Let’s have some fun.
Pinks and purples, with a loan pale orange, inhabit space on my shelf of nail polish. Lucky Lucky Lavender is the premium shade of purple. But I am open minded enough to experiment. However, I stay away from the browns and grays. Essence of Morticia Addams.
All throughout my twenties, while tending to the needs of children and the household, I avoided nail polish. Didn’t seem practical and my nails were not healthy. Lots of splitting and stunted growth. Never mind.
In the last five years I have benefitted from an assist via Biotin — a godsend really. My nails came into their own as I aged. By the time I reached my 50s I was full steam ahead. Essie also takes a place beside the others. Fun names. Do You Lilac It and It Takes A Westlake Village have magical qualities. Both shades provide distinctive therapeutic value. Happy colors. Femininity personified.
I do my own nails. I feel satisfied with the results most of the time. Let’s have some fun.
More than once my life has deviated from a day spent in Disneyland. The happiest place on earth.
Miscarriage. I had one between my two children. My oldest was 2 1/2 when the miscarriage ocurred. I was in my 12th week. It was Christmastime. Fa, la, la, la, la and all that. I had gotten the tree decorated. It was cold outside. Not my favorite weather. I do not embrace winter. Very difficult to get through. And this made it more so. A lost pregnancy, a lost child, made the entire scenario more compromised. Life seems to offer that which is bliss and that which is cruel. This was not bliss.
I think all women who experience miscarriage grieve in a very isolated way. Husbands/fathers do not grieve in the same way. This is a woman’s body. The baby was tucked away in there under the guise that it was safe. It is a woman’s personal loss.
Who knows for certain why these things happen? In the morning I was lying in bed. Very strong cramps indicated the impending outcome. Within a few minutes I passed the fetus. The Christmas carols coming from the radio conspired against me. “Have a holly, jolly Christmas…” seemed especially cruel.
I was less one child. There was nothing joyous about that December. Sometimes it is just hell to be a woman. A mom. And then not a mom.