I'm working on it.

Out of the blue, a gift. A longed for, hoped for, wished for, dreamed of, gift. A surprise. Two little pink lines. And then two more lines. And then two more. Because for whatever reason, the first test is never believable. Neither is the second, but as they say, third time's the charm.

Ten weeks went by. Ten secret weeks of silent excitement.  Ten weeks of whispers after bedtime, talks of tiny sleepers and diapers and little hands and feet.  Ten weeks of secret list making, names and dates and ideas and plans.  Ten weeks of smelling everything, eating less, needing spice and feeling sick.

The night of my younger daughter's fourth birthday, we knew.

An emergency trip to the obstetrician confirmed the bad. And we were sent home to wait. To wait.

Nobody talks about what happens to you when you lose a baby.
No one tells you what will happen.
No one tells you about the utter awfulness of it.

There were some vague instructions from the nurses, and hugs and many quiet 'so very sorry' whispers, and one ugly, abrasive, "I can't help you, have a nice day" from a member of the frontline staff, and that's it.

We went home into the unknown, an unknown that turned out to be dark and hard and painful, physically painful, emotionally painful, utterly awful, and secret.  Secret like the first ten weeks.  This time a secret sorrow, that time a secret joy.

Our baby died and we watched life go on around us.  Two different friends had babies that week, and we could see their newborn pictures in our news feeds, tiny little hands and feet, tiny little baby sleepers, tiny little diapers.  Another pregnant friend complained about her growing stomach, all the while my own seemed to grow smaller and more empty with every minute's passing.

On Sunday, two people stood next to me and asked me if we were trying to have a baby. Was there anything coherent in my stammered reply: "no, not really, well, not right now, I mean, we would love a baby, but no, I guess not really now".  And in my mind, 'bite down hard. don't cry. smile hard'. So that's what I did.

Our children do not know yet. When they ask, "Mommy, why are you crying?" we just reply with a vagueness of our own: "Mommy's heart is just sad, honey.  Sometimes grown-ups have sad days, too".

The other day the words came out, out loud, to a friend. And that night to another. They cried for me. They knew, too. They knew the utter awfulness, too.

Our baby died.

My dear friend sent this poem, along with her love and prayers and the kind of hope that only comes from knowing the truth of life.  It's page has been open since she sent it; I read it and read it and read it.

Our baby died, and is gone, undiminished, to the other shore. We know the One who stands there, receiving those lives, receiving our tiny gift, our little undeserved surprise, the never-dying-soul we knew for a secret ten weeks, and so we have hope.

It's summertime.  The end of it, for sure, but still summer.  My Google tells me that the astronomical summer  in the Northern Hemisphere doesn't end until September 21st.  So I know, because it's Google, that it is still summertime.

I also know it's still summertime because of how lazy our days are ... We get up, we play, we eat, we play, we snack and run and rest and read and make a mess and go to the store and the park and the beach and the pool and have last-minute-picnic-dinners downtown where we can look for carriages and ride the ferry and stop at the candy store and stomp in the fountains and laugh at the stars.

Summer-time.

The changing light hasn't come yet.  It will soon, and the days will become short and fast and exhausting, and the warmth will fade and the cold will come and then it will be gray for a bit and every day will feel like a scheduled chore.

And every day of the dark and grey I will think of the summer, and the summer time, and the summer times, and I will long for it and wait for it and hope it comes early.

And then, one day, the light will change again.  And I will see it.  And it will be spring.  And there will be days and days of longer, brighter, lighter times.  And then, the sun will wake one day in June and it will be that time, this time, one more time, again.

go now?

Hurricanes seem to be increasing in number around here these days. Guess there must be some kinda miracle grow in the Atlantic this year. It's a bit worrisome.

Bigger than the worry right now is the confusion. One day we're going to get smacked, the next day it's Charleston. One minute it's a category 1, the next it's a tropical depression. I realize that the wind speeds separation is you know, small, but the flood probability is quite a difference. Will we flood? Won't we? Will we evacuate? Won't we?

Should we evacuate? Should we wait a little longer? How long is too long? And how on earth will this work with a cat in the car?

And then suddenly, we're joined by two more indecisive storms . . . although Ike sure looks certain about his strength. The feeling is that it's time to make plans to go. Nobody here wants to chill during a category 4.

On the upside of things, there's a strong possibility that we'll finally be getting that new furniture we've been wanting!

and so much to do elsewhere? It occurs to me that today would be a wonderful day for some much needed yardwork, but I'm at that point in my workday where I'm a lady in waiting.

Waiting for clients to call me back, waiting for sales to finalize contracts, waiting for my server to speed up so I can post something, waiting for emails and waiting to see where things will go - up or down - from their current, less than usually busy standpoint.

Normally, I'd relish the slowdown - the few moments void of the typical frenzy and challenges of organizing people and projects and the people of the projects. But today, with the sun shining and the winds gentle, I can only think of how I've always wanted to know how to operate our lawn mover and what a shame it is that I can't get over to the nursery to get some plants for our empty flower boxes.