Today my boys turn four.  Four years ago I was finally no longer with child(ren), and while I was no longer pregnant, I started the traumatic post-partum period wherein they diagnosed me with post-partum depression instead of hypothyroidism and it went untreated for 8 months.  Wait, is that not the post I should be writing on this special day?  Was I supposed to write about how becoming a mother changed my life for the better forever?  How I was nothing before I became mama?  I guess I could write that if it makes you feel better, dear mama reader.  But I don’t believe it for a second. There is no doubt that my two are miracles beyond belief.  Years of trying followed by fertility treatments followed by a petri dish of love. And voila, here they are – legos and army men underfoot.  A dazzling array of matchbox cars and pokemon discs (what? who?) and I’m happy with it. But, I love being who I was before. I mean being me. You know.  The me from before kids.  You know, Mirriam. Me.

I’ve heard through the grapevine that there are some who dislike this me.  They like the stay at home mom making organic babyfood from scratch and talking smack about women who return to work and let someone else raise their kids. GASP!  They like the woman I became and who I did not know.  She was a stranger to me.  I was taken over by thyroid and post-partum aliens who controlled my brain (And also refused to let me lose the weight. Yes, I blame aliens for that.)  It is a bit unfair, I suppose, a bait and switch.  There I was, all weepy with desire for mini-me’s and then having them and turning into a pile of mush at every Five for Fighting song.  And now, well, here I am with my constant rants about injustice and representing people accused of fairly heineous crimes. This is not the friend they signed up for, and dammit, they are mad. I’m sorry, but that other person is not coming back. She was only here temporarily and while I’m sorry you miss her, I can’t let her back.  She is gone for good.

But this post is not written to expound the virtues of parenting as a working stiff mom.  It is a damned difficult business though.  Today I’m home with a sick boy. And that happens sometimes.  I’ve not got the secret to work/life balance and I fail at achieving it a lot, but this post isn’t about that either. 

This post is, in fact, about something I’ve kept from you all for the past few months.  See, a long time ago I compared infertility to the desert – yes, it does rain but the natural state of it is dry.  And this year, I had rain. This year I was pregnant.  I say ‘was’ because I am no longer pregnant.  The pregnancy was short lived, maybe 10 weeks?  And I didn’t even know it.  Yes, I would have been one of those women “I was pregnant and didn’t know it until I gave birth.”  When the doctor called to tell me I was pregnant, I was already miscarrying.  And while it sounds terrible and tragic, and more than a little ironic considering, it really is ok.  I’ve  wanted to write about it for a while because one of the ways people find this blog is by searching about infertility.  And, while this is incredibly personal and it might not be appropriate for a ‘blawg’ it might explain some of my online disappearance.  So here’s why I write it:

It’s hard to come to grips with the twists and turns life takes.  And being pregnant is normal, right?  For most women it is just the thing that happens in order to have children.  But when you don’t live that life, when your babies were tax deductions (the first time I was able to claim medical expenses on my taxes) and when they come by way of years of heartache and heartbreak, finding out you are pregnant without the assistance of a lab tech and emergency hatching is, well, it’s a one way ticket into bizarre-o world where you wonder what you’ve got to do to just be regular.  You know, pregnant when you want to be and not when you don’t.  But that’s not meant to be. And, once again, I’ve got to learn to live with it. 

And, in the meantime, what this has done is cemented our commitment to not having any more kids.  We like our two enough. And yes, parenting is a trip – good, bad, wierd, awesome, completely exhausting, etc. But now I like being me again. I like not just being mama now and having a circle of smart friends and colleagues and getting cases ready for trial and interacting with adult human beings.  I don’t want to try to breastfeed again. I want to try cases and come home and take the kids to Chik-fil-a because I’m too tired to cook.  I like that my kids ask if I’ve just come from the jail and if I’m going to court.  This is what I always thought it would be like. Okay, that’s a lie.  It’s nothing at all like I thought  it would be.  But it’s my life now.  My real one-way ticket to bizzare-o world was purchased when I decied to become a lawyer, and a criminal defense lawyer at that. The kids just add to the craziness. And being regular is just not in the cards.  And while I’d love to make the “motion for new facts” I’m pretty good at making bad facts my own and playing the hand I’m dealt. Mama is a trial lawyer folks, and I’m happy to be back.

And, to be honest, in the grand scheme of things this is not the worst thing to have happened.  It doesn’t even rank up there with the top 10. I got pregnant. I had a miscarriage.  In the meantime, I bang my head against the walls of justice and continue to push that rock up that hill. We continue to fight the good fight and sometimes we fight in vain.  And while not being able to be pregnant put some aspects of my life in perspective, other aspects of my life have now done the same to the events of this past year. See how that works – life? But here’s the thing, if I do ever have another kid, I’m buying baby food.