacuate with Lily to my parents' house. I'm going to bring the important stuff just in case, of course, but I'm mostly going there to avoid being home alone. We had three days of school plus book day, and now we're closed for three days. How irritating. I really miss the days where so long as it was "Just a cat 3," I would stay home and not even flinch. I'd read or play on the Internet so long as we had electricity. Now, I'm taking important things and the cat to my parents' house for a tropical storm, maybe cat 1, maybe cat 2. I'm gun shy. I had something else on my mind which was preventing me for really thinking too long or too hard about the situation, but now I'm starting to think about it. Storm prep did that to me. I'll have a better 7-year post in a few weeks, but I really don't want to jinx something. So, until then, I'm just raising my eyebrows at everything and considering grabbing a string cheese before the fridge goes out.

Stand by your men

I will begin by saying that I love my hometown and things associated with it with a passion. Even if those things play a game I don't care for.

Growing up, my dad would play his "Who Dat" single on game days. I have at least one distinct memory of being forced awake by it. I remember my dad reclining on his bedroom floor in front of the little TV, yelling, hitting the floor in frustration, and teaching me a lot of words I had never heard before in the process. Words that he only said on game days. I remember having to go to my friend's house to play...or if she came over, playing in the backyard due to his reactions. This was the '80s, of course.

In fact, my very pregnant mother and I got in an accident during a game one time. Dad was so frustrated, he threw the phone. And broke it.

Please note that my father is not a violent man by any means. We were not spanked. I got hit once for something, but I had it coming, for sure.

He realized that nothing was worth that sort of reaction and backed off of his team. He had been there for Dempsey's kick. I'm sure it was hard. He didn't quite kick cold turkey; instead, he would relapse from time to time. I'm sure the "Unbelievable" season was hard to stay away from. He followed them, of course, but he would pretend that he wasn't interested.

Eventually, I met and married a superfan. He's not one of those costumer people, but he is the most optimistic Saints fan I've ever met. They can be down 30 points with 2 minutes to go, and he'll say, "They can still pull it off. Watch." I'll be damned if his faith doesn't pull through way more often than it should.

Through his extreme support, I got suckered in. I don't quite remember when exactly I became a fan. I mean, while dad was there for Dempsey, we were there for the Colts beat down. You know the one.

Honestly, let's go to Katrina. Longtime readers will remember my rant that taking the Saints out of New Orleans and moving them to San Antonio was a bad, bad idea. That the city needed something to hope for. You may also recall that when my school was going to close, Reggie Bush stepped up and donated the money we still needed to stay open. You may also remember impassioned commentary on Steve Gleason's block, the reopening of the Dome, the road to the Super Bowl, and my hatred for Brett Fav-ruh. Hmmm. I think being in the Dome for the 2006 homecoming made me a fan. We went to many games that season and later seasons as well. In fact, our presence in the Dome, minus that Colts beat-down, almost guaranteed a win.

And so, while I still am not a football fan, I AM a Saints fan. I AM a New Orleans fan. If you weren't downtown when they won the Super Bowl, or one of the nearly one million people lining the victory parade route, then you just don't know what it did for this city.

For one thing, crime dipped while they were winning games that season.

Thanks, Gregg Williams. I'm holding you personally accountable for the murder rate right now.

When they announced the bounty scandal, I was hurt. But then I was confused. First, I thought they all did that. Mostly because the definition of paying a salary to a defensive player, then giving him signing bonuses and raises and renegotiated contracts is, essentially, giving bonuses for hits. They don't dock salaries if a hit takes someone out. If the hit is illegal, he will be fined.

Look at that Suh guy who essentially attempted murder in front of a national audience. Suspended for two games without pay. TWO GAMES. TWO!!! Indisputable proof in the form of the millions of witnesses who saw him stomp a dude. And that was his punishment.

Look at golden boy Belichick, who had his people SPY on opponents...a VERY illegal action. Fined. FINED!!! That was it!!!

And then here comes the team that no one thought should do anything. A team they wrote off. One of the worst in the league for most of its existence. Under Haslett, they won a playoff game. We get to Payton and Brees, and we go to the NFC championship game, only to have classy Bears fans throw snowballs with batteries at Saints fans, all while holding signs and yelling at their team to "finish what Katrina started." CLASSY.

And then they went 13-3, going undefeated until the very end. And won. And won. And went to the Super Bowl. No one thought they'd win. And then they did. Spectacularly.

While they didn't return, but they came pretty close until choking. But it's okay. "There's always next year" was the only Saints phrase uttered more often than "Who dat."

We were hoping to see them be the first home team to play in the Super Bowl.

And our coach has been suspended for an ENTIRE YEAR. Thankfully, the ringmaster, who ran bounty pools at every team he'd been with, is suspended indefinitely. I feel for the Rams. We took a coach they fired, and they got a guy who can't work in the NFL for a very, very long time. Sucks to be them.

But here's the thing. They should have all been punished for their actions. If it's not something the league allows, and is against the rules, then, yes, they needed to be punished for breaking them. If, as the new argument goes, the punishment is actually for the lies and not the bounties, then why is lying so much worse than illegal spying and malicious and blatant televised injuries? I mean, honestly. Who gets a stronger sentence? A perjurer or an attempted murderer? Apparently, the perjurer.

People are pointing fingers at former Saint Jeremy Shockey as "the snitch." Let's be honest. First of all: What does that teach anyone? It's like a gang....and a gang member just went and cut a deal with the cops and ratted out his boss for murdering someone. And now all of the gang members are up in arms, berating, threatening, burning his jersey, calling for snitches to get stitches.... DISGUSTING. The team was breaking some rules, and he reported it. If it was done in a malicious sense, as revenge, then I could see being upset. That's low to do that after leaving. Have they even confirmed it was him? A commentator says he "heard" it was him, and the whole state began crucifying him. Someone even changed his Wikipedia page to call him an "American football snitch for the Carolina Panthers." Sick. Whether he did it or not, that is sick.

Another big uproar is everyone screaming about how this is the NFL trying to keep us from winning the Super Bowl at home. Seriously? That's putting the cart before the horse, amongst other things. If we had won the NFC Championship already, then, yeah, maybe. But it's not even the 2012 season yet. Does this mean I didn't think they could do it? No. I know they could. I'm just cautiously optimistic.

And now, everyone apparently believes that now, they have no way to win. I was not aware that a football game is won only on the part of one coach. Yeah. It sucks. But I'm taking a page from my overly optimistic husband's book and saying that they can still do it. One day at a time, people.

I know it will get worse as players get their punishments. But it can't get any worse than these fair weather fans taking the Dad of the '80s approach.

Oh ye of little faith, look at this real-life scenario I'm facing: my girls' team will be in the playoffs on Tuesday, and one of the girls can't play. We will have 5 instead of 6 against the one team we can beat so far. I tried to get a replacement, and one girl strung us along for two weeks and told me that she can't do it when it was too late for me to get someone else. I felt so down. They worked so hard, and last year, my girls became the first (and still only) team in the school's history to ever win a post-season game. I wanted them to do it again.

But I realized that they can still do it. If 4 or 5 of them beat their opponents in each match (difficult, but not impossible), it won't matter if the other team's pin count is higher than ours due to having one more person than we do. They just have to bowl their hearts out. They aren't skilled enough to win a game in the next round, especially if they are short one person. One day, they will, but we're still a young team. I'm looking at it in baby steps. They will be good. Right now, they're okay.

And so my mission these past few days has been to convince the girls of this. Because if I rally behind them and reassure them and pump them up, then they will go in confident and may surpass everyone's expectations.

We've done that to the Saints for years. Why quit now? Stand by your men.

Putting the past behind us and our behinds in gear for the future

Haven't thought of that quote in years. One of the plays we did in high school required my friend Tree to say this. She said it with such zeal. And while considering a title, it popped into my head.

Rather fitting, because lately, I've been confronted with things long gone.

First, I have set my DVR to record all of these amazing new episodes of Pop Up Video. Holy cow. I loved half days in high school, because I'd come home, fix a PB&J sandwich or biscuit pizzas or a Lean Cuisine, plop down in my dad's blue recliner, pull up a nesting table, and watch. Also, sometimes, because I got out of school at 2:20, I'd catch it when I got home.

In college, my roommate Lisa and I would race back to the dorm from the cafeteria in order to watch it. Sometimes, we cut it close. Always, it was a bad idea to do so. However, it was always worth it.

When I met Mark, I quickly learned that his musical trivia knowledge knows no bounds. He would always get so mad because he would tell me facts, and I would frequently respond with, "Yeah, I saw that on Pop Up Video once." He hates the show because it allows people to know obscure music trivia that generally only he knows. When it went away, he was happy. He's not so glad to have it back.

In my journalism class, one of my seniors is going to do a new feature called "That '90s Column." In it, he is going to pick apart '90s culture. I guess that the '90s for him are the '80s for me. He did an article on older generations' opinion of Gen-Y. I was his Gen X-er source. First, older generation? Mannnnn. But seriously, he is apparently a fan of everything I find amusing. He wanted to know what some of my earliest memories are and what things I liked. Most of it didn't make it into the article, but it was still fun to talk about. I guess I gave him too much information, haha.

He interviewed me about "Ren and Stimpy" the other day. Another kid did an article on the return of "Beavis and Butt-Head." I then watched that last night with Kurt, Alicia, and Joe. Kurt and I were way into it. Joe watched some through his bottle. Alicia tolerated us fools. Mark didn't get to watch it, but I DVRed it, and we're going to watch it when he gets home.

Both returning TV shows are just as good as they were back then, and have lost none of their appeal. Makes me so happy.

Last week, I once again brought my seniors to my collegiate alma mater. We had a journalism workshop, toured the campus, saw the Dyslexia Center, and visited Student Publications and Printing. Met up with Mark's cousins, Drew and Alison, and my brother-in-law from another mother-in-law, Clyde. He looks like Jones on "Reno 911." I look decidedly nothing like that. For fun, I introduced him as my brother-in-law. The kids' faces were priceless.

It was so much fun going back and showing them every part of the campus I loved so much. Thankfully, I worked so much and spent so many hours in the theater, so there weren't too many stories I had to censor myself on. I guess playing it so safe in college was a bit of a waste, but it was also a good thing. Several of my seniors are interested in going there next year, as opposed to the group I brought last year, so they were very interested in everything I showed them and everything I told them.

Two things that you would have died over.

One. My adviser, who is kind of an ass, but also one of the greatest teachers ever, Dr. C, was handing out some papers. M made a comment about how freezing it was in there, and Dr. C said that it had to be that cold because of all of the equipment in the room. He then added, "So, this is the Iceland of classrooms." He hands B a paper, and B goes, "You mean Greenland. Iceland isn't the one covered in snow. That's Greenland." Dr. C looks at him and goes, "O.....kayyyyy...." and all of us lost it.

Two. My b-i-l Phil's BFF Clyde works for the sports information office. He's a big goofy light-skinned black guy. I used a picture from Phil's wedding as one of my FB profile pictures. It has my m-i-l, s-i-l, b-i-l, f-i-l, Mark, Clyde, and his gf. I introduced him to the kids as being my bil. Their faces were priceless. Clyde explained to them what I meant.

The other teacher, also an alum, who came with us had C and D. C wanted info on remedial courses and math and stuff, so Mr. W brought her to a math dept friend of his. He brought D to visit the basketball team.

They came in after this while Clyde was talking with the kids. Clyde asked if they had any questions, and D goes, "Yeah, I got one. Who are you?" I said, "He is my brother-in-law." Well, the reaction was as awesome as you could expect. The kids played along. I pulled up the profile pic. Now, the gf, Stephanie, is white, so I guess he thinks Clyde married either my sister or Mark's hahahha, because he said, "Ohhhhhhhhh. I see."

So we let him think whatever it is he thinks. In following days, several kids asked me to ask my brother-in-law some stuff about athletics and the school. Heehee.

On the way home, a different female C was behind me and she leaned forward and said, "I never knew people could have black in-laws." This from a white girl dating a black guy. What happened that some level of disconnect exists?? At least Clyde brought some multiculturalism to her life.

Then, on Saturday, we drove to the M.C. to take a photo of three generations of alumni with Mark's family. His grandpa, aunt, uncle, mom, two cousins, brother, sister-in-law, and the two of us all graduated from there, and his two youngest cousins are there now, as I mentioned earlier. Stephanie is actually writing an article for the university about the family's three generations of grads. She and a university photographer took the photo.

After that, we had to go back to Thibodaux to pick up some costumes from my friend Wade, who is also a drama teacher. He did "The Wizard of Oz" a year or so ago, and that's what I'm doing this year. He offered to lend us his costumes, and we detoured to get them. Then, we went to Houma and ate at Outback with Mark's parents and made a detour to the mall for a minute. When we were in college, that was one of the few restaurants there. Good times.

On Saturday, I heard from Wade again, but it was not for good news. Marie, a girl I'd hired based on the fact that, as a freshman, she reminded me of me as a freshman, died. She climbed the ranks and eventually edited the paper. She worked in the same school system I work in, and we would run into each other at workshops and things. We kept in touch via Facebook, but were not close any more. She was an amazing person, and I am very sad about this. She was only 29. Everyone began posting photos from Student Publications. I did, too. It was fun looking through my photos and reminiscing. And it's been fun to see people comment on the pictures, too.

In addition to this revisiting my past stuff, I have listened predominantly to the Gen-X radio stations we have now. Fantastic stuff.

Tomorrow (today?) We are attending a college radio reunion for Mark. It just keeps going!

But then, there's so much progression. It's my 7th year of teaching. I took the GRE last week and have applied for grad school to get a master's in journalism education. I spent the evening with new mommy Alicia.

In fact, babies are stealing my friends, haha. There's lingo I don't speak, there's trick-or-treating plans, there's no one to do things with after work, events end earlier, one moved back to California...glad I have other friends who are childless by choice out there. Otherwise, the world would be so lonely.

Things are changing. When did we get old?

Sicks

Don’t rebuild.

Those two simple words were heard ‘round the world six years ago. But I’m not hearing them today, the day after Hurricane Irene flooded parts of the northeast.

Vermont, oh Vermont. My heart goes out to you. I know all too well the pain you went through and will go through as you slog through your lives and realize there’s nothing left.

New Yorkers who were not able to evacuate due to some decisions of Nagin proportions, our neighbors hear your frustrations.

People of the Virginia and DC area, I know what it is to have a one-two punch. You could consider Katrina and Rita, or Katrina and the oil spill… your choice… our one-two punch(es). Counterparts to the earthquake and Irene.

And while I empathize with you on levels that no human should ever have to empathize with, I am also filled with self-loathing.

Why is it that, knowing full-well what you all are going through, in many cases on a grander scale, I sat there watching some footage and thought to myself, “Good!”?

How can I, as one of the countless number of people whose lives were unexpectedly changed forever, sit there and think cold thoughts?

There’s a sick satisfaction running through me. And I hate it. I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop it.

Maybe it’s because Washington had two back-to-back natural disasters, and those were the people who spit on us, turned their backs on us, and said we shouldn’t rebuild.

Maybe it’s because people sat there, and said, “I’m so tired of hearing about this coverage.” Well, I’m sick of seeing you whine about a Cat 1 storm, people. Unless you live in one of those hard-hit areas. You can complain all you want. You’ve earned that right.

Maybe it’s because so many people claimed we were worthless and that we were hit for being a den of sin. New York comes to mind. DC. And every other major city that got so much as a drop of rain, for that matter.

Maybe it’s because anyone who sat there and said, “Well, New Orleans is below sea level, and it’s a hurricane prone area, so what did they expect?” might be getting just a taste of “it can happen to anyone.” I mean, a pretty big earthquake on the east coast? A 500-mile-diameter hurricane hitting North Caroline, New Jersey, Boston, New York City, and everything in between? All impossible to imagine, yet in the span of about a week, both happened.

We may be below sea level, and it may be a hurricane prone area, but that doesn’t mean we deserved what we got. And, I was here. On Monday, August 29, my house was fine. Early Tuesday, August 30, the inferior levees broke. And boom. Homeless. Thanks, Corps.

My mother told me that a coworker of hers was on vacation and got to talking to a couple. It came out that she was from New Orleans and had lost everything. For the sake of the story, this woman is white and lived in one of the more affluent areas that was destroyed. The wife turned to the husband and pointed her out like an oddity in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not museum and said, “Look, honey. She’s from New Orleans, and she lost everything in Katrina.” The husband sized her up and said, “Really? I thought only Ward 9 flooded.”

So many things wrong there. First, it’s 9th Ward, but that isn’t the worst of what you said. You looked at this white woman and assumed that she wasn’t from there. I have an uncle from the upper 9th. He’s pretty white. You also seemed surprised that she was middle class. And most of all, you had your facts wrong. How did you miss that so many areas were flooded? Downtown isn’t the 9th Ward. Old Metairie isn’t the 9th Ward. Mid-City isn’t the 9th Ward. Lakeview isn’t the 9th Ward. Chalmette isn’t the 9th Ward.

Katrina didn’t discriminate. Everyone was affected, no matter the color, the gender, the age, the religion, the education level, the financial status. Mother Nature doesn’t care.

Mark told me a great quote: If life was a sport, Mother Nature would be undefeated.

I’m sitting here with clogged sinuses and itchy eyes. Not from tears, but from a marsh fire in New Orleans East which is being left to burn. They are waiting for the surrounding waters to extinguish it. The winds shifted, and the smoke is all out here now. It’s a bitter reminder of today’s date. It is simultaneously a reminder that Mother Nature doesn’t care who you are or where you’re from (since the winds shifted and the smell has wafted all over the place) and a trigger for memories of smells I hope to never smell again. That Katrina smell. If there wasn’t smoky air irritating my allergies (and if I think it’s bad in my classroom, I just have to walk down the hallway to the gym to be completely unable to breathe), I would have smelled and tasted that smell again. They say smell is the sense with the closest ties to memory. That’s the truth. Aryanna and I went to Greek Fest in May, which was more than 5 ½ years since the flood, and while walking through the Gentilly neighborhood where we parked, there were patches of the smell. You never forget it once you smell it. All I have to do sometimes is think about it for a few minutes. I can do it with the scent of my house, as well as the scent of my parents’ refrigerator.

I can’t help this, and I hate it. I hate it, hate it, hate it. How could I become so bitter and still be so angry? I have always said that I would never wish this upon even my worst enemy, and here I am, smiling smugly. I can’t stop. I’m trying to push these feelings out of my head, and I can’t.

Every time the news shows an area where shingles are missing from rooftops, or the raging floodwaters, or people who evacuated, I can’t help but think of two little words.

Don’t rebuild.

And then I hate myself. But they keep creeping up.

Don’t rebuild.

You said we couldn’t. You said it was pointless. You said we were stupid to try.

Maybe we are all a little mad. Maybe we all went off the deep end 6 years ago. But we had something worth fighting for.

We had to rebuild to keep busy and stop the downward spirals.

We had to rebuild to pick up the pieces.

We had to rebuild because we love this state, flaws and all.

We had to rebuild because that’s what we do.

We had to rebuild because we had to prove those naysayers wrong.

We had to rebuild to prove to ourselves that we weren’t ruined.

Louisiana has been populated with rejects since its inception. The Islenos were sent here to give the Spanish some allies when they took over. The casket girls came over to find husbands. The prisoners, loose women, and convicts were sent here because no one else wanted them. The slaves were sent here to do the white man’s dirty work. The free people of color flocked here for better opportunities. The privateers came here because they were chased out of other ports. The Irish were sent here because their parents needed them to make money for the family during the potato famine. Jews escaped the Holocaust. Natives settled here after being run off by the settlers back east. Italians and Germans and Croats all came here for a chance at a better life. Hispanics came here for a better life and to find work. And the Acadians. Oh, the Acadians. Kicked out of Acadia in Canada because they refused to swear allegiance to Britain, to speak English, and to become Protestant.

Our people have a history of staring down adversity. We don’t laugh in its face (at least, not any more), but it’s what we do. Are we crazy? Probably. But, rest of the world, that’s what you get for casting out your less desirables.

Sure, we had French nobility, explorers, pioneers, Natives, military, “Americans,” and more nuns and priests than you can count. They’re probably the ones who kept the state from going completely off the deep end. Maybe they were voodooed into assimilation and became as mad as the rest of them. I don’t know. Either way, we should have been named Phoenix, for we rise from the ashes (sometimes literally) over and over and over again.

The flood of 1927. Getting traded between France and Spain, then getting sold to America. Yellow fever. The oil spill. The two great fires. The Battle of New Orleans. The Civil War. Camille and Betsy and Andrew and Katrina and Rita and Gustav and…

The list goes on and on.

And we, possibly admirably, possibly stupidly, will continue to rise each time something new is thrown in our direction.

So let me motivate you to do as we did, northeast. Let me give you two little words that lit the fires in our bellies:

Don’t rebuild.

ah, nuts

Summer's over. I go back for staff week in..oh...less than 8 hours.

It was, hands down, one of THE best years at camp ever. We have a solid staff with competent...no, BEYOND competent head teachers. We had people who didn't create or care about drama. It all went too quickly.

I have had to spend the night away from home every week for like 8 weeks.

Week 3 of camp had me spend the night to babysit the Tzofim Friendship Caravan, which is our favorite event. These singing and dancing Israelis are amaaaaa-zing. They stay the night with us the day before performing, and the director and I had to stay with them.

One week later was the camp overnight.

The next week was my cousin's wedding in the French Quarter, and we had a hotel room for two nights.

The next weekend was my brother-in-law's wedding in Thibodaux, so we had a hotel room there.

The next week was the final camp overnight.

This past weekend involved driving my brother-in-law and new sister-in-law to their new home in Starkville, MS.

We should be going to stay at a friend's camp near Baton Rouge this weekend. It'll be nice to put away the suitcase.

Okay, 7 weeks.

Speaking of putting things away, we have not done any more to the house. Too many weekends out of town. There was a third wedding in there, but we didn't have to stay in any hotels for it, haha. I'm losing my mind.

Some people nest because they are having kids. Other people nest because there are too many huge things which need to be done around the house, and they are powerless to do them, and so they start tinkering and upgrading little things around the house as a means of controlling some little part of their lives.

Yeah, that second one is me.

For instance, now that my b-i-l and s-i-l are 5-6 hours away from us, we have no idea how often we'll be able to see them. We'd like to have a place for them to stay if they have a chance. This is really hard to deal with, especially for Mark. He is so close to his brother, and while we live an hour and a half away from his family, he could and sometimes did visit at random. You can't really do that on a 5-6-hour trip.

Anyway, we have two guest bedrooms which double as our offices. Each has a twin bed in it. It would not be fair to have them sleep in separate rooms. While wandering in Target, we were checking out all of the fun back-to-college stuff, and we found a futon on sale. We decided to do what my mother-in-law did for us when we would visit: put the two twin beds in one room (my office, in this case), get one of those foam bed bridge thingies, and turn the two twins into a king. The futon will go in Mark's office.

So now we need king-sized bedding, to get the stuff moved out of my office, and start turning this into a nice guest room.

I've also picked up curtains, some new pillows, new flatware since the dishwasher ruined ours, some new sheets, and countless other things that needed upgrading around here. And I feel like there's SOME control regained over my house.

Hopefully, after this weekend, we can get back on this renovation thing.

Back into it

I've had several people tell me that I need to get back into this. I had neglected things a bit, but the school year tends to be a little difficult for free time. And once we hit spring, I have my bowling team, and then I go back to camp every few days to prepare for the upcoming summer. My available hours are slim.

Don't let my Facebook presence throw you, though. I keep the browser window open and the FB tab on top, so I see notifications. And I get all ADD and start looking at whatever went up there while I'm working on other things.

Anyway, I hate that all of my posts over the past year or so have been "let me catch you up" posts, but, well, sometimes, that's just how it is.

And, unfortunately, I guess that's what this one will be.

Last regular post I'd had was about my little Nala cat. I think I just couldn't write again for a while after that.

The biggest thing to change in my life was a life-saving moment. My quality of life dropped significantly last year. It started getting worse towards the end of the summer and into the beginning of the school year. I would come home, fight to stay awake, fall asleep on the couch, have Mark wake me up, eat, fall back asleep, have Mark wake me up, shower, go to sleep, go to work, drag all day, go home... and repeat.

It was scary, but I'd also lost my will to care about it. I was shedding like crazy, couldn't stay awake, quick to fly off the handle, and constantly dealing with broken nails. As much as I hate the phrase, Mark tried a "come to Jesus" moment. My annual exam was approaching, and he made me promise to talk to my doctor about it. My mom's theory was that I was having thyroid troubles. That WOULD explain the weight gain I've had over the past few years. I just chalked that up to Katrina, but maybe there was more to it.

Sure enough, I was suffering from hypothyroidism. My levels were dangerously low. A few weeks of trying different dosages, and my quality of life started to improve. I was also given something for the PTSD I've been dealing with the past few years, and that did it, too. I lost about 10 pounds almost immediately, all without changing any dietary or exercise regimens.

What do you know. I wasn't crazy. I was just in physical trouble.

The school year was a very good one. I got to repeat my classes from the year before. This is the first time in 6 years that I've been able to reuse my class materials. What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Of course, adjustments needed to be made here and there, but wow. Just reducing that level of stress was amazing.

I remember being in school, probably middle school, and thinking about how my poor teachers had to teach the same things, year after year after year. Little did I know that one day I would long for that luxury. It's pretty neat knowing what I have coming up for first quarter. I like that I can improve upon what I did the year before. It's funny how your perspective changes as you age.

I still do not see much of Mark. He works nights, I work days, and we frequently worked Sundays, and he sometimes worked Saturdays. It's hard. But we try to find things to do, be it drive around or watch a movie we DVRed two weeks prior.

We do have one project we've tried working on together, though. My father told us that he would help us remodel the front of our house. We hit a huge snafu, though. Well, many of them.

We tore down the paneling in the den. Bit by bit, we worked a little on the weekends. We got some of the sheetrock up, but the holidays started getting in the way. The weekend before my dad's birthday, Mark went to work for 5 a.m. Shortly after 5 a.m., the phone rang. It was my mom. My father had a heart attack, and they were in the hospital. I showered, ran out into the cold early Saturday morning with a soaking wet head, and somehow safely made it to the hospital. While they were working on him, my mom broke the news to me that she was having a lumpectomy that week, and she was only telling me because now I would have to take her in for the procedure.

My world crashed down. That night, my family was supposed to go to 5 Happiness for my dad's birthday dinner. We were happy and excited. He was going to come over to work on the house a little with me while Mark was at work. It was going to be a busy but fun day. And then, there we were. In the Cardiac Care Unit, waiting to hear how my father was after a heart attack, my mom telling me she could have cancer, and all of this being the absolute last thing I ever expected to happen.

The heart attack turned out to be a small one, and Dad went home for his birthday. I spent the night there so that I could get up early and bring my mom to the hospital for her surgery. My aunt, a breast cancer survivor, came to keep me company while we waited. Hours later, I was able to bring her home. That weekend, I spent most of my time chauffeuring them around, putting almost 200 miles on my car. Mom's results were good, no worries. Dad has also made a great recovery.

But then we were stuck. We didn't know what we were doing with regards to home repair. My dad wasn't allowed to do anything for a while. We decided to go through a contractor. He was going to replace our doors, but it took him about a month or so to return the new doors to us. All of our old doors, save for the ones on the bathrooms, were gone. The guys skipped out on a lot of stuff, and months went by. We fired him, got all of our doors back, and tried another guy, who gave us the runaround for a few months. We hired a third guy, who came on time on the appointed days, brought a crew, and had the den sheetrocked and floated in two half days. Booyah.

This was in February/March. We started in October.

We are still not finished. We have trouble aligning my work schedule with Mark's work schedule with my dad's work schedule. We've had another guy do our crown molding, and we'll have other people come in to finish the rest. We'd planned to be done by Christmas. We had no idea it would be June and we still would not be finished.

What we've accomplished:
Painting the range hood and the oven/broiler
Repairing the roof
New A/C and heater
Fixing the ceiling in the den, where the leaking roof ruined things
Removed paneling in the den
Put up sheetrock in the den
Painted the den and the kitchen (we left the paneling there, and deglossed and primed it before painting)
Crown molding in the den and kitchen
Removed the doors to the upper cabinets
Put cabinet contents in boxes in the den (sighhhh)
Deglossed the upper cabinets
Painted, mostly, the upper cabinets
Purchased new hinges for the cabinets
Purchased new drawer pulls/handles for the cabinets
Ordered new flooring which will go in the den, kitchen, and hallway
Had the flooring delivered
Put new doors up

What still needs to be done:
Bottom cabinets
Reattaching cabinet doors
Installing flooring
Finishing the doors
Repairing a kitchen fan
Painting pantry doors
Installing a new countertop
Installing a new kitchen sink
Repainting woodwork and reinstalling it around the windows

Sigh. Mayyybe we'll finish before the first anniversary of this project.

I'm not crazy, I swear.

As of last Friday, I have officially spent half of my life working at my summer camp. Sixteen years. In some ways, it doesn't feel like it. In other ways, I feel ancient. I think about how young I actually was, about how green I was, and about all of the big events I've gone through since I started working there.

There was the burial ceremony for my grandfather's ashes, the deaths of my maternal grandparents, high school graduation, going to college, meeting the man I would marry, editing the college newspaper, flying to Idaho with my friends for the first wedding of a friend I ever attended, going to New York and DC for conventions, interning for a local weekly paper, spending a summer as a secretary, beach trips, the family trip where we drove to Philly, 9-11, graduating from college, getting my first real job, getting married, having a honeymoon, moving into our house, getting downsized, getting a year-round gig there for three years, taking tests towards certification, going back to school, getting hired at school, travel camp with children, Hurricane Katrina, going back to my alma mater, living with my in-laws, living with my parents, Mark living in Baton Rouge in a trailer, Mark moving in with my parents, living there for 2 years, rebuilding our lives, buying our home, working on our home, swimming with manatees, becoming a certified teacher, getting the plays, taking over the yearbook, coaching bowling, getting my coaching certification, traveling with students, Obama's election, attending his inauguration, getting my car totaled by a drunk woman, traveling to Greece, becoming a certified journalism educator, and so many more little things.

Sixteen years ago, I couldn't drive. Stacy and I rode our bikes to work that first year. Later, she got a car, and she would bring me. We were junior counselors. I rose to senior counselor, then unit head, and now I'm the assistant director. I've been through more directors and assistant directors than I can count.

Sixteen years ago, I wasn't anywhere near what I am today. I teach a kid who was my worst camper ever (the kind that makes you never want to work with kids again). Ten years after he was the bane of my existence, he was one of my bowlers, and he's working for me now. He didn't remember having me as his counselor, but he did remember how he acted back then. He was concerned that I would hold his past against him. I told him that I wouldn't hold his past against him, because I didn't want him to hold my past against me. Ha.

Sixteen years ago, if you'd told me that I would still work here, I'd have thought you were an idiot. I was going to be a JOURNALIST. I didn't know that my years at camp would lead to a year-round gig for three years, or that it would influence me to go back to school for my teaching certification and to make a big career change. I also had no way of knowing that print journalism is a dying art, and that getting out when I did was the smartest thing I ever did.

People always ask me why I keep doing this. It has especially been common this year. I don't really have a solid answer. My standard response is that I need to have something to do during the summer, or else I would weigh 800 pounds and be in debt. Which is true. I've never worked retail and I've never worked in food services. I need a teaching break, and we also don't do our own summer school, so I can't teach that. I'm the assistant director; if I was a counselor, I probably would have given it up years ago. I like being administration. Without a master's, I cannot be scholastic administration. And I'm not sure that I would necessarily want to be out of the classroom. So this settles that desire while keeping me in the classroom. And, it's just something I enjoy. I shouldn't have to justify that.

I guess people are just not used to people who have one, let alone two, jobs which they love wholeheartedly. But I somehow do. Neither pays well. Both demand ridiculous hours and mental strain, as well as work "after hours." And yet, I wouldn't have it any other way. I know how lucky I am. I don't take these things lightly. And so, I continue to work at both places. And will do so for as long as I can.

Tick tick tick

They did okay in certain areas. Areas which contain family and friends. But that clock is ticking. One day...it could happen to you, too.

It's just Russian Roulette.

Mmm...yep. People of the Atchafalaya Basin, you are playing Russian Roulette. If I see/hear one more of you say, "Well, it never floods here," I will break you/the nearest item. It never flooded here, either. "But we check our levees!" I thought I picked good food that time I got food poisoning, too. Nothing looked weird, and I was sicker than I had been in a very long time; in fact, it had been more than 13 years since I'd last vomited.

Lakeview never flooded, either. So I guess that means we DIDN'T get 11 feet of water at our house. Silly, silly, silly me. I've just been through hell in my imagination.

Did you not learn from us? Three day, 5 days, whatever your window is, don't wait. Get the hell out of there. You want to drown? You want to sift through your bedroom looking for cufflinks (which, years later, your husband finds in a bag he'd evacuated with). Didn't you learn? Didn't you bitch and groan about our kids being in your class? What about all of us flooding Wal-Marts and parking lots where Red Cross tents popped up? Karma's a BITCH.

Didn't you see our zombie stares? Didn't you get impatient when we'd break down in a grocery store looking at something that was in our fridge that we didn't get to eat? Didn't you put up with our mass depression and talk about us behind our backs (or in front of us, because you didn't know we were one of THOSE PEOPLE)?

Go back and refresh your memory in my 2005-2006 archives.

Have you not seen Tennessee and Mississippi? Are you that naive that you trust government-built and -controlled levee systems?

To borrow from the kids, you all need to GTF.

You wait, you miss bringing things. You wait, you get stuck in evacuation traffic. You wait, you drive 36 hours and almost crash your car because you can't keep your eyes open, but a rest stop is 15 miles away. You wait, you drown. You wait, you lose everything.

To those of you who told me, "It's just stuff," well, I'm not going to hold my tongue when you are irresponsible with your life.

Get out. Get out now.

I watch the news and stalk websites. I see inundation maps in my sleep. I'm flashing back like no tomorrow.

I haven't updated since September. Oddly enough, that's a month or so before I got help. Prolonged, postponed PTSD. Five years and two months worth. It's made a world of difference. But, these visuals are bad. Bad, bad, dirty bad. And you're all blindly going about your business, spouting confident answers.

You may be okay. But you may not be. Learn from us. Please, please, please. I've had enough personal tragedy in the last 10 months or so. I should catch you up later.

Don't be heroes. Don't gamble. This could be an empty chamber, and life will go on. Or, this could be the one with the bullet. Learn from us. It's better to be safe than sorry. Go. If you don't, good luck. Don't say I didn't warn you. I'd rather leave every time a threat arose, 10 million times, than take the chance that the 9,999,999th time will be THE one.

Again, already.

This morning, I had to meet my mom at the Cat Hospital. My sweet baby Nala, who is 16 now, was going into kidney failure. Given her age, the only real option was to put her to sleep. For the second time in 6 weeks, I watched a cat who I loved die.

We got her because in my freshman year of high school, I caught chicken pox from my brother. I missed a week of school right before Christmas break. I am horrible at math, but fantastic at standardized tests. As a result, I was wrongfully placed in Algebra I Honors. I struggled enough as it was, and then missing a week right before exams did me in. My homeroom teacher was my algebra teacher. I asked her for help, and she said, in her thick, unattractive Alabama accent, "You're an honors student. You can figure it out."

This lead to me get further and further behind. The Klumpp refused to help me. As a result, I failed Algebra I and had to go to summer school. In summer school, I had a great teacher. I understood almost everything and made straight As and Bs. The next year was geometry, and I made Bs and Cs with an okay teacher. But when I got to Algebra II, I had another amazing teacher and never got below a B. Senior year I took an extra English instead of math, because I was only required to take three years of math.

Anyway, the idea of summer school was mortifying. Only stupid people went to summer school. I wasn't stupid. I was not going to go to Rummel to take math classes in the summer. No way. Boys school? No thanks. Math? No thanks. Stupid people? No way.

Well, I was now one of them. Stupid.

To get me through it, my parents promised me that I could have anything I wanted. Figuring I could call their bluff, I asked for the one thing that I wanted that I was never supposed to have: a cat.

To my surprise and extreme glee, they said okay. I had to wait until after passing summer school, then until we returned from our trip to visit my relatives in Philadelphia.

We went to the SPCA and were led into a room full of cats. Cats of every color, size, and age. We found scared cats, ugly cats, pretty cats, friendly cats, and one who climbed onto peoples' backs when they bent over to pet other cats. Suddenly, there was my mom with a little grey stripey cat with a white belly. She had a pink nose with a small black dot right above it, a lioness face, and had chosen my mom. As she said, "She chose us. I couldn't turn her away." We brought her home, had her spayed, treated her ear mites, and fell in love. On that first night, she found her way into my bed. I couldn't believe it. I had a cat, and she loved me.

1994 was the summer that "The Lion King" came out. While in Philadelphia, my little cousins Crissy and Steffi wanted to see it, and we went with them. When we got my little girl cat, the only name that seemed to fit her was "Nala." Like the lioness in the movie.

When I had half days at school, she was what got me through being home alone. She was a moody little thing who snubbed my dad, loved me, and loved my mom. In 1997, when I went off to college, it was so hard on me. I missed her so much. If I had a rough day at school, or work, I couldn't hug her. It was all I wanted.

She hated Mark. She would growl at him, hiss at him...and when I brought Lily home between graduation and marriage, she hated her, too. Lily just wanted to play. When Nala was angry at Mark, Lily was there for him. But Nala always loved me.

In April of 2002, we were married. I had made the difficult decision to leave Nala with my parents. It was the only home she'd ever known, she and Lily didn't really get along, and my mom had taken care of her while I was in college. They bonded. No way could I tear her from her only home and the woman she loved more than me. It was hard, but I knew it was the right thing to do.

She'd been slowing down over the years. Had arthritis. She was as cranky as ever, but she would still allow me to hold her and love her. She was a creature of habit, sitting with my mom while she washed her hair each morning, drinking the water dripping from the faucet when mom was done. Waking my mom up every morning, curling up in bed with her.

Last night, my parents noticed she was twitching a bit. This morning, she didn't come in to wake my mom up. She wasn't eating or drinking. Mom brought her to the vet and found out that she was in kidney failure. Her numbers were off the chart, one kidney was enlarged, the other shrunken. She wasn't going to last long. They could treat her, but at 16, it wouldn't really be fair to her.

I'll miss her. I already do.