I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they return to college. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty and I could have space to best use the end of their break. A cop-out, but forgive me. Having them go is really, really hard. I need mental space to feel what I am feeling, help the kids through the transition, and sit in the quiet for a moment on the other side.

Nothing has been removed from our house. Everything is exactly the same way it was the day before–the same work needs to get done, the same children need to be raised, the same house needs to be cleaned, the same husband needs to be…entertained. And yet, once 8:30 a.m. passed and we entered a space where what was done was done, I felt an enormous stillness. I was in the car, driving the ChickieNob and Wolvog to an appointment I was scheduled to miss if I had gone ahead with my day 3 blood work and I noticed the clock said 8:50 a.m. My feet were supposed to be in the stirrups. Instead, they were on the gas pedal of my car.

I think the most telling moment was that I baked today. I had been wanting to bake for weeks, make cookies for Josh’s workplace to celebrate his new position. I didn’t have any more time today than I do on any other day. The difference was that my thoughts weren’t racing and without my thoughts racing, there was a stillness within the house. I could easily see how to balance the day. It is the difference between trying to think within a house of noisy animals and trying to think in the stillness that comes after you’ve let them out of the house.

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they return to college. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty and I could have space to best use the end of their break. A cop-out, but forgive me. Having them go is really, really hard. I need mental space to feel what I am feeling, help the kids through the transition, and sit in the quiet for a moment on the other side.

You obviously can’t put a price tag on a child or an experience, but I took her asking to be in the same vein essentially as the questioning that comes before committing to a purchase. When you’re about to part with a huge sum of money, you want to know if what you’re spending your money on is worth the price tag. And with infertility, when you’re about to part with a huge sum of sanity, you want to know if what you’re spending your emotional energy on is worth the high price. Though, of course, I’m not sure how in either case anyone can answer the question because the worth of everything in this world is subjective.

I guess I don’t really subscribe to the line of thinking that states “if you get what you want, it was worth it and if you don’t, it wasn’t worth it.”

That’s how I saw the question.

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they return to college. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty and I could have space to best use the end of their break. A cop-out, but forgive me. Having them go is really, really hard. I need mental space to feel what I am feeling, help the kids through the transition, and sit in the quiet for a moment on the other side.

The middle layer consists of the lasts that I am resigned to because they will happen whether I like it or not. There was a last day of college, and I thought about that last day the entire time I was at college. There will be a day that my hair is no longer brown. I can dye it, but I can’t stop my hair from greying over, stop my skin from going soft with wrinkles. There will be (G-d willing) graduations for the twins and marriage and children (if they want them) of their own. These are the things I want to happen as much as I dread these lasts because the alternate is too terrible to consider. If my hair doesn’t go grey it isn’t a happy thing: it means I’m either dead or don’t have hair anymore. So I both grieve these endings long before they happen and also know that I don’t want the alternative to any of them.

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they return to college. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty and I could have space to best use the end of their break. A cop-out, but forgive me. Having them go is really, really hard. I need mental space to feel what I am feeling, help the kids through the transition, and sit in the quiet for a moment on the other side.

Where I should be: the Western Ball with my cousin wearing the turkey cutlet gown and a pair of 3 inch black satin slides.

Where I am: at home.

My cousin wanted me to go to the ball with her and I have to tell you that even though I am completely anti-dressing up (which goes along with the anti-shaving-my-legs and the how-the-hell-do-you-apply-eye-make-up side of me) and it would have easily taken five hours of standing in freezing cold temperatures wearing nothing but a skimpy dress and I probably would have had my breasts fall off from frost bite, I really really really wanted to go to the ball. Not for the actual party, but just to be close to everything.

Seeing it on television made me want to go rub my cheek on the Mall grass.

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they return to college. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty and I could have space to best use the end of their break. A cop-out, but forgive me. Having them go is really, really hard. I need mental space to feel what I am feeling, help the kids through the transition, and sit in the quiet for a moment on the other side.

I’m notorious for being unable to control my verbal diarrhea when I see famous people. One time, we were in Dupont and we were walking toward Christiane Amanpour and Jamie Rubin on the sidewalk when they parted to allow us to pass between them and I pretty much crapped myself and then told every employee at Kramer’s about it for the next hour.

I was at the Helen Hayes Awards because Josh was nominated for one of his plays, and we were at this party when Judd Hirsch walked by. And unable to control my own body, I pointed at him and screamed, “that’s Judd Hirsch!”

Which isn’t even the most embarrassing part. I DID THE SAME THING YEARS LATER TO PAULA DEAN.

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