I've been sitting here for over 30 minutes typing paragraphs and then erasing them.
I've typed about all the major life events that have happened in our family in the past few months. I've typed about the first tentative FORWARD crawling Ella did last night, in pursuit of a Phantom of the Opera cassette tape, which materialized out of nowhere. And how this morning I fell asleep ever so breifly on the floor and woke up to find a plant overturned and Ella slapping mud spot next to it. I wrote about a picture of Charlotte that's been on my cell phone for months of her asleep in an oxygen mask, days before she died. She was just exhausted from breathing so fast and her hair looks so dear. And her eye lashes. All snugged up in that blanket, waiting for her ride home. I can't bring myself to erase it, even if it means erasing pictures of my sister's wedding hair I took to show my friends. I wrote about my general mistrust and disgust in the IVF clinic and their lack of organization and apparent idiocy. I wrote about my other sister's IVF cycle, which didn't work out and for some reason plunged me into a self-pitying depression. I wrote about how lucky I was that Charlotte was my first and all my attention and devotion could be poured out onto her and I have no lingering thoughts that I wasn't there for her enough, or I wasn't there for my other kids enough. It was all her. I wrote that February and July are pretty much my least favorite months. August is probably just as bad but at least I can tell myself the State Fair will be here in a few weeks in August. I live for the Fair. I wrote about my brother sitting in the other room listening to various acoustic covers to every popular song released over the past two years that he more or less missed. I wrote that we were assigned our Festival of Trees space, and received our first box of butterfly ornaments. The space is O2, which pleased me. Charlotte's o2 represented, to me, all her limitations in this life, and her tree in space O2 will represent the miracle of her life. Oxygen or not. I wrote about day four of the South Beach Diet. (I don't condone this diet except for emergencies like an upcoming wedding and a size 8 petite bridesmaid dress.)
And yet I feel like I have nothing to say.