19w3d, so far away from any problems

Just in case anybody is wondering what happened to all the deserts I made...MrH ate them.  All.  And he enjoyed them tremendously.  I guess I will have to make them again.  Except that I am at my parents' house now, in Vancouver, and I am being asked to make gogosi, a Romanian desert consisting of yeasted sweet dough that gets deep fried.  Delicious.  I will make some tonight.  My only problem is that Vancouver is still cold, especially in my parents' house, and I don't know if the dough will raise.  In LittleTown at my house, I have a sneaky method for raising dough:  I put it in my dehydrator, and put the temperature on a constant yeast-friendly temperature, covering the dough to ensure that it doesn't actually dry out.  It raises beautifully.  My second problem is that without a Kitchen.Aid I have to actually knead the dough by hand, and I am sooooo lazy (like we have already discussed in my previous post).  I will ask my dad to knead I think, he has big hands.

I debated with myself whether I should talk about domestic stuff on my blog, like purses and recipes and handmade cosmetics, since it really has nothing to do with pregnancy or babyloss, but in the end my life is really varied, my interests are varied, and it is nice to write about them on here, especially on days when I don't want to think about the fact that I am pregnant and high-risk.  On days when I just want to feel like any other woman.  Or on the days when I eat deserts and shop on ebay because I am high risk.

Tomorrow I will be 19w4d, the exact gestational age where I went into the hospital with the 5 cm dilatation.  Now you can see why I would rather not think about it.  I still struggle with a lot of guilt.  On my last OB appointment, I had a good cry and told my OB that in my last pregnancy I feel that I did everything wrong:  I worked, I exercised, I pushed myself in ways in which I don't think I should have, in retrospect.  I felt that the loss has happened because I did not behave "pregnant" but rather just like my usual active self, strongly involved in everything and never taking it easy.  I said that I did not want to make the same mistake this time again.  He could hear that I am feeling guilty, I mean c'mon, I practically radiate guilt much like a Japanese nuclear reactor spewing radioactive isotopes, and put his hands on my shoulders and said something that I already heard a hundred times but don't always believe:  that activity and exercise do not cause a collagen defect.  That what happened was not my fault.  That I had a disease.

I want so much to believe that I did not kill Adrian.  It is hard to feel Emma move and kick in the exact same way that Adrian used to kick, and know that she is the same size he was when he died, and realize that he was perfect and strong and that my body killed him.  On most days I manage not to think about it.  On other days, the best I can do is to tell myself not to use this kind of language, and to rather rephrase it as a tragedy that happened to both of us, him and me.  But if you backed your car over your child playing on his toy bike and killed him or her by accident because you did not see them in your rear view mirror, it would not be your fault and yet it would be.  It is the same way with me.  I am not guilty yet I am.  Or am I?  And around and around it goes.

I think that the anniversary of the loss is playing big time in my subconscious mind, because last night at 4 am I was awake and busy on ebay buying...a purse.  (Please have mercy on me, I really am trying to be a restrained citizen). I definitely don't need another purse, since I already have two Prada, one Bottega Veneta, and two Coach. (And a tiny Chanel but that one doesn't count because it is so tiny). However, this beauty was so pretty that I decided to bid half-hartedly asking for 500$ off the buy it now price.  I never thought I would actually get it.  I will have to sell one of my Prada's on ebay now to compensate.  Or go on another shopping diet for a year, like I did so far (yes, I had a year's long shopping diet at least concerning purses.  I still managed to sneak in two pairs of shoes).   Here is the picture of the purse I got, it is fabulous (scroll to the middle of the page).

Initially I kicked myself for being so weak and giving in, but now I really think there is something about purses that manages to distract me from babyloss thoughts.  What exactly I don't know:  is it that purses symbolize something to my unconscious mind?  is it that I love their beauty and soft leather and hence distract myself with the esthetics?  Then I decided that rather than kick myself, I might make it an anniversary of sorts: every february/march I would allow myself a new purse purchase if I wanted it (assuming that I would sell one of my already existing ones, otherwise I would not have any more room for them) as a commemoration...  Perhaps I should rather invest the money into some therapy instead, but this sounds like way more fun.  Once a year I will allow myself a nice big purchase of a designer item that I like (and it does not have to be a purse, perhaps shoes might work, or sunglasses, or any other very durable long term item).  Let's see, shopping or therapy...which one would work better for me?  Shopping as therapy? Next year I am getting a watch.