Since it's been about forever,

A quick update and the perpetual promise to try harder next time.

Tim and I have been, well, I'm trying to find a good euphamism for our past six months but I must admit there isn't one appropriate for prime time. He's been going through change at work - which is, incidentally, perpetual and thus not terribly upsetting -- but new all the same. In the meantime, we were shocked with a pregnancy in February, more shocked when that pregnancy ended in early March, delighted with a positive pregnancy test on the day of Relay for Life, and stunned into shocking silence on July 13th when an ultrasound revealed that this, too, would result in a miscarriage.

For the next 16 days, we waited, wondering if "expectant management" (the nifty euphamism for not doing anything for a patient who's carrying a dead baby) was the right choice. Yesterday we decided that it was not and used four tablets of an anti-ulcer drug called misoprostol to facilitate the miscarriage. Last night was nifty, but today, finally, we're feeling as though we're coming out from under the clouds.

Unfortunately for us, one of those clouds will follow us like Pig Pen's little cloud of dirt, sullying our attempts henceforth at expanding our family. When I found out I was pregnant with Lilly, there was not a doubt in my mind that she would *be*. I discovered I was pregnant with Carter a mere 8 days after ovulation - exceedingly early. Yet now, in the future, should we be lucky enough to again get two pink lines on those pretty little tests, I cannot say that I will know in my heart, "Yes. We've done it. There's our baby."

Because I knew that on February 12th. I knew it again on June 13th. And that just wasn't the case. I think the worst part of this experience for us is that in many ways, our entire first trimester of our future child will be stolen from us. . . or we will have to walk the fine line between embracing a new pregnancy and the knowledge that with two miscarriages in a row, our chances for a viable pregnancy have begun to decline.

Although we know statistics don't mean much. There was only a 4% chance we'd be in this position in the first place.

I DID IT!! I did it! I did it!!

In October of 2007, when David died, our family committed to walking in the Relay for Life the following June. See, just four short months before his death, David had taken to the track on a muggy June evening in Nebraska to walk in the "Survivor's Lap". Just moments before, he'd gotten to introduce himself, his cancer, and his years survived over the PA system. My favorite photograph is of him making the rounds, his big smile and shaved head a testament to his battle.
Last year's Relay was difficult, to say the least. The Survivor's Lap was heartbreaking - because we knew that David would have wanted to be there and we certainly wished he were. Our team, though, was a Gold Fundraising team, and recognized in a variety of ways for the amount of funds were were able to raise for the American Cancer Society.
This year, I've broken new ground. This year I'm the proud member of the "Grand Club." My total at this moment is $1,021.00. I involved my friends in a friendly competition of "Who gets to embarass Monica", I begged everyone I know for just $5, and I look forward with glee to whatever embarassment is bestowed upon me. It's an honor to wear goofy buttons, to write the names of the people for whom I walk on my shirt, and to spend 4 laps of the many I walk that night doing whatever the largest donator wants me to do (short of gymnastics: my back's not that great you know).
Last June, I thought I'd walk in Relay for Life for the rest of my life for David. To honor his memory. This year, I realize, I'm walking for David, yes, but also for myself. And for these people:

In memory of Patty Floan.
For Tof.
In loving memory of Floyd Minnick
For Julia, my Kiwi friend.
For Bud Henricksen, my pal Carrie's father who, as of this moment, fights the good fight.
In memory of Vi Kershner.
In memory of Mark McCarville.
In memory of my buddy Jan's godfather.
For the survivors in my life.
In memory of Corinne.
In memory and honor of many, many, more.

And finally, in loving memory, honor, and glory of David Bronstad. You will be missed, kind sir, missed a great deal, but what you have created here blossoms, blooms, spins out from you and into the world like a series of small miracles. For that, we are exceedingly grateful.

If you have too much stuff and not enough space,

"Get the smart solution: Space bags."

Because going through your stuff and eliminating some of it is absolutely not an option. Living simply and downsizing? No way! Just get some new *stuff* to store your old *stuff*.

I'm beginning to feel like a George Carlin routine. . .

Over the course of the past several years, we've gotten rid of thing after thing after thing. I'll be the first to admit that often our thousand square foot house feels awful small and crowded - but the fact is it's because of our *stuff* not because of the house itself. The house itself, by international standards, is downright palatial and the stuff that packs it to the gills is, in many ways, wasteful and stressful.

Except our new 40" Samsung flatscreen tv. It's delightful.

You better start swimming or you'll sink like a stone!

Ah, yes, the times, they are a changin' around these parts.

As of 3:05 today, my daughter is officially a first grader. She is lean and gangly and all bumped shins and a tiny bit tone deaf, which is to say some things never change, as she's a mini-me circa 1982. I'd like to say she's better dressed but, well, she is my daughter.

Meanwhile, my son's enrolled in preschool starting in the fall and his big news is his tendancy to wear underwear with superheroes on them rather than diapers with baby muppets on them. This is a huge undertaking in any person's life and it's no wonder we don't remember, as, well, to put it lightly, it's hell.

Tim's lost his tonsils and gained a company. His tonsils came out in late April but the new company came about in these last few weeks. Lots of change around these parts but I suspect much of it will be good.

As for me? Well, very little is different with me. My eyeglasses lost a rhinestone, but other than that, I plod on just the same. I'm enjoying three blissful weeks off before my 8 week summer class starts, chasing the children all day every day starting tomorrow, and working hard to make the yard and garden as gorgeous as they can be. That's about it. With all of this change, something had to stay the same.

It is National Poetry Month.

We are six days in and I have yet to post a poem for National Poetry Month, so let me take the time now to share two that I've been working on.

The first has perplexed me since the event it describes. It's been much longer, shorter, differently structured, roped into a tight set of five couplets, and now set free into a sort of prose poem. I'm still not sure where it'll go, but here:

Goose
Geese don’t just fall from flight to land dead in parking lots. In the midst of migration there is no explanation for this moment: graceless on the concrete before me, the whole body unmarred by bullets. The goose lies among the cars, a nuisance, a single wing spread north in defiance. No marks or blood. No explanation for this momentary loss of gravity and grace.

The second has been back-burnered for a year now. I'm not sure what I'll do with it in the future. It lacks a memorable voice, in some ways, and I'm struggling with that:

For David:
I cannot write you
but I will write this:

Last night when, after forty long daysof darkness,
we unleashed the Alleluiafrom its tomb,
(which I learned after your death
used to spend its Lenten journey
not in the ground but behind
The Book of Conchord in your office)
it drifted slowly skyward,
(the young man who assisted at your funeral
holds this knowledge like a jewel,
a secret moment shared just months
before you died)
everything was heavier last night
and we missed the sight of yourocking on your toes
lifting us all in the updraftsof your faith.