How to Deal

There is something deeply satisfying about singing Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now while doing dishes. If a tear or two falls for your lost angst-ridden youth, so be it. The salt will not hurt your dishes. The echo of your angst will be palpable.

I seem to be going through some kind of postpartum mid-life crises wherein I ordered a pair of 1460 Greasy Black Doc Marten boots, and actual CDs of bands I listened to in the late 80s when I wore Anarchy T-shirts and a pissed off expression of exasperation at all authority figures. Bands like Joy Division, the Smiths, the Cure, Siouxsie Sioux...well, you get the idea. I can say that being an adult mostly sucks what with the planning funerals-cleaning-paying taxes thing except that you mostly have the money to buy the things that satisfy your particular mood at any given time. When I was 16 and wanted Doc Martens, I couldn't afford the hundred bucks, and so I wrote it on my Christmas list. It was the year after my parents separated, and Christmas morning rolled around with two presents wrapped under the tree--one for my sister and one for me. I opened my gift, which was a boot. A used combat boot. My sister had the other one. There was a price tag on the bottom that read: $5.00.

I have given birth to three children in three years. One of them was dead. I deserve a new, greasy pair of shitkickers.

I wish I could say that the postpartum sadness never caught up with me, and that I am drifting along in my beautiful little bungalow in a state of perpetual idiotic bliss. But you know, we are experiencing the -BA factor, which is the result of this debilitating formula:

Sleeplessness (S) + Daughter Death (DD) + Postpartum Hormones (H) + Not Eating Chocolate (-C)+ being alone all day with a newborn and a very independent minded three year old dressed like "Wonder Woman Girl" (AAD+NB+WWG) + Perpetually Bad Hair (PBH)= Blubbering Angie (-BA)

I cry because Thor's tootsies are just so damn cute. I ask myself incessant painful questions about Lucy's feet. Why didn't I photograph them? Did I kiss them? I cry because Beezus' insane rambling stories reminds me that I will never hear anything so long and drawn out from the urn that sits in my secretary. When anyone asks about Mother's Day, I feign impending sickness. Sunday I will be mostly feverish with an acute case of self-pity. I kiss my baby until I cry. I listen to the windchimes. I remember that my life is good even if my daughter is dead.

I think I am a psychological hypochondriac. I fear the crazies at the first good weep. "Is this finally my hidden borderline personality disorder coming out? I could be exactly like that woman on Law and Order SVU, you never know." I google "Excessive Crying." "Postpartum Depression." "Psychological Hypochondria." I google "grief." I call my Blackberry a judgmental little bastard. Throw it across the room. Focus on television. Chew my fingernails. Pick up the blackberry again. Apologize. Google "Impulse control."

I am really sorry if I owe you an email. I'm sorry if I have been a shitty friend and support. I am sorry if I was supposed to walk you and opted to lay on the floor tearing up instead (that one is for Jack the dog). I'm sorry if I didn't kiss you goodnight. I'm sorry if I was supposed to call you and forgot. I'm sorry if I asked you what color the unicorn was when you were telling me a story about monkeys. I'm sorry if I forgot your birthday. I'm sorry if I ranted about something unrelated to our conversation. I'm sorry if I talked too fast from having a third cup of coffee. I'm sorry if you want me to carry something large and I said no. I'm sorry if I was supposed to take out your trash while you were on vacation. I'm sorry if I nodded instead of stopped to talk while I was weeding the other day. I'm sorry if you wanted me to read another bedtime story, and I said that it was No Third Book Night, which happens once a week. I'm sorry if I forgot to mail your thank you note. I'm sorry if I was blogging when you wanted to go for nap and you fell asleep on the chair in your Wonder Woman costume and the skirt is itchy.

I've been busy and sad.