Words, Words, Words, Words

This morning I was watching Mad About You in reruns on the TV Land channel while I drank my coffee. I liked this show when it was on; it was well done and witty, but I also kind of liked it because it started in 1992, which was the year I got married, so it was like 'my' show.

This morning the episode was when Paul and Jamie decided to start trying for a baby and it made me laugh, because it was the episode that got us started on our path to Charlie.

We'd moved into our house that summer, June of 1995. I was ready to have a baby but my husband, typical man that he is, didn't think he was. God Forbid we mess up the status-quo, or whatever. So I told him that my prescription for the Pill was ending in August and I wasn't renewing it, so if he wants to not have a baby, it's up to him.

Granted I only said this once, relying, probably, on the fact he has the world's worst memory when it comes to things I tell him. So fast forward to whenever this episode aired, probably in November, and we're watching it, and I mention something about how it was slightly similar to our sitution. Of course he's all 'You did what now?' but it was very obvious he rather liked the idea and was glad the decision had been made for him. He was certain I must be pregnant at that point, even, and was very disappointed when it turned out I wasn't.

In fact, rather like Jamie and Paul, we went through a year of trying and failing, and going to doctors and that sort of thing before getting the result we wanted. Although I had to take a fertility drug and Jamie didn't. And it wasn't nearly as funny for us.

My grandparents had this picture in their house that I loved as a child. It was an oil painting, I think, and it was of a young black girl, her back to the artist, leaning against a fence in a field. She was wearing a white, sleeveless shirt and blue pants, her hair in cornrows. It was, well, serene is probably a good word for it. I used to love looking at that painting.

My grandmother left it to this woman who had been her house-cleaner when I was very young, because she had always liked it, which was, of course, a nice thing to do, but sometimes I wish I still had that painting. I was sitting here at the computer thinking, 'Maybe I can Google it,' but I wouldn't even know where to begin. I don't know the artist's name, when it was done, anything. All I have is the memory of it, like a memory of an old friend.

And now I wish I could remember the name of the woman who got the painting. She always seemed to be ancient to me, and I was always shy around her, even though she was nothing but kind to me. I remember going with my grandmother to drive her home, and playing with the several daschhounds she had. She had an unusual name...that's really going to bug me now.