I can’t believe it’s been over a week since I posted something. I’ve tried a couple of times but the articles never matured into anything really readable. And it’s been a trying week…more so even than usual for Janet Land lately…and my emotions and days were just too up and down to make sense.

I’ve cried more this week than I have in a long, long time.

And speaking of the little things in life, Kate has been crawling into bed with me every night. She’s scared of someone looking at her through her bedroom window. Not sure why. But I don’t mind the company in bed. Her warm little body curled up against my own feels nice on cold nights. And I think back to a piece I read by Dr. Christiane Northrup about bed sharing and how we don’t expect adults to sleep alone but for some reason, expect that of children.

Don stayed until Tuesday afternoon. He came with me to the children’s hospital and then left as soon as we got home. I can’t tell you what it meant to me to have him by my side throughout the appointment. It was the first time that somebody stood next to me and heard the same things that I heard. It was the first time I didn’t feel completely and totally alone in that hospital. How do I sum up that appointment?

Hmmm.

Well, normally, a child born as prematurely as Michael would not have to return until he was four years old, corrected age.

We will go back in six months.

It was a premonition, of sorts, the day that I had to yell at the Weirdo (also known as the physiotherapist). We aren’t supposed to let it go longer than two months without seeing him only if M, from Infant Development, continues to come every two weeks, which she is.

(Note to self: shop for a gift for M this weekend coming)

We have been referred to a speech pathologist by M already. I just sent off the mountain of paperwork. The neo-natologist from the children’s hospital will put in a further referral to speed that up and get us an appointment sooner. Another area that Michael is way behind in. Not surprising. Not at all.

Please spare me the pep talks. I’m fine with all of this. A year ago, maybe not. But today, I am truly okay. I finally have someone on my side, which makes all of the difference and while yielding bullshit questions from the peanut gallery does take it’s toll on a girl, I’m really okay.

I hacked off my hair. In my bathroom. With kitchen shears. It’s super short now. I gave up on the dreads. First of all, I was allergic to the shampoo, so I was constantly scratching my scalp. Second, I had a chronic headache from wearing a bandanna all of the time. I’m not good with stuff on my head. I get a headache quickly and easily. Which led me to the conclusion that maybe dreads were the worst possible idea since they would only get bigger and heavier.

So, on a Wednesday morning, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and started hacking away at it. My sister would kill me. But the truth is, it doesn’t look that bad. And at least I don’t have to wear it covered all of the time. And now I can have some fun with the blue and pink and red dyes I found in my bathroom cabinet.

Christmas is, for the most part, decided in the K house. The short version is that the kids will not be here. They won’t spend Christmas Eve with me nor will they spend Christmas dad with me. They will return sometime in the days that follow Christmas.

The long version is that Rock simply has more family than I do. And the bulk of his family isn’t crazy like mine. Well, they are crazy, just not in the same way. And the kids will simply have a better time with Rock and his family as they all adore my children, will make a big fuss about their company and they will have plenty of parties and dinners and stuff to go to.

Please spare me the pep talks on this, too, okay? I know that with divorce comes change and that the first year is the hardest and all that. I know that I can create my own traditions and my own rituals. I know all of this and then some. I know that I made the right decision and that it’s all for the best. If I didn’t know that I wouldn’t have made that decision.

They are my babies. I birthed each one of them. And their father can offer them more during this particular time. And there’s not much that any of you can say to make me feel better about that.

I have been meditating on Mother Mary lately. Now, for the record, I’m not catholic. I’m not even really a Christian. I’m not really anything, for that matter. I’m the least religious of people. But I am deeply spiritual. There’s a big difference.

I have been thinking about Mary and the birth of her son. But probably not in the way that you might assume. I have been thinking of her labouring on a fucking donkey or camel or whatever the fuck they rode. I am thinking of her birthing a baby in a bed of fucking straw. And I’m thinking of the pain of putting a brand new baby into a manger instead of a cradle. I’m thinking that in those moments, it was not Jesus who was the hero, but rather, his mother.

I have been thinking of Mary sharing her newborn son so shortly after his arrival into the world. The shepherds and the wise men. And I’m thinking that again, in that instance, it was Mary who showed unimaginable strength. Because I know how I feel about my babies. I know how I feel about sharing them. And I am drawing on her strength this year and praying to the Creator for some strength of my own.

Furthermore, I am thinking of what we lose in the time after the birth of Christ. How we seem to lose track of Jesus for a few decades. And how we definitely lose track of Mary after her one big job was finished with. I am thinking of their ride on the donkey home. The pain of having just given birth. Breasts full of milk. Holding a baby in your arms over the bumps in the road. And again, I pray to the Creator for the same strength that blessed Mary during that time.

I hold my homemade prayer beads, finger them lightly, meditate on Mary and the Turtle… mother earth…she carried the world on her back.

I am going into my last week with the kids. It will be a month minus two days when Rock picks them up on Friday. It’s been a long month at times.

Kate was sick. Really, really sick. And that epitomized things, in a way. As I mopped up puke with a towel under my foot at the same time that I held a squirming, wet, crabby Michael in one arm and held out the puke bowl for Kate with the other, I felt more alone than I have in a long time. Nobody to help. I had called Rock in the hopes that he could come and sit with Michael and Kate long enough for me to run into town for more apple juice for Kate and milk for Michael. He wouldn’t. My parents didn’t want to catch whatever it was that Kate had. My dad brought a bag of milk over to my place the next morning, after Michael drank watered down cream before bed.

Remarkably, Kate is now fine. And nobody else caught whatever ran through her. Touch wood.

It snowed last night and this morning. It is un-officially winter here in Janet Land. And I’m now thinking of red bows and starry nights and rolls of tape.

I’ve gained some Kit Kat weight. Damn those delicious little fuckers. I’m being very strict with myself from now until Christmas.

I pushed Don away. Harder than I have ever pushed him before. Days straight of pushing with no break in between. And still he stayed. I have no idea why. But I’m grateful.

I have felt like I’ve been surrounded by more bullshit than ever before. Just when I think I have a leg up, somebody has to come and knock me down.

I have been listening to Robbie Roberson and the Red Road Ensemble lately. And I think I’ll end this post with one of his lines…

“When you find out what’s worth keeping, with a breath of kindness blow the rest away.”