Silly Little Girl

We thought he had an ear infection.

On Friday afternoon, my poor baby was dripping from both ears. I called the pediatrician around 4p.m. His regular ped was out that day, and I got a return call from one of the other pediatrician's nurses saying they were calling in ear drops, and to make an appointment for Monday.

My boy, my Maxy bear, was fine most of the weekend. A little grumpier than usual, but mostly happy. He was always happy.

It stormed over the weekend. Snow piled on everything. On Sunday afternoon, I went out to clean off my car so I wouldn't have to deal with it the next day. While I was cleaning off my back windshield, it collapsed underneath the snow. I was horrified.

My mother-in-law came down, picked up the boys and me, and took me back up to her house so I could take her spare car. The boys would stay with her, and she'd take Max to the pediatrician the next morning.

I got a call at 9am from saying he was fine, just seemed really sleepy.

At 10:30, after the appointment, I got a call from her saying the pediatrician had said he was severely dehydrated. We could either try to force him to drink, or take him straight to the hospital. I told her I'd pick him up and take him to the E.R.

When I got there...he was frightening. He was staring off into space and it was only at first that he knew me. Within minutes, he was clearly unaware of his surroundings. We went to Holy Redeemer in Huntingdon Valley.

At Holy Redeemer, they stuck him four times to try to get an IV but he was so dry that they were unsuccessful. He never flinched. Never cried at the needles. The first time he got stuck and didn't move, my heart dropped into my chest. In hindsight, this is the time where I first felt afraid that I was going to lose my baby. He didn't know me, he didn't know any of his surroundings, he was already half gone.

The first pediatrician was still making noise about sending us home after they got some fluids into him. Around 4pm, the shift changed and the second pediatrician hurried into the room in a panic.

"I want a CT scan. There's something going on here, and it's going on in his brain. Those little cries you hear? I'm afraid they're seizures."

The CT scan was negative, but when they lifted him from the table, his entire left side of his face was drooping. His left eye stopped responding to light stimulus.

By 7pm, we agreed he'd be transferred out to Children's Hospital of Philadelphia. I waited for the ambulance team to come, then I left ahead of them to grab some overnight stuff from our house. My husband was to ride in the ambulance with him.

I arrived at CHOP and called my husband. They were on their way - Max had been medivaced.

"Why?" I demanded. "Why not the ambulance?"

"I don't know. He wasn't stable enough."

My husband would later, while we were waiting for the doctors, tell me that my baby had crashed during the transfer. His heart stopped, his lungs failed to function. They'd intubated him and resumed his sinus rhythm with chest compressions.

We waited until 2:30am to speak with a doctor. His demeanor was bleak.

"Your baby's condition is life-threatening. This is the first time I've felt comfortable enough to leave the room. We don't know what it is, but we suspect it's meningitis. I can't give you any prognosis beyond the next few hours."

Some of the darkest hours of my life were that night. We didn't sleep. I didn't pray. I didn't speak to god. I just repeated my baby's name over and over in my head and begged him to hold on.

The next few days were filled with a lot of medical jargon and up and down hopes. On Wednesday morning, during another huge snowstorm, we got some really good news. His white blood cells were coming back up, he was responding to the antibiotics. His lung and heart function were recovering.

By Wednesday afternoon, bad news came. His body was releasing massive amounts of lactic acid, a chemical that your brain controls. When large amounts are released, it indicates a loss of brain function.

An EEG was recommended, and done. We were told my baby had no more brain function.

We were given the option that next morning to remove him from life support that day, but then the Gift of Life Organ Donation people came to speak with us. If we let them run a few more tests, if we held on just one more day, his death would be the result of brain death, not cardiac death, and his organs would be viable for transplant. The drawback of this was that I couldn't be with my baby when he passed. But Nik and I agreed...if Max could make the decision himself, he'd want to help. Maxy always wanted to help.

I spent that last night in his room. I couldn't let him be alone on his last night.

We let them do their tests. Still no sign of any brain function. We waited for organ recipients to be arranged, surgeons to arrive.

On Friday, February 12th, right around 11pm, we said good-bye one last time, and they took my baby away from me.

So. Life took me for a ride.

I can't really explain why I bought this service back after months and months of it being billed to an expired credit card. I guess because after a conversation I had with my cousin, I realized that if someone I was reading disappeared, I'd want to know why.

So here's why.

I lived my life. I loved my two little boys with the fire of a thousand suns, with conviction and without equivocation. I worked my job, I tended my marriage...I just enjoyed every little bit of my life.

And then, in February...my beautiful, funny, life-enthusiastic, sweet, amazing baby got sick. He had an ear infection, which from Friday to Monday turned to what we were told was severe dehydration.

On Monday, February 8th, in the morning, we were in the pediatrician's office. On that same Monday night, we were at Children's Hospital of Philadelphia.

On Wednesday, February 10th, my son Maxwell was diagnosed with bacterial meningitis.

On February 11th, we determined that he had no further brain function.

On February 12th, he died.

And my life has fallen to pieces since then.

So there's where life took me. And here I am. I don't know where here is, but if there's anyone here with me, stick around, please. I'm going to document all the pictures and smiles and stories I should have been documenting all along, because they need to be remembered, and more people need to know my Maxy Bear.

Tell your story

Really, really quickly -

If you're interested in that kind of mushy stuff, or enjoy talking about yourself and your dude (or chick, or llama, whatever) like I am and do, go here and tell your story. I love the concept of this site, especially during times when it seems like there aren't many happy endings, so I'd love to see it get off the ground. If you submit your story, leave a comment here and I'll link to it.

Happy telling mush!

What is this?

A B-L-O-G? Buh-log? Wha? Huh.

SO HI. HOW ARE YOU. I WAS NOT MISSING FOR OVER A MONTH, I SWEAR. NOR DID I COME BACK WITH A VICIOUS AND UNDETERRED PREFERENCE FOR CAPSLOCK.

So, dudes. I'm sorry. Seriously, I am. I know you hear this all the time, but I SWEAR TO GOD I intended to update. I PROMISED myself I'd update. I made bold, out-loud statements about updating! And then..you know. Life happened, and some other shit happened. And some other shit that I wish had nothing to do with life happened. So, yeah. Sorry about that.

In numbered, vaguely (or totally) incoherent form, I give you:

WHY WRITING A BLOG FELL REALLY REALLY LOW ON MY LIST OF PRIORITIES.

1. That move I spoke of occurred.
2. The aforementioned move occurred the day after the winter's worst snow storm, in 12 degree weather.
3. The move was into a place that we learned, that day, had no gas line.
4. In case you are slow, I will connect these dots for you. No gas line + 12 degree weather = NO HEAT IN 12 DEGREE WEATHER.
5. HEY GUESS WHAT THERE'S NO HEAT AND IT'S REALLY FUCKING COLD.
6. I had to live at my in-laws with my husband and kids for about a week.
7. I ACTUALLY moved into this house.
8. HEY GUESS WHAT THE SHOWER DOESN'T WORK I WONDER WHY THAT IS.
9. HEY GUESS WHAT THE STOVE DOESN'T WORK EITHER, HAHAH DON'T YOU LOVE THE SMELL OF GAS LEAKING THROUGH YOUR HOUSE?
10. Max got fat.
11. Donovan stayed skinny.
12. The stove did not work until it was replaced in APRIL. APRIL PEOPLE, THAT IS A MONTH WITHOUT A STOVE.
13. There were lots of job interviews.
14. There was a lot of arguing and yelling with the school district to get Donovan in school.
15. Nik's grandfather died.
16. I stopped speaking with my mother. Finally, for fuck's sake.
17. Donovan FINALLY started school.
18. I started working ludicrous hours that kept me out of the house for 12 hours a day. Not the hours where I wasn't missing anything, either.
19. I stopped working that job.
20. Max fell off the couch.
21. Parenting = FAIL.
22. After three months, we finally kicked the thrush.
23. Donovan got Strep and the fever spiked so high we had to go to the emergency room. Three different people, including one who WORKS AT THE HOSPITAL, gave me bad directions, and it took an hour and a half to get to a hospital that's probably about six miles away, all the while my son was becoming more and more lethargic and unresponsive in the backseat.
24. That brings us to today.

It was a month, dude. IT WAS A MONTH. Not one I care to repeat. I cannot honestly say that I'm settled and happy here quite yet. Turns out, yeah dude, I was totally right. This shit was a MISTAKE. But we're here now, so we're making the best of it.

I am desperately trying to catch up with my reader, and my commenting and...you know. All that. Is anyone still out there? 

Life: Now with more complications.

It's become apparent to me in the last few years that I really don't deal with change well. To further complicate that, I am an exceptionally fickle person. I have always had what I've very cleverly coined the "Eight Month Itch." When I was about 18, it occurred to me that, with almost everything, I lose interest after about eight months. Jobs, friends, men, my hair, my home...you name it, I get sick of it. I haven't quite overcome this "itch" just yet, I'm just better at controlling my impulses.

Despite being so constantly desperate for change, I often become panicked at the many roads that lay before me. It's my nature to second-guess myself and everyone else. I am terribly analytical. I have so often picked a decision to death that when I view the tattered remains of my choice at my feet, I find I have no idea how they got there in the first place.

As such, it's no wonder that, at a time when I was doing so well learning to balance life as a family of four, I have slid back into a very dark place of insecurity and mania due to the fact that we are moving in three days time.

A few weeks ago we decided to start looking at bigger places. A home big enough for the four of us was wildly out of our price range in the suburbs, so we began to look in the city. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. Public transportation is so much more accessible, the college's programs are better, a lot of our friends and family are down there. So we started making appointments to see places.

After a few showings of rowhomes that had been largely hyped by the owners/realtors, I kind of filed the whole thing into the "is not going to happen now" cabinet in my head and moved on to something else to obsess over. We were still looking but I just sort of assumed that it wasn't going to work out. So when we agreed to take a place after only one week of actually looking, I found myself sort of shell-shocked.

I grew up in a very small suburban town. Up until four years ago, I'd been in the city a total of three times. Everything I know is in this area. This town that I'm in now, this apartment, is the first place I've felt at home in my entire life. This is my first apartment. This is where I lived when I got married, when I had my second son. This is all I know. So, understandably, I'm a little scared.

Being a little scared is ok. It's when natural and acceptable fear starts to ransack your life and psyche that you have a problem. I now find myself an inconsolable mess over both the legitimate issues and minute details alike. I feel like a failure as a parent for pulling my son out of a school he loves. I feel unprotected and unloved in my marriage. I feel like I'm on uneven footing with my in-laws because of their worry and disdain over our decision. I call my friends and cry, skating back and forth on tangents that no one can follow because I can't even follow them. I want to move. I do not want to move. This was originally my idea. I feel like my wishes were completely disregarded. I love the city. I am afraid of the city.

I am six weeks post-partum, still off the medication that saved my life a year ago, and I was so proud of myself. I felt strong and together, I felt like I could hold off the demons long enough to breastfeed my son for several months. Long enough to walk around feeling human, instead of feeling like the transparent version of myself that any medication makes me. Now I'm afraid that I've lost my grip, that my fear and paranoia have come back full-force to reduce me to that same old stuttering idiot who is lashing out and hurting people because she feels alone and terrified.

I want to wait this out. I want to settle into this new place, this new city, and see if I can make it feel like home. See if maybe it was the right decision after all. Maybe I'll get down there and find that I am truly home. But, like every other time I've stood in front of a big decision, I'm just so afraid now that I can't even see myself coming out on the other side.

Coming back to life

Yo dudes! I am officially human again! The bane of my existence is GONE.

Seven years ago, I started having random toothaches. Always in my back molars. Several rounds of antibiotics, an extraction or two, a couple prescriptions for vicodin - the pain always came back. A number of dentists told me I needed my wisdom teeth extracted. However, dental procedures were never very high on my mom's lists of priorities, so before I was 18, I wasn't really given the choice to have it done. All the dental work I had between 14-18 was only done because I was a bad girl in state custody at the time, and they require shit like healthcare and what not. The only plus of being in the system, I guess.

When I dd finally turn 18 and was responsible for my own health care, I was working random restaurant jobs that didn't provide insurance. I paid out of pocket to have some fillings done, but that was all I could afford. When I finally got really good dental insurance, I started taking care of things. But by that time, I had periodontal infections so bad that I needed to take care of that first. By the time that was done, I'd met the benefits cap for my dental insurance for the year. When the next year rolled around, I left that job and subsequently lost the insurance. Again, the wisdom teeth fell by the wayside.

Until, as you know, a few months ago. I've detailed my plight with those fuckers ad nauseum here, and I'm sure you'll agree that it's nice to know this is the last time I'll ever have to talk about it.

I had it done at my regular dentist's office, with only novacaine for anesthesia. I was far less afraid this time than I was for my last appointment (the one that couldn't be done during pregnancy). I'm not entirely sure why it scared me less this time. Maybe I was just finally and truly ready to be DONE.

The novacaine shots are a bitch. I don't mind the regular ones, but the ones that stick into the top of your pallet BLOW. Fear not, though, if you face the same thing...it's an intense pain, sure, but it lasts less than a second and then you don't feel a thing.

I'm still nervous that I'll feel them digging in to get the teeth, but within five minutes, the first two are gone and I didn't feel anything but pressure. I do understand now why they put people to sleep for the procedure - the pressure and the sound of the drilling to break the teeth into pieces is a disgusting, disturbing, and unnatural feeling. I'm sure it would really freak a more squeamish person out.

Anyway, twenty minutes and five pain in the ass teeth (he took a broken molar, too) and I was done.

I was given a prescription for Vicodin and sent home. I needed the Vicodin the first day, but wanted to switch over to Tylenol #3 as soon as possible so I could nurse again. Now I'm two days after the procedure, and I'm way swollen, but not in much pain at all.

So now I'm not pregnant, not in teeth agony...I am HUMAN and myself again!

Moral of the story? Take care of your fucking teeth, dude. Or, at least, if you're planning on getting pregnant and don't already have wicked good insurance, save a couple thousand first and get all your teeth shit taken care of before hand. I would not wish the last four months of my life on ANYONE.

Except maybe a Republican.

And baby makes four...

I know I should have written by now...I know I should have regaled you all with tales of spit-up and sleep patterns and cutesy family pictures, but honestly? I just haven't wanted to.

It's a two-fold reason why I've stayed away. One - I've been wary of telling you all about Max. Max has a very distinctive personality and temperament right now, but his brother's entire demeanor changed when he was three weeks old, and I've been afraid that Max's will do the same. However, the more I think about it, the more I think Donovan's change in attitude was more a testament to my ability (or lack thereof) to handle an infant back then than it was his own volition.

And on the other hand, I've just been enjoying myself too damn much.

Max is a beautifully sweet baby. On the behavior side of things, he's an angel. He's not fussy - only grousing when he wants to be fed (ALMOST EVERY DAMN HOUR DURING THE DAYLIGHT HOURS). We hit a few roadblocks in the beginning with breastfeeding; it seemed like every other feeding he was refusing to latch. As a result, he lost an ounce between coming home and being weighed by the home visit nurse. I supplemented with a bottle a few times and basically just sat there with his face mashed into my boob until he would latch, and he gained back 2 oz by the next day, so that was only a brief concern. Then we went to the pediatrician for his first checkup a week out of the hospital, and goddamn if she didn't realize that his collarbone was broken.

Did you hear that?

MY BABY HAS A BROKEN BONE. I ABOUT DIED OF WOE RIGHT THERE IN THE OFFICE. By then, it didn't seem to bother him, and she reassured me that it was actually really common, especially for big babies that come down the pike in an odd position. Apparently the force with which they descend onto the pelvis just regularly cracks clavicles and shit. Well, hell. THAT FUCKING SUCKS.

Anyway, that explained the fussy latching. For the first week or so, he was just uncomfortable in most cradled positions. Since then, he's been a champ.

He's very quiet and pensive looking. When he's awake and alert, he just sort of looks around and checks things out. He plays possum. When there's something unfamiliar or loud going on, he goes completely limp and closes his eyes, but then opens one eye to peek around every couple seconds. He has no use for the bouncy seat or the swing, instead preferring to relax on his Boppy pillow on the couch next to whoever is hanging out with him. He blesses us with little baby smiles that I'm sure wisened old folks will tell us are NOT real smiles, but yo, fuck those killjoys. They LOOK like real smiles, and we'll take them for whatever they are, cuz they are goddamn cute.

He looks EXACTLY like me and my old man, but did indeed inherit his father's lips, which, YAY. YAY FOR BIG GORGEOUS LIPS.

He poops literally once or twice an hour. Go on with your stinky self, dude.

And the part I'm the most hesitant to discuss? He sleeps, dudes. He sleeps WELL. He catnaps during the day, which I could give a shit less about, cuz honestly, I don't really ever want to put him down, but at night? We have a whole goddamn routine going. He eats around nine, and then sleeps till about 12am. He's back asleep by 12:30, until 4:30 at the earliest. Two nights ago he slept from 12:30 to almost 6am. After that last feeding, he's back asleep until around 7:30 or 8:30. We've got a solid week of this happening.

I've only made really small attempts at actually establishing a routine, and they're more things to get ME into good habits. I only swaddle him at night. We're co-sleeping, and we only sleep in the bedroom at night. If we nap together otherwise, we stay out in the living room. I keep lights on all day, and do nothing to limit noise, but once Donovan goes to bed at nine, it's lights out and semi-quiet time. Other than those things, which I only do to just kind of try to differentiate between night and day, he fell into our routine all on his own.

So we are a happy, well-rested family over here for the time being. Donovan is far less interested in the whole shebang than he was in the beginning. He likes to help with bathtime and occassionally will bestow a kiss on Mighty Max, but other than that, just goes about his regular business. He really likes talking about his diapers, though.

Nik is, I think, out of the honeymoon phase but is still pretty delighted to just hold his boy and talk nonsense to him.

And I'm still very much in the honeymoon phase, carrying the chunk around like a sack of really fucking cute potatoes, and trying to get poor quality camera phone pictures at every opportunity.

Thank you for your thoughts and your congratulations, we are appreciative, and we are indeed congratulating ourselves as well for birthing such mild-mannered, delicious chunk.

Well, hello, baby.

We checked into the hospital on Monday night, at 7pm on the dot. They settled us into an observation room, started my IV, and we hung tight for a few minutes until the doctor came in.

Even though he wasn't on call, the doctor I'd been discussing the induction with the last few weeks came in to insert the balloon catheter to get my cervix to efface. This, by the way, ranks as the 2nd worst part of the whole ordeal.

With the balloon settled, they gave me some ambien to help me sleep, but it didn't really do much to overpower the cramping that it caused. I slept fitfully until about 6am, when they came to move us over to a delivery room.

Once there, a different doctor, one I'd disliked in the office, came in to break my water and start the pitocin drip. As I've discovered with many doctors, this doc had a much better bedside manner than she did appointment manner. And so we were rolling.

The contractions came mild and irregular. They really weren't too painful, and as soon as I'd indicated that they were becoming uncomfortable, they offered me both a shot of Nubain (sp?) or the epidural. I went with the Nubain first. It helped, and from 8am to 11am, I went from 2cm to 4cm. Things were moving along nicely, and the nurses indicated they expected to have me in recovery with a baby by 2 o'clock.

HAH.

Around noon, the contractions were becoming more painful, and I was 5cm. I really wasn't in any agony, but I was afraid that things were moving fast enough that if I stalled on the epidural, it would soon be too late to get one, so I asked for it. The anesthesiologist was up within 10 minutes, and that sucker was in. Like last time, it didn't hurt in the slightest.

And then things stalled. From noon until 4:00, I stayed at 5cm. I sent my best friend home, thinking that at this rate, we could go the rest of the night. I tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable. I could feel the pressure of the contractions, but I wasn't in any real pain, but I couldn't exactly rest, either.

Around 4:45, the pressure of the contractions became intense. Still not exactly painful, but I could feel the urge to bear down beginning. I asked them to check me, and I was only 6-7cm at that point. At 5 o'clock, I buzzed the nurse again and told her that I really, REALLY felt like I needed to push with the contractions. She got the room ready and paged the doctor, who took a while to come in. Eventually, she checked me herself, and said I was still only about 8cm. The doctor came in and checked me again, and agreed. He said, however, that he wasn't going to ask me to go against nature, and said if I was ready to push, he was ready to help me.

And so began what was certainly the most painful physical experience of my life. Unlike my delivery with Donovan, I was fully concious and aware, and Jesus Christ the agony. Even now, I find myself thinking about it and getting worked up to the point that I have to remind myself that it's over, and I am NEVER doing it again.

I pushed right through 8cm to 9cm to 10cm, and the baby started descending and crowning, and his head was turned such that instead of looking down all nice and proper, he was looking to the right, which is apparently why it took so long to get to fully dilated. Just shy of half an hour after I begged them to let me push, Maxwell made his wailing, angry appearance.

I wish I could tell you his full name, but anonymity and all that. His middle name is my maiden, so there you go. As it were, meet Max, all 9 lbs 3oz, 21 inches of delicious, Filipino looking chunk.

Um?

I am going to attempt to assemble this post with some semblance of coherence. Bear with me.

On Saturday, I had my first ever, non-medication induced contraction, all on my own. I could tell the difference between them and the braxton hicks by the way they rose and rose in intensity, peaked, plateaued, and then tapered off. They were short-lived, however, and I only experienced maybe ten total from Saturday afternoon to Sunday night. This morning, I went to the doctor.

I knew we'd be setting an induction date today, so I was excited anyway. I was even more floored when I learned I was 2 cm dilated. DUDE. WOMEN IN MY FAMILY DO NOT DILATE ON THEIR OWN THIS IS EPIC. There was this weird, inexplicable, niggling sense of pride that came with that news. WAY TO GO, CERVIX.

The doctor smiled and said things were moving along nicely, and he'd ask his nurses to call the hospital and set a date. He wanted me to check in in the evening to have a balloon catheter inserted in my cervix (ewww, right?) to get me to start effacing, since I've shown zero progress on that front. They would start a pitocin drip the next morning. I waited around for a few, and a nurse came out and told me to check into the hospital at 7pm on Thursday night. I was sort of bummed, cuz dude, that's still three fucking days away, but at the same time, SCORE. THERE IS AN END IN SITE.

After I made the appropriate phone calls, sent out mass emails, I got a call from the nurse again. The following conversation ensued.

Nurse - Hi Kate, I know I scheduled you for Thursday, but when I told Dr. L, he asked me to find out if there's any way we could do it sooner. I talked to the hospital, and they said they could take you tonight. Is that possible for you?

There was a hint of trepidation in her voice, as if I was going to be like "crazy lady! You can't spring a kid on me in less than 7 hours!" I think my response surprised her.

Me - OF COURSE THAT IS POSSIBLE. YOU ARE MY FAVORITE PERSON IN THE WORLD. THANK YOU VERY MUCH, ANGEL.

I called the nurse "angel". Dude, that is gay, even for me.

So we are checking into the hospital tonight. WE'RE HAVING A BABY OH MY GOD I AM FREAKING OUT, JUST A LITTLE HERE, CAN YOU TELL?

I will attempt to have my husband update when all is said and done and he's home, but...you know. His blogging skills..who knows. So that being said, you may not end up hearing anything from us till we're home this weekend. Wish us luck!

Not bitter, just real.

I spent a few hours with an old girlfriend at the bar where my husband bartends part-time on weekends on Saturday. It was mostly nice, as it usually is when I see her. We mostly bullshitted about her life while Nik looked on and occasionally commented. The conversation du jour was finding her a man; she wanted to know about our "eligible" male friends.

I had to bite my tongue in anger several times during the conversation. Though I thought I was hiding it well, her plight made me viscerally angry at times, and I found myself wanting to shake her and scream "WAKE THE FUCK UP."

She's 23 years old. She graduated last May with a Bachelors from a nearby 4-year. She has an amazing job working with autistic children. She's currently waiting on acceptance to grad school, which I'm sure she'll receive. She has a wonderful life.

And she is so goddamn unhappy. Why? Because she's single. And I. Could. Not. Fathom. This.

I looked across the bar from her and felt seven different kinds of envy. She and I started off at the same place, made a lot of the same poor decisions, and yet here she is, with everything I wanted for myself by the time I got to be this age.

She looked at me and thought the same exact thing, because I ended up married, with the loving, funny husband and the beautiful children she so desperately wants for herself.

Like I said, I thought I was controlling my anger, but by the sound of Nik's sidelong comments during our exchange, it eventually hit me that I was letting my bitterness get the best of me, and it was certainly showing.

I tried to explain where I was coming from, but it was difficult.

I love my life. I am incredibly lucky to have one healthy, amazing, and unique child, with one on the way. I am incredibly fortunate to have Nik, who I love with the fire of a thousand suns. I thank God daily for my position in life, for the family I married into, for my ability to pay my bills and feed my kids and enjoy my friends and family.

But if I could go back and do things differently, I would. In a heartbeat.

....

Hmm. I had kind of hoped that writing it out like that would make it make more sense, but I guess it really didn't.

It's complicated, I can't pretend that it's not. I say that line, that "if I could go back" stuff, knowing that I can't. Knowing that this is where I am, and I can only go forward, and I'm happy about that. I am more than making the best of it, I am embracing it and loving it and making it better in every way that I can.

But the reality is, I could have done better. I could have given the children I had a better start in life. I could have waited, established myself, established a marriage FIRST, had a home that I owned, a career that I loved and was secure in, and my kids probably would have ended up better adjusted. We probably wouldn't have had to weather the things we weathered to get here.

But I also know that that's all speculation. To further complicate things, I can say in all honesty that if I HADN'T gotten pregnant or chosen to keep my son, I probably wouldn't be here now. I probably would have died somewhere, gotten myself killed, or maybe I'd have lucked out and just ended up in prison for several years. Whatever, I'm confident that becoming responsible for another human being was just about the only thing at the time that was going to make me change my path.

At any rate, the point is that, yes, I'm happy. Yes, I love my family and knowing that time only moves forward, not back, I wouldn't trade them for anything. But no, no, no. I will never tell you, my lonely friend, or you, idealistic 15 year old girl, that this is the right way to do things.

What I SHOULD have said to my friend, instead of bitterly discoursing on married and family life, was this: "I know I'm lucky, and I know what I have looks good, because it is. But there are thousands of miles of opportunities stretched out before you. Unimpeded roads to success that aren't there for me anymore, not in the clearly defined way they are for you. Find yourself and your own happiness first, because it's a lot harder to do when you have to do it for other people first. We're both lucky, honey. Everything you have is still there for me if I want it bad enough, and everything I have is still there for you, and will be for a looong time."