The Anatomy of a Miscarriage

Life is complex. Since the dawn of the written word writers have written about both the clouds and their silver linings. Is the cup half empty, or half full? What makes us happy? Driven to perfection? And what, when the odds are against us, makes each one of us the man in the dusty ring, who gets back up, and fights until we succeed.

The collision of T.R.’s dusty man in the ring and Leave It To Beaver can be found in OBGYN offices across D.C. and Northern Virginia. Women in their 30s and 40s who have spent years solidifying their careers and forging their own identities begin to desire a different balance. The condo becomes a small house on a postage stamp in Arlington (because, let’s face it, how many of us can afford McLean McMansions), the obsession with work politics becomes an obsession over schools districts, and then, the obsession over the baby. The Baby.

I believed I exchanged my years of work obsession with easy parenthood. I married young, got pregnant on my honeymoon without even trying and then got pregnant with a second son 7 months after the first was born. I had a sense of pride over being a healthy “producer” and urged those having issues to keep trying. I traded work in an office for work at home. The joy of parenthood was worth the effort.

But then came my own detour. Our perfect Leave It To Beaver plan was that when we moved to the farm, I would immediately get pregnant and we would have three kids within a year. I was at home, we wanted at least one more child, and our checked boxes seemed imminent. Month after month we tried. In early fall I missed my period but the test said no pregnancy. A month later I got my period- an obvious early miscarriage. Two months later, we were pregnant again. This time, positive test. Success.

I had no idea how much pressure I carried until that little pink plus sign appeared on the test. Somewhere deep inside I felt my identity, the control of my own body, and the pressure of leaving a great job to chose a family was dependent on this one pink plus sign. Failure to have another wasn’t just a blank box on our Grand Life Plan, it was the first REALLY BIG FAT FAILURE of my own ability to control my body and my future.

So the pregnancy progressed. I was so sick the first three months I begged off family events and happily slept away in my bed while my husband took the two boys. At week 13 my husband and I giddily went to the first sonogram. I had started to have a little dark blood a couple days before and for some reason, I felt like mentioning it to the technician and saying, “I just hope everything is OK.” As she put the monitor up, I looked up at the familiar screen, identified my uterus, and then froze. Where there should have been a little bean of a baby and a beating heartbeat was a small pea, at the bottom, dead. “There is no heartbeat, is there,” I stated. I didn’t need a response. My worst fears were confirmed and as I wept in my husbands arms I wept for the baby I couldn’t keep, for my children who wouldn’t understand, and for myself, for being such an utter failure.

Two days later I was at Sibley with some lovely nurses and my funny husband getting a D&C. The next day, I felt better than I had in weeks. A month later, I was running like the swimmer I am. But now, I move forward in life with some trepidation. My youthful bounce has become a more hesitant pace. I have acknowledged and semi- accepted that I may be young compared to some women seeking “assistance” getting pregnant, but I am not immune to age, nature, and God’s plan.

Yet like T.R.’s man in the ring, something in me just won’t be defeated. I understand now George Bush sky-diving, middle-aged men and women taking to the streets in Syria demanding rights to have more control over their lives, and my own sons needs to define themselves outside of their own perfect mother’s idea of what they should be doing. We all will face the challenges to our aging bodies, frustrations to our Big Life Plans, and pressures from others to be less than we know we can be. The question is, do you let the hurdles define you, or do you redefine the hurdles and dare to keep on dreaming of life’s possibilities?

The Chicken or the Egg?

In this case it was the chickens. 6 months of feeding and NO EGGS! But after telling my landlord, while we stood in front of the Silkie chickens, that we were going to have to fry them up because they had been eating for six months and no eggs, I came into barn and there was this beautiful little warm brown egg.

Now I don’t usually believe in threatening death in order to get what I want, but in this case it worked. Every other day I get a beautiful little egg. I have three now. They are warm, brown, and as my 2 year old would say Deeeeeeelicious!

This is the first animal produce on the farm and my mind is spinning. Shall I get a used incubator and see if I can hatch some eggs? Shall we sell them to the highest bidder? Or should I just make some utterly fabulous desert that melts in your mouth and makes you wonder how you ever ate those white store bought eggs…..hmmmmmm…….

Your Ten Minutes Are Up!

My husband and I have known it from the beginning. An Irish Catholic Yankee man and his half-bred part European immigrant/part Scarlett O’Hara Southern wife. Holding our tempers is just not in our blood. We are too passionate, honest, independent, and that ugly word- controlling- to let anyone tell us what to do. There may be rings on our fingers, but neither accepts any form of ball and chain.

What 3 years of newlywed bliss has taught me is that you cannot change someone else. You can put signs up in the bathroom, nag, berate, encourage, behavior you are looking for but the truth is that people, especially intrinsic Alphas, have this need to do things their way. I am an Alpha. I LOVE getting in my car and blasting the song, “I’ll do it MY WAY,” all the way to the feed store. It empowers me. I get that gitty warm fuzzy feeling inside that makes me feel like God put me on this planet for a reason. I have no doubt, my husband feels the same way.

But this is not helpful in marriage because when the other person feels Holy Entitlement too, well, someone is dancing with the devil and doesn’t know it. So for those couples out there like us, who have found that getting along takes a lot of work, here is some cheap (free!) advice that we have found to be actually helpful.

My husband and I each get 10 minutes a day to bitch bitch bitch about everything that bothers us- including about the other person. The rules are that the other person realizes that their partner is letting off steam and there is no need to take any immediate action to ‘fix things.’ The reason for this is because at some point my husband and I, Mars and Venus, realized that we just need some time and space to communicate a verbal diarrhea of discombobulated nonsense to the other person that would in any other context leave the receiver hurt and angry. But if you know this is “their 10 minutes” to let off steam and can pull back and not take it personally, you may find yourselves, like we have, screaming with laughter as the other person says the most ridiculous but poignant exclamation, “This is my 10 minutes!”

No marriage is perfect, but on the journey to towards perfection, it’s nice sometimes to find something that works.

 

Reverberations…

Everyone needs an escape. An escape from a place, a person, ourselves. When the noise from others gets too loud like a sister-in-law who doesn’t care if she drives you right off a cliff or even that noise in your head where you replay (well, maybe you don’t, but I do) some event that you just want to kick yourself for not doing something different. You NEED that moment to withdraw, clean the slate, and rebalance.

We were in the grocery store last night when some 8-10 year old boy with his mother yelled across the store and told my 2 year old to “shut up.” The mother of the little bully seemed more amused than embarrassed and after saying, “sorry” turned around and laughed and dragged her kid the other direction. My two year old was mortified and stunned and kept telling me, “mommy, he told me to ‘shut up.’ I was bullied in middle school and high school and now, as an adult, by two sister-in-laws who throw their mean around like my two year old spits out vegetables. Pooee! And now, my angelic two year old who couldn’t hurt a fly is getting the same treatment. But it’s 4am and what I cannot get out of my head is why didn’t I walk over to that mother and say, “hey, your son’s and your behavior isn’t right. Period.”

I have never played the victim card. My parents wouldn’t allow it, but I did find ways to escape the outside world in a healthy way. I used to escape all this by diving into a frigid cold pool every morning at swim practice for 15 years. Every single morning. Stroke, stroke, breath. Stroke, stroke, breath. By the time I was finished I was so relaxed by the flow of the water and the tempo of my breathing that anything else was secondary. The fact that I excelled enough to make a pool record in college was icing on the cake. My true triumph was getting beyond those who meant to take me down and coming out the other end a functional, healthy, successful person.

As an adult, and a mother of two children under three, I do not have the luxury of swim practice every morning. But thanks to our landlord (who is just incredible) we now have a tractor to mow the property. I have always been a little country by nature. I like lots of land, big machinery, and guns. When the tractor arrived my mother remarked that she hadn’t seen me so giddy since Christmas. I knew, just knew, looking at that big orange tractor that it was going to be my new escape.

So on days when people really start getting to me, I hop on the tractor and mow the lawn around the house. The huuuummmmm huuuuummmm of the tractor and the concentration to make correct lines, get every patch, cut each tree, in itself become on art form. A rhythmic, calming, effort where the fresh air, the smell of cut grass, and the satisfaction of accomplishment gives me the peace I so long for and need. It’s the mental escape from others and even myself.

My two year old is not allowed to ride the tractor (though thanks to Bob the Builder he tells me, “Mommy, YES we can!”), but I am fully aware that as a parent who myself was told to ‘shut up’ by bullies as a child, I do need to help my son find his own healthy escapes. Playing with his Thomas trains and in the dirt outside is a start. But eventually, I will have to know him well enough to see where he excels and what makes him happy and encourage him in that endeavor and then hope that he too will find a healthy escape from a world filled with too much noise and nasty little kids.

I also may need to teach myself to face the bully and put a stop to B.S. and teach my son to do the same. But for now, I will play Thomas trains with my son and try to work through The Grocery Episode and tomorrow will savor the moments of freedom on the tractor…..

Sundried Tomatoes, Rosemary, and Baked Tilapia

Here is another of my favorite recipes and a winner with both my husband and two year old!

Chop up enough sundried tomatoes to fill about 1/2 a cup.

Chop up Rosemary – about 1/5 of a cup

Chop up garlic- about 3 tbs

Chop onions (minced) – about 1/2 a cup.

Put onions into saucepan with enough olive oil to cover and saute on medium heat until almost clear (soft). Throw in sun dried tomatoes, rosemary and garlic and cook for about another 3-4 minutes. Throw in Panko bread crumbs- enough to cover everything. Stir and saute another 2 minutes. Then throw in Parmesan cheese, enough to cover, but not drench, sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste. Remove mixture from pan with slotted spoon. Put fish in pan. Drizzle lemon juice. Add mixture from above on top of fish. Set oven to 350. Pour white wine (Chard) into pan enough to soak but NOT COVER fish. Place fish on medium rack in oven for about 30 minutes. Fish should be flaky and bread crumb mixture crumbly.

Yum Yum Good.

 

Farm Footprint

Since moving to Candy Hill, I have been on more farms than I ever imagined. The four goats each came from a different farm. Our friends and neighbors all have farms. Each farm seems to me a reflection of its owner- how much they are willing and able to invest in its design, its produce, its upkeep, its future.

Tom must have spent a lot of time thinking about the design of this farm. On the outer rim there is a forest barrier where deer, wild turkeys, skunks, and a multitude of wildlife reign. The next loop is brush land- where many birds, snakes, and rodents breed, live, and creep me out. Next is the habitable portion of mowed lawn, the house, the barn. But the thing about it is that each layer tends to creep into the other, as if a lesson on the power of nature to regain its territory.

I remember in college reading the poem about a great king’s monument to himself. Years after the king died, his moment crumbled in time and the author made the point that anything man made eventually will be overtaken again by nature. In the city, looking at concrete buildings and cement sidewalks it is hard to imagine anything will ever change. But here, on the farm, where new trees bud up on the lawn daily, where animals cross your way each morning, there is a sense that nature is a patient, determined equal and that with each path we cut through the woods, another becomes taken back by the weeds.  Our footprint is momentary.

Good For No-Egg Laying- The Silkies

Part of the way I sold my husband on the farm was a thought that would turn any hungry man on a Sunday morning into mush- fresh eggs. Fresh as in laid an hour ago and the taste melts in your mouth, or at least, I believe it would melt in your mouth. I wouldn’t know since our fancy shmancy chickens have been with us since April and still not one egg.

Our three chickens, Moses, Mohammed, and Moira came from Amber Waves farm in California. I originally chose this type of chicken after seeing it on Tory and Dean (I know) and then researched it and found it was a very “docile” breed which would be a good pet for young children. I thought that would be perfect- eggs and a pet.

We had to order weeks ahead of time and they arrived in the  US Mail. My husband and children took to them immediately. I fed them, they played with them. It was the first time I had actually seen my husband or children with a pet and it became clear to me that if they didn’t manage to kill them, these chickens might prove to be a great introduction to farm life. I had this image in my mind of teaching my two year old to get eggs each morning and my husband cooking them up for breakfast. Except, that did not happen.

I paid the “Rooster Fee” which meant $15 extra bucks to ensure that at least one of the 3 chickens would be a hen and if they were all roosters, then we would get a free chicken in the mail to replace a rooster. The thing about silkies is it is very difficult to tell if they are females or males. Most chickens show if they are females of males after a couple of weeks of age. However, Silkies are much more difficult to tell which makes purchasing them, I now know, a gamble.

For weeks I waited for eggs. 16 weeks- FOUR MOTHS- went by and nothing. They eat, they poop, and nothing. No eggs. It is one thing if you are cleaning out a disgusting chicken coop if the chickens are giving you eggs and you want the eggs and their area clean. However, when you have no eggs, and just some chickens that eat and poop, there begins to be a resentful frustrated conversation between the four of you. Each morning I would tell them as I fed them, “Who has laid some eggs for mama this morning?” I did begin to notice that the brown chicken, a…well…”chicken” from the beginning who would run behind the other two white chickens whenever I came near, began to get bigger and more aggressive than the other two. And then, one morning as I lay in bed, I heard the unmistakable sound of a male rooster crowing, “Cock-a-doodle-doooooooooo.”

After some weeks of my husband asking where his fresh eggs were, I decided I needed to bring in reinforcements and ordered “Brown Egg Laying Random” from McMurrays Hatchery (see other post). I moved the Mo’s into a larger pen but still no eggs. Instead, when I try to come in and feed them, Mohammed attacks me. I mean, full on runs at me and pecks HARD. It is hard not to laugh, at both this big fluff coming at me, and at my own fear of the chicken.

When I told Amber Waves I believed we might have males they scoffed and gave me a hard time and said they had “new policies” on Rooster Guarantees. So I realized that the chickens, the ones my sons had played with for the last several months, were going to have to become broilers. Like the geese before them, there is no place on the farm if you don’t produce something eatible.

Now I only have to get the guts and instructions to wring a chickens neck. Conquistadora we shall see.

 

 

Billy Goat and Gigi Goat

Trouble 1 and Trouble 2. That is what my father used to call my sister and I right before we unloaded his carefully folded sock drawer onto the bed for our own amusement. That is also what I call Billy and Gigi, our two goats, the moment before they jump onto the front of my car causing costly damage. And the thing is, they KNOW they are about to cause me to come running from the house with a broom shouting at them to get the h*ll off my car because they look at me and pause to make sure I am looking. Trouble I tell you.

Yet Billy Goat and Gigi Goat have now become part of our family. My son Henry is allergic to cow’s milk so we decided to get goats we could milk and use the milk to make Mac and Cheese, Pizza, and all those other cheese heavy meals toddlers love. After doing some research, I had settled on buying smaller goats both because they seemed more manageable for general care and milking and because my children could handle them like pets. I looked at Amber Waves in CA for Pygmy Goats and got onto their waiting list. While waiting, I saw a picture of a miniture nubian, researched the new breed, and decided the nubians were more certain of giving larger (if any) quantities of milk. Then after an epic search, I found a breeder in Pennsylvania who had a female mini nubian (doeling) for sale. Sold. However, goats are social creatures and need company so we had to get another and settled on a pygmy wether (castrated male).

Billy and Gig Goat (blame my husband for the names) drove to 4 hours to their new home in the back of our car while my amazed children screamed at them with joyful amazement. At 8 weeks they were the size of a mini Schnauzer, easily picked up by my 2 year old and I feared, the resident turkey vultures, hawks, foxes, and other predators as well. I recently had a lovely conversation with the owner of the local Feed Store about how her mother never let her out when they were young because she was so concerned about snakes and hawks in the area. It was enough for me to call my husband up as soon as I got in the car and say we needed a shotgun. I had children, and now goats, to protect. Annie Oakley get your gun!

Gigi and Billy have survived and gotten bigger. For a while, we just let them roam around the property eating and visiting us on the porches while my children colored or made crafts that are too messy for inside. The goats followed me everywhere and so we, the two children, the two goats, and our new kitten Pascal, would take walks together around the farm. Then they started to jump on my car. Then poop on my clean porch. Then eat my pretty potted flowers. So recently, I have begun the process of fencing. But as another goat lover explained to me, “Good luck with that… goats are escape artists.”

I guess since we too are escape artists, the goats are perfect family members. But I still want them off my porch!

 

 

Sun Dried Tomatoes

If you were on a farm like us this year you probably had more tomatoes falling off the vine then you knew how to can. While my husband enjoys the laborious step by step of canning (see his so-yummy-recipe for fresh salsa to can in other post), I prefer something I can do in five minutes while my kids are momentarily preoccupied by something educational like Dora the Explorer 🙂 My husband taught me this:

With the Roma or plum tomatoes coming in at the rate of a half bushel a week, we thought we could try just about anything. Sun-dried tomatoes are one of my favorite additions to sauce, pizza, baking fish or chicken, and more. But, are they really sun dried? Is that something you can only do in the California desert? Nope, you can do it in the DC suburbs too! The trick is having an extra car that you can park in the direct sunlight in July.

Ingredients: Tomatoes & Sunshine. Roma/plums are best because they don't have that many seeds or water inside. Instructions. Wash tomatoes. Cut them in quarters longitudinally and lay them on a tray (baking tray, cafeteria tray, what have you). Place the tray inside your car, right up under the windshield in direct sun. Park the car in the sunniest part of the yard and roll up all the windows. It will probably take 2 days. But, you'll know when they're done. Then, put them in a ziplock and toss them in the freezer until you're ready to use them.

Flowers For Each Week

It is hard to imagine that someone has the patience to watch their soil, temperature, and light day after day for probably years and know it well enough to plant something that would bloom almost every single week of the year. Tom did just that.

I have never been a flower connoisseur. My patience of Job is strictly limited to my children and sometimes my husband. But there is something inspiring and awe – worthy when a flower is in bloom out your doorstep every day. It is like a blooming symphony! Attached are some of the pictures of the flowers I have taken along the way.