{Originally published on Sarcastic Mom}

Several nights ago I was sitting in the dark of Braden’s room; he was cradled in my arms, breathing quietly. As we slowly swayed back and forth in the rocking chair together, lullabies playing peacefully on the CD player, my mind jumped back and forth. It climbed mountains torturously, then lept off of the summits and plummeted into the valleys below. My face was slack, but my thoughts rumbled and tumbled below the surface while I felt the warm, soft life in my embrace cuddle deeper into sleep.

Suddenly, I burst out crying. Crying for the tiny life that I wasn’t able to hold onto in this way. I sobbed – quietly, so as not to disturb Braden – for a few long moments. Then I placed him in his crib and left the room. As suddenly as it had come upon me, the weeping was gone.

It’s been like that for weeks now. Since the miscarriage.

The extreme dichotomy of my feelings and thoughts lately has been a confusion at times, to me. At others, it has made no less than perfect sense. See what I mean?

I was pregnant one day. Then, suddenly, I wasn’t.

Riding the roller coasters at this Carnival From Hell that no woman wants to go to, but that is packed full of people, nonetheless, has been strange.

Some days, hearing about how many others have gone through this, multiple times, even, is a great comfort. I am actually incredibly buoyed by the scores of other women who feel somewhat betrayed by their bodies, or maybe even by God. By women who have experienced this same thing and are floating alongside me in this sea of uncertainty.

It means that I am not really standing out in the middle of a barren wasteland, alone, while a relentless wind tears and rips at my exposure-ravaged limbs, muffling my cries and carrying them silently away into the vast nothingness surrounding me, where they will mean nothing and no one will ever respond to them.

Originally published at Storytellersunplugged.

Richard Dansky’s short story, besides being an intriguing story about monsters and possibilities and what hides in the dark, challenges the reader to think about our preconceptions and how they affect what we see.

He introduces the story with this tidbit:

There are a lot of lakes and ponds in the Triangle, many of them man-made. There’s one I pass driving to work every day, and another that sits across the street from my office. You can go there on your lunch break and see people fishing or sailing or throwing frisbees into the water for their dogs to chase. I’ve even availed myself of the facilities a few times, and am pleased to report I’ve only fallen out of a rented canoe once, and briefly.

An admittedly unscientific sample suggests that most of those folks have no idea that Lake Crabtree (and the “lake” part is purely an honorific; it’s about as deep as a Bret Michaels interview and covers only slightly more territory) was dug out with backhoes and bulldozers in the not-too-distant past. Even the signs posted at various semi-prominent points don’t get the point across. Maybe they’re ugly signs. Maybe people have come up with their own stories about where the lake came from and how long it’s been around, and if things are otherwise, they don’t want to know. Either way, it works for them.

Which, I suppose, is the point of the story.

Enjoy.

***

THE DEEP END OF THE SHALLOW WATER

We got out of the car just before sunset, a half-mile down a gravel service road that we shouldn’t have been able to access. The spot where we’d stopped was a pretty one, a clearing in the second-growth pine woods that ran up the edge of the body of water we’d come to investigate.

{Originally published on Moosh in Indy}

Moosh- your dad is up in bed snoring and moaning like a severely wounded walrus. Today is Father’s Day and I just wanted to let you know, as someone who’s lived with your dad for seven years that the teasing and relentless obnoxiousness will likely never stop. It’s how he shows us that he loves us.

Seriously.

Your shrieks of horror and protest must be music to your dad’s ears or else he wouldn’t insist on pissing you off so often. He never had a brother. We have to forgive him for this. Guy just doesn’t know how to be surrounded by wimmin all the time. It’s made him a little crazy. Good news? Any brothers that you may have will pale in comparison to what your faddah dishes out.

There is a moment in your birth video where he reaches out and touches you really REALLY quick while the nurses are cleaning you off. He didn’t want to get in trouble. You can hear the nurses say “It’s okay dad, she’s yours, you can touch her all you want.” Later when he told me that he got to be the first! to! touch! you! was the first time I ever saw him weakened with the power a little girl holds over her daddy. He hasn’t recovered since. You are his world.

In another hour he will get up and start teasing us. And poking us. And annoying us. This is how boys show they like you. From kindergarten to high school to marriage. The more they pick on you the more smitten they are.

I think it would be impossible for daddy to be any more smitten with us.

We’re lucky ladies.

Happy Father’s Day dude.

The funny thing about blogging is that life sometimes gets in the way. Blogging is supposed to be about our lives, though, right? So if we don’t get out there and live them, our blogs will be serpents eating their own tails: seemingly interesting at first, then very monotonous and repetitive.

Just as life can sometimes distract you from getting things done, our solutions are often monotonous stop-gaps. Nothing memorable and hardly worth the effort. Which reminds us… Father’s Day is this Sunday! Did you forget to get Dad that amazing gift? No problem, we have you covered and with sprinkles on top.

Blog Nosh Magazine is proud to present our favorite solution to those last-minute Father’s Day gift panics in the form of what we love best: MAGAZINES!

If the dads in your life are anything like the dads in mine, they enjoy splashy pictures, punchy stories, and gorgeous women. That’s putting it politely. I gave my husband a subscription to Men’s Health one year and he thanked me every month, no fail. The best part? I absolutely loved Men’s Health and just about beat him to it each time it arrived. I’d like to say that peeking into the mind of men made me a better wife, but I think it might have just made me more tolerant and patient because, wow, it’s all pretty much about desire for men. Desire to improve, desire to build a better life, and desire for, well, we are talking about our men.

In honor of Father’s Day, Blog Nosh Magazine is giving away a prize pack courtesy of MagsDirect.com that includes subscriptions to the daddy of all magazines: Sports Illustrated, GQ, and (my favorite) Men’s Health. All you have to do to win is be a US resident and either tweet about the giveaway using the keyword “@blognoshmag” or leave a comment below. The winner will be announced Saturday morning, June 20, 2009.

Update: The winner is @flesworthy! Her tweet about the giveaway was randomly selected from all of the tweets and comments. Follow her on twitter and check out her blog: flesworthy. Thanks for entering!

Sold on the idea of giving Dad a magazine subscription? Seriously, my husband asks for me to renew his subscriptions every year in lieu of another tie or coffee mug. Check out MagsDirect.com for cheap magazines and you’ll absolutely thrill him with your thoughtfulness.

Plus, you can do it Sunday morning if you forget poor ole dad.

{Originally published at The State of Discontent}

Once, there were two wise women who lived as neighbors in a village near a dark forest.

The land near the forest was fertile, and the village prospered. But every few years, a drought would sweep across the land, and fires would break out in the forest. For this reason, for generations, the people of that village had built their modest homes at a distance from the forest, and had taken care to keep the field between the forest and their village free of brush, so that the fire would not spread. And whenever the fires did come, the villages would work together, digging trenches in the field, and bringing pails of water from the river nearby to douse errant sparks and soak the ground around their homes.

But then more than a decade passed without a drought, and as the prosperous village grew more prosperous, and crowded, young families began to build homes in the open, empty field near the forest.

The two wise women considered it folly to take such a chance, and both shook their heads. They both advised their neighbors not to move into the field. But, enticed by the space and beauty the rich, open field afforded, the villagers continued to build there despite the advice of their elders.

Before long, the baron who controlled the realm around the village noticed this trend, and he began to encourage it. Because every time a new farmstead was created in the baron’s jurisdiction, he could tax the family that lived there for the use of the newly cultivated land. “Build near the forest,” the baron urged. “The climate has changed. We may never see a drought again. You are safe from the fires. Build larger homes and farms! Take all the space you want!”

And the loggers selling wood to those building new homes, and the merchants selling furniture, and the roadbuilders who were hired to build new roads into the new part of the village also found reason to encourage this trend. And some villagers even began to borrow money to build new, empty homes, in the hopes that they might encourage people from other villages to move there, and sell the homes at a profit. And so, people began to build houses right into the forest.

{Originally posted on The Wind In Your Vagina}

Jenna always works 1 day on the weekend and you can never really tell if it’s going to be Saturday or Sunday. When Jackson started to play soccer games on Saturdays, Jenna suddenly started working every single Saturday. What an ODD scheduling coincidence. Poor Jenna. She is deprived of youth soccer AND the joy of watching a 4-year-old girl who hates her brother’s soccer games. No parent should ever be asked to miss these experiences.

But then she got last Saturday off. At last. Jenna could come to soccer with us.

MetroDad recently pointed out on his blog that we’re raising a nation of pussies. The kids are urged to “use their words” in a world where they can’t leave the house without a helmet and a safety net. The crazy thing about Jackson’s soccer league is that this insidious process of wimpification is being extended to the parents. We’re being declawed. Before the kids were allowed to play their first game, we had to sign a Spectator Contract and initial each rule (and yes I’m totally serious).

These included limited shouting. If we do shout, we promise to shout only positive messages. We are to cheer for our team’s successes but not the opposing team’s mistakes. At no time are we permitted to question the calls of the referees (this sets an example of bad sportsmanship for the kids). And my favorite: After every game, we promise to ask our child what was the most FUN about the game.

Ahh Ha Ha Ha Ha.

Anyway, the Soccer Gods saw fit to smile on Jackson on this particular Saturday and he found himself with the ball and no opposing players between him and the goal. GO JACKSON! Nothing but green grass and a nervous goalie. O MY GOD GO JACKSON! A defensive player was gaining on him but he had plenty of time. TAKE THE SHOT JACKSON! The crowd inhaled—KICK IT JACKSON KICK IT—as the kid behind him slid…