Since Friday blogs will be about our successes and struggles with growing our family, I thought I'd start off by detailing what gives me hope and confidence that everything will work out.
It's no secret that Kelsey and I were engaged twice before I ultimately convinced her to make me the luckiest man alive. I won't dive into what I call my "dark period," but I will explain something most of you might not know about the "light period" that came about soon thereafter.
Kelsey and I decided to buy a dog. Our parents did not know what to make of this decision. At the time, we didn't even live in the same town. We'd just gotten back together. Kelsey wasn't entirely convinced she liked me again (she was actually pretty sure she didn't). She certainly wasn't convinced she was ever going to marry me. But sometimes two people have to do something that no one thinks makes any sense in order to bring them closer together.
We perused the Internet, looked on now defunct websites, and found the perfect dog. It was a bright red cockapoo. We emailed the breeder and sent her our deposit check. We needed to wait a few weeks to pick up our new puppy, but the breeder sent us pictures. The dog appeared playful, shy but curious. Her red coat had a nice shine to it, consistent, with small curls under her stomach.
We'd named the dog Ruby. We even gave her a theme song: the Kaiser Chiefs song of the same name.
As Kelsey and I continued to strengthen our damn bond...
(Another example of the secret language of a marriage. Within about three weeks of Kelsey's and my initial flirtation we did what most couples do: focused on our similarities. Every time we brought up a similar thought or a similar interest or something we'd both always wanted to do it became part of our "damn bond." We said it then like we say it now: with a faked sense of resigned dissatisfaction, dismissing it as ridiculous. But the "damn bond" is more than a tongue in cheek joke between us--it's very real, and we're very lucky to have it.)
...we went out to dinner one night when I visited the Quad Cities. We had a great time. Eventually we went back to her apartment to watch a movie. While she put on her obligatory sweatpants and sweatshirt, I checked my email. The breeder had emailed us. Ruby was dead.
If any of you have ever tried to repair a relationship, there is this strange period of rediscovery where imaginary signs and inexplicable thoughts take hold. Everything becomes a sign from God. A warning. A message. In this case, a dog breeder letting us know our puppy was dead wiped away the good of the evening and gave way to talks of, "maybe we're not supposed to be together," and "what if this is someone's way of telling us something." Somehow, after some soul searching and probably some tears, we went to the website to see if there were any other good dogs. I forced us to do this. I was determined to win Kelsey back and erase anything that would have her think it was a bad idea.
That's when we found Dottie, our strange and bizarre little puppy.
Six weeks after that, I lived in the Quad Cities, and we brought Dottie home. Fourteen months after that, Kelsey and I were married and on a honeymoon. Two weeks after that Kelsey and I learned she was pregnant. One month after that the baby stopped growing.
The weekend we lost the first baby was rough. We didn't know what was going on. Kelsey had to deal with a huge influx and then fast exodus of all sorts of hormones. I needed to console a wife through something I didn't understand and that didn't seem real. On a Saturday afternoon, as the sun started to sink outside and the auburn fall light sneaked through our blinds Kelsey was finally able to sleep. The nightmare was over. She went to our bed and laid down, piling on blankets. I laid next to her and rubbed her back. When I finally heard her snores, I got up to use the bathroom. Dottie quickly replaced me in bed taking "her spot" cuddled next to Kelsey's stomach.
Instead of going back to bed, I sat on our couch and looked at our TV. The TV was off, but the dimming light in our room allowed me to see my strange, adult reflection. I stared at it for awhile and thought about how impressive and strong Kelsey had been that day.
Suddenly Dottie stood up on the bed. Dottie shook and stretched. She jumped off the bed and ran over to me. She jumped on my lap, wagged her short tail, and licked the top of my nose four times. Then she jumped off of my lap, stretched again, jumped back on the bed, and curled next to Kelsey and fell asleep. Both of them slept through the night. At some point, I joined them.
Every miscarriage we have makes me think of Ruby and that sweet moment where Dottie told me it would be okay. Ruby probably would have been a good dog. There is no way of knowing. Each time a miscarriage occurs I think, "I guess we're just waiting for the perfect kid." And right now as I type this, and I look at Kelsey reading something very intently on her computer screen with Dottie asleep on back of the couch, I can picture the couch filling with more faces. I don't know if the faces look like a hybrid of Kelsey and me or if they look like small children from Guatemala or China or maybe the faces are both hybrids and foreign models.
I've seen sadness turn into sustained happiness. It took us a while, but we got married. It took us a couple of attempts, but we got our dog. I love both. I'll love my kids too, however they may come. The important part is that we have not lost hope. We can see and we believe that our couch will someday be more full, and it's pretty full now.
