All the world's a stage... I don't think that's what Shakespeare meant.

The five stages of grief... I've heard of them.

1. Denial

2. Anger

3. Depression

4. Bargaining

5. Acceptance

They seem like a really practical way of dealing with grief.

But I'm not grieving. -Step One. Denial. Damn. Okay, I might be grieving a little bit... more so now that the hormones from the ectopic pregnancy are leaving my body.

And why they're taking their sweet-ass time leaving my body and are consequently dragging this pregnancy and grieving process out longer and longer, I don't know.... which INFURIATES me! -Yeah, step 2. Anger.

Here's what I'm mad about right now:

1. Why couldn't this whole thing be done with three weeks ago when it started?

2. Why are the hormones lingering and making me crazy?

3. Why can't I just move on? The egg was the size of a pine nut. Get over yourself, you little nut! (Addressed to myself, not the poor little zygote that apparently couldn't work a compass and didn't know which direction was down, south, the lower floor, the uterus. -Jeez. How hard could it be?-Said, while yelling at my gut).

Am I depressed? Tricky question since people who are depressed don't know it. -Or deny it (step 1). Who knows.

Bargaining. This is me on the treadmill- "Okay, Liz. Run to get strong. The strongest you've ever been, so no baby will choose to vacate your body again. You'll be so strong that you won't let it." Here's me blogging, "Right. So what I'm going to do is eat as much protein and as many vegetables as I can, so that my body is the ideal vessel that no little fetus would DREAM of leaving!"

Yeah, then I think- Get real, Liz. You've been running your whole adult life and haven't met a veg or glass of water you've turned down. -What's the use? (Hmmm... could be step 3. Depression).

I guess this whole process has been harder than I've been willing to admit. But I'm hoping that once the pregnancy is, indeed, over- that I can breeze through the rest of the steps and be on my merry way.

And don't even think about suggesting that kind of thinking is clearly Step 1, because I might be tempted to act on Step 2 and wring your neck.

You Are What You Eat

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I'm pretty passionate about eating healthfully. And luckily here in Washington we have all kinds of access to affordable, organic food. -I'm thinking of our co-op and the farmer's market (where I took these photos last year).

That said, this last week has seemed to call for two things (okay, three) in order for me to feel better. First, there were an awful lot of sweets and carbs in general. And just about every evening there was a glass or two of wine to dull the pain Aleve just wasn't touching. And the third thing was staying home with my family. We just holed up and didn't leave the house- unless we had to.

Could I live like that forever? No. Did I know it was short term... and that I would get back to normal in a week or so? Yes.

Ding, ding, ding! Time's up.

Bob's in the field for a couple of weeks, and that gives me the perfect space to get back to what I know I should be doing to be my healthiest self. Margot and I launched the "Revival" tonight with chicken Caesar salad... that I grilled and prepared for us. All natural, all organic. -And my toddler loved every bite of it just as much as I did.

I think/know that things happen when they're supposed to and I embrace that. So I don't think anything I did or didn't do caused the miscarriage. But I do want to get my body back to peak health in order to give the next baby... whenever the right time will be... the chance to grow and thrive in a healthy body for the better part of a year.

So it's back to running. -Half marathon scheduled for July in Oregon.

And back to tons of fruits and vegetables. -I love them. No candy on earth can touch a fruit in season.

Finally, it's time for more protein. I've got muscle to build and red blood cells to replace. And grilling isn't too much of a hassle. (But it will be much better when Bob's back. Everything is, actually).

And the wine will stay in the weekends.

When you know better, you eat better. And when you eat better, you feel better.

I'm on my way.

First Rule of Fight Club

"The first rule of Fight Club is- you DON'T talk about Fight Club." Brad Pitt might as well have issued these same instructions to women all over the globe who have had miscarriages.

Here's the thing I've discovered in the last week. Almost everyone I know has joined the club- against her will. The club we won't talk about.

How do I know? Because, new as I am to the club, I said (with lots of tears) the "M" word, and women have hugged me and whispered in my ear. "I know. It happened to me too."

I get it. I do. Who wants to drudge up horrible pain? And certainly you don't want to mention it to a glowing, happily rotund preggo. Nope. No way. No Ma'am. It just isn't done.

Even as I write this, I'm thinking to myself. -Drop it, Liz! You don't want to be the one who can't move on or insists on talking about it. And even as I think this, I remind myself: You know what? My blog. My rules. And it's been less than a week.

And that goes for you too, Brad Pitt. How's this for a rule? I'll talk about "It," the "M Word," "Miscarriages" as little or as much as I want to.

Friends, sisters- and brothers, too!- it's okay! Life happens, and sometimes it doesn't deal you a solid. It doesn't persist in the manner you wish it would. I, for one, am willing to step out of the shadows and let the world see where life knocked me around a little bit.

So if you want to have that conversation, then pull up a chair. I'm not going to cry on your shoulder- or maybe I will, who knows? But I'm willing to listen to your story and to acknowledge every craggy step you've had to climb to get to where you are today.

Let's face it. Sometimes those steps knock us on our ass. -But I've never had one knock me out.

Fight Club, Indeed.

How Full Is Your Glass?

There's been much to obsess about lately: My efforts at perfection (incidentally, there was an EXCELLENT, timely article in last week's New York Times Magazine about that very topic. Too bad I obsessed about it for days and THEN read the article). Then there's this whole union business and how lousy teachers are perceived to be right now.

Not to mention Libya, which I really am trying to stay abreast of those changes, but it's tough! And poor Japan- melting down. Literally.

When I'm worried for the future (and middle schoolers sexting and how one day Margot will be in middle school...) I try to reassure myself that global changes start at home.

I, in no way, think for one second that global changes start with government or a decree or population or law. Think about it!

What if we teach our children to love, and tolerate, and recycle? And here's the great part: we can do it gently, everyday: by DOING! By demonstrating, modeling what it means to be a good citizen, a friend of the earth, and a nurturing family.

I look at innocent little Margot, and I think: There's hope. The world's got a chance!

I've thought this since we first moved to Germany. Bob was deployed a couple of times in those four years, and spent much more time in the field training. I couldn't do anything to control how much time he was away from our little flat, but I knew one thing: When he was home, he would be HOME, and loved, and safe.

And that, my friends, is where I really believe it starts.

So yeah, I'm optimistic that somehow it's going to be okay. -Even great.

The Thought That Plagues Me

Here's a thought that plagues me daily: You're Just Not Good Enough.

Now, hear me out. I'm not looking for a bunch of praise, and I don't suffer from low self-esteem. I've journaled about this dozens of times, about the kind of woman I wish I were.

In this day and age, as a woman, you sort of believe you should do it all, have it all, see it all, feel it all. You should work and be a mom. You should be carefree and detail oriented. You should value your quiet time and make yourself available for social things.

A portrait of the woman I would be, if I just had a little more will power would look like this:

Rise at 6:00 to run. (This would probably mean not writing and editing into the wee hours of the morning).

Do a load of laundry, clean a bathroom, and grade some papers- before Margot wakes up.

NEVER rush to get out the door in the morning. (But we're actually pretty good about this one).

ALWAYS have meals planned for the week, and the energy/wherewithal to go to Safeway with an exhausted toddler...

I could go on and on until the wheels of my day were a spinning flurry of color and activity:

Run More! Read More! Grade More! More Patient! Vacuum More! More Efficient!!!

I don't know if I would feel more fulfilled if I could fill that imaginary role, but I think the chances are good that I would find more things to wish I did better. -Bonsai gardening, maybe?

I'm thinking I'm not the only one who feels this way, because I have friends- who I really believe- DO IT ALL! And they do it with such panache and grace. (I'm only a little miffed at them for not sharing their secrets!)

Here's the truth: sometimes I walk by a pile of Bob's white PT socks that are inexplicably piled on the stairs, waiting to be washed, folded, and put away. I'll look at them, and think I'll get those on the next trip upstairs. And then in the next breath, I think: My friend Robin would NEVER leave those there!

***BUT! What if we stopped comparing ourselves to each other? (Maybe I'm the only one who does it. I'm sure Kim never... Oh, wait. There I go again!) What if I'm just happy with what I'm able to accomplish each day, and give myself a little grace regarding the rest?

It's a lovely thought, but it's just my nature to strive for perfection. So maybe I just need to change my thought pattern from "You're just not good enough" to "You're pretty damn great... but you could probably be better"

That's the compromise I'm willing to consider.

Geoduck Love

No need to hide the kids' eyes. These are large (sometimes up to six pounds), edible clams. They can be found in the sandy mud of the Pacific Northwest. AND they can live, rather comfortably, for up to 150 years. -No wonder! Who would want to eat something that looks like this?

They're pronounced- Gooey Ducks. -Who knows why. There are so many words out here that I botch on a daily basis. AND they're the mascots for The Evergreen State College. -Again, who knows why. Maybe because they're quirky, and so is the Evergreen? (Clayton, if you're reading this, I mean that from a place of love).

In fact, here are the lyrics to the Evergreen State College's fight song:

The Geoduck Fight Song

words and music by Malcolm Stilson, 1971

Go, Geoducks go,
Through the mud and the sand,
let's go.
Siphon high, squirt it out,
swivel all about,
let it all hang out.

Go, Geoducks go,
Stretch your necks when the tide
is low
Siphon high, squirt it out,
swivel all about,
let it all hang out.

Okay, so yeah- if you look at the picture, and then read the words to the song, it does all strike a rather naughty note. And it's pretty hilarious.

All that to say: I ran the Geoduck Gallop Half Marathon with my friend, Evan today. We ran it in 2:00:09. (Two hours and nine seconds). My personal goal this spring is to run a half marathon in less than two hours.

Fortunately, I'll have lots of chances to try for that goal. -And it turns out the Evergreen campus is so beautiful that I'm sure Margot and I will begin training there on a weekly basis.

And who knows? Maybe if I added geoducks to my training menu, I'd get just a little faster!

Funky Cold Medina?!

So I've been thinking... I don't know how much longer I have in Washington. But what I DO know, is that I feel like I identify with this segment of the American population more than I have anywhere else I've ever lived. (To the average observer, I probably appear to fit in somewhere in say, Lansing, Michigan. But au contraire!)

While I'm a planner and am nailed down, I think I'm open minded and accepting. I want to try new things and branch out on new adventures, to push myself in new ways. And my more ummm... Right Wing friends just roll their eyes and say, "Oh, that's just Liz being Liz." And I LOVE that they (you?) accept me for that. So how do I make the outside match this inside attitude?

I've got to take Washington with me wherever I move next. So when I move to Kansas or Georgia or Texas (oh, dear!), I hope they think this about Liz Cornelius: "Hmmm... she dances to the beat of her own drum. And that's refreshing."

But I suppose if I really let loose, then I wouldn't care what people think at all. Baby steps.

Maybe I should start by burning my Polos? I'll get there.