We are all the "Alligator Parents"

Last night on the way to my parents' house for dinner, I zoned out and ran a red light. I drive past this intersection at least twice a day every single day of my life. I knew there was a light there. But I zoned out and ran the light and almost hit a woman in a Toyota Camry. It was a mistake that could have been deadly.

I didn't hit anyone thankfully, but I almost did. And almost, when dealing with harming another human being in any way, is still too close for comfort. I spent the rest of the night feeling horrible. I can't imagine how scared the woman in the Camry must have been. I am so glad she was paying attention and that she swerved out of the way, even though she shouldn't have been in that position in the first place. What if a child were in that car? She was no doubt someone's daughter, friend, or mother. I pictured the worst case scenarios all night long.

I pictured the comments that would come from readers on the article that the local news would inevitably publish. I bet she was texting (I wasn't) or I bet she fell asleep at the wheel (I didn't.) We all want there to be reasons but accidents happen.

I wish I could apologize to her.

It got me thinking about mistakes, and how these things unify us as humans. We all make them. Most of them don't make the news. Most of them don't cause a loss of life. Most of the time, we are the only ones who know about them at all.

But then there's the mom of the boy who fell in the Gorilla enclosure. Or the parents of the child who was eaten by an alligator earlier this week. I almost joined their ranks of infamous-mistake-makers that get hateful comments on the internet-- blaming them and shaming them in their moments of horror and grief. It is not okay.

Let's be a little kinder to each other. People make mistakes and not all mistakes require judgment. It helps us make sense of tragedy, but sometimes tragedy just doesn't make sense. We like to think we're exempt from the big ones, the ones that ruin lives. But we aren't.

So how 'bout we spend less time being critics on these high-profile news stories and just admit that we don't have all the answers and that we are all capable of being at the center of the criticism.

And then let's thank whoever-the-hell you think lives in the sky that no one writes news stories about our mistakes.

That would suck pretty hard.

An open letter to my future child, part 2.

I am really going to screw up. A lot. Like, a lot a lot.

I will occasionally cuss when I step on a Lego with my bare foot, or when you spill a drink on one of my Apple products, or when you rip the pages in that book that I just got you yesterday. I might ignore you when you're asking a million questions in the car and all I want to do is get home and pour a glass of wine when you go to bed, or maybe even before that. The Tooth Fairy might forget to put money under your pillow. I will occasionally have to throw away pieces of your preschool "art" when you aren't looking so it doesn't hurt your feelings. I will forget to pack snacks for your soccer team. These things will happen, and I won't be the perfect parent, because the perfect parent doesn't exist.

This is why I have to work on being the best version of me that I can right now, before I meet you.

Because it's not your job to fix me. 

I need to deal with the grief of losing the babies that came before you. I need to learn to be nice to people even when I'm sleepy and out of coffee creamer. I am trying to think before I speak, even when I'm angry. I'm learning to consider other points of view before forming opinions. I am establishing a career so I can afford all the things you will need as you grow. I am practicing being alone and happy on my own, because if I can't do that, I'll be a terrible partner later in life. I'm trying to budget my money, to pay off debts, to work extra while I still have the energy. I'm not your mother yet, but I'm making room for you in my life so that when I meet you, I'll be ready.

An open letter to my future child

I don't know your name yet. I don't know if you'll grow inside my body, or in someone else's. Maybe you're already out in the world somewhere, breathing the same air I am. Maybe the same moonlight that weaves its fingers between the slats in my blinds also lights your windowsill each night.

I don't know what you'll look like. I don't know if you'll be fascinated with outer space or if you will love art like me, or both. It's possible you'll be one of those kids who never. stops. singing. Maybe you'll be totally into sports and I'll finally have to learn to love baseball in order to connect with you. Or maybe you'll be a bookworm and you'll beat me in Scrabble thanks to your ever-growing vocabulary. Maybe I'll read you a chapter of A Wrinkle In Time each night like my mother read to me. You'll really like my mom-- she's funny and so smart.

Maybe you'll hum when you chew your food like your uncle did when he was a toddler. I will hope you like vegetables, and try to feed you foods that will help you grow strong. Maybe you'll hate bath time, but I hope you don't, because I have a very sensitive nose.

I'll love you even when you're sick and whiny. I'll love you even when you say you hate me. I'll love you when you smell and when you say embarrassing things in public. I'll love you when we are at the kitchen table, struggling so much with your math homework that we are both in tears. I'll love you even when you're three and also when you're thirteen and slam your door all the time.

I don't know who your father will be. It might be just us, and that's okay. I don't know your story yet, but I want to-- I want to know and love everything about you, but not yet.

I'm not sure when I'll meet you, or who I'll be then. I can promise I'll be stronger than I am right now. I know the road to you, no matter who or where you are, will be long and hard, and I'll cry some on the way. But you're worth the wait because I'm worth the wait.

I want to be the best mom I can be for you, and that means I need to do some hard work first. But don't worry, I think about you every day and I know that the second I see your face and you lay your head on my shoulder or put your hand in my hand, I'll be right where I belong. Every single tear I've cried along the way will be worth it.

Every single tear I cried this week will have been worth it.

An open letter to the friends that I have made in the last year or so:

I'm glad you didn't know me then.

I'm relieved that you don't remember that glazed-over look in my eyes when I was high on Percocet after my D&E and totally speechless, except for a few angry tweets. You never heard the disappointment in my voice and the hopelessness that came with each brand new day filled to the brim with surviving instead of thriving. I'm glad you never heard my sobs as I folded knitted blankets and tucked away tiny shoes into memory boxes that are still hidden somewhere in the back of my guest room closet. Those were dark days.

I eventually started venturing back out into the world out of obligation. Life went on. And then I met you, and with you came a sense of relief. You knew me as something other than the girl that had three miscarriages. I got to be another person entirely.

But I'm glad you know me now. I'm glad you are witnessing my laughter and my corny jokes and my more-than-occasional optimism. The other day when you referred to me as "perky" I couldn't believe you were talking about me of all people. I'm thrilled to share my pipe dreams with you. I love going out for a beer with you. I'm excited to skate next to you twice a week.

You should know that the babies I lost are a huge part of that, though. And you should know that I am who I am because of them. I don't talk about it often, but I will if you ask me. There is a stigma, a deafening silence surrounding miscarriage. I felt so alone, so embarrassed, when my doctor couldn't find my babies' heartbeats with his doppler. When I started talking about it, friends and strangers alike reached out to me and told me their stories of loss-- of hope. I realized then that there are so, so many of you.

Today is the day to talk openly about your losses, if you're ready.

Never again should a woman feel alone if she ever has to hear that deafening silence where a heartbeat should have been.