baby, interrupted

nurse this.

2012-01-04T12:58:00.000-08:00

This post is a shout-out to my sister-in-law (who, to be honest, does not read this blog, but I am putting it out there in a kind of 'good karma' way, as if it could somehow reach her by Osmosis of the Internets.) (Quite a mess of the English language, there).

I have four sisters-in-law. One is married to my younger brother, and she is pretty much awesome. We disagree on a few things but nothing of huge consequence. One is married to my youngest brother, and she is a little more complicated, fairly high maintenance and tends toward arrogance, but she is smart as a whip and I feel like our relationship is getting better.

One is my husband's sister. She is 13 years older than I am, but we have a lot in common. We have a great time together and I miss living closer to her. Her kids are all in or graduated from college and I really appreciate her parenting perspective.

And the last one is married to my husband's brother. I've mentioned her before: she and her husband are SUPER conservative Christians who can be pretty judgmental, so we tend to avoid topics like politics, religion, meaning of life, books, movies, culture...the weather is pretty safe. We talk about the weather a lot. And also how we like chocolate.

She and her husband had a baby about two weeks ago. They tried for awhile - about a year - and when we visited them last spring, she and I sort of bonded over the difficulties of getting pregnant. She had recently suffered a miscarriage.

So it was exciting when she got pregnant (and, I mean, it must have been practically the week we were there). Baby due on January 1. These two people have - and there's no way to say this without sounding like a total asshat about it, but it's the truth - absolutely NO, zero, nada, zilch experience with babies or children, so we have had a few giggles about the shift in life they were about to undergo. Like the day my brother-in-law said that he didn't know why they needed to get a changing table since, and I quote, "the baby only needs to be changed once a day and [my wife] will do that."

**insert chirping crickets here**

Yeah. So, the baby arrived a few weeks early and they've been doing okay, pretty normal, and we have managed to keep our snickering to a minimum, like when we called them after about a week and my brother-in-law said, in a voice that suggested great umbrage because certainly no parent has had to do this in the history of ever, "we've been sleeping in shifts." Yes. Welcome to parenthood, dude.

But last night, my sister-in-law called. For the first time. In seven years. In the whole time I have known her. Because she is having a lot of trouble breastfeeding and I think she just needed to talk about it, and my heart broke for her.

She is basically alone, no family in the area, and although I am not my brother-in-law's biggest fan, I know that even his best support can only go so far on this one. All of a sudden I was flashing back to those early days of breastfeeding which were, to put it kindly, the HARDEST MOTHERF*%#ING DAYS OF MY LIFE, so much so that I prefer not to think about them. I told her she was doing a great job, and she should be so proud of herself for working so hard at it, and she should not feel at all guilty for using formula, it's just fine, and breastfeeding is SO SO SO SO HARD at first, and it really does get better, and so many women struggle with it but nobody really tells you the truth about this, probably because they are worried about scaring the life out of you, and also because it's really hard to describe it without bursting into tears.

And it got me thinking about all those women out there who are breastfeeding right now and struggling with it, and all those women who feel guilty about giving their child formula (I did, for the longest time, until a breastfeeding guru I went to said to me, "the most important thing is that the baby eats. That's it. If you nurse her, great. If you feed her formula, great. She just needs to eat." She was a word of sheer grace to me).

Here's what I want to say to my sister-in-law, and anybody else:

You are amazing for working so hard at this. You should be hugely proud of yourself. You are not alone. It gets better. And formula, at any level, can be your friend. Do not feel guilty. Do the best you can and do not beat yourself up. YOU ARE SHEER AWESOME. Do not doubt this.

To my sister-in-law: I really mean it. No snickering. No judgment. You rock. It will all be okay.

second time around

2011-12-20T11:32:00.000-08:00

It's odd to be doing everything now for the second time, with her. It's her second Christmas. (What?) I realized this when we went to take the Santa photo. Last year's was an adorable shot of her sleeping on Santa's chest (I keep mistyping, "Satan," which is a whole other image and probably less adorable) . This year, she had a look of Extreme Concern, much as if she anticipating being left with this bizarrely-dressed bearded guy and was none too excited about it. No crying, though.

A friend of mine had a baby just after my girl's first birthday. She, too, did IVF after a long time of trying and several losses. All during her pregnancy, she referred to our girl as her "crystal ball baby," saying that she loved looking at her photos and thinking about what would be her life in one year. Today, she posted their girl's first Christmas photo, which looked almost identical to the one we had from last year, and it made me weepy-nostalgic about How It Used to Be. Now her girl is our "remember that?" baby.

It's this phase of early-toddlerhood, when the infancy days seem far away, that makes you want to have another baby. (Or, makes me want another one.) (In theory.) So far no luck in the "trying naturally" department, which is not unexpected. So 2012 may bring a frozen cycle with our one totsicle; we'll see.

All yesterday she was in this mommy-only-clingy-whiny stage, which is the sort of thing that not only makes you NOT want to have another baby, it also makes you want to hand off the one you have. She pinches me while she nurses, and although this makes me sound like a wimp: it hurts. Especially when her fingernails are a bit on the long side. I am so resistant to giving up nursing, for a number of reasons, but chief among them is my deep fear that I will never get to do this again, and once I let go of breastfeeding, it's over. Forever. (Given how hard breastfeeding was at the beginning, I can hardly believe I feel that way.) But I'll be on an international trip for a week in May, and I've decided we will wean before then. I hate for her to adjust to a week without Mom at the same time as a week without Mama Milks.

She still insists on waking up between 5:30 and 5:45am. Gaaaaaaaaah. This is my least favorite time of day. Naps are getting better, but the early wake-ups continue. My husband thinks I should stop the morning nursing. Any thoughts on whether that might help her sleep later? At this point I'd probably go for it. Just nursing before bedtime would be okay with me.

And molars? Suck donkey balls. I need to work on my empathy skills. Some days I just want to tell her to "get over it." But this is not going to work. And it's mean. That's not good.

She is completely obsessed with a mole I have on the left side of my neck. She fondles it while sucking her thumb, while nursing, anytime she wants comfort; she'll push my head to the side and find it (and pinch it, aaaaaaargh) and sigh with relief. The other day I asked her what it was, and she said, "mo."

Awesome first word, kid.

nap? nap? wherefore art thou, nap?

2011-12-06T10:44:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I went to the grocery store. While bagging my groceries, the very sweet teenaged girl doing that task asked me, "how's your day going so far?"

Here is what I said: "Just fine, thanks."

Here is what I said in my head: "Well, my child - who is adorable, thanks for mentioning that - is also cranky right now because I dragged her here mostly so we could get in the car, because for some reason, she has decided that she is not going to nap today AT ALL even though we spent damn near two hours trying to get her down, so we are here because I have an insane need to get one freaking thing done with my one day off and after this we are going to drive in the car until she falls asleep and I don't care if we end up in Colorado, THIS KID IS GOING TO TAKE A NAP for me just once, since she seems to take two-hour naps for everyone else in her life but has no interest whatsoever in taking one, just one, blessed nap for her own mother."

Perhaps you can see why I did not say that out loud.

Naps. Why is it that she takes them for everyone else except me? Really? Does anyone have any tips on this? Because I am about to lose my mind. She goes to daycare on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays, where she regularly takes a 90-120 minute nap. Every time. At home, she took a 90-minute nap on Sunday when her dad put her down. Once or twice a month, she goes to my parents' house on Fridays, where she almost always takes at least a 60-90 minute nap.

For me? 40 minutes. Maybe 45. Once I got 90 minutes out of her but that was apparently a complete fluke.

She's getting some molars, I'm pretty sure. She still sleeps well at night, for which I am grateful (but if one more person says to me, "well, at least she sleeps at night, my kid didn't sleep through the night until she was 24 so see how my life is so much worse than yours?" I am going to kick some as$).

But why won't she nap for me? What is this about? Anyone?

one small step...

2011-11-22T10:48:00.001-08:00

I doubt that Neil Armstrong's moon walk would have created more excitement in our house than the few, faltering steps we witnessed on Sunday night. I mean, I realize his had more cultural significance and historical value, but whatever. She walks! Just a few steps, and there's a lot of sudden-butt-falling as a result, but it's true!

I am partly excited and partly terrified. As a friend of mine posted on Fac.ebook about the news, "life as a series of near misses begins."

I think about that, sometimes: near misses. How the world, which often seems enormous and inevitable and impossible to change, can shift entirely in just a moment, a breath. I look at my daughter and, every once in awhile, without bidding or my permission, the photo of two tiny embryos floats into my head. One of them is her. I think about that microscopic bit of life, which is now tottering around on two unsteady feet - which will soon be running, giving herself the occasional black eye, walking into kindergarten, asking for the car keys.

I might be overreacting. I mean, she took a few steps toward my husband and the first thing I thought of was, "now someday she will walk away from me," which is true, but going off to college is still a ways off.

For now, we're heading into a gratitude week with one more thing added to the list.

For this crazy, exhausting, sometimes tedious, sleep-deprived, early-waking, full life: thank you.

tiny first world problems

2011-11-08T12:31:00.000-08:00

So, yesterday I went to Tar.get. [As an aside, let me say that I truly adore Tar.get. I mean, I try to resist rampant consumer materialism, but Ta.rget has such cute stuff and my only big problem is that I go there to buy one thing, spend $100, and then forget the one thing I came for. Like yesterday: q-tips. But I did get an awesome clearance-priced t-shirt for the baby girl. $3.00! Come on!]

But I digress. I went to Tar.get and parked my car. Now, let me say that I have a pretty ordinary-sized car - rhymes with Hubaru - one that should be amply provided for by a basic parking spot stall. And the two cars next to me - also non-Hummer sized - were parked within their lines, as was I. And yet, I could barely squeeze myself between the two cars to retrieve the child from her back-facing carseat and get her out without a.) ramming her head onto the top of the car or b.) scraping the crap out of the car door next to me.

HEY, TA.RGET PEOPLE: until we all start driving Smartcars, YOU NEED BIGGER PARKING STALLS.

I was all hot and bothered about this and used a lot of language that, fortunately, my child cannot (yet) emulate (I'm working on that) when, all of a sudden, this fantastic post from the brilliant women at Rants from Mommyland popped into my head. If you don't have time to click over there (trust me, come back to it later when you have time, it's worth it), I'll summarize: while we all need to rant from time to time, about very significant and life-altering things like the inadequacy of parking stall sizes at Targ.et, we also need to realize that those problems may be, occasionally, overstated. We need a little perspective. Or, a lot of perspective.

Such as:"This m$%^erf&*#ing stall is too bloody damn small; what is wrong with these idiots? What am I supposed to do, ride a freaking bicycle over here and strap my purchases to my head?"could be assisted by an additional internal monologue, like:"Boy, I sure am fortunate to have a car and enough money to put gas in it and go to Target in the middle of a Monday afternoon on my day off (because I am fortunate to have a job) (and a job that I like) to buy q-tips and six things from the clearance bin."

In other words: I spend a lot of my ranting time on tiny first world problems.So I am working on that.It is, however, helpful to get them out there. Just acknowledging them gives me a little perspective for the next time a HUGE GIGANTIC PROBLEM comes marching my way, like, say, when the drive-thru line at Star.bucks is too long.

In no particular order, then, here are my current tiny first world problems:

1. Seriously. Those stupid parking stalls. TOO DAMN SMALL.
2. My child has everything she needs so I can't figure out what to get her for Christmas. But getting her nothing seems kind of heartless.
3. I kid you not: every single road I could possibly use to get absolutely anywhere from my house is currently under construction and has been for the past six months. GAAAAAAAAAH.
4. My kid takes 2-3 hour naps at daycare every time she is there. Every. Time. At home? 45 minutes, tops.
5. I can't figure out where to put the stroller in the garage. Every conceivable spot somehow makes it impossible to get the child out of her carseat. I don't know how this is possible, but it is.
6. I still love breastfeeding, but I am really, really, really, really tired of pumping. Really.
7. After three months of waking up between the grand old hours of 4:30 and 5:00am, we had finally gotten our child to sleep until 6:00 (sometimes 6:30! WOO HOO!) and then daylight savings time hit and we're back to 4:f@#cking30. DAMN IT.
8. Some kids took the carved pumpkin off my porch on Halloween night and smashed it in the street and, over a week later, I am still resentful about it. I want to hunt them down and explain to them that I carved that pumpkin by myself during a day when my child took hardly any nap at all and that is a real feat, you bloody hooligans, and then threaten them with the future someday they are home by themselves with a baby and they look back at their wasted childhood of pumpkin mischief and weep about what they have done. But I do not think they will find this all that scary.
9. The email on my phone keeps shutting itself off randomly and then I have to start over again.
10. The other day I had to rush home to pump because I had forgotten it at home, and I only had 10 minutes to get it done because the house cleaner was coming over and a.) I didn't want her to catch me with my boobs attached to the milking machine, plus b.) I had to pick up the toys and the massive pile of clothes at the bottom of our bed so that she doesn't think we are complete slobs.

See? Tiny problems. Tiny, tiny. Ridiculous, mostly. And yet I spend a lot of time being very het up about stuff just like this.

Today's goal: perspective.

We'll see how that goes.

a birthday story

2011-11-03T14:43:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, there was a mommy and daddy. They knew they were a mommy and daddy, but they had no baby. That made them sad.

"Do you have our baby?" they asked the sun. "No," said the sun, but it shone on them and warmed their skin and made them smile.

They asked the rain, "do you have our baby?" "No," said the rain, but it watered the ground and made the green shoots poke out from the earth in the spring, and that gave them hope.

"Do you have our baby?" they asked the wind. "No," said the wind, but it rushed and blew and made the fall leaves dance, and that made them laugh.

"Where is our baby?" they asked the mountains. "We don't know," said the mountains, but they were great and tall and they made the mommy and daddy remember that the world is wide, and big, and full of beauty, even when they were sad.

"Do you have a baby for us?" they asked of the sea. "No," said the sea, as it rushed in and out, onto the sands and back again. The mommy and daddy walked on the sand and watched their feet make prints, and watched as the sea swallowed up their prints again. The sea reminded them that all things change, and end, even very good things, and even very bad things.

"Would you give us a baby?" they asked God. And there was a long silence.

A very long silence.

It seemed to last forever. But, finally...

"That is a good idea," said God, "but we are going to need a lot of help with it."

So God sent them doctors, and nurses, and friends, and family, and people they didn't even know who listened to the stories they told in voices and written words. God was right: it took a lot of people.

But, one day, the mommy woke up.

"The baby is coming," she said.

And then there were more people, all together, waiting for the baby to arrive.

The sun shone down, through the windows of the room where they were waiting.

The rain sent drops of water to tickle the windows of the room where they were waiting.

The fall leaves danced in front of the windows of the room where they were waiting.

The mountains hid in the clouds, not far from the room where they were waiting.

Far away, the waves rushed onto the sands and back again, far from the room where they were waiting.

All the people in the room held hands and helped and waited.

And God waited too.

And then...

"Hello," said the mommy and daddy to their baby.

A belated happy birthday to our baby, who gave us the best names we have ever had.

where did that month go?

2011-11-02T09:48:00.000-07:00

So I was all proud of myself for keeping my blog up-to-date and then, as I was reading other people's blogs last night, I realized that some of my favorites haven't written for awhile, and I thought, "what's wrong? Are they okay? What's going on that they can't update their blogs? I mean, I need stuff to read! COME ON, PEOPLE!" - and then looked at the date of my own last post.

Hello, black kettle. Meet pot.

It's been a busy month, and I have posts bubbling up that I hope to get to in the next few weeks, but the big event in our house was The First Birthday last Sunday. How does it happen that, one day you have a squeaky infant who's up every two hours of the night, and poof! - you're complaining about how she wakes up at 5:00am but you neglect to notice that she sleeps through the rest of the night? (5:00am does suck, though.) You know what makes that happen? Evolution. The ability to block out the pain of childbirth and the happy-yet-exhausted daze of those first months is what makes the human race keep going.

Anyway. All is well over here, and I'll be back soon.

it's a sign

2011-10-04T12:19:00.000-07:00

More.

Milk.

(and, yesterday) Music.

My daughter has a three-word, signed, vocabulary and it feels like the beginning of everything all over again, in the most wonderful way.

So many of the frustrations of parenting in these first 12 months come from not being able to communicate with each other. I mean, that's where a lot of my frustration came from, and I can only assume it's even worse for the baby, because at least I can communicate with other people, whereas she's stuck with crying as her primary mode of explanation. Hungry? Cry. Tired? Cry. Wet? Poopy? Cry. Weary of life's existential burden? Cry.

For the past few months, she's been able to get a few things across more clearly. "Dis?" she asks, pointing at something, or, "dat?" Ask if she needs a diaper change, or lunch, or to get out of the carseat, and she will often respond with, "da," as if we are raising a tiny Russian, but she's not very consistent about it. One day, you'll ask at lunchtime if she wants lunch, and she will look straight at you and say, "da." Yes. Yes, you fool, it's lunch and I'm hungry. The next day, you'll ask the same question at the same time and she will respond with, "seh;lfskdaj;lkhjgl" which is probably a very thoughtful and considered response to my question, but not one I can translate.

Meanwhile, we are all trying to understand each other in a big, long guessing game (which, one presumes, is preparing us for parenting a teenager). "What's wrong?" my husband will ask when she wakes up crying at 2:00am, as if I have some kind of Baby Wailing 101 textbook next to my side of the bed. "What does she need?" I don't know. Honestly, dude, I never really know, I just try things until one of them works.

And then, last week, she started signing, "milk." "Do you want mama milks?" I asked her, and she made the little squeezing sign with her hand, so fleetingly that I almost missed it the first time. Until dinner, when I asked her if she wanted more sweet potatoes (even though I know the answer to that is always, "Hellz, yes") and she made the "more" sign, touching her fingers together in front of her chest. My heart leapt - she can tell me something. And I can understand it.

I think about the lifetime of conversations ahead of us, all the things she will say to me.
I am afraid of the dark.
I want more cake!
I AM NOT TIRED!
Somebody pushed me on the playground.
Why do I have to go to church?
I love you.
You don't understand me.
Somebody broke my heart.
Can I borrow the car?
I am in love.
I got a new job.
It will all be okay, mom.

And it starts with those three little signs: milk. more. music.

Marvelous.

blog, interrupted

2011-09-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

So, this is what pneumonia (now that I've had that, after having shingles last summer, I'm ready for the nursing home), followed by sick husband (to be honest, I though he was doing his whole hypochondriac-overreacting thing, but then it turns out that he developed a staph infection so I felt pretty bad about my crankiness with him because, you know, it's all about me), compounded by annual-insane-fall schedule looks like: no blogging. Bummer. For me, anyway.

Because there are a lot of fun things happening in our house which are unrelated to germs and their resulting side effects. Baby Girl is turning 11 months on Friday (sidebar: WHAT?) and she is becoming, well, not so much Baby anymore - this morning I watched her pull herself up to standing, holding onto her toy box so that she could peer into it and choose toys for herself, and I thought, "who is this little girl living in my house and what did she do with my mewling infant?" She changes so fast it makes my head spin.

While she doesn't quite creep around couches, ottomans, and other stable objects, she looooves standing and showing off her increasingly improving balance. "Improving," however, still implies a lot of falls on the bum. Mostly this is okay, and I think the cloth diaper thing gives her a bit of extra cush.
She also loooves pointing at random objects and saying, "dis?" or, "dat?" You tell her the name of it - "light," or, "fan," (90% of the time the answer is one of those two) - and she looks at you with utter delight, as if she has just discovered a new crater on the surface of the moon or tasted chocolate for the first time. It also works in reverse: ask her where the 'light' or 'fan' are, and she'll point right at them. Most of the time.
She says "dada" on a regular basis. "Mama," not so much. Or, you know, never. But when you point at me and ask, "who is that?" she responds with enthusiastic lip-smacking, so at least she knows that I taste good. It's a start.
Nothing is funnier than a baby intensely focused on pooping. I never laugh at her (out loud) because that doesn't seem very nice, but inwardly I am giggling every time.
Did you know that there is a baby living in the mirrors of our house who looks just like the baby who lives in the house? I KNOW. It is freaky amazing.
The kind of soul-love I have for things like my child and husband and a really good piece of chocolate, she has for sweet potatoes, blueberries, mum.mum crackers, and, well, just about anything edible. This kid is an eater. And exceptionally gifted at finding very, very, tiny pieces of lint on the floor which she delicately picks up and consumes. Although, these days, after unending repetitions of "no, thank you," she looks at the piece of lint, turns it over carefully, and then reaches out to hand it to us, like, "here, take it, I know you're just going to steal it anyway."
Please, all that is holy in heaven above, may she learn to sleep past 5:00am. Soon.

I sent out invitations for her first birthday party and, the whole time, kept thinking, "one? How is that happening?" I am every parental cliche coming to life, people. Part of me misses the tiny baby-ness, the curled-up-sleeping infant who laid happily on the playmat and slept in our room, but on the other hand, it's so much fun to watch her figure out the world that I'm always eager to see what she does next. So that's good.

well, rats.

2011-09-10T18:24:00.000-07:00

Turns out, I do have pneumonia.

After a sobbing session yesterday in which I had convinced myself that I had given a possibly-deadly disease to my child (who shows no symptoms whatsoever after having been around me for five days of illness), I have resigned myself to the fact that, sometimes I will make her sick. And sometimes she will make me sick. And sometimes one of us will get sick and the other family members won't, and - apart from the stuff we already do, like washing our hands and not licking each other's faces (much) - there's not much we can do to control this.

Also, it could be worse. One of my best friends lost her home in the wildfires in Austin. She and her dog got out, but other than that, she lost nearly everything else. Pneumonia is no fun, but neither is replacing everything you own and finding someplace else to live while still trying to work and live your life.

It is what it is, as they say.

(But please, don't let my baby get pneumonia. Amen.)

what's worse than a sick baby? sick mommy.

2011-09-08T19:37:00.000-07:00

For the second time since Baby Girl was born, I am down for the count with an ugly bug. Granted, the first one was worse - a stomach flu, which both my husband and I got at the same time, causing us to call my mom, who mercifully came to the rescue so we could throw up all night without worrying about the 6-month old upstairs.

But this one is hanging on a lot longer. Not a stomach bug, this time, but some kind of nasty virus that gave me a fever and aches and chills and a terrible, awful, no good, very bad cough which hurts like the devil. I feel like somebody punched me in the ribs all night long. Uggggggh.

Some lessons I have learned over the past few sick days:

I have a lot less patience when I am sick. So that, when my husband came home after picking up Baby Girl from daycare (THANK HEAVENS for daycare) yesterday and asked, "What am I supposed to do for dinner?" I jumped down his throat like he had suggested I cook a 5-course meal. I mean, he had a slightly irritated tone in there. But my response may have been, perhaps, a little overstated. Maybe.
The worst part about being sick is that you can't kiss your adorable baby.
Oh - and that you can't enjoy two nights in a row of her sleeping through the night because you are up every 20 minutes coughing.
Also, when you go to the doctor because you are paranoid that you have pneumonia (I don't), and everyone who comes in the room to check on you is wearing one of those surgical masks, it's a little disconcerting.
The pharmacist is never slower than when you are huddled in the corner, waiting for your cough syrup, wishing you could crawl under a bus.
I think the baby gets a very minor version of these bugs and then, in the transition between her and us, they morph into Nearly Deadly Bedridden viruses. Don't get me wrong - I'm very glad she's had the minor kinds. But maybe they could stay that way next time. (Or, you know, avoid us altogether? Yeah. Probably not.)
The fierceness of this cough has demonstrated to me that not all is as well as I thought down there in Ladyparts Land. I will need to do more Kegels. Because it's no fun when you cough and then...yeah. You get it.
But the good thing about having a nasty cough when you are no longer pregnant is that you can have a hot toddy.

And on that last note, I think I'll go make myself said hot toddy and crawl off to bed.

dear tina fey,

2011-09-01T12:12:00.000-07:00

I just want to say that your book, Bossypants, is my new very-favorite-book-in-the-history-of-ever and I have a tiny bit of a girl crush on you. I am so happy to read about someone who was an unrepentant nerd and yet who does not romanticize said nerd history, because being a nerd in high school pretty much sucks even if you realize later that it was good for your character.

Also, your "Prayer for My Daugher" chapter is brilliance; I won't quote it here because probably everybody has seen it on Face.book, but if anyone out there has not seen it, trust me - that chapter alone is reason to buy the book.

The only comparably funny thing I have read lately is this post from Mommyland which actually made me snort coffee out my nose, and after last night's scream-fest from 1:00-2:00am, I'm in favor of any laughter I can find. So, thanks, Ms. Fey. You rock.

Sincerely,
babyinterrupted.

PS The baby was screaming, by the way. Not me. Although I was close.

why i love pumping. yes, i said that.

2011-08-23T15:02:00.000-07:00

It's like an unwritten rule among nursing moms that everybody hates the breastpump. EVERY. BODY. "The pump" is said in a hushed voice sort of like you're talking about Voldemort, or Hitler, or a dead mouse you found in your car after six weeks.

I want to go on record as saying:

I love pumping.

It's the 'love that dare not speak its name' in the lactation world, I believe. But, as I enter the homestretch of nursing (BabyGirl is nearly 10 months and I've always aimed to nurse for a year, so we'll see what happens after that), I'd like to speak that forbidden love into reality. Yes, Me.dela Pu.mpIn.Styl.e, I love you. Shall we count the ways?

The pump has never bitten me. Not even once.
Pumping allows me to shut my office door*, ignore the phone and emails, and take 15 minutes for myself at least once a day. Sometimes even twice. There is nothing wrong with this.
It has never hurt to pump, unlike those first six weeks of nursing which hurt like motherf#ckinghell every single time she needed to eat, which felt like every 35 minutes.
Because of the pump, I am able to continue breastfeeding my kid while I work. This is cool.
The pump does not pinch a tiny fold of skin and then twist it while nursing. It has never done this and I am pretty confident it never will.
Twice I have used the battery-powered option to pump while driving (i.e. sitting) in traffic. I find this ridiculously enjoyable.
After four years of infertility, I still find it amazing that my body is capable of doing anything on its own in regard to reproduction, and those tiny bottles of milk from my very own body are proof that I can, in fact, breastfeed a baby. It makes me feel good. Take that, endometriosis.
The pump does not wake up hungry at 5:00am.
The pump is completely happy to work around my schedule. (My boobs, not so much. They have a schedule all their own.)
Three words: pump and dump. Excellent for those earlier days when mommy really, really needed a glass of wine. Or possibly four.

I mean, it's not that pumping is my favorite thing in the universe, and it's certainly nowhere near as enjoyable as nursing BabyGirl (apart from the biting) (and the pinching) (which, by the way, WHAT can I do about that?) - but it hasn't been that bad. Here's to you, old friend.

*I know that having my own office is a huge part of why pumping is not a big deal to me. Trying to do that multiple times daily in a bathroom or some random spot in your workplace would be a pain in the ass. I get that. Also, I know it does hurt to pump for some people. I'm lucky in that regard. Therein ends my disclaimers.

catching up

2011-08-17T10:24:00.000-07:00

Well, hello there. It's been awhile.

I've been on vacation, which was great, apart from the fact that it coincided with my child's decision to stop sleeping through the night, because that is boring, and why be boring when you could get up five times and play with your parents at 1:00am? Lovely. I believe the 'nine-month sleep regression' perfectly coincided with 'two weeks out of town sleeping in the pack-and-play,' which also matched up with 'staying in other people's homes/hotels/cabins wherein we are trying not to wake up everyone else at 3:30 in the morning,' which meant that I nursed her to sleep and then she decided that was too fun to give up.

We are working on that one. It's getting better. Kind of.

In other exciting baby news, we have a crawler. Who immediately went for the lamp cord, two outlets (already outfitted with outlet plugs, fortunately), sixty-five small pieces of lint/dust/grass/othercrap on the carpet, and who would much, much rather rip up magazines that play with the family room full of baby toys immediately available to her. This seems just about right to me, and also a lot of work.

And I let her fall off the bed. BY ACCIDENT, PEOPLE, nobody panic. But wait, it gets better: this happened at my in-laws house. After, by the way, we had been video-chatting with them the week before and she choked on a piece of carrot just as I was bragging that she was doing such a great job of gumming the (very, very, very cooked) (except for that piece, apparently) baby carrots that week. So my slightly overprotective mother-in-law is watching as we pound her on the back and (quickly, thank heavens) the carrot piece comes flying out, and then less than a week later I'm changing her in their guest room and I turned around for TWO FREAKING SECONDS and she rolled off the bed.

THUMP.

Silence.

SCREAM.

Instant appearance of mother-in-law at bedroom door: "Is everything okay?"

Shit.

Mother of the Year, right here.

Also, I got my period a few weeks ago, for the first time in eighteen months. Which means that we are officially Trying again, although for now, that simply translates to "not doing anything to stop getting pregnant," and our chances of that working are slim to none. If I were a normal fertile person, I would not choose to get pregnant while parenting a nine-month old, but I guess 'timing between kids' is yet another thing infertility takes away from you. Of course, we'd be delighted by a surprise. But we'll just see how it goes for a few months and then evaluate.

So, there you have it. If you'll excuse me, I need some coffee.

camping + baby = disfreakingaster.

2011-07-12T13:44:00.000-07:00

Okay.

I have learned, in this life, that you can divide people into categories. Not based on skin color or religion or economic status or that stuff, because a lot of the time that is a bad plan and also racist, but based more on things they like (and don't like) to do. For example, there are "TV people" and "non-TV people." TV people like to talk about the latest episode of Grey's Anatomy and that funny commercial with the e.trade baby. Non-TV people like to talk about how they save all this money by not paying for cable and the latest article they read in National Geographic and then you feel like you are turning into an American Idiot for watching four hours of Des.perate Housewives last weekend, but you had to because your brain was incapable of processing anything more complex than that and DH was a more dignified choice than, say, a marathon of Bride.zillas.

Can you tell which of those categories I fall into?

Anyway. There are also "outdoorsy people" and "non-outdoorsy people." "Indoorsy people," maybe. And I am unashamedly, unabashedly, totally in the latter group. I am an indoorsy-kind of gal. I like the outdoors - it's pretty - but I like to observe it from the comfort of my own home, or car, or possibly a reasonably-priced hotel. I am not terribly high maintenance. I mean, the hotel doesn't have to have mints on the pillow or anything, but it does have to have a bed. And a shower. (And possibly a TV. But I digress.)

My brother-and-sister-in-law are outdoorsy people. Also, they are cheap. In their case, I find these to be related phenomena. It isn't always, because I've been to R.EI and that is not a cheap place, but there's no denying that camping out is a frugal way to vacation. They drove up to our neck of the woods from theirs, and they wanted us to go camping for a night with them.

Let me say, first, that I had my doubts about this. Because I know a bunch of people that say they like "camping," but what they mean by "camping," is "hanging out in my air-conditioned/heated trailer/camper with a fridge and lights and a toilet and a bed," whereas what my brother-and-sister-in-law mean by "camping," is "tent on the dirt. And possibly a campfire." I would be okay with version #1, even though a cheap hotel would still be my preferred choice. But option #2 does not really light my fire. I mean, nature is beautiful and all, but I don't really want to sleep in it. If you say to me, "but our ancestors did that all the time, it's natural," I will say, "that's because they hadn't invented the Holi.day Inn yet, and if you gave Cro-Magnon Man a chance to sleep at Mot.el 6 instead of his animal-skin tent, I can guarantee you he'd take it in a neanderthal heartbeat."

Let me also say that I realize I may sound insane to you, especially if you are a Camping Person. I happen to live in a very camping-friendly, outdoorsy, hiking-adjacent, mountain-biking, all-cool-people-like-to-hang-out-in-nature area of the country, so I am the odd person out a lot of the time. I don't hike, or ski, or waterski, or sleep in tents, or pee in the woods, or know how to tie those kinds of knots that keep your tent from flying away in a windstorm, or anything particularly useful in the outdoors. I am a kick-ass knitter and I can read at a ridiculous pace, but this doesn't really do you any good on a camping trip. (I guess I could read the tent instructions real fast and then knit you a cover for it, but again - not super useful.)

But I'm willing to try it for a night. It would take too long to tell you all the details and, as you might guess, I am a little short on sleep after this experience, so let me sum it up:

boy, does it take a lot of stuff to attempt camping with an 8-month old. A. LOT.
and the drive will take significantly longer than you thought.
when you get there during bedtime, in the summer, it will take the baby (previously asleep in the car) a LONG DAMN TIME to fall back to sleep, because it stays light pretty late in the summer and the campers in the site next to you are kind of loud.
also, the baby is distracted by the super fun zipper pulls on the snowsuit you made her wear for fear of her getting cold at night...
...which she does several times so finally, about 1:00am, you think it will be a good idea to put her in your sleeping bag...
...which is good for her, except that it leaves no room for you.
and that is a bummer of a time to realize that the self-inflating sleeping pad you bought on the way to this camping extravaganza must have self-confidence issues because it did not inflate.
Sleeping on the ground is not all that comfortable.
In the same way that "stabbing your eyes out with a fork" would also be "not that comfortable."
And it is cold.
45 degrees doesn't sound that bad, but it is when you're sleeping in it.
Counting the number of miles to the nearest hotel (68) does not help you fall asleep.
But boy, do you appreciate your bed afterward.

Yeah. It pretty much sucked.

When we got home, my husband and I were discussing the trip and what we would have done differently, and he said, "well, I guess we learned that next time, we should bring a third sleeping bag." And I said, "what I learned is that there is NOT GOING TO BE A NEXT TIME."

If you are thinking about going camping with a baby, here's what I've got for you:

If you are a Camping Person, go for it. Let me know how it goes.
If you are a Non-Camping Person, get a hotel. Go hiking in nature the next day. Take photos. Then go back to your hotel and sleep in a bed. And take a shower. And enjoy the temperature-controlled air.

To all my Non-Camping peeps: stay strong. Make hotel reservations. Learn from me. There is no need for the suffering to continue. The Camping People will keep our nation's parks system running.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go run all the electrical appliances in my house whilst doing laundry and taking a nap in a bed.

Ahhhhhhhhh.

bite me

2011-07-01T09:02:00.000-07:00

Well, it happened. She bit me.

Not that hard, and I'm about 99.9% sure it wasn't on purpose - she was almost done nursing and smiled at me and then absent-mindedly latched back on with her teeth (oops) - but WOWZA, that hurts. I can hardly imagine what it's like if the kid takes a big ol' purposeful chomp down on the girls, which have been doing yeoman's work for the past eight months.

I took her off, said firmly, "OUCH. NO." And then we were done nursing for that session. It happened again the next time, and we did the same thing again - OUCH. NO. DONE. - and, since then, she hasn't bit again. On the other hand, I have totally stopped my half-dozing during nursing sessions and am, instead, keeping watch like a prison guard who's heard rumors about a jailbreak.

What do you think about taking an eight-month old on a camping trip? My idea of 'camping' is 'Motel 6,' but my brother-and-sister-in-law are coming to visit, and they love camping, and there are a lot of cool places to camp around here. Plus they have all the stuff for it which means we can try it for a night without investing a bunch of money in items for which we have no storage room anyway. But wouldn't she get cold? And she moves around so much during the night that I can't imagine a blanket would stay on her for more than ten minutes. I'm not sure one sleep sack will do it. (The last time we took her on anything like this, we stayed in a "cottage" which we later termed, with no affection whatsoever, "the shit shack," and she woke up every 45 minutes screaming because it was so freaking cold in there. I have Post-Shit-Shack-Stress-Disorder from this.)

Last night, I was with a family as their 64-year-old husband and dad died from a lung disorder. He had been diagnosed some three years ago, and he was ready. It was time. They took him off all the machines, and we waited with him as he began to breathe for himself, long, labored breaths, getting slower and slower, until finally he stopped. There were a few startling moments along the way, and doctors and nurses hovering in case anything went wrong, and all the while it occurred to me that his work of dying was not so different than the work of giving birth. A lot of frantic hurrying, interspersed with moments of silence and breathing and people waiting, holding your hand and telling you, "it's okay, you can do this," and I watched his three kids as they held his hands, and I went home and put my daughter to bed, and I thought:

someone told me once that, when you meet your child, you are meeting the person who will hold your hand when you die.

There are a lot of reasons that doesn't always happen, of course. But many times, it does. And it struck me that the holiness of both moments - birth and death - are deeply connected, and terrifying, and peaceful, and we are very rarely, truly, prepared for either one.

I realize this seems to have taken a turn completely different from where I started this post, but if she bites again, maybe (just maybe, no guarantees) I'll be able to keep it in some perspective.

the freeway of love

2011-06-22T14:40:00.000-07:00

In case you've ever wondered about this:

yes, it is possible (thanks to completely-stopped traffic, a well-placed dark tunnel, and a hands-free pumping bra) to hook yourself up to a battery-powered breast pump and let that sucker go to town while negotiating a 50-mile morning drive to a conference.

For someone who likes multi-tasking, it was freaking heaven.

I think a few semi-drivers might have gotten an eyeful. But I got something done during my 90-minute crawl down the freeway, and that makes up for it.

"What's the problem, officer? It's hands-free."*

*no actual police officers were encountered during this event. Thankfully.

day after day

2011-06-15T14:23:00.000-07:00

I've been trying to think of something exciting to say about my life that would necessitate a blog post, but I'm not quite sure what that might be. It's pretty much life-as-new-normal these days around here, which alternates between "total thrill of being a mom" and "mundane daily grind plus more laundry." Honestly, babies can be kind of tedious. Not that I'm complaining, because really; parenting is mostly great. But it certainly never lets up. And that's okay.

Baby Girl has decided that she hates pears and avocados (the look on her face while trying the latter for the first time was priceless) but other than that, she's a champion eater. Naps have improved dramatically over the past month, although she's still not into much more than thirty minutes at a time. Maybe that will change. Or not.

My husband is mostly a totally fantastic dad, but there are times when he comes home after I've had the baby all day and he's all excited to see her (and she's ridiculously excited to see him) and then he hangs out with her for, like, ten minutes, and then says he's tired, which pretty much makes me want to kick his ass. Now, I get that working all day is tiring because, you know, I do that too (with a schedule that involves working weekends so I'm with her on a few weekdays). But, as much as I hate making wide, sweeping statements about men and women, I think being the mom is harder. At least if you're the primary food source. About 90% of me loves nursing - the bonding, the fact that my body is finally able to do something related to reproduction - and the other 10% of me will happily give it up when the day comes, and go back to normal bras and a pump-less lifestyle and shirts that fit again (she says, hopefully).

Also, we have added two teeth into the equation, which makes my nipples quake with fear.

So, that's about it for now. It's a good life. A very ordinary, suburban, family life. The one I dreamt of for all those years. Some days I can still hardly believe it actually happened.

the girl on the bus

2011-06-08T11:40:00.000-07:00

The other night, my husband and I were on the bus coming home from a concert. It was about 11:15pm. Bus clientele at that time of night is always interesting, a slice of life I don't get all that often, and sometimes I marvel at how gentle the most unexpected people can be. (The fact that I find this unexpected probably says more about me than it does about them. But I digress.)

After a few stops, two young women got on the bus. They were chatting away, trying to untangle the earbuds for one girl's i.pod. They sat down and giggled and plugged in the earbuds, sharing the two between them so each got one ear's worth of listening, and chatted away.

They were pretty clearly happy to be away from adult supervision, which I am guessing they may not have much of in their lives. It's the clothing choices that led me to this conclusion (although, yes, I am aware that teenaged girls can wear one outfit out of the house while sneaking a completely different one with them, but these girls had no purse or bag whatsoever, so unless they hid their long-sleeved prairie girl dresses underneath a tree, I think that's unlikely). One girl was particularly, you know, well-endowed. And, might I add, braless. (Another hint that she might not have an adult around to help her with that.) Every once in awhile you see a young woman like this who is clearly unaware of the impact her physical appearance has on others, but this one seemed pretty aware of it. Tossing her hair, smiling at any male within spitting distance, laughing and chatting and on the downtown bus at 11:00pm without any adults nearby...

...and I panicked.

Not for her, because she actually seemed fine. I hope she is okay in this life, not just that night, but each day. No, I panicked because I realized that my child, at that moment happily sleeping away at her grandparents' house, is one day going to be a teenager. With boobs. And the option of low-cut t-shirts. Without a bra. And going on the bus. Downtown. At 11:00pm. Even though I would not be okay with most of those things, but some of them I don't get to choose (hello, boobs) and some of them I might not get to control (hello, downtown bus at 11:00pm) and OHMYGOD she is going to grow up and then she will go away and then she will be on the bus and old creepy guys might look at her and I will not always be there to beat the everliving shit out of them if they do and possibly some horrifyingly-named Congressman might tweet her an inappropriate picture or she could get drunk one night and do something dumb that can't be undone and and there are a million other things that could happen and OHHOLYMERCIFULLORD WHAT AM I GOING TO DO ABOUT THAT?

Kind of took the fun out of the evening for a moment.

There were some other kids on the bus too, and when I say, "kids," I mean, "college-student-aged-people" who would, no doubt, hate being called, "kids," but I am old now so that's what happens. Anyway. They looked responsible. Mostly scanning their varied hand-held devices and not paying attention to anybody else, but they also looked like they were not likely to be on any "Girls Gone Wild" episodes anytime soon, so that made me feel better. I took a deep breath.

There are days when I cannot wait for Baby Girl to grow up, at least enough so that she will be able to a.) nap; b.) no longer require diapers; and c.) tell me what she needs (although I realize this comes with a whole bunch of other talking-back so that's kind of a toss-up).

But that night, on the bus, I wished she could stay like she was, right then, forever. Sleeping in the pack-and-play at the grandparents, or safe in her crib at home, where I can walk up the stairs and check on her at anytime.

I realize this isn't going to happen.

But a mom can dream.

I'm a b...

2011-05-18T11:39:00.000-07:00

Remember that Meredith Brooks song, B.itch? (Whatever happened to her, anyway? There's probably some VH1 Behind the Scenes thing on her. Although, maybe they don't make those anymore. Wait...is there still a VH1? This is getting depressing.)

Anyway. I used to love putting that song on the radio, on certain days, and blasting it while I drove as fast as legally permissible (or, slightly over, but not in a dangerous way) down the freeway with the windows open. I sang along because it felt cathartic to get all the crummy energy out of me that way. I might need to do that today. Because, seriously:

I'm a bi.tch...

my sister-in-law is seriously pissing me off by floating passive-aggressive F.ace.book status updates referring to the fact that my husband and I happened to get the stomach flu, at the same time, from our beloved child, thus causing me to call my mom to come and spend the night so we could throw up in peace, which then made my mom unable to visit our nephew the next day. I felt bad enough about that already. Passive-aggressive taunts just make me feel worse. SHUT IT, LADY.
and even writing that down makes me feel yet worse, again. Sigh.

I'm a lover...

in good news, husband and I are - "being creative" - in the s.e.x. arena. Baby steps.

I'm a child...

seriously, the first (and only) thing I could think of to do when we all got sick was call my mom. Lately I've been thinking a lot about the fact that my parents won't be around forever, which I obviously already knew, but facing that when you have a child of your own feels different to me. Now I'm thinking more about how they felt when their parents died. I bet they miss them much, much more than I ever realized.
also, I flipped someone off on the road today. Because, you know, she started it.

I'm a mother...

a mother of a child who now eats sweet potatoes, squash, and peas like there is no tomorrow; really enjoys rice cereal; hates oatmeal with unparalleled passion; sits up without any assistance whatsoever (apart from the occasional sudden lurch to the side or tip backward) and smiles all. the. time. And it. is. awesome.
and, she sleeps in her own bed. Upstairs. While we sleep in ours. Downstairs. With the video monitor on. I'm still getting used to this. Like the other night when I woke up at 3:30am and the monitor wasn't working and I went into a complete and total OHMYLORDWHATHAPPENEDSHECOULDBEDEAD panic until I realized that I had forgotten to plug it in, and also, she was fine. And then I laid awake for 20 minutes trying to get my heart started again.

I'm a sinner...

see evidence above.
also, I ate a whole bag of Cad.bury's mini eggs which I had hidden from my husband in my sock drawer because otherwise he eats the candy in, like, three days, whereas I can make it last for several weeks.
probably that is not a sin. But my exultation in successfully hiding said mini-eggs and consuming all of them, might be.

I'm a saint...

well, if a "saint" is someone who doesn't screw up, then I got nothing here.
but if a "saint" is someone loved by God, then I am doing okay.
also, in news slightly related to that last bit, I am reading Operating Instructions by Anne Lamott, which is the story of her son's first year, and it is, hands down, the best parenting book of all time in the history of ever.

I do not feel ashamed...

hmmm...mostly true.
except about the bird-flipping from this morning.
and the anger at my sister-in-law (which is pretty much deserved, on her part, but still essentially fruitless).

And now, back to my regularly scheduled programming.

the m-word day, a little late

2011-05-10T14:35:00.000-07:00

These thoughts are a few days late, I realize. Sundays are not the best day for me to do anything except a.) church, and b.) long nap.

I am still not quite sure how to celebrate a day I used to hate. Well, not hate, exactly. "Feel deeply conflicted about," would be more accurate (and awkwardly-phrased). I love my own mother, so that part was good. But all the other stuff - all the flowers at the grocery store and the extra people at church* and the jewelry/Hallm.ark/flowers/make-her-breakfast-in-bed commercials running for weeks beforehand just used to take it out of me.

In many ways, I had a lovely Mother's Day. I did not take it for granted. But mostly, what I thought about was this:

to all of you,
who want to be moms more than you want anything else
even to breathe
or laugh
and whose arms,
as full as they might be with life,
still feel empty sometimes at night;
all who hope
and grieve
and long
and wait
and wish upon a star
or pray with every breath you have,
you matter too, on this day.
may the child for whom you long
the one you have not yet met
be waiting just around the corner,
please God.
Amen.

*you know those extra people at church on Mother's Day. The ones who show up unexpectedly shiny and with a tight grin on their faces that says, "my mom/wife/mother-in-law/sister/other female figure totally made me come today and get dressed up so I'm here but don't expect me to be happy about it." Yeah. They're there every year. They make me giggle.

let's talk about [not having any] s.e.x, baby

2011-04-28T14:57:00.000-07:00

So, yesterday someone suggested that I might be in early menopause.

Yes.

Let me tell you about it.

Yesterday was my last "Parent-Baby Group" at the hospital where Baby Girl was born. (They call this "Parent-Baby Group" in an effort to be all PC and everything, but the truth is, it's just moms. And babies.) I didn't go to the 0-3 month group, because those were the months where I didn't feel much like doing things that started at a certain time. I liked getting out of the house [read: I was often desperate to get out of the house] but I wanted to do that in my own sweet feet-dragging way, and not feel perpetually late to everything, which is what would have happened. Also, my job involves a lot of people-time, and it was nice to be a little bit more solitary for awhile.

So I joined the 3-6 month group because a bunch of moms told me in effusive tones that I absooooluuuutely had to do this, it was the best thing ever, they met these women who are still their best friends even though their babies are all in high school now, etc. I went. It was okay, in the way that walking into the high school cafeteria and recognizing immediately that everyone else is already sitting with a group and you are the odd kid out is also, "okay." Like in every group, there were some moms I connected with and others I didn't. This was fine.

Yesterday, our topic was, "guilt and parenting." We were supposed to write down all our guilt-triggers on a piece of paper, talk about them with the group, and then put them into a bucket which symbolized casting away this guilt. I have never found this to work overly well, but it's a nice symbol. We all re-hashed the things about which moms have felt guilty for a thousand years: sleeping methods, breast-vs-bottle feeding, to-work-or-not-to-work-outside-the-home, etc.

My first guilt topic was this: I feel guilty that I don't feel guilty about liking my job and enjoying work. (Did you follow that? I know.) This is a post for another time.

My second one was this: I feel guilty that I have absolutely, totally, 100%, no doubt, zip, zero, nada, NO sex drive whatsoever and (this is the guilt-inducing part) not much interest in doing anything about it.

From what little I've read and heard on this topic, I feel like it's pretty normal for new moms to feel this way. Breastfeeding depresses your estrogen supply, which means you aren't as interested or, um, capable. Because of, you know, the fluid levels and the lubricating factors and the...yeah. You get it.

But infertility ups the ante on this, because it's not just that I've had no real desire since the baby was born: I was nauseous for, well, about the entire pregnancy, and on fertility drugs off-and-on for several years before that, and when you look back at it, it's about five years since I really had much sustained interest in this area. Which is not to say that we haven't had sex in five years. (I think my husband feels this way sometimes, but he would also admit that this is not quite the case.)

So I talked about how this made me feel guilty, and all the other moms were nodding their heads in recognition, and then the group facilitator gave me some suggestions (which, oddly enough, just made me feel more guilty) and then she casually mentioned that "at your age, you might be peri-menopausal" which she said as if this was no big deal but was pretty much like hitting me in the face with a Mack truck, because my "age" is, in fact, THIRTY-EIGHT and if that's entering early menopause, then thanks a whole freaking lot lady, you've been very helpful.

Let me assure you (as I wish I had done to her, had I not been too shocked to say anything coherent) that I have had every fertility test in the book, so if I were entering early menopause, I would already know about it. And my mom didn't start menopause until her early 60's, the same as her mother, so I'm not too worried. Mostly, I wanted to slap this woman in the face. I mean, I'm not opposed to menopause. It happens to us all. But maybe this is not the best thing to say to a woman with a 6-month old child who has just confided in you that she isn't much into Barry White music at the moment. Maybe you could jump to something a little less drastic than, say, the end of her fertility and gradual slide into silver hair and polyester pants and a weekly game of bridge. For which she will apparently need to get a babysitter for her kindergartner.

At what point do you think I should do something about this whole sex drive thing? I mean, Group Facilitator Lady said sweetly that we could "be creative, it doesn't have to involve intercourse," to which I said, "yes, my husband is full of suggestions on that, it's not a lack of information I'm worried about here," but I really am wondering if there might be something wrong. Like, can I take a pill for this? Because that would be great. Because I do love my husband, and I miss that part of my life, and I'm not quite sure what to do about it.

Other than buy up some polyester pants and call it a day.

Thoughts? Help!

well, hello there, blog

2011-04-26T10:47:00.000-07:00

Okay. I should probably have some better-sounding excuse for dropping off the face of the earth these past few weeks, but all I've got is this: it was Easter, which, if you are a pastor, is a time of the year when absolutely nothing else gets done. At. All. If you have the urgent need to clean something, please let me know, because I have got the house for you.

Baby Girl is doing well, apart from a few spectacular Nap Fail experiences like yesterday, wherein it took 90 minutes to get her down for what turned out to be a 20 minute morning nap. Also, she is now rolling from back-to-front but has only done so for 1.) her grandparents and 2.) Harrison Ford, who happened to be on TV playing Indiana Jones at the time. Normally, I don't let her watch TV, in case you are thinking of reporting me to the Child Development Authorities, but Harrison Ford is a slight exception. I was upstairs throwing a load of towels into the laundry at the time.

Last night I went to bed at 8:30pm. Because, apparently, I am in the third grade. It was awesome.

I went to Pa.nera for lunch yesterday and a creepy dude stared at me while I breastfed Baby Girl (under a cover, but still). Then he said, "I bet she's a angel," (which, given that she had screamed for 90 minutes that morning was not exactly the analysis I was in the mood for) and as soon as he went to the counter to get his food, we hightailed it the heck out of there.

After three months of cobbling together childcare between friends and grandparents, Baby Giril will be starting at an official childcare center next week. Mostly, I am relieved about this because it's been a little stressful to put things together (long story short, our initial childcare setup didn't work out, so we've been punting for awhile). I am also nervous. Probably no way around that.

I am so, so, so not a morning person. At all. But the big smile on your child's face when you lean over to pick them up - well, that puts a spark into the morning. As does a big cup of coffee.

Our next adventure: Baby Girl starts sleeping in her own room, soon. I am in denial about this. Will keep you posted.

baby hits the road

2011-04-09T20:09:00.000-07:00

So, we survived our first family vacation.

Barely.

No, not really. (Well, I mean, we survived. But it went better than I feared, actually.) We took our girl on the Baby Victory Tour, which is what it feels like when you go visit a whole bunch o' family members who have not yet met the child. The kind of vacation where, when you walk into a room, everyone immediately looks right past you and says, "Where's the baby?" Which is okay with me.

We had a few challenges to face: we were visiting my husband's family, several of whom I had never met, and staying with his brother, which is kind of like staying with a brown-haired version of Glen.n Bec.k. And given that I am a staunch NP.R listener, you can imagine what that's like for me. We just tiptoe around anything involving religion and politics, and hope for the best. Good thing we live hundreds of miles apart.

It all started with a spectacular Fail by one of our nation's lovely airlines, which kept us at the airport for a three-hour delay during our first attempt at Flight With Baby. Which meant that we were trapped there during bedtime, and didn't get to our destination until nearly 1:00am, at which point we discovered that our luggage must have been kept outside for the whole duration of the delay, since the pack-and-play was soaking wet. AWESOME. I was pretty irritated by this, until we realized the next day that we were delayed because our original plane was busy ripping its roof open, and then the idea of a few hours' delay wasn't so bad.

A few years ago, this same brother and sister-in-law came to visit us over Christmas holidays. We had been trying to get pregnant for three years. I had just had a laparoscopy a few months earlier. We had done two failed IUI cycles and were getting ready for our first IVF. I was, to put it mildly, not in the mood to hear anything at all about pregnancy. At. All. And my sister-in-law could do nothing but talk about "when we get pregnant," "when we have a baby," "when the baby comes," as if people can just, you know, have sex and then magically get pregnant which of course they can and probably THEY WILL DO IT ON THE FIRST CYCLE AND THEN I WILL HAVE TO JUMP OFF A BRIDGE. We went wine tasting. I did a lot of tasting. Hangover not so tasty.

Flash forward to this past week. We come into town with adorable Baby Girl. They have been trying to get pregnant for about a year. (I'm sure sister-in-law wanted to start earlier, but I swear to you, my brother-in-law is the cheapest person alive and probably had to be convinced that the expense of children was worthwhile.) (Let me pause to say, I don't hate this guy, in spite of the stuff I've been writing here. But we have nothing in common. And he's hard to be around.)

All I could think was, what if they had come to visit us with a baby while we were trying to get pregnant? Wouldn't it have felt like salt in the wound? Should I acknowledge this? Even though my sister-in-law is terribly shy and might not want to talk? But if I ignore it, won't that feel heartless? And be heartless, even worse? What to do?

She and I and Baby Girl went shopping on Wednesday. It was not the easiest experience, but gradually, she opened up. It turns out that she had a miscarriage last month. The truth is, of all the people who got pregnant while we were trying, the idea that they would have a baby before we would was the hardest for me. It felt as if (and I know I am a terrible horrible no good very bad person for this, but I'm sure I'll have good company in hell) their having a baby would somehow validate their beliefs about God, with which I vehemently disagree. As if their pregnancy would prove that their "we're right, everyone else is hellbound" theology was more effective than mine. And I know, I get it, it's terrible. But I suspect most infertile women feel this way about someone, that someplace deep down, you think to yourself, "as long as I get pregnant before she does, it will be okay."

That's long gone, of course. Not an ounce of it left, and all I want for her is to have a child in whatever way possible. I feel guilty about it, though. I mean, I realize that my prayer to "please, please let me get pregnant first" was undoubtedly met by God with a big, "wow, is she screwed up if she thinks that's how this works," but there was a small piece of me, that Christmas weekend in 2008, that wished they would have a little trouble getting pregnant so they would understand how hard it was. That's the part that makes me feel guilty. And all I can do now is pray for them and trust that God is a million times more merciful than I am.

The rest of the trip was fine. Topped off by yet another (non-roof-ripping-off) three-hour delay on the way home, which makes me want to never travel with a baby again. She did wonderfully, though, for which I thank all the moms who told me to nurse her during takeoff. Hats off to you, ladies: you're brilliant.

Bedtime tonight was a screamfest, certainly brought on by a week of schedule-free living for which we will now be paying the price. It's good to be home.

sleep.

2011-03-30T09:08:00.000-07:00

I'm now convinced that, if you wanted to become a millionaire, you should publish yet another "How to Get Your Child to Sleep" book, because it appears to be a saturation-proof market. And you can feel free to contradict every other sleep book out there, because heaven knows there's no consistency at the moment. Cry! Don't let them cry! Crying is good! Crying is evil! They'll get over it. They'll never get over it. Never let them sleep with you. Always have them sleep with you.

Meanwhile, the exhausted parent is trolling the bookstore aisle looking for the shortest of these books, because you can hardly stay awake long enough to read them.

We started with a good-sleeping baby, which is different than many, I realize. She started sleeping for long stretches at about 8 weeks old, with nary a sleep-book in sight. You know what that is? Sheer dumb luck.

Then she hit four months. And it all fell to shit. Down to sleep by 8pm, which was great. And then...up at midnight, 2:00, 4:00, 6:00, or some combination of the above. I put it down to the "4 month sleep regression" phase and hoped she'd work it out.

Today she is five months. (Editorial note: 5 MONTHS? Where did it go?) And not that I expected her to figure out her sleeping in one month exactly, but I've had the sneaking suspicion for the last week or so that she's developed some bad habits and doesn't really know how to get out of them. Kind of like she was when first picking up objects: good at clinging to them, not so good at letting go. She'd be clenching to some small item and look at me like, "are you going to help me get rid of this thing on my hand? Because I'm done with it, but it won't go away."

The other thing about the sleep books is the minefield of opinions people have about them, and about your choices. I had a feeling that she just needed to, yes, 'cry it out' for a few nights to get herself through this phase, but I was afraid to do it: both because I hate to hear her cry, but more because I felt the ghosts of a thousand judg-y parents hovering over me, whispering, "oh, I could never let my child cry. It's just cruel."

But, ghosts aside, we did it. Friday night, we girded ourselves up for a scream-fest. Down to bed at 8pm: check. Up at 10:30pm: check. Then...one minute, pat her and soothe her and assure her we are here. (We're right next to her, given that she's still sleeping in our room, but she can't see us.) Then, three minutes. And five. And ten. And another ten. By now she's CRYING, but not in a scared or panicked or painful kind of way: mostly in a SUPER PISSED OFF tone, which is less heartbreaking than the others. After about 45 minutes, she feel asleep. I breathed out. And waited for the next wake-up.

When she started to stir, I rolled over, figuring it was probably about 2am. I checked the clock. 5:30am. I checked again: 5:30AM. Holy. Mackerel.

For us, it took one bad night. And that was it. Since then, she's down by about 7:30pm, and sleeps until 5am. It is a freaking miracle. And I am starting to recover the pieces of myself that had been scattered across six wake-ups all night long for the last month.

I don't know what works for every kid, but this is what worked for ours. At least for now. At least until the next developmental spurt, or teething festival, or...whatever.

Naps are another matter. They're getting better, slowly, but certainly not as dramatically as the night-sleeping. But we'll take what we can get.

two steps back. or, twenty steps back. whatever. i haven't slept.

2011-03-23T07:47:00.000-07:00

Sleep has become a rare commodity in our house these days.

About three weeks ago, Baby Girl started waking up more often during the night. She had been sleeping from 10:30pm or so until 5-6am very regularly, and I figured her wake-ups came from the fact that we started putting her to bed about 8pm. Surely, I told myself, she is adjusting to this new schedule and will get back on track soon.

Ha.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

The apex of the whole sleep-thing (well, the first apex anyway) came on March 11, when we took her with us on an overnight and she did not sleep more than 45 minutes at a time all. night. long. Given that she never even did that as a newborn, it threw us off entirely. (Those of you who have been dealing with this kind of broken sleep all along: feel free to laugh at my complaining about one bad night. Spectacularly bad, and the night before I had to spend all day teaching 30 junior high kids, but still.) Since then, she's been waking up at least twice during the night: around 2am, again around 4am, and then back to sleep until 5:30 or 6am.

This. Will. Not. Do.

(I know. Insert laugh here.)

Last night, she would not go to sleep. We did everything we usually do: we put on pj's, nursed, read books, bounced on the ball, shhh'ed and sang songs. We did this for nearly two hours - it usually takes no more than 30 minutes. She was finally asleep about 9:30pm, and then up at 11:00pm. And 1:00am. And 2:00am. And then 5:30am. (Woo hoo! Three hours!) Now she's down for a "nap," which lasts about 20 minutes.

Today's parenting theme around here: WTF?

In my frantic online research, I finally found a site I like. It suggests that most kids go through a sleep regression at 4 months old. That there's so much development in their little brains, they simply can't settle down for sleep. That they'll get over it. Eventually. That it's not my fault - the one time I held her for a nap, or nursed her to sleep out of desperation, or let her cry it out for awhile because I did not know what else to do - all those things have not ruined my child forever and ever and ever amen.

Thank heavens.

I had more to say, but it's been twenty minutes. And she's up. Again.

Sigh.

This too shall pass.

Right?

in the mind of a four month old

2011-03-19T13:44:00.000-07:00

There are many, many times when I wish I knew what Baby Girl was thinking. This would help, for one thing, with the fine line between the "I need to poop" scream and the "I need to eat" wail. I am not very good at parsing the difference.

So I watch her and think, "what's going on in there?" She looks so interested in absolutely everything. Like lint. And sunlight. And raindrops. And her own fingers.

I wonder if it might go something like this...

5:35am
Awake! mmmm...hungry. Should probably cry. Will try the 'indicating hunger' cry, because even if mom is woefully inadequate at understanding me, at 5am she is usually fairly okay about it. Okay, CRY. CRY CRY CRY WHY IS NO ONE GETTING ME WHERE DID EVERYONE OOH! MOM! I forgot about her! She's back! But why is it taking five whole seconds to get the food where did she go why is she NOT GOING FASTER HURR...mmm. Boob.

Done with boob. Time for...OOH! PLAYMAT! I love this thing. I love how the stuffed bees hang over my head and I try to reach them. Fun. Why can't I get them in my mouth, though? Frustrating. But, look! Rattle. Oh - smells like oatmeal. Mom must be getting her breakfast. Time for me to indicate SUPER PISSED OFF AT THESE BEES WHY AREN'T THE...mmm. Sophie the giraffe. Love her. Love her more than life. She is the best. Wait..where did she go? Why did she leave? WHERE IS SHE MOM HELP HELP HE...mmm. She's back. Relief. I love her so much, I never want to let her go. Never, never, neve...oooh! Fingers! I have fingers! ON BOTH HANDS! This is awesome. Mmmmm...fingers.

Why are we going up the stairs again? And what is that strange sensation in my pants? I don't like it. I DON'T LIKE IT HELP HELP SOMEBODY HEL...mmm. Dry pants. Oh! And mobile! Hanging over my head! I love mobile. I love the pretty song mobile sings. So pretty. But, wait! Why did mobile stop? Will it never sing again? NO! MOBILE! I LOVE YOU! WHY ARE YOU NOT SING....oooh. Mom wound it up again. Thanks, Mom.

Why are we back in this dark room? Interesting. I remember this room. Oh, wait: I know what happens in here. Sleep. I like sleep. I like...oh, no. Wait. I forgot. I like nighttime sleep, but this is light outside and I HATE SLEEP WHEN IT IS DAYTIME I HATE IT I HATE IT I HATE IT MAKE IT STOP MAK....mmmm. Thumb. Sleep.

Repeat ad infinitum, with the addition of a few new verses, such as:

where did dad go? How is his voice on this small black appliance but I can't see him? Strange.
how did I wake up at the grocery store?
what will happen if I just scream for no reason at all? Oh. Sometimes mom cries too. That weirds me out.
WHY CAN'T ANYONE HELP ME FART?
mmm...more boob.

It was much easier to learn German, that's all I know.

what we have learned today

2011-03-17T20:28:00.000-07:00

Today's Helpful Baby Lesson is brought to you by the luck of the Irish:

mama should never, never, never, never again eat cabbage. Not until baby is weaned, anyway.

(This lesson is actually the second of a two-part lesson; part one was brought to you by the good Germans and their sauerkraut.)

That is all.

Carry on.

in an instant

2011-03-11T13:30:00.000-08:00

Baby Girl and I were heading home this afternoon from routine errands. A trip to Tar.get, another to the grocery store. She was happily playing with a teething ring. The radio was on. We came around the corner, a green light at the intersection ahead.

And then there were sirens. And a squeal of tires. And a white truck, coming straight at us, head-on, in the wrong lane.

There were less than 2 seconds to react. I swerved to the right. The truck, going at least 70 miles an hour in a 35mph zone, sped through the space we had just occupied, as if the ghost of my car was still there. Three police cars flew past us in hot pursuit.

There was one second of silence in my car while I realized what had very nearly happened.

In an instant, my mind began to play out the terrible what could have been. A head-on collision with a much larger vehicle going 70 miles an hour would not have turned out well for us. There was a second of silence, and then I began to panic. I gasped for air as if I had been pulled, drowning, out of the sea. I pulled into the parking lot next to us, unlocked the door, shaking, and stood next to my driver's door, sobbing and panting and looking at my slightly surprised child in the back seat and shut my eyes and saw the white truck, again, coming straight at us. Two seconds.

If I had been looking down, changing the radio station. If I had been reaching into the back seat to retrieve her teething ring. If I had taken the moment to glance at my phone. If, if, if....

But, fortunately, and all-praises-be, "if" was "not." There was time. There was space in the right lane. Barely, for both, but enough.

I cried all the way home. She slept. When we got safely in the house, she awoke. I took her out of her carseat and held onto her as if...if...if...

It can all change in an instant. In Japan. In Libya. In Egypt. In Wisconsin.

And here.

And when it doesn't, when you squeak through by the skin of your nose and the grace of God, you ought to take the time to say it:

Thank you.

sinners in the hands of a nursing God

2011-03-07T08:56:00.000-08:00

(With apologies to Jonathan Edwards for the title.)

At my church, we follow the lectionary for the Sunday readings. If you are not a church person, or not a mainline-Protestant church person, the lectionary is a three-year cycle of biblical readings used by lots of churches around the world. It follows an ancient pattern of seasons - Advent, Christmas, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost - and assigns four passages for each Sunday: an Old Testament reading, a Psalm, a New Testament reading, and a Gospel reading. It prevents me from just preaching on the stories I like, which is good. It forces me to face up to a lot of the weird, complex, difficult, contradictory, and sometimes harsh stuff in the bible which I usually wish was not there and would prefer to ignore.

Like any system, it's imperfect, so it also tends to leave out a lot of stuff. It also tends to include some things which aren't all that exciting. So sometimes you read the assigned passages for the week and think, "good night, I have absofreakinglutely NOTHING to say about this," and you have to practically beat a sermon out of your computer and you are barely done with it when you climb into the pulpit and say a quick prayer that God will not smite you for the half-assed piece of crap you are about to unleash unto God's unsuspecting people.

Not that I have ever done that. No. Not me.

Anyway, because Easter is so late this year, we've been reading some passages we don't normally get to. Like last Sunday, when we read this amazing passage from Isaiah 49:15

Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb?
Even these may forget, yet I [God] will not forget you.

And it was paired with this, from Psalm 131:

I have calmed and quieted my soul like a nursing child with its mother.

There are actually quite a few female images for God in the bible, not that this gets a lot of press, but the 'nursing mother' image is not one I've focused on much. Until now. I wasn't preaching the day of these texts, which was probably good since it would have been a bit too personal to address this idea at the moment (I love my congregation, but I don't really want them thinking about my boobs).

I suppose we are primarily meant to think of ourselves as the children, and God as the mother. But I found myself identifying more with God this time around. I think about the cost to be a nursing mother - not money (well, apart from the vat of lanolin and the buy-in-bulk nursing pads I now own), but time, and physical effort, and lack of sleep, and the fact that you can't leave this child for any length of time before your body reminds you that you are, indeed, a nursing mom.

That you can't forget your child, even if you wanted to, because your breasts won't let you. That you love being the only one who can provide this nourishment for your child, even as you sometimes curse the tie that binds you so closely together when you just want to have a few hours to yourself.

Does God ever have sore nipples? Or get weary of waking up at the slightest cry? Does God leak all over when any child cries? Does God sit quietly at night, in what often feels like a holy moment, when the house is quiet and it is still dark and everyone else is sleeping and the baby is happily sucking away?

[Sidebar: Does God ever say, "For the love of Me, please learn to take a freaking nap"?]

Literally, of course not. This is where being a biblical literalist gets you in trouble, and means you miss out on a lot. Because it's such a beautiful image. Real and messy and complex and life-giving and imperfect. Being a nursing mom is hard. And wonderful. And all-consuming. And frustrating. And painful. And exhilarating.

And it's pretty clear that the author of that Psalm is a guy, because half the time my child, at least, is not exactly "quieted" when she nurses - more like squirming, pulling, and yanking my nipple half off before looking up at me with a big smile on her face.

God as a nursing mother. A new one for me. And something different to think about next time she latches on.

grey, a day late

2011-03-01T16:36:00.000-08:00

I'm participating in Offering of Love's color photography project - one color for each month. It's fun to take photos of something that isn't, you know, my kid.

February was grey. (In every way, where I live.) And I didn't quite finish in time - but I'm consoled by the fact that I got shorted by a month with at least 2 fewer days than normal.

So, grey.

our back deck - and rain, rain, rain...

okay, the moss is green. but i need some reminder that spring will, eventually, show up.

my favorite lamp - and our front window is reflected in it, with the grey skies of the day

For March, brown. I'm thinking about deep, loamy earth and the seeds we will plant. Oh, and chocolate. Maybe I need some chocolate. Right now. Excuse me.

felix felicis

2011-02-28T22:13:00.000-08:00

The title comes from the fact that Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince has been playing on (our promotionally free for some months) HBO incessantly lately. As in, right now.

Also happening right now? Child asleep. Husband asleep. Me, drinking a hot buttered rum for the first time in...I have no idea. A long damn time.

If you're not a Potter fan, Felix Felicis (which I might well have misspelled terribly) is an elixir Harry gets as a prize in class. It's "liquid luck," guaranteed to give good luck for one day to whomever drinks it.

What on earth does that have to do with anything? you ask.

I just want to say this about my generally well-sleeping child: it's luck. Really. I firmly believe about 90% of her good sleeping habits are sheer blessed random chance, and not anything I did to earn it or deserve it or make it happen.

I have no idea how to make a baby sleep. I think I have the sort of child who sucks you into having another child, because you think, "come on, how hard can this be?" and then you have a second one who's colicky and doesn't sleep through the night until they're three, and you realize that it was all dumb luck the first time around.

If it makes you feel better, her napping skills suck donkey balls. Really. She's a terrible napper and I'm frantically reading all the sleep books I can to figure this out, but most of them say something like, "it all works out after six months or so," so I'm probably just screwed for another eight weeks. My husband says it's better to have good nighttime sleep. Most of the time I agree with this, until it's 4pm and he hasn't been home all day and she hasn't napped for more than 15 minutes at a time, at which point I start to question his logic.

But otherwise, life is okay over here. We survived round two of vaccinations today; quite a bit easier than round one. We had our first adventure with Department Store Photos, which was actually pretty fun until the end, when I was trying to parse out why I didn't need six 8x10 photos of my child and both she and I were running out of patience. (But we did get some super cute pics.) Balancing work and parenting is - um, yeah. A work in progress. For the rest of my life, I suppose. It will (she says with gritted determination) start to get better next week, when my husband's schedule lets up a bit.

I realized the other day that my memory of nursery rhymes is truly, utterly, pitiful. I get one line in and can't remember anything else. "This little piggy went to market, this little piggy...uh-oh. Let's try another!" And does "You Are My Sunshine" have any other verses? Please? Because we are singing things like, "oh you should sleep now, should really sleep now, please take a nap now, before I scream," and I'm pretty sure that's not an official verse.

Also, you can make up a lot of diaper-related songs to "Mary Had a Little Lamb." I'm just saying.

some random stuff i have learned

2011-02-25T10:10:00.000-08:00

Mostly, I feel like every day of this parenting thing is a series of best guesses. And the process of elimination. Which culminated in my decision this week to try to get Baby Girl to go to bed earlier: she's been about a 10pm bedtime girl, and it seemed to me that she needed to back that up to 8pm or so, and so I made this whole plan for moving that toward 8pm, figuring it would take weeks, and it took 3 days. Which is partly WONDERFUL and partly an embarrassing realization that she has probably been asking (in her, you know, screamy non-verbal way) to go to bed earlier for weeks. Except I thought she had gas. Or a messy diaper. Or was hungry.

Oops.

Anyway, there are still a million things I do not know. Like how to create a nap schedule. (Schedule? HAHAHAHAHA) And how to parse the precise difference between "high-pitched-scream-indicating-need-to-fart" and "high-pitched-scream-indicating-need-to-sleep" (see paragraph above). And how to balance work and parenting.

But I have learned a few things.

Such as:

You can do a lot of things while nursing, but knitting is not one of them.
The day you figure out that your child is ticklish precisely under their right armpit is a very fun day.
Antibiotics are good for healing ear infections but VERY VERY BAD if you are a cloth diaper person, so it is okay to switch to disposables until the Poop Express stops arriving nine times a day.
The New Adventures of Old Christine is a really funny show (I learned this when I was home all freaking day during weeks of rain).
You can make up a lot of ridiculous songs to "Mary Had A Little Lamb" in order to entertain your child on the changing table.
When local-living grandparents go to Hawaii for three weeks you really, really miss them. A lot.
Sometimes parent-baby group is just like junior high, but with babies. (Yet another reason not to get pregnant in junior high.) In other words, sometimes the Mean Girls turn into Mean Mommies.
If you are going to pump or nurse in your office, it is a really good idea to learn how to lock your door.
It is surprising how many people will look at a baby wearing pink overalls with a cupcake on the front pocket and say, "how old is your little boy?"

I'm sure there's more, but that's it for now.

What have you learned?

cautiously optimistic...a bottle update

2011-02-22T10:03:00.000-08:00

I sort of want to declare victory regarding the Battle of the Bottle, except that I'm afraid I'll be like W., all up there on the aircraft carrier with the big "MISSION ACCOMPLISHED" sign, apparently totally unaware of the years of "oops, guess that war wasn't quite over" yet to come.

With that said, we seem to have accomplished quite a bit over the weekend.

Friday, I went to work. My husband was home on a school break, so he decided that it was time to bring this thing to a head and see if he could wait Baby Girl out long enough to make the bottle her only option. Wisely, he sent me away when I got home at lunchtime, as I would have totally caved once I heard her crying to eat.

It took about five hours, but she finally did it. It seems that heating up the milk much warmer than we had been was the key difference. And he squirted a little milk into her mouth before putting the bottle in. By last night, she was happily eating from the bottle even when I was in the room. Major progress.

Meanwhile, I had bought two other brands of bottles, so we're just hanging on to those in case "Mission Not So Accomplished After All" hits us later on.

Tomorrow his school break is over, so that's the next front: seeing if she'll take the bottle from her caregiver.

Ah, the things that bring me excitement these days.

one step forward...

2011-02-19T09:08:00.000-08:00

Live from the "Battle of the Bottle" front, we bring you this breaking news:

it seems that "temperature of the milk" may be the break we've been looking for.

At least today.

Stay tuned for the inevitable, "two steps back" update.

i'm not dumb. that's not your boob.

2011-02-16T12:18:00.000-08:00

Sigh.

Going back to work had been such a breeze that first week. My husband stayed home, which was great. I ran home about lunchtime to nurse Baby Girl, and she drank pumped milk from a bottle the rest of the time. It was all good. Happy, shiny people.

And then the ear infection came.

I don't know if it's the infection, or the antibiotics (which, among other things, has been causing Massive Diaper Blowouts the likes of which are going to turn her bedroom into a Superfund cleanup site), or just her little stubborn personality making its first grand appearance, but she has suddenly decided, after months of being fine with it, that she is NOT going to drink from the bottle. No, no, no, no, no, Mom. NOT. DOING. IT.

She gets the bottle in her mouth and tongues it around for awhile before realizing, "Hey, this isn't a real boob; this is some kind of rubber fake boob and IT IS REALLY PISSING ME OFF." And while I'm glad that she's not a fan of fake boobs, the bottle-refusal piece is problematic.

We've tried dipping the nipple in sugar water, which worked once, and then she seems to have figured that out. Sometimes she'll take it if I start her by nursing and then slip her onto the bottle, but that doesn't really fix the whole "Mom needs to work and you have to eat without her sometimes" thing.

Any ideas? I welcome advice of all kinds.

Help.

my funny valentine

2011-02-14T11:02:00.000-08:00

To my funny, feisty, wiggly, diaper-blowout-y, gassy, giggly, nap-challenged, squeal-y, bottle-refusing (there's a story for another post), often exasperating and yet delightful daughter:

You are the best Valentine ever.

Love,
Mommy

dear jennifer aniston,

2011-02-09T08:21:00.000-08:00

I realize I don't know you at all (although I feel like I could give you some career advice, since you seem to make questionable choices in movie roles - I suspect you're probably better than "main girlfriend" all the time, but maybe that's all Hollywood offers). And our lives are probably not on the same trajectory. I mean, yours is all "glamorous, beautiful, world-traveling movie star" and mine is more, "milk-stained t-shirt at the local grocery store," but I saw that you're, once again, on the cover of People magazine this week and, on behalf of women-who-stayed-single-for-longer-than-most-and-maybe-still-are, I just want to say this to you:

don't let the asshats get you down.

I mean, really. A week hardly goes by without some tabloid proclaiming that you are desperately attaching yourself to yet another guy, or seeking an international adoption to cure your clearly raging loneliness (aren't all single people horribly lonely, after all?), or barely keeping yourself from leaping off a bridge at the sight of Brangelina and its Ever Increasing Brood. And then there's the latest People cover, which shouts, "Jennifer swears, I'm happy, really!" as if you had a giant nail stuck through your chest and kept insisting, "it doesn't hurt, really!"

Is it that hard to believe that a single woman could be happy? I mean, I never remember seeing these sorts of covers with Warren Beatty ("Warren swears, I'm happy, really!") or George Clooney ("George breaks up again, desperate for love") or any of the other famous Hollywood bachelors. Nobody goes around thinking that a 40-year old male movie star is drowning himself in vodka tonics every night just because he hasn't managed to get hitched yet.

It seems to me like pulling off a successful movie career (minus that one with what's his face) is a lot harder than getting married. A lot of people are married. Not a lot of people are movie stars. Maybe it's just that you don't fit into the "what a woman is supposed to do with her life" mold that most people expect. I had that problem when I was single. It seemed like everyone and their brother kept asking when I was going to get married, as if I could just produce The Ideal Spouse out of thin air. Then you get married, and everyone wants to know when you're going to have children.

Which maybe is why I feel so irritated on your behalf. Because it turns out that I couldn't produce kids out of thin air (not to mention my uterus) either, and the constant assumption that I wouldn't be happy without them was hard to bear. It's one thing to feel that for yourself; it's all the other people piling it on top of you that starts to hurt. "Don't you want children?" they say, as if there could be no hurt at all hiding behind my childlessness. "You'd be such a good mom," they say, which only makes you want to weep in front of them because you know that, damn it, which is why you cried when you got your period for the 37th time in a row this morning.

So, anyway. I realize you'll never read this. But I hope you don't read People either. Because you seem like a nice person. And if you want to get married, I hope you do. But I bet you're pretty happy as you are. I hope so. I hope we can all find happiness in the life we have, instead of wishing it away for the one we don't.

You know what America? She looks pretty happy to me. SO SHUT IT ALREADY.

Carry on, Jennifer.

Sincerely,
babyinterrupted

three months

2011-01-31T15:19:00.000-08:00

Tomorrow, I go back to work.

Part of me is panicking about this, even though we have wonderful childcare arrangements, for which I am deeply thankful. And another part of me is super excited to leave the house for FOUR WHOLE HOURS every day and get dressed in real, adult-people clothes which will not be any of the following for the same four hours: spit up on, peed on, pooped on, drooled on, or snotted on.

I alternate between wondering where these three months have gone, amazed at the little person this baby is becoming - and knowing exactly where those months went: in a sleepy, sore-nipple, breast-feeding, pajama-wearing, glass-of-wine-every-once-in-awhile-and-damn-it-tastes-good haze. The other day, I started putting away some of Baby Girl's smallest clothes. How has she grown out of things already? But then I think about all the things she is starting to do - the smiling, laughing, the foot-grabbing, the toy-holding (sort of), the interaction, the squeals - and I can hardly wait for the next stage.

I have a friend going through her first IVF this month. We had lunch yesterday. And I remember being her: alternating between hope and despair, between joy and fear, between craving baby-holding and wishing all pregnant women and babies would disappear off the face of the earth. I have so much hope for her.

It has been nearly a year since our Beta Day, and then the Next Beta Day which was, for me, a much scarier experience post-ectopic-pregnancy. Most of the time, I can still hardly believe this is my life. That I am someone's mom. I still think I will wake up from a dream one day.

It's not all bliss and perfection, of course. If my husband complains one more time that he is tired after having gone to bed significantly before me and then sleeping through the bout of fussies it takes to get Baby Girl to sleep, I will kick him someplace sensitive. (He is a great dad, by the way. But anyone who complains to me about being tired does not get a lot of love. And I say this even though I have a baby who sleeps pretty damn well. Here's to those of you still waking up multiple times per night: you're my heroes.) We still have a ways to go in terms of Establishing A Napping Schedule, but I'm not terribly worried about it. Yet. The nipples are still sore much of the time. I have accepted this. Mostly.

I'm still not in too many pre-pregnancy pants. The Belly (have you read Kate's post on this? you should) is flabby. To be kind. But my arms are getting stronger, thanks to the 12-pound weight I carry around with me most of the time.

Sex? Well. I'm sure we'll have it again regularly. Eventually. I assume.

So, here we go - off into the rest of our lives, post-maternity-leave. Into the everyday, working parent world. But, as a friend of mine wrote to me the other day, "I came to understand gratitude in a whole new way once I had my kids." She struggled for years to have her second. And I think she's right: even though people mostly say, "I never knew what love could be until I had a child," it's gratitude I feel most deeply these days. For this messy, sometimes exhausting, drooly, spit-up-on, waking-up-just-to-make-sure-she's-still-breathing life.

Wow, that is a huge spot of spit-up I just noticed on the hardwood floor.

Oh well.

everybody hurts, sometimes

2011-01-20T09:13:00.000-08:00

In addition to Baby Girl, my family has two other small kids: my niece, 2 years old, and nephew, six months. There are a lot of great things about having cousins close in age: sharing parenting challenges, hoping they'll be good friends as they grow up, hand-me-down clothes.

And there are some not-so-great things.

My nephew is the son of my youngest brother and his wife. They live about 15 miles away - not a long distance, but traffic makes it a longer trip than you'd think. So we don't see them as often as my niece. That's part of the problem, I suspect.

Another part of the problem is my sister-in-law, who is a fiercely intelligent, creative, and thoughtful person, but who is also, to be frank, a little arrogant. Sometimes a lot arrogant. I always knew she was this way, and I always suspected that parenting would sharpen that edge - much as it brings out the best and worst in all of us, at times. My own tendency to be impatient increases exponentially at 1:00 in the morning when Baby Girl is awake and fussy and I know she's tired whydoesn'tshejustsleepfortheloveofitall. I know, too, that my own dislike of unsolicited advice has not completely stopped me from sharing some of my own. And that, to my deep horror (even as the words were coming out of my mouth), I have already uttered the phrase, "people without kids just don't understand." (Oh, how I hated myself afterward for saying that.)

So, when we get together and I hear a lot of how much more my sister-in-law knows - "oh, wait until she's teething," "we've never had that problem," "you shouldn't even expect her to have a schedule and it will change anyway," "oh, you're supplementing with formula?" - I try very hard to swallow the harsh responses that pop up in my head. They won't do anybody any good. And I suspect that, a lot of the time, she doesn't realize what she sounds like. Because she's a very good mother. And she loves my brother, and he loves her, and they both adore their son.

Who, as you might remember from a previous post, is deaf. He is in all other respects a perfectly normal, delightful, funny, chatty, slightly fussy, strong, and mostly happy little boy. Because there is no family history of hearing loss on either side, his diagnosis came as a deep shock. And it has remained so these past six months.

My sister-in-law's "know-it-all" attitude has sharply increased in those months. Partly because, at least in comparison to the rest of us in the family, she does, in fact, know it all about infant hearing loss. She's practically earned a doctorate in research, and I admire her tenacity. They are completely committed to doing all they can for him as they wait for the final decision about his eligibility for a cochlear implant. They're working with specialists and early intervention programs. No baby could have better advocates.

But the other night, when we were all together celebrating my birthday, something occurred to me. We walked into the house and began talking to our nephew, trying to use the "hello" signs they've taught us, looking right into his eyes and speaking clearly, as they've requested. We smiled and talked to him and he looked at us with his trademark skepticism, as he (much like his father at that age) is not very sure about strangers these days. My brother asked to hold Baby Girl, so we handed her over.

And my sister-in-law did the same thing I realized she's done since Baby Girl was born: she showed no interest in her whatsoever.

I began to realize this over the next few hours. She has never asked to hold her. While we rushed over to the birthing center the night our nephew was born, they didn't come to meet Baby Girl until she had been home for several days. And since then, she has never asked about her. Except to give advice. No interest in how she's doing, and she hasn't even looked much at her when we've been together. I don't think she's ever said her name out loud.

I started to simmer with rage. She knew how long we had tried for this child. She knew how hard it was to try (or claimed she did, when they told us they had been trying for a year and understood how hard infertility was, and then got pregnant the next month while we started year four). And now - nothing. All the efforts we've made to learn about their child's diagnosis, to read the research they send, to respect the decisions they make - topped off by their Christmas gift to everyone of "resources about deafness" which they expect us to read and watch and share with each other - because, you know, I have nothing but time on my hands these days - and we smiled and said, "what a good idea," because it partly was, even if it was also a gift that said, "your Christmas present is all about us."

Oh, it was hard not to tell her off. IT IS NOT ALL ABOUT YOU, the voices in my head wanted to say out loud. Why can't you show interest in someone else, for a change? Why can't you ask how my child is, instead of it always being the other way around? I want to tell you about my child, just like you want to tell me about yours. I want to talk about how she smiles and laughs when I talk to her...

...and then it hit me like a ton of bricks, that in spite of how sensitive I claim to be, I've been missing it all along. Most likely, every stage my child goes through is a reminder to her of how it wasn't for her child. The only question she's every asked about Baby Girl came late in the evening, when I was making spitting noises at her to make her laugh: "does she try to imitate you?" "Yes," I said, and just as I was going to add, "whenever we talk to her she gets a huge smile," I realized that my arrogant, pain-in-the-ass sister-in-law is probably grieving the fact that her son cannot hear her voice. He hears something these days, with his hearing aids, but no one knows yet how much. And, at any rate, he certainly doesn't hear his parents the way our daughter hears hers.

So here we were, two hurting moms: one who is stung by her sister-in-law's total lack of interest in her daughter, one who is watching that daughter and wondering what it would have been like if her son could hear like her. Two moms who have been a little snippy with each other, much like many parents can be, one-upping each other with "how much harder it is for me" stories. Two moms who are perfectly right to feel the way they do, even as those feelings are carving out a chasm between them.

I'm still not over it, really. I still think she could show a little more interest. I will still have to work on swallowing my instantly-irritated responses when she goes on lecturing rants about how no one can understand why parenting her child is so much harder than anyone else's has ever been. (I am exaggerating. Slightly.) A big part of this is just her personality, the darker side of which has been brought out by her son's deafness.

But when I am tempted to judge her for this, I am going to try to remember that I am not so different. That I don't know what it's like to walk in her shoes. That I do not have to get sucked in by her rants and arrogance and defensiveness, although it's pretty damn hard to resist.

That everybody hurts, sometimes. And striking out at her will not make me feel any better.

Or maybe I should try an easier New Year's resolution. Like world peace.

Days of Grace: 1-15-11

2011-01-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

I've always loved how Sprogblogger writes about days of grace - giving thanks each day, even for things that seem small. I preached a sermon once about the Jewish tradition of naming 100 Barakot - 100 'thank-you's' each day. Getting to 100 is pretty all-consuming, which is pretty much the point.

So, I may not get to 100. But today is my birthday (38! yikes) and it feels like a good day to say thanks. For:

1. Baby girl has been consistently sleeping from 11:30pm or so until 7:00am or so for the past three weeks. There is a God. And yes, I realize that this might change at any time. So I'm enjoying while it lasts.

2. My husband is going to make a carrot cake for me today. This should be 1.) tasty and 2.) entertaining.

3. I made an appointment for a massage today. Hallelujah.

4. Got to see the Harry Potter exhibition last week. AWESOME. And, in honor of the fun, I have embarked on a HP-watching marathon during which I can exclaim routinely, "I saw that costume at the exhibition!" without being embarrassed because, you know, this is a nice thing about 11-week old babies: they are not very judgmental.

5. I am still delighted every morning when I take a shower and don't throw up afterward. Nine months of throwing up is hard to get over.

6. Tonight my parents are taking Baby Girl overnight. Excellent birthday present. I am a little nervous and suspect that I might actually get less sleep without her, but they are SO EXCITED about this that I feel like I'm doing them a favor. Very "O. Henry-Gift of the Magi" over here.

7. Found a really good consignment store yesterday. Four outfits for Baby Girl = $20. Sweet.

8. My nipples are no longer sore-as-hell. Sometimes they are sore-as-purgatory, but this is a vast improvement.

9. Have I mentioned the Baby Girl smiles? Oh, the smiles. I would do anything for one of those. Luckily, they happen pretty frequently.

10. Since I can hear her waking up from the morning nap, I'll just mention one more: cute boots as a birthday present. Loves me some boots.

Happy Saturday!

an update from the trenches

2011-01-05T10:09:00.000-08:00

First off, let me just report that I have, at long last, had a Major Success today:

I have gotten my child in that damn Moby wrap.

I know they make it look all crunchy-granola easy on the instructions website, but that thing is nearly impossible. I've tried it twenty times since she was born, and all I got was a screaming baby strapped to my chest for twenty seconds, and a mother who was convinced that she was cutting off all circulation in said baby's legs. So we switched to a different kind of wrap style, and it may be working. For the moment. She's sleeping in it, which gives me TWO WHOLE HANDS to do stuff! Like write on the blog! (Not laundry, or dishwasher-emptying, or bed-making. No. Nothing like that. More important stuff.)

My next goal is to master the art of eating cupcakes while baby sleeps in the Moby wrap, but that is doctoral Moby work. I suspect my child's first solid foods may be the crumbs she inhales while in this thing. C'est la vie.

Apart from the Mobytrauma, life is good in this house. I hesitate to write this out loud lest 1.) many readers hate me and 2.) my child then decides to change her mind altogether, but (I'll whisper it to you) she is sleeping through the night. At eight weeks. Holy shit, people. That is all I could ever have asked for as a Christmas gift, and more. By "sleeping through the night," I mean, "from 11:30pm or so until 5 or 6am," but that is pure gold. Daytime naps are a bit more hit-and-miss.

On the breastfeeding front, things are improving. Slowly. She's gained weight and has been almost entirely off the formula for awhile. The nipples are still remarkably red, but not nearly as sore. However, we seem to have begun the Era of Boob Wrestling, in which baby latches onto boob as if it will save her life, and then moves her head around like a freaking bobblehead doll while eating. Not so great. Weight gain tells us she's getting enough milk, so I don't think it's that, but dude: that hurts. If you have tips on this one, I'd love to hear them.

We survived the No Good Very Bad Baby's First Vaccination Day on Monday (although I did learn that I will definitely need to take those days off work, as it leads to Epic Fussiness). No fun for mama or baby. But the nurse was as quick as possible, I nursed her right afterward, and we made it.

Christmas with baby? Great. Traveling a should-have-been-four-hours-but-reckless-stupid-trucker-who-can't-drive-in-snow-induced-six-hour-drive? Not so great. You know how you have these visions of How Things Will Be When I Have a Baby? Visions which are usually intensified by years of infertility? My Christmas vision: sitting in church with my child, singing "Silent Night" by candlelight, giving thanks for the Best Gift Ever. My Christmas reality: running out of church with screaming child who needs to nurse, breastfeeding through most of the hymns I love, and then child being held by Grandma while I sang "Silent Night," thinking, "huh. This is not quite what I pictured." But it was good nonetheless.

I have some more posts running through my head, but I may be pushing our Mobytime a bit. Excuse me while I go pick cupcake crumbs off my kid's head. Hopefully I'll be back sooner next time.

just what you wanted for Christmas: breast pump poetry.

2010-12-24T08:03:00.001-08:00

Inspired by true events of about two weeks ago.

Really.

I am not making this up.

Twas a few weeks post-partum, when all through the house

The mom, baby napping, unbuttoned her blouse.

The pump had been unpacked, her nipples so red,

It seemed like the time to try this thing instead.

The baby was nestled all snug in her bed,

While visions of mom's breasts danced in her head.

And mamma sat reading directions galore,

from the pump she had purchased at Baby Box Store.

She connected the pieces, she plugged the pump in,

And sat at the table, ready to begin.

"My own dairy farm," she smiled, stuck the flange on her breast

And settled in - now, let the pump do the rest.

When what to her wondering ears should then ring,

but the bloody damn doorbell! Listening,

she thought she'd ignore it, and then realized

It's prob'ly FedEx. They won't compromise.

They'll take that good package and return it so fast,

they'll make us drive all the way out to their warehouse, out past

the mall and the traffic and shoppers, oh my;

might as well get the door now, she sighed.

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

she whipped that pump off ("Ouch," she said, with a frown)

And carefully put the milk bottles down.

She pulled up her shirt and she ran to the door

As the engine on FedEx Guy's truck gave a roar.

"No, wait!" she cried, grabbed the box, and signed with a smile,

Got back in the house and looked down for awhile,

Realizing she had on old pj's, with a stain

That was clearly the milk squirting out. What a pain.

So she dashed back to pump, hooked herself up again

and settled back in to finish what she'd begun.

And then in a twinkling she heard it once more-

The doorbell. AGAIN. "How is this?" the mom roared;

there's been no one to visit for days at a time!

Why now? Why again? Don't they know I'm all primed?

But Christmas is coming, and she's shopped all online

Which means packages show up at any old time.

So she pulled the pump off, nipples stretched out so far

they might never return. Will they fit in the bra?

Twas the postman this time, his dimples so merry,

his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry.

She grabbed the box quickly, ran back inside,

and hooked it all up again, for just one more try.

Alas - not to be this time, the nipples are done.

Two times interrupted is not so much fun.

She packed it all up. She'll try again later.

She's learned one thing for sure, lessons here to be shared:

If FexEx or postman you seek to arrive,

wishing a box to your home they would drive;

just hook up your breast pump and pull down your top -

they'll be there in moments, and you'll have to stop.

And you'll hear them exclaim, 'ere they drive out of sight;

"Happy pumping to all, and to all a good night."

Happy Holidays to all.

From someone who occasionally has a little too much time on her hands.

just because

2010-12-19T22:09:00.000-08:00

Just because sometimes, when you have put clean pajamas and a sleeper on this cute girl, and then realized you forgot the nighttime (i.e. disposable) diaper, so you change it real quick, and then hear her completely fill it with poop, and so you are changing real quick again into nighttime diaper number two, during which she completely shits all over said diaper, pajamas, sleeper, changing table cover, and mom's hand...

the face still makes you smile.

rubber, meet road.

2010-12-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

Well. It's been a fussy day at this house. One of those days when I have to concentrate hard and think about being in the RE's office, or undergoing the IVF retrieval or transfer, or all the times I cried after getting my period, and remember how much I wanted this very beloved, adorable, fussyfussyfussyfussy girl in my arms.

She's not normally like this (and right now she's "sleeping" - as in, resting her eyes until he takes his finger out of her mouth and she starts crying again - with her dad, giving me a blessed few moments to myself). So maybe my tolerance level for fussiness is not as high as others' might be. We did have a good morning; we went out (woohoo! out of the house!) and got her photo taken with Santa which, if I might say so myself, is freaking ADORABLE. We did a few other errands. And then we got home, and...

F-U-S-S-Y. For no reason whatsoever. Hungry? No. Dirty diaper? No. Gas? Maybe, but who can tell? Tired? Probably, but you can't force sleep on people. (Although you can close your eyes and try to will people into sleep, but I have found this method unsuccessful so far.)

She's a pretty easy baby in the grand scheme of things, but even "easy" babies are a lot of work.

I feel the need to include all the standard disclaimers: I love her, she's worth every second of frustration, I wouldn't trade it for the world...but, let's face it. Fussy babies are no fun. Sometimes, I simply remind myself: today is just one day. Tomorrow is another day.

Parenting advice from Scarlett O'Hara. Might not be the best idea.

because I just can't stop talking about my boobs

2010-11-30T09:41:00.000-08:00

(Side note: how many random visitors will I get for including the word "boobs' in the title of this post?)

I told my mom yesterday that I never imagined I would talk about - not to mention display - my nipples to so many people. I'm practically at the point of whipping them out on the street and asking people, "do you think this is normal? Does this look like a yeast infection? What would you do in my situation?" However, I'm pretty sure this would get me arrested, and "detained for public nudity" is not something I really want in my permanent file, especially given the whole "minister" thing.

So, yesterday we went to the tongue-snipping doctor. She was very kind, and agreed that yes, baby girl did indeed have a tongue-tie problem. (RELIEF.) She and her assistant checked my nipples and both felt that I probably do not have a yeast infection (BIGGER RELIEF), but that I'm suffering from "mechanical damage." Weird term, yes? But reflects my suspicion, that it's simply her inability to latch correctly which is the major problem. I'd been thinking that over the past week, mostly because the nipple cream, anti-fungal stuff and ibu.profen fix I was given to address the potential yeast infection was doing absolutely no good.

So, they weighed her first, and we had good news: since the formula supplementation started, the kid had gained nearly a pound in five days. Nine pounds, up from 7 pounds 14 ounces a week ago. Yay! Visions of Terrible Awful Big Bad Things Wrong began to fade from my mind. To be replaced with a quick vision of Morbidly Obese Baby, but I think we can let that one go. And then we talked about the tongue for a bit, and the doctor told me I could watch or leave the room, or do whatever I liked, and I was definitely going to watch until she pulled out the little scissors and I decided nope...couldn't do it. Baby girl hated it, naturally, but it was over quickly. I felt horrible for a moment, knowing it was painful (although not much, most likely) but I kept telling myself that it was much better to do this now than to discover she'd need this done at age 3, or 5, or 10, or whatever.

A few moments of intense screaming later, she latched right on, and we're already doing better. Much less pain. We'll stick with formula supplementation until we see the doctor next week, at which point we'll probably start to wean her off.

Meanwhile, she's amusing herself staring at the (apparently) fascinating yellow quilt on the couch. Between that and light fixtures, she hardly ever needs anything else to look at. What could be more interesting?

sigh.

2010-11-24T22:11:00.000-08:00

Repeat to self: do not panic. Do not panic. Do. Not. Panic.

So, we went back to the doctor today for a second weight check, since baby girl was not at her birth weight last week. As of today, she's at - exactly the same weight as last week. Just shy of eight pounds. Not an ounce gained (or lost, as my husband tried to point out while I wept).

The nurse did not freak out. I, of course, did. For two reasons: one, I am - being a worrier and also a bit shy on sleep - convinced that this means there is something terribly, horribly wrong and that we are beginning a long slide into Something Awful And As Yet Unknown, which is the worst kind of Awful there is. And two, because - although it is getting better by the day - breastfeeding is still definitely not painless, which means I have been feeding her eight times a day, every day, painfully, and she has not gained anything as a result. This is depressing, to say the least.

I cried all the way home, imagining all the Bad Things and thinking about all the breast pain, and resolved not to torture myself with Dr. Google. Which I mostly managed to avoid, although I did reassure myself by doing a little research on tongue-tied babies - who do, indeed, often have trouble gaining weight. We have an appointment on Monday to get her frenulum clipped, so hopefully that will make a good difference for both of us.

Her physician was not available until Monday, which meant I had all weekend to worry. But, at about 7:00pm, the physician called our home (inspiring in me lifelong devotion to this woman) to chat about it. It turns out she had actually lost an ounce from last week (the baby, not the doctor. I mean, maybe the doctor lost an ounce too, but she probably wouldn't call me at home to talk about this). So, the doctor recommended supplementing with formula.

I had two reactions to this: one, profound disappointment at having to take that step. Failing at breastfeeding (I know, I know, I'm not failing, but it feels that way) seems like Infertility Redux - yet one more thing my body is supposed to be able to do, and can't. Or won't. Or whatever. One more reproductive arena in which I have given it my all and I still can't do it without intervention. This is frustrating.

But I was also profoundly relieved: that she called, that there is something we can do, that she was concerned but not freaked out, that she was very supportive of breastfeeding and wants me to continue that, and return to exclusive breastfeeding as soon as we get some more weight on this kid. I breastfed her tonight and gave her a bottle afterward, and she sucked down two ounces like there was no tomorrow - hopefully this will get us over the hump.

This isn't how I thought things would go. I really thought my sheer willpower would make breastfeeding work. (I also thought sheer willpower would get me pregnant; apparently I am a slow learner.) I'm still a little fragile about this, so if you have rooted objections to formula, please don't let me know. Sometimes, you do what you have to do. You make the best decision you can and trust that even your mistakes will get worked into something okay in the end.

Either that, or my kid can blame a brief period of formula supplementation for her problems when she goes on Oprah in twenty years.

well, that explains it.

2010-11-19T09:00:00.000-08:00

The breastfeeding saga continues...

Two nights ago - the dark night of the soul - I was about ready to give up. The pain was only getting worse; I cried before (and during) every feeding, knowing how badly it would hurt. Baby girl seemed to be getting enough to eat, although she wasn't gaining as much weight as we'd like; still a few ounces shy of her birth weight after two weeks.

Mostly, though, it was the pain. I could pump just fine, but latch that baby on and holyfreakingmotherofgodandalltheangelsinheaven it could have been used as a torture device for getting information out of suspected terrorists. I would have given you every secret I knew if it would stop the pain.

So, back to the lactation consultant yesterday. It turns out that I have a.) a yeast infection. About which I was freakishly delighted; I know they're a bitch to get rid of, but at least it was something real. An actual problem. Not just me. I always thought I had a reasonable level of pain tolerance, but after barely being able to handle contractions at 2cm dilated and then weeping through breastfeeding, I was beginning to think I might be a closet wimp. But no! "Wow," said the consultant after looking at my nipples, "I bet that really hurts." I practically wept with thanksgiving that she acknowledged it.

But wait! There's more. I also have b.) a baby with a short tongue who may need to have her frenulum clipped. ("Tongue-tied," in other words.) This probably explains half the pain, because she really can't latch on correctly. No matter how much of my boob I stuff in her mouth, she still ends up on the tip of the nipple because her tongue can't get around it as it should.

At one point, the consultant stopped in the middle of a sentence and said, "I'm giving you a lot of information here - is it too much?" "No," I said, because it was such a relief to know that there are actual problems, and that it's not just me - it's not that I have no pain tolerance, or that I can't breastfeed correctly, or that I don't have enough milk. The tongue problem also explains the tepid weight gain: she's not getting as much as she should at each feeding. And the yeast infection explains why my breasts hurt all the time, all day long, not just when she eats.

I have never been so relieved to have problems with names. For the yeast infection, I have a prescription nipple cream and the instruction to take ibu.profen every four hours for at least a week. "Can you be religious about this?" asked the consultant, which made me giggle a bit; "I specialize in being religious," I thought, but all I said was, "absolutely." For the tongue problem, we have an appointment with an occupational therapist on Monday; she'll either give us some exercises to do by pushing down on her tongue, or she'll tell us we need to get the frenulum clipped, which freaks me out a bit but is apparently not a big deal and a quick recovery for her. She also taught us a slightly different sort of latch, which is already relieving a great deal of the pain.

Last night, she was eating on the less-sore side, and I suddenly panicked. I worried that she wasn't getting enough. And then I realized why I was panicking: because it didn't hurt. At all. For the first time. She was happily sucking away, and neither of us was crying, and it finally felt like we might be able to do this.

I realize that "intact nipples" is not necessarily the thing I should mention at the dinner table when we go around the circle on Thanksgiving and mention the things for which we are grateful. But believe me, my Thanksgiving list this year is specific and simple:

Thank God for this beautiful child.
Thank God for lactation consultants.
And thank you, God, for intact nipples.

Amen to that.

breastfeeding...sucks.

2010-11-09T16:53:00.000-08:00

The truth is, I think we've finally turned a corner. (Note that I did not say, THE corner. Fate laughs at those who make such claims.) Things are improving on the breastfeeding front, but I believe it is no coincidence that today, in the mail, I received a free sample of infant formula. They just know, don't they - those formula people - that women whose children are about 10 days old and who are weeping with nipple pain are ripe for the "oh, screw it, this formula arrived in the mail and I think my nipples are about to fall off" reaction.

I'm on to you, Formula People. And I WILL NOT BE DEFEATED.

I know there are legitimate reasons why people choose not to, or cannot, breastfeed, so this is mostly definitely not a post judging anyone's choice. I really wanted to breastfeed, so I went to the class (I even dragged my husband along, who admitted later that it actually was pretty helpful). I researched pumps, so I could keep breastfeeding when I went back to work. I stocked up on lanolin (thank God) and I bought a box of breast pads for my newly-purchased nursing bra. I was set.

Unfortunately, they do not sell extra nipples at the Baby Industrial Complex Store. Now THAT would come in handy.

So far, our breastfeeding diary looks something like this:

Day 1: baby is born. Nurse helps us breastfeed within an hour of birth. Recommends the "football hold," which feels a little odd at first but works fairly well. All seems okay.

Day 2: go home with baby. No nurse to help. Husband and self manage to maneuver baby into football hold with relative success, six pillows, and four towels. Kind of time-consuming, especially at 2:00am. But baby seems happy.

Day 3: downhill slide begins. Baby does not want to latch on. Husband is worried that I am not producing enough milk. I am worried that I might kill husband for such suggestion at 2:00am. Milk has not yet arrived. Maybe child is starving to death? Panic. Burst into tears. Also, nipples start hurting. A. LOT. Post-partum appointment nurse says I have "short nipples." What to do about this? Can one elongate one's nipples? Sounds like medieval torture. Or Bush-era interrogation technique. Perhaps should call WikiLeaks for help.

Day 4: child seems to have developed allergy to left boob. Problem. Milk is now arriving and child is not adjusting to increased volume. Call hospital nurse line at 1:30am when child simply refuses to latch. Suggested that we should dribble sugar water on nipple to entice child. This works, although results in extremely sticky child and breast. Possibly we have glued child's eyes shut with glucose water. Oops.

Day 5: child seems to have recovered from glucose water incident but is still not a fan of left boob. Visit world's nicest lactation consultant (thank heavens for these people) who weighs child after feeding and assures panicky parents that child is, in fact, getting enough to eat. Consultant says short nipples are quite common (relief) and child will probably learn to latch just fine. Nipples, however, register routine complaint of EXTREME PAIN.

Day 6: "pain" now relative term, as nipples hurt like SONOFABITCH for the first few seconds and then pain subsides. Realize must stop swearing in front of child at some point but, fortunately, child does not understand that mother is whispering "fuckfuckfuckfuck" during midnight feedings instead of sweet lullaby.

Day 7: lanolin cream seems to be helping. Also, changing breast pads each time (huh: should have read directions earlier) is definitely good idea.

Day 8: if child could just eat every three hours instead of 2, nipples would be much happier. Also, milk is now flowing freely and child is gulping like piglet, probably to save herself from drowning. Results in much gas pain for poor baby. Fortunately, daddy has excellent child-burp-inducing skills.

Day 9: late-night scream-fest probably due to left-boob-over-production-gulping phenomenon. Decide to feed from left breast first and then right. Seems to help.

Day 10: pediatrician appointment confirms that child is gaining appropriate amount of weight. Nipples sigh with relief, as are willing to take one for the team as long as there is progress. First public breastfeeding in doctor's office reception area goes well, thanks to handy stylish boob cover. Very cool. Feel like chic mom. But would chic mom wince with pain and use labor-style breathing techniques to survive latch? Who cares. Screw chic mom.

It really is getting better. But it's hard. And "it doesn't hurt if you do it right" is up there in my book with, "early labor is characterized by contractions which are generally painless." I'm happy that my kid seems to have the sucking reflex of a Dy.son vacuum cleaner, but I also understand why people give up on this. We're just taking it one day at a time. One nipple at a time.

a birth story

2010-11-06T10:29:00.001-07:00

I have a few minutes to myself - baby girl is currently sleeping on her daddy's chest (one of her favorite spots, and where she sleeps best) and I actually got a few hours sleep last night, so it may be possible for me to string a few sentences together. We'll see.

At any rate, I know if I don't write down this story soon, much of it will disappear from my mind, lost in a haze of "how many times has she pooped today?" (general answer: A LOT) and "how much more can my nipples hurt?" (general answer: A LOT).

Last Saturday, I woke up at 2:00am with what felt like really strong menstrual cramps. I was two days overdue and had decided, that night before bed, that I was possibly the first woman in the history of the world who would stay pregnant the rest of her life and never actually give birth. It sounds silly now, to be so impatient after only two days (well, nine months and two days) (four years, nine months and two days), but seriously: this pregnancy felt like it would never end.

We'd had more sex that last week than in the previous nine months combined, and yes, we did on Friday night - maybe that did it, or maybe she was just ready, but by 2:30am I had woken up my husband and told him it might be time to pay attention. I got up then and started walking around during the contractions, which were surprisingly (to me) strong and painful. That whole, "early labor is characterized by contractions which are generally painless" thing? Crock. Of. Shit.

By 6:00am, I was facing two problems: one, the contractions were PAINFUL and no longer the kind I could talk through; and two, I was throwing up absolutely everything which hit my stomach, including water. Given that "nausea" has been the hallmark of this pregnancy, it seemed appropriate to go out with a vomiting bang, but I was worried about being dehydrated. And, throwing up while having a contraction is every bit as unpleasant as you'd imagine.

My worst fear was getting to the hospital and having them tell me, after all that pain and vomiting, that I was only 2cm dilated. We got there. They examined me. I was 2cm dilated. SONOFABITCH. So, they sent me to walk around the hospital for an hour. I came back. I was "slightly over" 2 cm dilated (and I have a feeling she put in the "slightly over" to keep me from bursting into tears). So, they recommended we go home until the contractions were 2-3 minutes apart, or my water broke. They gave me a shot of morphine to take the edge off, which also had an anti-nausea component, and thankfully, that did end the vomiting.

We got home at 9:00am. The morphine was having no effect whatsoever, but I decided to lay in bed and try to rest between contractions (HAHAHAHAHA). At 9:24am, while my husband was making himself breakfast, my water broke. So, back to the hospital - where they admitted me, and where, at 11:00am, the anesthesiologist gave me the blessed epidural. That man must hear, "I love you," more than any other staff at the hospital.

After that, things progressed well. I was about 5cm dilated when I got the epidural, and although I could feel some sensations now and then - and every once in awhile the epidural started to wear off a bit on my right side - the pain was gone. We had two scares with her heartbeat; one in particular got 6 labor nurses in the room to quickly flip me onto my hands and knees until everything went back to normal. A scary few moments, but thankfully, all it required was that I laid on my side from then on.

By 5:30pm, I was completely dilated on one side, but not quite on the other. (Weird. Never heard of that.) We tried a few other positions, but finally, the doctor decided I would just have to start pushing and she would try to maneuever the baby around the very small lip of cervix remaining. By then, I could definitely feel the need to push - no pain, but a lot of pressure. One big push and she was past the cervix, and then another 45 minutes of pushing and...baby!

Because we didn't know the gender, the nurses had told my husband they would hold the baby up to him and let him announce it. Keep in mind that this is a man who gets lightheaded when discussing blood (and who has to keep his eyes shut during certain portions of Grey's Anatomy), so we were a little concerned about his ability to hang in there, but he was amazing. He held my right leg and watched the whole thing - and, when she was born, he cried, "it's a girl!" paused, and then said quizically, "isn't it?" because, let's face it, there's a lot of stuff going on there - cord, blood, nurses' hands, tears, relief. But he was right. She was here. Finally.

She cried at first, but they laid her on my chest immediately and then she stopped crying and stared at her parents, who were crying enough for everyone anyway. It was, as everyone says, the most amazing moment of my life so far. I know the doctor kept working down there, but I didn't pay any attention. I had two small tears, so I have a few stitches - but she could have been tattooing her name on my hoo-ha and I wouldn't have cared. All we could look at was this little girl. Haven't stopped staring at her since.

She is one week old today. At this time last Saturday, we were eagerly awaiting the anesthesiologist. And the week has been something of a blur - but wonderful. She eats every few hours, and mostly sleeps inbetween. When she's awake, she makes funny faces and stares at us as if she is trying to memorize our features (this could be because we stare right back). Apart from some bumps in the road regarding breastfeeding (separate post on that later), we are doing remarkably well.

For those who are still on the waiting end of infertility, all I know is that I will pray until the end of my days that a child enters your life - through adoption, or birth, or fostering, or however - in just the right way. The privilege of being here is so enormous. Her first name will remain private, but her middle name is Grace - and that she is, a gift we don't deserve, and could never earn.

For all those who followed our journey to and through pregnancy, thank you. I'm sure my posting here will continue, though less frequently. I keep getting interrupted, you see.

But that was the only thing I ever wanted anyway.

at long last: the baby interrupts

2010-11-01T11:00:00.000-07:00

Our beautiful daughter was born at 7:15pm on Saturday, October 30. 8 pounds, 5 ounces of sheer cuteness (and, until her foolish mother proclaims this over the web, marvelous zen calm).

For privacy, we're keeping her name off the internets. But I'll share one photo, because seriously: the cuteness is hard to verbalize.

I'll post birth story details in the next week or so for those who are interested. Short version: all went very well. And I believe the epidural is the best invention of all time.

Thank you, more than words can say, for all your support along this journey. Now, for the next big adventure...

this is the day...or, not.

2010-10-28T09:32:00.000-07:00

On February 4, the day of my embryo transfer, I refused to look up the potential due date of this baby. I'd done that before, for one thing, and it just set me up for disappointment; it made everything more real, and when the ectopic diagnosis came, it felt as if those carefully built-up dreams came crashing down even further. I didn't even figure out a due date for this kid until our 7 week ultrasound at the RE's office. I remember looking at the piece of paper my RE gave me to take to the ObGyn, and reading, "Due date: October 28, 2010." Good God, I thought - that is a lifetime away.

October sounded like it was in another year, another world, another universe. Even in August, when people would ask when I was due and I responded, "October," they'd say, "oh, you have a ways to go," which was sort of true, until I realized that the end of August was only 8 weeks from the end of October. Maybe it's the change in season between the two which makes them feel so disconnected. While you're in your t-shirt and shorts, drinking lemonade outside, the last thing you want to think about is turning up the heat and getting out the umbrellas for October weather.

Once September rolled around, October felt a lot closer. It was almost fall. Life was busier again, which made the time go faster. Baby showers started to happen. The nursery was essentially ready. Every Sunday at church, someone would ask how much longer until the due date, and now, it seems like just yesterday that I was saying, "nine weeks....eight weeks...seven weeks..."

Today. There's no indication that the baby will actually show up today, of course. I was five days late. (I was also breech, and never turned, so I ended up as a c-section - thankfully we don't appear to be repeating the breech section of history here.) I had an acupuncture appointment yesterday, something my doctor had suggested when I asked about tips to get labor started, and although I had some stronger BH contractions that afternoon, they don't seem to be in any kind of pattern.

It's like waking up on Christmas morning, except your parents come in and tell you that Christmas has been moved to another day. "What day?" you ask, in great anticipation. "Well, we don't know," they say, "but you'll know it when it comes."

The bible is full of 40's. 40 days and 40 nights of rain while Noah and his family float around on the ark with all the animals. 40 years of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness before they finally reach the promised land. 40 days Jesus spends in the desert, being tempted by the devil.

What most of those 40's have in common is their location in-between the times: between rain and dry land; between wilderness and promised land; between Jesus' private and public life. You hang out someplace liminal for 40 days, or weeks, or years, and eventually, you get to where you're going.

40 weeks of in-between: good description of pregnancy. How good it is to be here, still waiting, but ready.

3...2...1...

2010-10-26T13:07:00.000-07:00

3 days until the due date.

Today was my last day of work - and it brought the conversation I've been dreading for weeks. I had to fire somebody today. I've never done this before (and earnestly hope never to have to do it again). Firing people sucks. (Getting fired is worse, I realize, but if you have any heart at all, it's not easy to deliver the news either.)

It's an enormously complicated situation, and not something to be broadcast on the internets, but it's over. The person handled it better than I had anticipated. And it's over. I did it; not the way I wanted to leave for a few months, but it's done.

Now I get to stay home and stare at my belly, chanting anything from "come on, baby, we want to meet you!" to, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT," depending on how I feel at the time. Yesterday's doctor appointment was not as exciting as I'd hoped; still just over 1cm dilated, which means - well, nothing, really. I could go into labor today. Or tomorrow. Or a week from now. At any rate, they'd bring me in for induction if baby doesn't show up by Friday, November 5th. I really don't want to be induced, so I'm hoping that the threat of the 5th will be enough to motivate this kid.

In other good news, you know what else will be over soon? Election season! No more political ads! Hot damn and hallelujah, people. I can't take it anymore. Between my chanting, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT" to this baby and, "SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP" to the politicos on television, I'm coming off a lot more cranky than I actually am.

Giuliana and Bill: waiting for the (very expensive) other shoe to drop

2010-10-20T14:02:00.000-07:00

Today, I am "working." (Today's "work" consists of an actual morning at work, followed by an afternoon of crappy television. To be followed by some actual work in the evening. But still; not exactly an over-exertion kind of day.)

Which brings us to the next episode of Giuliana and Bill: In Which Bad Things Are Projected To Happen And I Feel For Them Even Though They're Still Pretty Irritating.

2:00pm: episode starts with happiness in RE's office about positive pregnancy test. Lots of laughing and joking. Remember the total high of getting the "it's positive" call from the nurse. Such a great day.

2:01pm: G and B say "they never thought it would happen," but they "knew it would happen." Remember the same disbelief.

2:02pm: debate about when to tell people. Ah, yes; remember that too. B doesn't want to jinx it. G just wants to tell parents. B thinks it's safe to tell after 8 weeks, because then it's totally safe. Slow down, there, buddy.

2:03pm: G and B debate where they are going to live. Seems as if this would have been a good discussion to have before baby, but maybe that's just me.

2:04pm: Suspenseful Music indicates Big Decision About To Come.

2:05pm: G and B decide to live in Chicago. Recall that decision to move from one side of state to the other side involved weeks of discussions between husband and self. Apparently should put selves on reality show for quicker resolution of problems. Good to know.

2:06pm: G checks out photos of self on soon-to-be-published magazine. Must choose between 3 options. Biggest decision of own morning: blueberry or multi-grain muffin? Different life.

2:07pm: last photo indicates G has spectacular boobs. Just saying. Suspect spectacular push-up bra may be involved.

2:08pm: The Great House Search begins. G and B identify priorities. G: move-in ready. B: house will need to be worked on. Ah: think we have identified This Episode's Big Dilemma Which Will Be Solved After Final Commercial Break. Realtor sets up 2 options: one move-in-ready house; one crackhouse that will need total rehab. What will happen?

2:10pm: G and B visit house #1: House Which Needs No Work. Yowza. G approves of closet which is size of own master bedroom.

2:11pm: G cannot stop talking about "baby on the way." Realize that producers are setting us up for G and B heartbreak later on. Makes me sad.

2:12pm: House #1 is pronounced acceptable. On to House #2: looks great from the outside. Except for missing front steps and front door. Naturally, B loves it. G hates it. Find self agreeing with G. Rare.

2:15pm: G finds potential bullet shell in sun room. Convinced that house is Hob of Hell. House definitely has potential, but that's a LOT of work.

2:16pm: G keeps insisting that B does not understand the fact that her pregnancy means massive bedroom closets must already be complete. (However, would probably feel similarly if husband found massive construction project at beginning of own pregnancy.)

2:18pm: B and G must now have Important Marital Conversation in Cute Local Bistro. B wants to choose house as a 'surprise.' Think self would punch husband in face if he suggested choosing house as 'surprise.' But G agrees to this plan. Does not feel like Plotline No One Would Do In Actual Life But Somehow Seems Like "Reality" on Television. Not at all.

2:20pm: B and G meet with lawyer for estate planning. Good job. Everybody should do this.

2:21pm: distracted during B's close-up by suspicion that B has had eyebrow waxing. Eyebrows are strangely bushy-yet-orderly. Evidence of manscaping, methinks.

2:23pm: B and G argue in front of lawyer about who will take care of kids if needed. G admits her sister is a big spender. (Shocker.) But G thinks this will be okay, because she could curse her sister from heaven if she spends money recklessly. G and B call his sister to see who is in charge of her kids - they think it might be them. Isn't this the sort of thing they should already know?

2:24pm: more close-up time. Definite eyebrow waxing. Lost track of conversation for a minute.

2:25pm: G and B must go home (or, to Cute Local Bistro) to discuss will.

2:26pm: G meets friend at Cute Local Pub. (Definitely different than Cute Local Bistro.) G is trying to make friends in new hometown of Chicago. G's New Friend has Boyfriend Dilemma. Discuss. New Friend invites G to hang out with girlfriend group. Seem to remember that moving to new town and finding new friends was harder in own life, but whatever.

2:27pm: B meets with contractor friend to evaluate Crazy Crackhouse Option. B tries to convince contractor that house is "almost completely finished." Think contractor will have different feeling when he sees said "almost completely finished" holes in wall and lack of stairs inside.

2:30pm: B's sister shows up with friends to evaluate house. Contractor: "which part of this did you say was almost done?" (Knew it.) B's friend thinks it's a year's worth of work. B says four months. Kind of a chasm, there.

2:31pm: G has bought expensive leather jacket and shows it to B. B is going to put her on a budget. Good luck, dude. G plays dumb. (Shocker.) Interesting how B wants to cut G's expenses but still maintains total control over house decision. Do not care for that.

2:32pm: G at party to reveal her magazine cover. Good photo. G gives rousing speech about How Much She Loves Chicago. Then immediately flies to L.A.

2:34pm: G must pick outfits for E news. G reminds us that "no one has ever been the main anchor of E! news and been pregnant." Way to break ground, G.

2:35pm: G is worried that she is gaining weight already. Shut. Up.

2:38pm: Assistant accidentally zips G's skin into dress because she is obviously SO fat. G blames mom's cooking.

2:39pm: B decides on house. B mentions his lawyer's name for the fifteenth time. Suspect said lawyer is donating services in exchange for frequent mention of name on television. B chooses Crackhouse Needing Assload of Work. Shocker.

2:41pm: B blindfolds G so she will not know which house he chose. The suspense is killing me!

2:42pm: G tries to guess house. You would think that walking on the dirt road which should be a driveway would give it away. Apparently not.

2:44pm: B reveals that he has chosen (drum roll...) Crackhouse! Can you believe it? So surprised! Decision made after last commercial break! Also surprising!

2:45pm: G says this is "exciting" the way I would say a dead rat in my kitchen was "interesting." However, G claims she will "help" with remodel. Will be curious to see how G defines said "help." Probably cute new outfit involved.

2:46pm: show over.

Hmmm...herein lies the dilemma of reality TV. Everyone watching this show knows that Giuliana is no longer pregnant. The trailer from last week gave that away. So now we're playing games: we're watching a woman who, we know, will lose this pregnancy. But they're going to play that out as long as possible for the sake of ratings.

And that's a problem for me. I feel very manipulated by knowing what's coming and yet having to pretend as if it's not. And it's hard to explain, but every woman I know who's made it to pregnancy through infertility already feels like doom is coming most of the time, so this seems particularly exploitative.

We'll see what happens on the next episode. Because G's ditziness is one thing, but being manipulated may put me off this thing for good.

waiting

2010-10-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

Nothing left to do but wait.

I'm still "working," (quotes indicate that said "working" involves "showing up physically at work even though I hardly have anything to do at this point"). Mostly, I'm sticking around just enough so that I can hold off on starting my leave until either a.) the due date or b.) baby shows up.

Cervix check #2 yesterday indicated still about 1cm dilated, but now 65% effaced. From the brief googling I did when I got home, it sounds like most first-time births involve effacement first, so we're heading in the right direction.

The funny thing is, I've been SO eager for this show to get on the road, but when the doctor asked me yesterday if I wanted her to do anything to "speed things up," my first reaction was a quick, "NO!" Mostly because I'd rather let nature do its thing, but perhaps also indicating that I am slightly less ready than I would have myself believe. I can guarantee that I am ready to have this child exit my body. Am I ready to take that child home and parent it? Ummm.....

Yes. Am I scared? Yes. Am I worried? Yes. Am I beyond excited? Yes.

This last two-week wait is just as hard as the first one was.

infertility is the new black

2010-10-15T09:33:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm still watching Grey's Anatomy. I know, I know: it's not as great as it used to be. But it satisfies my "nearly end of the week, needing something I don't have to think about much" Thursday night dilemma. And I still love Dr. Bailey. So there.

Last night, Meredith and Derek went to a doctor to check out their baby-making potential. (My DVR description of the show says they visited an "obstetrician" - I'm hoping that, given their whole "being doctors" thing, it was an RE, but nobody mentioned any names so it probably doesn't matter.) Meredith had a miscarriage at the end of last season, in the midst of a shooting spree at the hospital, in case you didn't know.

The doctor came in with a somber face and said to them, "well, we have some things to talk about." And all we learned after that is that Meredith has a hostile uterus. Apparent diagnosis: infertility.

Meanwhile, as I was waiting for my hair cut yesterday, flipping through the pages of a recent Entertainment Weekly, I came across a description for this season of How I Met Your Mother, indicating that the married couple in that show are going to start trying to have a baby and experience fertility troubles.

And, as we know, there's always Giuliana and Bill. And the often dubiously-correct (or, flat-out, wildly incorrect) fertility storylines on Private Practice, although those have been in mercifully short supply lately.

I used to wish that infertility got more coverage in the mainstream media. You know, besides things like Octo-Mom and reality shows featuring high order multiple families. And the occasional patronizing article in the New York Times.

But now I'm not so sure. The big advantage of secrecy is that you can keep things accurate and manageable. Okay, nobody understands infertility: but at least they don't go around with half-assed information, trying to act as if they do. Full-on ignorance is sometimes preferable.

I remember reading reviews of Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan, which - while acknowledging that they are both remarkable movies in many ways - also pointed out that seeing a movie about something as horrific as the Holocaust, or as traumatic as D-Day, is no substitute for the real thing. That having people come out of a theatre saying, "now I understand what that was like," is truly insulting to those who survived those events. No, you don't understand, said the reviewer (a WWII vet). No movie, visually stunning as it might be, can give you even a glimpse of the reality it portrays.

Believe me, I'm not suggesting that infertility is on par with D-Day and the Holocaust. But there's something similar at work here, in that publicity about something - anything - can lead people to believe that they really understand it, without ever having experienced it for themselves. That gets really aggravating when you've been through it. There are no shortcuts for pain.

But, then again, there's great value in bringing things into the light. Acknowledging that the pain is real. Beginning to educate people who have made all kinds of inaccurate assumptions.

So, is it good or bad if infertility is the new black? What do you think?

giuliana and bill: the new season

2010-10-13T13:14:00.000-07:00

I thought two things: one, that I would stop watching Giuliana and Bill (but I underestimated the power of really bad reality television); and two, that if I did watch it, I would not write running commentaries on it anymore. Because, frankly, it just seemed really mean for me, at 38 weeks pregnant, to make fun of someone who is trying to have a baby. What has infertility taught me if not compassion?

So I tried to watch the first episode of the new season without my usual blog entry, and I just couldn't do it. I absolutely have compassion for their desire to have children. But, mygodinheaven, that woman is stupid as a box of rocks. And the only way to get through the show is to type my way through it. (Which brings us back to solution #1: stop. watching. this. show.)

(By the way, I realize that Giuliana may not be as stupid as she is edited to be on the show. But, she allows herself to be portrayed as such. Which is not all that bright either, in my opinion.)

So, here we go. Giuliana and Bill: the new season.

1:19pm: we start with a review of last season. Am now remembering how irritated I got by this show. However, must have missed episode wherein Generic Gay Assistant quits. DRAMA.

1:20pm: review ends with B & G in matching fur-lined jackets discussing IVF. Very fashionable. But the matching thing is weird.

1:21pm: new episode starts with clips of B & G's super, super, super busy and super important and super busy life. Apparently, they are quite busy. B says they need to realize they "can't do it all and have a baby." True that.

1:22pm: G & B try out rollerblading whilst having important IVF discussion. G is worried that she will mess up her female parts. Or that B will crush his balls in freak rollerblading accident. Scene does not at all feel like "carefully rehearsed cute scene in which couple must come to important decision before first commercial break." Not at all.

1:24pm: G sucks at rollerblading. Shocker.

1:25pm: back to Chicago. B & G meet with "IVF specialist" Dr. Kaplan. (If this show could ever use any accurate language - how hard is Reproductive Endocrinologist? - I would be less irritated.)

1:26pm: G attempts to explain IVF. Basically correct. Doctor assures them that they can plan the exact timing of IVF. Think that doctor is overselling this point a bit. Suspect that we are being set up for "massive scheduling conflict before second commercial break."

1:27pm: Los Angeles. G complains that she can't eat breakfast because she doesn't have an assistant. That certainly makes it hard for me to have breakfast. Can totally relate. Every morning, I bemoan my lack of assistant. Sigh.

1:28pm: B & G decide not to tell anyone they are doing IVF. Agree. First good decision.

1:29pm: G complains to her makeup artist and hair stylist that she has no assistant. Ah, the problems of the rich. Tragic. She gets, like, lots of emails in a day! Who can deal with that? WHO?

1:30pm: G is apparently going to spend as much time agonizing over assistant problem as fertility problems. Seems odd.

1:31pm: Back to RE's office. B & G see bags of fertility meds. Remember box that arrived in mail full of own meds and also remember feeling bit overwhelmed. Sympathize with B & G. Nurse patiently tries to explain schedule when - surprise! - B realizes Massive Scheduling Problem Ahead. (Didn't see that coming at all.) B is concerned about making a living. Suspect that B's definition of "making a living" differs slightly from self's.

1:31pm: G tries to explain OHSS. Sigh.

1:32pm: B & G argue in front of nurse about scheduling problems. G thinks maybe B is not ready for a baby. Nurse looks like she wishes she was anyplace else at this point. Me too, lady.

1:33pm: Nurse suggests B & G should talk to each other. Suspect nurse does not know that B & G are only allowed to talk in front of cameras. Apparently.

1:34pm: Dramatic Pensive Music suggests Important Marital Conversation Ahead. Yep. G wants to make sure that B definitely wants baby. G tries to explain how she feels. Completely understand how overwhelming it all is, but have distinct sense that G is performing Important Conversation for the cameras. Awkward.

1:35pm: G says she could "deal with this if" she was "just sitting on the couch all day," but she is trying to do IVF while "trying to juggle a marriage, travel, and holding down a job." Yeah. That's pretty much what all freaking women do for IVF, G. Get a grip.

1:36pm: Happy Emotional Music suggests marital reconciliation. Yep. That was quick.

1:37pm: back to E! offices. G must now have assistant, especially because she is starting IVF. Could have used assistant during IVF too. Or, today.

1:38pm: G meets potential assistant Sara. Generic Blonde Girl will now replace Generic Gay Assistant. Generic Blonde Girl is very excited.

1:39pm: back to doctor's office for egg retrieval. (Retrieval: correct word! Yay!) G hints at "lots of shots," but am disappointed that none of the stimulation phase was shown. Don't blame B & G for privacy desires, but lack of detail gives pretty vague impression of IVF procedures.

1:40pm: G is freaked out by getting IV. Would make fun of her, except that self was also semi-freaked out by same thing. Glass house = no stones.

1:41pm: G goes in for egg retrieval. B is very confident. In front of cameras, anyway.

1:42pm: Doctor is happy with 8 eggs. Happy for them: self had similar numbers. Not high, but not terrible. G is really wiped out by anesthesia. How much did they give her, anyway?

1:44pm: G is still wiped out. Achy and crampy. Sorry, G: pretty normal. Bummer, though. Realize self is lucky, as never had any major side effects from retrieval. Also suspect G just might be playing up symptoms for Dramatic Reality Show Moment. Maybe.

1:45pm: G & B are waiting for update from doctor. Remember similar wait. Sucks. B & G discuss her bowel movements. Suddenly wish self was deaf for short moment.

1:46pm: Doctor calls. 5 eggs have fertilized. 80% chance of day 5 transfer. (Transfer! Right word! Hooray!)

1:47pm: B must deal with Yet More Massive Scheduling Problems. Think B & G believe no one else has Massive Scheduling Problems in their lives. DRAMA.

1:48pm: G "cannot believe" that B will not be here for her whole bed rest. (How long is she on bed rest, anyway?) B now thinks they should call G's mom so she can come out and stay with her. G is now Super Mad because she has to call her mom and explain IVF and, somehow, manage to stay in bed for several days without her husband. How on earth do people do this? HOW?

1:51pm: G explains IVF to her mom. In Italian. Her mom has never heard of IVF. G thinks Italians don't have IVF. Suspect Italian health system would not be happy to hear this. Also suspect Italian RE's have better things to do than watch this show.

1:53pm: G admits she was embarrassed to tell her parents about IVF because she has super fertile family. Can sympathize with that.

1:54pm: B & G in for 5-day transfer. B gets to wear scrubs. Husband did not wear scrubs for transfer. Staged for TV? Perhaps.

1:55pm: Must now decide how many to "implant" (AAAAARGH) into G. Suspect they should have had this conversation earlier. Doctor suggests putting back 2. Doctor emphasizes that anything more than twins is dangerous. Appreciate that show is demonstrating how IVF does not lead to high order multiple births.

1:56pm: Transfer complete. Flashing back to own transfer procedure. Such a cool day. Feel happy for G & B. (Also remember being splayed in stirrups with giant medical spotlight on hoo-ha. Less cool.)

1:58pm: G is now in bed. She has cramps. Nope: gas. B would rather have twins. G can't decide between boys and girls. B promises to love her even if she gets fat. Which, am guessing, G would define as gaining about 2 pounds from her current weight.

Love the lovely DVR. No commercial watching needed.

2:00pm: G is making Important Entertainment Industry phone calls while laying down. On the...kitchen counter. Okay.

2:01pm: B is at Important Speaking Engagement at Ball State University. (Side note: have you noticed that, in Jack in the Box commercial with dad Jack talking to kid Jack at baseball game, dad Jack is wearing sweatshirt from Ball State? Get it? Because he has the big ball head? I think it's cute.)

2:02pm: G makes her elderly Italian mother carry her to bed. Think G might be taking "bed rest" a little too seriously.

2:03pm: B speaks about power of positive thinking. Coincidence? Certainly not!

2:03pm: G says goodbye to her mom. Then she goes to bookstore to get baby name books. Feel a little protective of G: understand positive thinking (see? Like Bill's speech! Crazy!), but worry about counting chickens before they hatch. Or implant.

2:04pm: Baby name discussion. Suspect B & G will choose name which will horrify self. Oh well.

2:06pm: 2 weeks later. Doctor's office. B & G are there for test results. (Apparently phone call would not be dramatic enough for show.) G thinks she is "preggers." All sympathy for G has evaporated with use of stupid word.

2:07pm: Doctor says the two weeks of waiting are the hardest part. Dude, you are right on. But good news: G is pregnant! Yay!

(However, have read in People magazine that G had miscarriage. So am also sad.)

Clips from upcoming show confirm that bad things are coming for B & G.

Here's the thing: as irritating as this show is, as much as it may make people think that IVF is for spoiled rich people who can't manage to be in the same city for more than three days at a time - it's also the only show with a real(ish) couple dealing with infertility. Will probably keep watching. And, honestly, cheering them on.

by the numbers

2010-10-11T20:17:00.000-07:00

I. am. tired. While I'm working up to my due date, this is my last week of appointments - and it's crammed full. And only Monday. Hmmm.

So, because I do not have the brain power for a post of full sentences with good grammar and spelling and...all that stuff, here are some of the significant numbers in my life lately:

Doctor's best guess today at baby's weight: 8 1/2 pounds (yikes)
My weight gain so far: 30 pounds
Baby shower thank you notes written: 100 (it's a long story. 3 showers. one given by 80+ people at church.)
Baby shower thank you notes yet to be written: about 30
Times I have walked into a room lately and forgotten what I'm doing there: 8
Number of pieces in the baby swing we tried to assemble tonight: 12
Number of swear words uttered during said assembly: 2 (pretty good, I thought)
Actual ankles left on my body: 0
Strangers who have asked me my due date lately: 5
Number of days left until due date: 16
Pieces of apple pie consumed in the last 3 days: numerous.
Number of baby feet currently stuck in my right rib: 1
Times I got up to pee last night: 2 (low! yay!)
Pieces of food I spill onto my belly on a daily basis: lost track.

Time for bed, I think. I will try to come up with something more scintillating tomorrow.

backseat driver

2010-10-05T10:09:00.000-07:00

We did it last night: we put the carseat in the backseat of my car.

I almost rear-ended a woman this morning while I was driving to work, because I was so distracted by looking at the actual baby carseat in my actual car which will soon have an actual baby in it.

I'm guessing this is not why they tell you to put the carseat in early, but it is a handy side effect. Hopefully, by the time this baby arrives, I will have adjusted to the 'actual baby carseat' factor and will be, therefore, less likely to harm said baby by being so distracted that I get into an accident.

Also, in the realm of "wow, this is getting more real," I had my first cervix check yesterday. My sister-in-law had warned me that it was really, really uncomfortable, and that she had elected not even to bother with those checks until later because you can walk around several centimeters dilated for weeks without going into labor, but I went ahead with it. Mostly out of curiosity. Don't get me wrong - it wasn't the kind of thing I would want to do every day, but if you've been through years of fertility testing and treatments, this was a lot less invasive than many other things you've done with your hoo-ha.

Sometimes, like when I was laying on the exam table yesterday while the doctor was doing that check, I feel like infertility has prepared me for parenthood in some really good ways. Like knowing that you can't control everything. (Or, anything.) And knowing that you can survive physical (and emotional) pain. And dealing with disappointment along the way. And remembering that, in spite of the discomfort and inconvenience and ouch get your finger out of there, this whole journey is an immense and unbelievable privilege.

And sometimes, I think that infertility has left me permanently unable to believe that this child is real and that I am going to be a parent in a very short time. If I do rear-end somebody, I think my insurance should file it under 'infertility expense.'

It's almost like infertility has made me a backseat driver in my own life, waiting for things to happen, always one step behind because I don't want to make any assumptions, always imagining the worst - never being able to trust the driver fully - because you don't want to count your chickens before they're hatched, or dilated, or whatever. And now, right next to me in the backseat, after all these years, is a carseat. Takes a little getting used to.

Apologies in advance if I rear-end you while I'm working on it.

and so it goes

2010-09-28T10:31:00.000-07:00

35 weeks, 5 days.

4 weeks, 2 days to go until the due date. Actual baby arrival? Who knows.

I am entering a new phase. I think of it as, "grateful yet cranky." I've actually been fairly surprised at how non-overly-emotional I've been over the past eight months (really, I am not making this up) - but that's come to a crashing halt. I enter into evidence last night's meeting, which was a little frustrating and would have, under normal circumstances, cost me about five minutes of venting in the car on the way home - but which, instead, caused me to drive home crying, arrive home and try to explain to my husband why I was crying, assuring him that it wasn't really that big of a deal in spite of my sobbing, and then go to bed exhausted by my own emotional reaction.

Also, I watched Steel Magnolias yesterday afternoon. Maybe not the best choice.

It's been unseasonably warm and humid here lately, which hasn't helped. And I've been working a lot of evenings, which are not my best time. It will get better, starting this week, but I'm tired.

I think about all the times I saw a pregnant woman who looked tired and heavy and just done with it all, and how I wanted to rush up to her and say, "don't you know how lucky you are? Don't you know how much I want to be you?" I wasn't wrong, then. I did want this, more than anything in the world. And I do remember that, even on the days when October 28th seems like an eternity away.

But there's a reason your body starts to rebel at the end of pregnancy; you've got to be motivated to get this kid OUT OUT OUT, and even the deepest gratitude for being pregnant doesn't mean you want to stay that way forever.

Several years ago, I found this poem based on the biblical story of Jonah. I used to read it when I was in the two-week-wait, being tortured by visions of home pregnancy tests. This wait is very different. But the poem still works. (And not just because I look like a whale.)

Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke
signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each
way for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports.
Review each of your life's ten million choices. Endure
moments of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those
before you. Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for
the sound of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound
of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your
toes pointing again and again down, down into the black
depths.

Dan Albergotti

Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. A good mantra for the next month.

34w5d

2010-09-21T10:52:00.000-07:00

I have always been someone who does better with anticipation than actuality. I love the weeks building up to Christmas, but if I'm not careful, I can look forward to the big day so much that it's kind of a letdown when it comes. It's almost never about things I anticipate receiving, by the way: it's much more likely to be about a gift I'm so excited to give that, when the person receiving it has anything less than a "OHMYGOD THIS GIFT WILL CHANGE MY LIFE" reaction, I feel a little deflated.

This has me a little concerned about parenthood.

When I got engaged, there were lots of people who wanted to give me advice about marriage. Mostly, they felt the need to say something about how much work marriage is - as if that had never occurred to me before. There's never a way to know what something is like until you do it for yourself, of course, but I always felt those comments were overly patronizing. I was, after all, 31 years old. I counsel couples going into marriage and couples who are married and couples who are thinking about not being married anymore, so I had some experience with the "it's a lot of work" theory. But people had a big need to share this.

About a year later, a friend of mine asked me if marriage was what I expected. "Mostly," I said, "but nobody ever told me how much fun it was." "What?" she asked. "Well," I replied, "a lot of people told me that marriage was a lot of work, but nobody said anything about it being fun. Which it also is." "Oh," she said, "I'm so sorry - somebody should have said that too."

I've been doing a lot of thinking about how much work parenting is. Long nights and lack of sleep. Years of worry and anxiety. Decisions to be made which feel monumental (this has been particularly on my mind, having visited a potential daycare yesterday). 24-7-365 responsibility for the life and well-being of another person. Oh, and having to squeeze said person out of your body.

It seems like most of what people are telling me about parenthood - well-meant as it is - is along the same lines as their marriage advice: "it's a lot of work." And I know this, insofar as it's possible to know something as monumental as parenthood before you do it for yourself. Maybe a lot of people felt blindsided by that realization and they don't want me to experience that shock. Maybe there are lots of people who really felt like parenthood would be a walk in the park and now they feel obligated to inform the general public that this is not, in fact, the case.

Maybe I'm overreacting to my general tendency to over-anticipate things by focusing on how much work it will be. Maybe I'm turning into freaking Woody Allen with my neurosis over this.

Maybe I'm protecting myself by imagining the worst all the time, as if imagining those things will make them not happen, or somehow prepare me in advance, when in fact all it does is give me heartburn.

Every once in awhile, someone who talks to me about parenthood says what a great thing it is, that yes, it's a lot of work, but it's also wonderful. I suppose all I really want to do today is give thanks for those people. I have no problem imagining the worst, the work, and the worry. But if you can remind me of the good stuff? I'm really going to need you around in the next month. And thanks.

how it is

2010-09-16T09:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, in my world, it is perfectly appropriate and not at all an indication of pregnancy-overwhelmed-emotion to:

1. Cheer yourself up, after heaving up your breakfast yet again, by promising yourself you can stop at Starb.ucks for a double tall decaf latte and a pumpkin scone.

2. Get slightly irritated by the fact that other people have dared to show up at your neighborhood Starb.ucks, taking almost all the parking in the very small lot and making the drive-through option unbearably long.

3. Hate the woman in line ahead of you who ORDERED THE LAST FREAKING PUMPKIN SCONE HOW DARE SHE DOESN'T SHE KNOW I WANT THAT CAN'T SHE READ MY MIND AND ALSO COULD YOU POSSIBLY TAKE LONGER TO ORDER MY GOSH MAKE UP YOUR FREAKING MIND.

4. Nearly burst into tears when the barista can't find a single other pumpkin scone in the store, even though there was a stack of them boxed in the corner (turns out those were yesterday's) (bastards).

5. Drive to a Starb.ucks three blocks away for the sole purpose of a pumpkin scone which, fortunately for all involved, they had.

6. And therefore, be 30 minutes later to work than normal.

This is all perfectly okay. In case you were wondering.

on gratitude

2010-09-10T09:40:00.000-07:00

It occurs to me, after re-reading a few of my latest blog posts, that I sound rather cranky lately.

To some extent, I am. I don't think there's much you can do about the fact that the last weeks of pregnancy are, unavoidably, uncomfortable. I don't sleep much, between the getting-up-to-pee and the hips-aching-from-side-sleeping phenomenon. (In general, I eagerly look forward to the day when I don't have the urge to pee all the time.) I feel short of breath pretty often. The BH contractions are more frequent - not enough to worry about, but they worry me anyway. The morning vomiting is not my favorite thing.

But there is something much deeper than all the temporary discomfort, and I doubt I've made that clear enough lately, both here and within myself: that I am grateful. My eagerness to finish this pregnancy is motivated somewhat by the discomfort, but much, much more by hardly being able to wait to meet this baby. And there are a million times during the day when I have to pinch myself (metaphorically) to believe that such a thing is actually happening to me, to us.

Six weeks, six days until the due date. Maybe we'll meet you earlier, maybe later. But after all these months - which seem both like the longest and the quickest months of my life - you are still real. You are still kicking and hiccuping, in spite of all my anxiety and doomsday fears. Sometimes I can hardly think about the day you will arrive, not because I'm afraid of it (well, I am, a little bit) but because the whole idea of that day fills me with such joy that I think I might burst into a million pieces just imagining it.

You know how, when you try to imagine that the universe goes on and on forever and ever, how your brain just stops at a certain point because you can't envision something so expansive? I wonder if that's why I focus so much on the discomfort of right now: because that's manageable, most of the time, and small enough to be real. Whereas this child is such a big dream, has been so unattainable for so long, that my brain just shuts off when I try to think about really being a parent.

There's fear there, for sure. I still imagine things that can go wrong, that do go wrong. And fear can make you cranky. But, bit by bit, it's being swallowed by something else. I think it's joy. And gratitude.

That's all. I just wanted to make sure you know that. And remind myself, while I'm at it.

take your advice and...

2010-09-07T10:37:00.000-07:00

Advice. The bane of every pregnant woman's existence. (I know new dads get it too, but they can hide under the radar better. The big belly thing just gives you away.)

I was prepared for getting lots of advice, because I've heard from numerous friends that this happens during pregnancy. It's a given: you get pregnant, you probably get nauseous, you'll crave something weird, and you'll get more advice than you ever wanted in your life. And they were right. I assumed I would get an extra dose of it, being in a relatively public profession. And I was right.

The people who surprise me the most with advice are the new moms. The other night, we were having dinner at my parents' house and my brother and sister-in-law were there - the parents of the seven-week old. (Who is still unbelievably adorable, by the way.) My sister-in-law - who, admittedly, has always tended a little toward the arrogant in terms of knowing better - started talking about a co-worker who is 34 weeks pregnant. "She was so excited about being at the end of her pregnancy," said my sister-in-law, "and I just wanted to tell her, 'this could go on even longer than you think, so don't get so excited.' I mean, she acts like the baby is coming right on the due date, and she just has no idea what she's talking about."

Okay. Said sister-in-law did, in fact, deliver one week late. But come on. Just a few months ago, that was you, 34 weeks pregnant, and saying - and yes, I do remember this - pretty much exactly the same freaking thing. Don't you remember getting into the single-digit weeks-left-to-wait phase? It's exciting! Because it is getting closer. It finally feels like you're getting to the end. Your co-worker is not an idiot. (And neither am I, given that I had just been talking about being glad we were getting closer to the end.) News flash: that due date is all you have to work with. I don't know a single pregnant woman who thinks her baby will magically appear on that date, but it's the date you've got. So you get excited about it. Of course.

Can you tell that I was a little irritated? I blame the hormones.

I've gotten advice about breastfeeding (do it, but it's hard, it's unbelievably hard, or, it's easy, it's great, no problems); about daycare (get a nanny, do home childcare, never do anything but a childcare center); about visitors (don't let anyone near you for the first week, welcome anybody to your house anytime, you'll need the help); about carseats (get this one, it rocks back and forth, that other one (for which I am registered) is pointless); about birth (natural childbirth is the only way to go, get an epidural, it's the best thing since sliced bread); about being ready (you never feel ready, give it up, you can definitely be prepared, read all the books); about nursing bras (don't spend too much, just get it at Tar.get, spend a ton, it will totally be worth it); and about weight gain (wow, you're huge; wow, you're tiny!)

Okay, that last one is filed less under 'advice' and more under 'totally inappropriate commentary' which, by the way, is the other thing you get a ton of during pregnancy.

I.

Don't.

Want.

Any.

More.

Advice.

Keep it to yourself.

But, in a twist of irony, I do have some advice for the general public, new moms included, on speaking with and to pregnant women. Here it is:

1. Comments on the pregnant woman's size (big, small, waddling, tiny, any similarities to large mammals or houses) is not appropriate. Ever. Even if you think you are offering a compliment. Just shut up.

2. Pregnant women do not want to hear about your birth experience. Bad stories freak us out. Good stories feel like you're rubbing it in.

3. Nauseous pregnant women do not want to hear about how you never had morning sickness during your pregnancy. Nor do they want to hear about how your morning sickness lasted all 40 weeks. SHUT. UP.

4. Remember that your 'one piece of advice' is probably joining 55 other people's 'one piece of advice' for the day. Keep it to yourself.

5. Stop staring at the stomach. My eyes still work.

6. DO. NOT. TOUCH.

7. Yes, we sit down a lot toward the end. You did too. No need to mention it every fifteen seconds.

8. Saying, "you look tired," is not helpful. What it sounds like is, "you look like crap."

9. We are still capable of discussing things other than childbirth, pregnancy, and babies. Like, for example, national politics, the war in Afghanistan, hurricanes, that movie you saw the other night - really. Anything. Anything other than being pregnant. We would welcome a change of subject. Really.

10. Yes, we are kind of cranky. It's partly the hormones. And also, we are kind of scared. But we don't like to admit it. Go gently.

Of course, you're welcome to take my advice and...

well, you get it.

here we go again

2010-09-02T10:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it was a nice 3 weeks without throwing up. And sadly, those three weeks have come to a crashing halt.

Somewhere in my reading lately, I did come across a sentence which said something like, "for some women, nausea returns in the third trimester," but I stuffed that little piece of information WAY down inside my head because surely, SURELY, the universe would not be so unkind as to inflict yet more nausea upon me when I just got over 22 weeks of it.

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Very funny, universe.

Actually, it's not precisely "nausea" this time around. It's more like, "overactive gag reflex which kicks in immediately after getting out of the shower. Every morning." I don't feel queasy at all (which adds to the list of "things I have learned while being pregnant: 1. you can be nauseous and never throw up; 2. you can throw up without being nauseous). Fortunately, it's only in the morning, and I'm a vomiting pro at this point, so I don't think it's worth going back on the zo.fran - which, after all, caused the terrible constipation and then the dreaded hemmrho....yeah. We're not doing that again.

Baby, meanwhile, is happily kicking and hiccuping away. Seriously: this kid has the hiccups multiple times daily. It makes me giggle.

And we are finally at the point where I can say, "this baby is coming next month." "Next month." Incredible.

birth class

2010-08-31T14:24:00.000-07:00

I had a minor meltdown on Saturday afternoon.

It happened after our second and final childbirth class - the one where they give you the hospital tour and talk about pain medication options and then explain what will happen post-partum, which is the part I was really interested in and I think also what put me over the edge.

The meltdown started internally, in class, but I kept it inside. I think it was primarily a "we have been here for four and a half hours and this chair is SUPER uncomfortable at this point and I have to pee and IT IS JUST TIME TO GO RIGHT NOW." I looked over at my husband, who was clearly no longer paying attention (admittedly, it was during the post-partum bit, which is naturally more interesting to me than to him, plus he has a hard time dealing with blood (I know, I know, labor, we'll figure it out) and sometimes his way of coping is to zone out and think about golf, or steaks, or something). So, naturally, I started by getting slightly pissed at him for not paying attention to this very crucial part of class filled with information he absolutely needs to know, even though I myself was barely able to get any more stuff into my head at that point.

Pregnancy: not the greatest friend to logic.

Anyway, I could feel myself wavering between, "WHAT is wrong with him?" and, "dude, I can't take any more either," and I think my brain just started to shut down. Trust me, I've thought before about what labor is going to be like, but there's nothing like six videos and a long discussion about peri bottles (take the class, I'm not explaining it to you) to make you realize that OHMYGOD I am going to have to push this actual baby out of my actual hoo-ha and that is going to HURT and it is happening real soon and there is no way of getting out of it oh shit.

Hence, meltdown. Mostly, I took a nap. I think my brain just needed to reset, like turning off your computer and then turning it back on, which fixes about 90% of the things I do to screw up my computer. And it worked pretty well. I cried for about 10 minutes when I first hit the pillow - not so much from fear (okay, a little fear) but mostly from information overload. Over the past few days, I've been able to take the class apart in my head and digest the information piece by piece, and it feels much better.

I'm glad we took the class. I feel more prepared. I know I can do this. I know I have a great hospital and great medical people to help me.

But there are a lot of unknowns out there. And it feels like they're rushing up to meet me awfully quickly these days. Because it's not just the unknowns of giving birth - how much will it hurt? how long will it take? what will it be like? - it's that those unknowns are just the beginning of a lifetime of unknowns, and they only get bigger from here.

Dear God,
Help.
Amen.

urination fascination

2010-08-24T14:57:00.000-07:00

I'm just saying that, when you feel like you have to go to the bathroom about 75% of the time and you finally give in to the temptation and practically RUN to the nearest bathroom because it feels as if you do not pee RIGHT FREAKING NOW your bladder will explode,

it would be nice if you were rewarded with more than a thimble-full of urine.

That is all. Carry on.

because I'm too lazy for anything but a bullet list

2010-08-22T18:32:00.000-07:00

Last week:

Saturday, childbirth class. Yes, we were the oldest couple there (although not by quite as much as I feared). Out of 13 couples, only two of us didn't know the gender of the baby. It was not bad - my husband wasn't overly enthusiastic about a 4 1/2 hour Saturday commitment (and next week too), but he admitted afterward that it was pretty helpful. "You know," he said while we were watching TV that night, "the whole birth process is pretty amazing."

Baby shower last Saturday was great fun - still slightly unbelievable, but fun - and I had fun today putting away lots of cute things. I did a load of baby clothes in the laundry. If laundry can be described as "surreal," that load certainly was. Actual baby clothes are now being put away in the nursery. Weird. And wonderful.

The highlight of said baby shower was the assistance of two four-year old girls who opened the packages for me. Almost every package involved tissue paper of some kind. And each time we opened something, one of the girls in particular would say with excited awe, as if she had never seen such glorious stuff before, "TISSUE PAPER!" Every. Time. It was awesome.

I made it through three church services today, with lots of sitting down. It wasn't as bad as I thought. And no BH contractions all morning. Cheers to that.

It's starting to feel less like "kicking" in there and more like, "I'm running out of room in here and I need to stretch and I especially need to stretch by pushing against your bladder on a regular basis." Considering that we still have 9 weeks to go, "running out of room" is a little disturbing...

I made it through a 2 1/2 hour movie in the theatre on Friday night without going to the bathroom even once. Amazing. (Mostly because it was Inception and I was afraid that even a 2-minute bathroom break would completely shatter my tenuous hold on the plot.)

I had a very small glass of wine on Tuesday night with dinner. It tasted delicious. Take that, pregnancy police. (Also: if you have not had a glass of wine in 8 months, it doesn't take much to give you a buzz. Good to know.)

And last, my brother and his wife, and our family, are doing much better about their son's diagnosis. Thank you so much for all your good wishes and kindness, and especially to whomever posted the news to LFCA.

silence

2010-08-17T20:53:00.000-07:00

The train whistle.

The marching band practicing at the high school down the street.

The whisper of the ceiling fan.

The dog barking.

His cousin asking for another piece of cake.

His mother's voice.

His father singing.

These are things my nephew, 4 weeks old, cannot hear.

Today, my brother and his wife were told that their adorable, wonderful, otherwise-perfectly-healthy son is nearly deaf. "Profound hearing loss in both ears," is what the doctor actually said. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but it's certainly not good.

He will likely be a candidate for cochlear implants, and he will have a very good life. He will be able to hear some things, eventually.

There are far worse things in life. We know this. On the other hand, there are better things too.

Sometimes you forget how fragile life is. Infertility teaches you this, and pregnancy does too, but most of the time you can only manage by ignoring this fact, because if you let it all the way into your heart, you will break into a thousand tiny pieces.

And then you begin the work of putting the pieces back together, one at a time. That's where we are today.

4 out of 5 dentists didn't see that coming

2010-08-16T17:50:00.000-07:00

The other day, my work colleague reminded me that I should just ask if I needed any help. By which he means that there are people who will help me with worship on Sundays if standing up for six hours straight is just too much (and, let's face it; it is).

Part of me thinks this is very kind and compassionate. I have a very supportive workplace for pregnancy and kids, and that's no small thing.

But because I'm in a mostly male profession, I've always steered clear of anything which would mark me as 'different.' I don't like 'girly' robes, stoles, or other liturgical gear. I never wear dangly earrings on Sundays. Don't get me wrong: I love shoes and my mostly-discount-store (how do I love thee, TJ Ma.xx? Let me count the ways) wardrobe is pretty fierce for a pastor, but I just want to be a pastor. I don't want to be "the girl pastor."

But when the girl pastor gets pregnant, it's pretty clear that she's a girl. And she may need to ask for a little help, in spite of her overabundant pride.

This was made clear to me at the dentist's office on Monday. I was just there for a routine teeth cleaning; no big deal. About 10 weeks ago, at my regular OB appointment, I asked about something I had read in one of my many "everything you need to know about pregnancy plus some stuff that will scare the shit out of you" books: namely, that after about 20 weeks, you were not supposed to lay flat on your back anymore. Apparently there is some kind of large artery running down your whole body, and when the baby lays on it, you get short of breath and lightheaded.

This was pretty depressing to me, because, at the time, lying flat on my back was about the only way I could sleep, but after visions of dying in the night while gasping for air only to have my poor husband wake to his dead wife (and he would only wake up because he realized I had not gotten up the requisite 15 times that night to pee), I decided to check with the doctor. Sadly, she confirmed this advice. Lying on my side was recommended.

Frankly, I never really believed it. I obediently slept on my side, to the detriment of my hips, but I never really bought into the whole "you'll get lightheaded if you sleep on your back" theory.

Until I went to the dentist.

I had to sit up five times during the teeth cleaning, because I keep feeling like I was going to pass out. It. Was. Humiliating. The hygienist was unfailingly nice about it, but seriously: who knew? I laid there, getting clammy and lightheaded and watching the blackness close around my eyes while the mint toothpaste churned in my mouth, until I finally had to admit it: I need help. I need to sit up. I am a girl, and I am pregnant, and apparently, I cannot fake "I'm fine! It's all fine! It's no big deal!" any longer.

Sigh. Yet another blow to the pride. Right in the incisors.

nursery update

2010-08-06T09:02:00.001-07:00

Given that today's 'baby status update' says, "baby is preparing to see the world after birth," I thought I'd post some photos of what baby actually will see...eventually.

The nursery is coming along fairly well. After a little bit of drama ordering the ottoman for the glider (which the salesperson thought was discontinued until they finally figured out that was not the case), most of the major pieces are in place. I'm loving the wall mural, which I found at wallnutz.com; super cute. Like most things, it's hard to find murals which are gender-neutral and not-too-theme-y. (That's the other question I get a lot after, "is it a boy or a girl?" "What's the nursery theme?" "NO THEME," I say.)

The bookshelves should arrive this week, and the glider a few weeks after that. (Side note: I hate gliders. HATE them. Hate the look, anyway. They're like the mini-vans of chairs. I swore never to get one, until I sat in the super-cute gliding stuffed chairs from Pottery Barn which turned out to be hideously uncomfortable. Normally, I will put up with some suffering for appearance's sake - hence the purchase of several pairs of darling but pinch-y shoes. But, this time, I decided that comfort had to win out. So, glider it is. Sigh.)

The framed wall art is from Etsy.com - such a fun place to shop. For now, the bassinet is in this room, although it will end up in ours once the baby comes - it was a $35 find at the consignment shop yesterday. Between online merchants, craig.slist, and consignment shops, this nursery has been pretty inexpensive to put together.

Some days, I walk into this room and can hardly believe this is real. That a baby will come and live here. That I will end up in that glider some night practically crying with exhaustion but, I hope, also remembering the miracle it took to get me there. That someday, this baby will grow up and want me to take the cute alphabet off the wall because "it's for little kids."

Here I am, already resigning myself to my child growing up too quickly, while said child is still kicking me in the bladder. I blame the pregnancy hormones.

the rhoid less traveled

2010-07-31T10:00:00.000-07:00

Don't get me wrong - I am not complaining about pregnancy. (Right now.) But this past week...oh, boy.

I spent the week in one of my favorite places on earth, an old copper mining town far up in the mountains which has been turned into a Christian retreat center. It's an amazing place - focused on intentional community, simplicity, local food and sustainable living practices, open-minded spirituality, and sheer joy. I love it there. There's no place like it on earth.

It's also completely disconnected from the outside world: no phones, no television, no radios. Lots of time for reading, knitting, talking, coffee breaks, and homemade bread. (Oh, the bread - there are no words.) Normally, I relish the break from ringtones and news broadcasts and email and the constant pressure to be busy and do something with yourself. Admittedly, though, the lack-of-connection thing can present issues. Such as...

So, I've still been taking the anti-nausea meds. Despite numerous trials, I haven't been able to go off of them without immediate return to morning sickness. Unfortunately, the joy of no-nausea comes with the side effect of terrible-constipation. And, as tends to happen, said constipation can result in dreaded-hemorrhoids. (Thus endeth any dignity I may still have had on this blog. Whatever.)

I packed everything I thought I could possibly need for this week, given that the remote location meant I could not simply stop at the grocery store for anything I forgot. "Go to the grocery store" from this location means a 45-minute bus trip down the mountain, a 2-hour boat ride into town, an overnight stay in said town because the boat only runs once a day - way too much trouble.

I thought about bringing the hemorrhoid stuff, really I did. But I haven't had problems with that for weeks. I brought the anti-nausea meds, the stool softener, a first-aid kit, protein bars, and my water bottle. I brought my new boyfriend, the pregnancy pillow which was totally worth the ridiculous $40 price tag, even if it practically is the size of a third person in the bed (hence the 'boyfriend' title). I had it all. I was prepared. Wilderness, just try to beat me; I dare you.

Bad plan.

Somehow, I developed a bad case of hemorrhoids. You'd think I'd remember the events which led to this, but I've apparently blocked that out. At any rate, by Tuesday morning, I was pretty miserable. Keep in mind that we weren't leaving until Friday, and there was no way off this mountain. There is a small store, so I girded up my "God, this is too humiliating" loins and went to get some "please put me out of this misery" cream.

Guess what they were completely out of? And would not be getting any more until at least Friday?

Yeah. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Nothing to deal with this problem. I raided the first aid kits; I went to the medic. The medic gave me some suppositories, which did absolutely nothing given that the problem was more...external, if you get my drift.

A short list of things which you think might help with hemorrhoids but don't work at all so don't bother trying: antiseptic pads (ouch, though), hydrocortisone cream, neo.sporin, soap and water, and calamine lotion. It just got worse every day. The pain is hard to describe. It hurt to sit down; it hurt to stand up; it nearly killed me to stand up from a sitting position; and I was walking like an eighty-year old man with a broken hip. Plus, you can't really admit to the problem. "Oh, I've got raging hemorrhoids" is not exactly polite conversation. "Back pain" is what I used as cover. WAY back, I thought.

But wait, you're saying: why did you have calamine lotion on hand? What a good question.

Also on Tuesday morning - the day which shall henceforth be known as "the day of biblical plagues" - I woke up with several bug bites on my back. Odd, I thought, but then again, there were lots of bite-y little creatures around. They had probably gotten me during the day and I just didn't notice.

The next morning, I woke up with several more. All of which were under my bra strap. "How did they get in there?" I wondered. My back was never exposed. How had they crawled under my shirt, camisole and bra? And why?

On Wednesday night, I lay in bed thinking about this. I started thinking about bugs. About waking up with bug bites. About bugs in the bed. About bed bugs. And fleas.

No more sleep that night.

Thursday morning: more bites. Thursday afternoon, I found two little black bugs in my bed. I killed one, went to the registration office, and told them my suspicions. They quickly gave me another room, washed all my clothes, and sent me to the medic for some itch relief. Staff went into my room and began to check it out. I took myself to the medic.

This, of course, is where the calamine lotion comes in. She treated me and sent me on my way. I went to take one of the best showers of my life. And then...

The medic came to find me at dinner. "You know," she said quietly, "I got to thinking about your bites. Remember how I noticed that they were all on one side? There's a doctor here this week and I want him to check you out. I'm worried that you might have shingles."

HA HA HA HA HA HA HA THIS IS NOT HAPPENING TO ME.

Yeah. Long story short: shingles. Good news: no effect on the baby (believe me, I asked numerous times about this as I sobbed in the medic's office); there is an antibiotic available which is safe during pregnancy; it's a relatively minor case; I'm not contagious given the location of the breakout.

Bad news: oh, the pain. And the itching. And did I mention the pain? And remember the totally-untreated hemorrhoids?

And remember how there is no communication with the outside world here? Oh - and I should probably have told you that my husband wasn't with me, as he had to take a continuing education class the same week.

Which meant we had to use the emergency system to email him in such a way as to suggest urgency-but-not-panic (tricky), get him to call my ob-gyn for a prescription, then get him to email me back and hope that the medic had the drug on hand. I'll spare you the enormously complicated story of how this all happened, but thankfully, it did, and they did have the antibiotic, and my doctor also assured me that the baby would be fine. (More tears from me.)

I have never been so happy to be home as I was last night.

I haven't slept for three days. Last night I laid awake with too much pain and itching at those two key locations on my body, from 11:00pm to 5:00am. I burst into tears twice in the middle of the night, from frustration and exhaustion. My poor husband got up twice to put on more calamine lotion, and simply said "it's good practice for later" when I apologized for waking him up at 3:00am sobbing. Again.

As I keep telling myself, there are lots of good things here. The baby is fine. And will be fine. I now have medications for both problems. The worst should be behind me (pun intended, sort of). This will get better. This too shall pass.

Just remember: next time you go out to the wilderness, bring your hemorrhoid medication. Never had that problem in your life? Doesn't matter. Just bring it. Trust me.

100 days to go

2010-07-20T10:23:00.000-07:00

That's today's milestone: 100 days left.

Holy. Shit.

I'm sure I should come up with something more profound than that at the prospect of the birth of my first child, but right now, that's about all I've got. On the one hand, this pregnancy feels like it is taking forever. Like I have been pregnant for a year and a half - probably because of all the IVF preparation and build-up, but I suspect most pregnant women feel this way. Time. Is. Dragging.

Or it has been, until I realize that we are just over three months away. Somehow, "October" sounds like a long distance from now - as far away as the moon, or maybe Florida - but, before you know it, it will be August, and then September, and then...

yikes.

On a different note, dear Rebecca at The Road Less Traveled is grieving the loss of her daughter, Lillian Grace, at 23 weeks of pregnancy, about three weeks ago. She and I had nearly identical due dates, and I think of her almost every time this baby kicks. If you don't know Rebecca, or haven't stopped by to check on her, please leave a note of support. Let her know she is not alone.

a new day

2010-07-16T11:39:00.000-07:00

I became an aunt again yesterday, when my youngest brother and his wife welcomed their son into the world. He was nearly a week overdue, but arrived after only five hours of active labor; here's hoping his cousin takes notes on the speedy birth (listen up, baby).

He's lovely and perfect and kissable. He made a perfect first test subject for the new camera I had happened to buy that afternoon.

When we walked into the birth room, I thought immediately about my niece, now 21 months old, whom I had also seen within hours of her birth. (More like minutes, actually.) My laparoscopy had been only a few weeks before. I was preparing for our first IUI. It was among the lowest and hardest of infertility days, because I had started to hope again, and that felt particularly dangerous and vulnerable.

I walked in and saw her, and her poor exhausted mother (who had endured 47 hours of labor - again, baby, take notes on yesterday's birth). I stayed for about three minutes until it hit me: that might never be me. Ever. I might never sit in a bed with my new child in my arms, still panting from labor, exhausted beyond measure and joyful beyond reason. I might never be her.

I ran out of that room as quickly as I could, trying to make sure no one saw me, and stumbled, sobbing, into the lobby of the birthing center. My husband held me and took me home, crying all the way. I loved that child, and I very nearly hated her at the same time, because she was everything I wanted and, at that moment, it had never felt so far away.

Last night was different. Oh, infertility reared its ugly head - I panicked on the ride home until I felt the baby kick, worrying that I'd suffer some horrible irony and my child would die the same night its cousin was born - but it didn't take over.

I'm quite sure you never get over infertility. But I also think it's possible, at some point, to put down the burden of it and walk on. It will have changed your posture forever. But it does not have to define me.

Believe me, I'm quite aware that I say this from a point of great privilege; and that I might feel very different under different circumstances. All I know is, I'm grateful that the tears last night were of joy.

Happy first day of life, baby nephew.

nope. not today.

2010-07-14T10:21:00.000-07:00

In answer to the question, "will 24w6d be the day I can finally go off the anti-nausea drug?" I would like to report the following:

Sadly, no.

Epic fail.

Will try again next week.

And, to all those who claim that 'morning sickness should start to taper off after about 12-14 weeks,' (I'm talking to you, pregnancy book authors), let me say this: bite me.

I am not making this up.

2010-07-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

Scene from the grocery store last week:

Grocery Bagger (lady probably in mid-60's): When are you due?

Me: October.

GB: You have a long ways to go!

Me: (Trying to discern whether this is a dig at the size of my belly) I guess so.

GB: What are you having? A boy or a girl?

Me: Well, we're not going to find out. We want to be surprised.

GB: WHAT? Why aren't you going to find out? Nobody's going to throw you a baby shower if you don't know because they won't know what to get you!

Me: (flustered) Um, I guess they'll have to stick with green and yellow. (Faint smile, look away in pathetic attempt to change the subject.)

GB: Turn around.

Me: What?

GB: Turn. Around.

Me: (completely flustered) O....kay. (Turns around.)

GB: I can't tell you're pregnant from the back. So you're having a boy.

Grocery checker: No, she's having a girl.

Me: (silent. Wishing had bought less stuff.)

Bagger: No, boy. I can't tell from the back. So, boy.

Checker: No, her neck isn't dark. Your neck gets dark if you're having a boy, so she's having a girl.

Me: (committing faces of checker and bagger to memory so as to avoid this particular line in future) Well, I guess we'll find out in October.

Checker: Would you like help out to your car?

Me: NO. No thank you. No. Thanks.

Bagger: Have a nice day!

Me: Thank you.

Coincidentally, we are rapidly running out of food at our house and I am loathe to go to the grocery store for replacements. I wonder why.

adventures in registering: the debriefing

2010-07-06T14:11:00.000-07:00

I've been simultaneously eagerly awaiting, and dreading, registering for baby items. Look back at four years of infertility and it's probably not hard to understand the dread part: too many trips over those past four years to Big Box Baby Store to buy Darling Registry Item for Yet Another Pregnant Friend While Trying Not To Burst Into Tears in the Diaper Aisle, or something like that. On the other hand, it's an experience I've longed for myself - not the registering part, but what it signifies - and I wanted to enjoy it.

So, step one in the enjoyment process: leave husband at home. Don't get me wrong: my husband is very, very excited about this baby. I can hardly go five minutes at home without him chasing me down to put his hand on my stomach to see if the baby will move. (The baby is apparently very aware of this and has already started to play 'hard to get' by ceasing movement the second dad gets near.) But this is a man who hates shopping. I save my energies to drag him out once a year, before school starts, so we can update his wardrobe. And it's all I can do to make that trip happen without killing him MY GOD JUST BUY THE DAMN KHAKIS ALREADY WHY CAN'T YOU MAKE UP YOUR MIND.

I, being the daughter of an inveterate Consumer-Reports-Reader (thanks, Dad) had prepared in advance by devouring Baby Bargains, which I highly recommend. I admit to feeling fairly self-righteous upon entering Babies R Overwhelmingly Expensive, with my prepared knowledge about "all the crap I won't need, because I refuse to fall victim to the Baby Industrial Complex." (Can you tell I am going to use cloth diapers? Yes. Let the lessons in humility begin.)

It was surreal, being there with my list of Stuff You Will Absolutely Need Otherwise Your Baby Will Surely Perish And We Are Not Kidding. Fighting my way through the crowds of pregnant women and small children and utterly bored dads (while congratulating self on leaving husband at home). I took my price gun and my slightly punctured pride over to the bottle/feeding section.

Some advice: don't start there. I had no idea how many kinds of bottles there were. I knew what brand I thought I wanted, but it's not quite that simple. BPA-free? Yes. Newborn size? I guess so. 3-pack? 6-pack? Special Newborn Starter Pack? Colic-prevention? Nipple Confusion Deterrent? (I don't think that one actually existed, but I got kind of lightheaded there for awhile.) What kind goes with the breast pump I want? Oh, wait...where are the breast pumps? And they come with pads? And bags? So, do I get bags and bottles? Because the kid can't drink out of a bag, right? But then, are the bags a waste of money? Or will I be up at 2am crying because the only thing I forgot to register for is a bag for the breast pump and now I'm a complete failure as a parent?

I skipped the bottle aisle.

Surely we will have better luck with bibs. How hard can that be?

Never utter that last phrase in the Big Box Baby Store. It will beat you to a pulp and leave you weeping in the corner.

Okay, skip bibs. Go to strollers. Surely easier.

HOW MANY STROLLERS CAN THERE BE AND WHY IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY ARE THERE SO MANY DIFFERENT ONES?

Hmmm. Have not actually registered for a single item. Surely will have better luck with carseats. I know exactly what I want. And yes, indeed, I found it, clicked on the bar code, and voila: the registry is officially started. Breathe a sigh of relief.

It did get slightly better after that. I wandered around clicking on crib sheets and mattress pads, white onesies and a tub spout cover. I skipped a lot of things we don't want or need, and undoubtedly I left off things we'll realize we should have gotten on day one - but that's all a part of the adventure, I suppose.

I'm sure I looked like a perfectly ordinary pregnant woman, with my clipboard and list and price gun. If it were possible to register for "more relaxed attitude," that would be great: but, alas, that appears to be the only thing unavailable for purchase.

Meanwhile, month 6 kicks off tomorrow. Summer weather has finally arrived in my part of the world. I do not have to return to Big Box Baby Store for quite some time, as I can sit at home in my pajamas and play around with this registry online (and don't think I haven't).

According to the ticker, we have113 days to go. Hard to believe.

Seriously.

2010-06-25T13:50:00.001-07:00

To the general public:

Please.

Stop.

Touching.

My.

Stomach.

I am not into that sort of thing.

"Because it sticks out more than it used to" is not an acceptable reason to fondle my abdominal region.

Thank you for your consideration.

Carry on.

21w5d

2010-06-22T10:20:00.000-07:00

So. 21w5d into this pregnancy, and I am officially boring. For which I am grateful, on the one hand - I don't need any more pregnancy-related excitement than I've had over the past four years - but it does make for a fairly uninteresting blog.

I continue to have a little morning sickness now and again, even despite the drugs, but it's infinitely better than those first months. Baby is moving around and kicking a fair amount, and my husband felt it for the first time on Friday: his first Father's Day present.

I definitely look pregnant now, which is a weird place to be: fun, on the one hand, and freakishly public, on the other. Sometimes I wish I could wear a t-shirt that says something like, "don't hate me; I endured infertility to get here," because I think about all the pregnant women I shot evil looks at (mostly internally, but still), and it hurts my heart to think that I might be that pregnant woman for someone who's still enduring the fertility battle. But, you can't fix everything. Might as well learn that now.

Being obviously pregnant also increases the "unwanted advice and stories" shared with me, especially at church. Someday, I will be able to walk into a room and talk about something besides childbirth and babies, but not for awhile. Note to self: should self have a terrible birth experience, remember that pregnant women DO NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THAT. Remember this for later.

I have to pee. All. the. time.

And thus endeth the story of my current life. Eat; pee. Sleep; get up to pee. Forget what I was saying in the middle of a sentence; pee.

Next week: adventures in registering for baby gift items. I'm pretty sure there will be something bloggable there.

and now for something completely different

2010-06-11T10:44:00.001-07:00

I found this on another blog today, and frankly, I'm having a boring sort of day. Not much to do at work (this happens every once in awhile, so I'm cleaning my VERY MESSY desk. And procrastinating).

99 Things About Me (Everything that I have accomplished is in bold)

1. Started your own blog

2. Slept under the stars

3. Played in a band

4. Visited Hawaii

5. Watched a meteor shower

6. Given more than you can afford to charity

7. Been to DisneyWorld

8. Climbed a mountain

9. Held a praying mantis

10. Sang a solo

11. Bungee jumped

12. Visited Paris

13. Watched a lightning storm

14. Taught yourself an art from scratch (I did learn to knit, but a friend taught me)

15. Adopted a child

16. Had food poisoning

17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty

18. Grown your own vegetables

19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France

20. Slept on an overnight train

21. Had a pillow fight

22. Hitch-hiked

23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill

24. Built a snow fort

25. Held a lamb

26. Gone skinny dipping

27. Run a Marathon

28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice

29. Seen a total eclipse

30. Watched a sunrise or sunset

31. Hit a home run (not even close)

32. Been on a cruise

33. Seen Niagara Falls in person

34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors

35. Seen an Amish community

36. Taught yourself a new language

37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied

38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person

39. Gone rock climbing

40. Seen Michelangelo’s David

41. Sung karaoke

42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt

43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant

44. Visited Africa

45. Walked on a beach by moonlight

46. Been transported in an ambulance

47. Had your portrait painted

48. Gone deep sea fishing

50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris

51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling

52. Kissed in the rain

53. Played in the mud

54. Gone to a drive-in theater

55. Been in a movie

56. Visited the Great Wall of China

57. Started a business

58. Taken a martial arts class

59. Visited Russia

60. Served at a soup kitchen

61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies (I did sell CampFire mints, though)

62. Gone whale watching

63. Got flowers for no reason

64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma

65. Gone sky diving

66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp

67. Bounced a check

68. Flown in a helicopter

69. Saved a favorite childhood toy

70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial

71. Eaten Caviar

72. Pieced a quilt

73. Stood in Times Square

74. Toured the Everglades

75. Been fired from a job

76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London

77. Broken a bone

78. Been a passenger on a motorcycle

79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person

80. Published a book

81. Visited the Vatican

82. Bought a brand new car

83. Walked in Jerusalem

84. Had your picture in the newspaper

85. Kissed a stranger at midnight on New Year’s Eve

86. Visited the White House

87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating

88. Had chickenpox

89. Saved someone’s life

90. Sat on a jury

91. Met someone famous

92. Joined a book club

93. Got a tattoo

94. Had a baby

95. Seen the Alamo in person

96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake

97. Been involved in a law suit

98. Owned a cell phone

99. Been stung by a bee

halfway

2010-06-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is the 20-week mark; halfway through this pregnancy. Wow. How did that happen?

The pharmaceutical industry continues to receive my love and praise, given that I have hardly thrown up since I started the zo.fran (and some over-the-counter stuff is taking care of the side effects). I still seem to have, shall we say, an overactive gag reflex. Not sure what's up with that. Did you know it is possible to throw up without actually being nauseous? Yeah. Me neither. Surprises abound.

Monday we had our ultrasound, which was tremendously reassuring. All the parts are there; two hands, two feet, cute bones, four-chambered heart, good-looking brain, chewing jaw, bladder, kidneys - it's amazing what they can see. And what they can decipher; half the time the tech said, "you'll just have to take my word for it...that's a _______." "Okay," we said, in a daze.

We got a great look at one of the baby's feet - our favorite moment. So crystal clear, the five toes and the little foot shape, like a tiny bigfoot in my belly. I laid there, thinking, "someone else's heart is beating inside my body. Someone else's foot is kicking inside my body. SOMEONE ELSE IS PEEING INSIDE MY BODY." Beautiful, and strange, and surrealistically wonderful.

We didn't find out the gender. People have very definite opinions on this, I've noticed. I get a lot of, "WHAT? You're not going to find out? Why on earth not?" interspersed with a fair amount of, "oh, good; you're not going to find out. That's how it should be." I don't think this is really a moral question, but it's as if you have to make a choice between good and evil. We just want to be surprised, that's all. Chill out, people.

I can feel the baby moving on a regular basis. The room is painted, a darling cream and light green combination. The crib has been ordered. It's all so...normal. Normal is hard to get used to, sometimes.

But I can work on it. I think all I say to God these days is, "thank you." It's a nice change.

the best laid plans

2010-06-01T11:51:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot lately about plans. This is mostly because I'm quickly approaching the halfway mark of this pregnancy, and realizing that, while I have lots of information in my head about infertility, and now a fairly decent amount about pregnancy, I have virtually no information about giving birth. (I'm a one-step-at-time kind of girl.) I happen to know several women who have recently given birth, or who are about to, and so the topic of 'birth plans' has been in the air lately.

There's still a big part of me that hardly realizes I'm pregnant, much less that I will actually be giving birth at some point. But that's probably a post for another day.

I know three women who have recently had children. Each of them had a fairly detailed birth plan. Each of them fully intended to have a drug-free childbirth experience. One of them did so, but after a 47-hour labor; the other two ended up with emergency c-sections. All three, particularly the two who had c-sections, have expressed great disappointment and sadness about their birth experiences (while also, make no mistake, taking great joy in their children).

So I've been thinking about those stories. And about plans in general. Because I had a plan too, once upon a time. The plan went something like this:

meet man of dreams sometime in mid-20's.
after year-long courtship, marry man of dreams at about age 27. Maybe 28.
be blissfully married for one or two years.
have first child at age 29. Maybe 30.
have second child at age 33.
potential third child (not own idea, but perhaps man of dreams will want three) 3 years later. Surely finished with having children by age 36. Surely.
man of dreams gets vasectomy.
live happily ever after.

My actual life went something like this:

finish college, go to grad school. Finish that at age 26, having met absolutely no dreamy men, except for one, who would have been disastrous husband. But who was fun to kiss for a short time.
take first job in small-ish city where female pastors are unheard of and everyone assumes I am a nun. Not good for dating possibilities.
date one guy for a year. Allow him to lead me on until he moves away. Bastard.
finally meet man of dreams at benefit luncheon at age 31. Bit late.
marry after one year. Now age 32.
be married for requisite year. Quite blissful, actually.
try to get pregnant for four years.
get pregnant at age 37. Behind schedule. And unlikely to have another, at this point.

So much for plans.

Everyone experiences infertility a bit differently. It changes all of us, I believe, but in various ways. As for me, I've learned not to put so much stock in planning. Because, truthfully, those plans may not work out.

This is a hard lesson for someone who loves to make lists, cross things off, get things accomplished. Someone who enjoys housecleaning because it has tangible results; someone who puts a meal list together for the week. Someone who has to plan, months in advance, for various job responsibilities.

This pregnancy could not have been more planned, when it finally happened. There was absolutely nothing spontaneous about it. But, after that, it's all unknown. We're not finding out the gender, so I can't plan too much, too specifically. I'm doing my best to start getting things covered at work, but I can't count on a particular date as the one on which I'll end up in the hospital - I have to leave some things unknown, undone.

I'm not entirely opposed to birth plans. I think everybody handles this experience differently. I have only one strong preference, which is that only my husband and I will be in the birthing room. But that's it; that's my plan. My plan is to go to the hospital and have a baby. I'm sure I'll come up with a few more preferences, but that's all they'll be: preferences. Not plans. Because this is beyond planning. And the last thing I want is to be disappointed by what will be, in all likelihood, my only experience giving birth.

It's possible that I will change my mind over the next few months, that I'll learn something which will provoke me to create a more detailed plan. But I doubt it. I've tried planning this child. It didn't work. I simply want to enjoy this moment, and the next one. See what it looks like when we get there.

if it's not one thing...

2010-05-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

Well, I caved and got a prescription for the nausea. After it started getting worse again this weekend, and after my doctor told me I needed to start gaining more weight (which would sound more appealing if I ever wanted to eat anything), I decided I had waited long enough.

I took the first pill yesterday afternoon. One more this morning. And, let me tell you, this stuff is a freaking miracle. No nausea; my breakfast stayed down for the first time in 11 weeks; a girl could get used to this. I practically cried with happiness.

Until the constipation.

I have decided that pregnancy, otherwise known in my house as the Festival of Gastro-Intestinal Distress, is a nine-month exercise in losing control. This is okay, because parenting is probably an 18-year exercise in the same. But my innards are getting a little worn out, to say the least.

After no relief well into the afternoon today, I came home and googled the name of the drug I'm taking and "constipation." And proceeded to read a MOUNTAIN of horror stories from pregnant women involving the length of time before this resolved (6 days, sweet Lord), enemas (help me), some odd suggestion involving milk of magnesia and dark karo syrup (almost tried that one) and enough complaints to make me weep at the prospect of having to give up my sweet miracle drug. Without getting even more TMI than I already have - Houston, we no longer have quite as significant a problem.

The whole time in the bathroom, all I could think was, "oh my god, this is by far the smallest thing that's coming out of my body in the next five months and if I can't handle this, WHAT AM I GOING TO DO?" I may have been converted to the epidural as of today.

In better news, I want to eat! I'm hungry! So that's good. Let's hope everything else...works itself out.

the truth

2010-05-22T15:07:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'll delete this post later so my child doesn't read it someday and hate me.

The truth is, I'm not really enjoying this pregnancy. I want to. So, so badly. I wrote my last post, about that magical moment of feeling the baby move, because I need a moment like that. I need to hang onto them.

Because I'm still sick, almost all the time. I throw up every morning. Nearly 18 weeks, and I'm still queasy most of the day. I threw up my dinner the past two nights. I have no appetite.

I try to tell myself that it's okay, that it's all for a good cause, and I believe that with all my heart - but truthfully, I'm exhausted. I'm miserable. I have looked forward to this experience for such a long time, and I hate the fact that, so far, I hate being pregnant.

This is very likely my only shot at this, my only pregnancy. We have one frozen embryo, but frankly, the way this is going, I may never want to do this again.

And if one more person tells me, "this part will be over soon," I will kick their well-meaning ass into next week. It was supposed to be over weeks ago. I was supposed to feel better weeks ago. And instead, I just feel guilty all the time, because I feel miserable, and I hate feeling miserable, and I hate that I'm not enjoying this pregnancy. I'm crying as I write this because I hate admitting all of these things, and I wouldn't do it, except that a.) I have to get it out somewhere and b.) I suspect there might be some other miserable woman out there who would appreciate knowing she's not alone.

Infertility, among all its other curses, makes you feel that you should never, ever, ever complain about being pregnant. That you should bask in every single second, because you know how hard it is to be here, and you know how hard it is for the women who aren't here yet, and who may never be. I was never going to complain about this. Ever.

But the truth will out, as they say. I'm probably just having a bad day. But now you know the truth. The ugly, hard, horrible truth. Maybe letting it out will stop the vomiting. God knows, I've tried everything else.

scene from an airport

2010-05-21T10:00:00.000-07:00

I spent the last few days in the middle of the country, spending time with 5 amazing, wonderful girlfriends. Lots of talking, laughing, crying, drinking (lemonade for me, sigh) - best. week. ever.

Last night, I flew home. The flight didn't leave until 9pm, and I got to the airport unusually early. So I sat in the waiting area, with my Sex & the City 2 edition of Entertainment Weekly, and waited. People came in and out. The gate agents finally got to the desk. All those airport announcements - "will Bob Smith meet his party at the baggage claim," "this is the last call for flight 1264" - floated in the air.

And then I felt it. Either that, or I was having an extreme stomach moment, but I'm pretty sure - I felt movement. All around me, people were texting friends and reading magazines and snipping at the gate agents because they didn't like their seat assignment, and the woman sitting next to me was shooting nasty looks at the kid seated behind her who kept banging against the seat back, and I was feeling this baby move for the first time. Ordinary life just kept going on, and all I wanted to do was grab the microphone from the irritated gate agent calling up standby passengers so I could say it out loud: "I can feel this baby move! Do you people know what a freaking miracle this is? DO YOU?"

I think I've felt it a few more times since then. I had thought maybe I was feeling it over the past few days, but it's so hard to tell - baby, or gas? Trust me, there's plenty of the latter (the romance of pregnancy continues). But this was real. In the middle of the airport. Where nobody cared. And my life was changing, right there, and nobody knew.

Who knows what's happening in any of us when we run into each other on the street, see each other in cars, walk past each other in airports? Who knows when someone's whole life is changing, right then, and you just can't see it?

The world is charged with the grandeur of God, wrote poet Gerard Manley Hopkins. Sometimes even the airport.

can't touch this

2010-05-06T14:51:00.000-07:00

Today on Faceb.ook, I saw that someone had become a fan of the page, "I hate it when you're hanging out with MC Hammer and he won't let you touch anything."

I should have taken MC with me to the hospital today.

I went to visit a parishioner who is having a variety of medical problems: near-kidney failure, irregular heartbeat, possible sleep apnea, all on top of diabetes. Surprisingly, despite this rather depressing list, she feels fine. And people who are stuck in the hospital for endless tests, but who feel fine, are generally one thing: CHATTY. As was she.

So she told me in great detail about all these ailments (side note: I never really understood this tendency people get, while they're in the hospital, to tell you whole bunches of things you did not wan to know about the insides of their bodies, until I went through fertility treatments. Lots o' medical treatments must give you amnesia when it comes to remembering that people may not want to hear all that stuff). And we talked about various other things. And then she said, "I hear that congratulations are in order!" so we chatted for a minute about that, until she said, "well, my son and daughter-in-law are trying, but they're not having any luck, so I told them to just relax," and I took a deep breath and said something gently about how we had tried for a long time, and how hard it is to not be successful. And she said briskly, "well, I told them to pretend they were going steady and sneaking around and that would do the trick in a heartbeat!"

So I said a short prayer under my breath for her son and daughter-in-law.

As I was leaving, she said, "now when is the baby due?" And as she said it, she leaned out of her hospital bed and reached over and tickled my stomach.

DUDE. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? I have a very small bump, somewhat more distinguishable today because of the top I'm wearing, but still - I'm not at the stage where you look at me and think, "pregnant." You might look at me and think, "too many cheeseburgers," but that's about it.

I know that pregnant women have to deal with the belly-touching thing, but I really thought I could wait awhile for that. It creeped me out. I felt like leaning over, scratching her abdomen, and saying, "good luck with the kidney thing!" but that didn't seem particularly helpful.

MC, if you're available, I could use you for the next five and half months or so. Give me a call.

the fear

2010-04-25T19:10:00.000-07:00

The word is now, officially, out. O. U. T. There are days when I love being part of a large congregation - the singing, the joy, the sense of encouragement and support - and then there are days when 500 people knowing your personal business is just a whole lot o' people.

I'm getting more used to the telling, and enjoying it more than at first. Crossing over into trimester two (yippee!) helps, although it doesn't exactly chase the fear away completely. I wish I could go to the doctor once a week for a nice, reassuring doppler check. And yes, I have thought about renting one of those little suckers myself - and I may do it yet - but I'm also freaked out by the possibility that, one day, I'll panic myself unnecessarily by not being able to find the heartbeat, convince myself of DOOM, DOOM, and all for no reason except that I have shittastic doppler skills. So, for now, I'm not taking that leap.

Also, I have control issues. (Have I mentioned this?) And I need to work on that. It's much harder work without the doppler, but I think it's good for me. At least, this is what I think right now. Give me fifteen minutes: it could change.

The fear is still a big deal. It lurks in the corner like the childhood monster in your closet. It comes out a night (apparently it is made more comfortable by my regular need to pee). It's not quite as big as it used to be - it's like when you visit your elementary school as an adult and wonder how on earth you used to fit into those chairs, and was the lunchroom always that small? - but it's still there. I have a feeling it's moved in permanently, as part of parenthood. I'm sure it will change shape, all the way to, "will s/he get into college?" but we'll learn to manage it. (She says hopefully.)

The nausea is easing up a bit, though still problematic in the mornings. I've added a stuffy nose and unusual amount of sneezing to the palate o' symptoms - but I'll take those over vomiting any day.

On Thursday, I'll hit 14 weeks. Amazing. Grateful beyond words.

dear baby

2010-04-20T13:15:00.001-07:00

Dear baby,

Whilst making it very, very clear that I am beyond delighted to have you around, I would like to put in a small request that you give that placenta a little push so that it kicks in and eliminates the "morning" (HA HA HA to whoever named that! Morning! Too funny! Jackass.) sickness.

Because, while said "morning" sickness was reassuring for awhile, I feel pretty reassured now.

On a related note, how do you like the maternity jeans? Aren't they awesome? We might have to wear these forever.

And also, thank you very, very much for being so obliging and letting your lovely heartbeat pop right up at the doctor's appointment yesterday. You make your mother very happy.

And she would be even happier if she could stop throwing up.

Love,
Mom

thoughts on luck

2010-04-13T08:27:00.001-07:00

Here's my first thought on luck: I don't believe in it.

That is, I don't believe in 'wishing' on things, or looking for signs, or rubbing rabbits' feet, or jumping over cracks in the sidewalk. If by 'luck,' you mean that some things in life happen randomly, then yes; I can agree with that. But most of the time, 'lucky' means something else.

I especially hate the idea of 'bad luck' - that, for example, it's unlucky to walk under a ladder, or have a black cat cross your path, or any of the other million silly things that are supposed to impact your daily life when, in fact, they have absolutely nothing to do with what will happen to you. Nothing.

So, in short: I don't believe in luck.

But you would never guess this if you lived inside my head right now.

Yesterday, I had the NT scan. It was fantastic; everything looked just fine, baby measuring right on target, and unlike the blurry gummy-bear/vaguely-peanut-shaped images of the last two ultrasounds, this one was clearly a baby. Two arms, two legs, brain, nose, stomach and bladder (I'll take the tech's word on those), kicking and moving around. Awesome.

So, now I've had three perfectly wonderful ultrasounds, I'm still throwing up like it's a freaking Olympic sport, I can't wear my pants anymore without the Be Band, I'm rapidly outgrowing my bras (a highlight for a normally small-chested girl) - it's all pointing in the right direction. And did I mention that I don't believe in luck? Good or bad?

Then why, why, why do I persist in feeling like telling people about this baby is bad luck? Like my letting the news out of my mouth somehow erases a level of protection my silence provides? It's ridiculous. I know this. But I can't quite stop myself. My husband started painting the bedroom we'll use for the baby, because the guy needed a project - and I think it helps him feel more involved - and it took all the energy I had not to run upstairs and yell, "but it's too early! You're tempting fate! Don't paint yet!" On the other hand, if he doesn't start painting at some point, I'll be in labor shouting, "don't paint yet! Just wait a little longer! Don't push your luck!"

My husband is quite rightly insisting that we have to tell people at some point. I've talked to quite a few women lately, and it sounds like it's a relatively common thing, that the husband wants to tell much earlier than the wife does (or, the not-pregnant partner wants to tell earlier than the pregnant one). As of right now, the plan is to let out the news to the rest of our families after my OB appointment next Monday, and then tell my congregation by letter early the following week.

I'm a little excited about this. Mostly, I'm terrified.

I keep feeling that relaxing about this pregnancy will doom it. And I know this is not true. I'm working on it.

One of these days, this blog will about more than just my neurotic freak-outs. Hopefully soon.

the telling

2010-04-06T09:48:00.001-07:00

Well, we told people - not all people, but a bunch of family people - on Easter. We stood there, at my parents' house, and said most calmly that we are having a baby, and the mental health police did not come collect me for spreading lies and foisting my personal hallucinations on other people, so we may, in fact, have told the truth.

It was weird. All these years of imagining that moment, and I mostly felt panicky about it, as if sharing the news was the thing that would make everything go wrong. But I took a deep breath, and we told, and then a few hours later I threw up, and then I threw up twice again yesterday, so it looks as if nothing much has changed.

To be honest, a big part of me has relished having this as a secret. Our parents have known, and my husband's sister, and three close friends, but that was it for quite awhile. They knew because we needed people to pray for us and support us during the IVF cycle, and they served as our guinea pigs for telling people - but then six weeks went by with no telling, and now it feels as if everything is changing.

Already, I can't button my jeans (this is probably not baby. Definitely not baby, actually; more likely THE BLOAT and perhaps the eating, although I'm trying to keep that under control). Two weeks from yesterday, I have my 12 week ultrasound, and then we're on to trimester number two.

Holy shit.

We're visiting my in-laws for a few days and my mother-in-law wants to take me shopping for a maternity outfit. I am resisting the demon within me that taunts, "bad idea, girly, that's sure to make something terrible happen" - and, instead, we're going to shop. And have fun. And banish the demons to a dark corner, where they will have to pout and sulk without me.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I think I need to go throw up.

10w1d: things I have learned

2010-04-02T10:41:00.000-07:00

Things I have learned so far:

you can be nauseous and hungry at the same time. Weird, but true.
you can be happy about your pregnancy and still hate morning (afternoon, evening) sickness, and this does not make you a bad person. It makes you a normal person.
throwing up in the shower is not the end of the world.
neither is throwing up in the garbage disposal portion of the kitchen sink.
fear does not go away very easily.
this, too, shall pass.
brown sugar-flavored oatmeal tastes much more brown-sugary on the way back up than it did on the way down.
that glass of orange juice the other morning was a BAD PLAN.
sweat pants at night are your friend.
it is okay that you are freaked out about telling people about this pregnancy. That makes sense. But you will have to start getting over it. Because, eventually, it's going to get hard to hide.
a hot dog every once in awhile is not going to kill the baby.
the bitchiness will also pass (pleasepleasepleaseplease)
take a deep breath. Be grateful for today. Worry less about tomorrow.
still working on that last one.

moving right along

2010-03-29T08:30:00.000-07:00

On Friday, I had my first appointment with the ob-gyn. The regular baby doctor. The one that millions of women go to every year because they are pregnant, as most women can be, without any particular effort or worry. (Not that millions of women go to my doctor, but - oh, you get the point.)

I, myself, felt like a giant fraud. Like the nurses were going to look at me and say, "you? You can't be pregnant. You don't get pregnant! Why are you here?"

Everyone acted like my being there was so normal, and as if everything was just going to go along perfectly fine, and it completely freaked me out. The nurse chatted away about what would happen at the various appointments, and told me I needed to pre-register for delivery at the hospital before my next appointment in a month. The doctor talked about various stages of development and gave me some suggestions for the near-constant nausea, and the whole time, all I could do was think, "but what if something happens? What if something goes wrong? Why is everyone so freaking optimistic around here? What is wrong with them? Don't they know how damn-near impossible it is that I AM EVEN HERE?"

What's wrong, of course, is me. It is a miracle that I'm pregnant - a miracle brought to us by the grace of God and by the smarts and skills of a whole lot of medical people - but, the truth is, there's nothing to suggest that anything will go wrong at this point. The baby was measuring a few days ahead, actually, and the heartbeat was flickering away, and everything looked just fine. I, of course, asked the doctor about the chances of miscarriage, and she said "less than 5%," which you'd think would help - and it does - but I still find myself incapable of relaxing into this pregnancy.

The doctor said that was normal. I'm sure it is, although it's not a whole lot of fun. We're talking about how to tell my church - a step so public it nearly makes me want to throw up, as if I wasn't heading that direction already - and I keep trying to convince my husband to put it off, wait just a little longer. In a few more weeks I'll be out of the first trimester, and I still am afraid to say anything, just in case.

Somehow, somewhere, there is a part of me which believes that my worrying about things makes them happen (or not happen, if that's the better alternative). This is the part of me that hates flying, that worries the whole flight about the wings falling off and the engines quitting and the pilot dying of a heart attack, and acts as if my worrying about those things is the barrier which prevents them from happening. As if my worrying keeps the plane in the air.

And this part of me, this dark-and-twisty part of me, remains convinced that somebody has to remember the risk factors here, somebody has to keep saying, "just in case," and who better than me? Aren't moms supposed to worry? Isn't that their job? (Did you just learn something about my mom? And her mom? Hell, yeah.)

Today, I am taking cupcakes to my RE's office. I want to say, "thank you." I want to stop saying, "just in case." Cupcakes help with most things. Maybe they'll help with this too.

an end to endo

2010-03-22T18:06:00.001-07:00

If you've been diagnosed with endometriosis, there's an opportunity for you: through my RE's clinic, I was asked to participate in a study which is looking for a genetic identifier for endo, with the goal of developing a test which would diagnose the condition without surgery.

They're looking for more participants. No, you don't get paid; no, there's not much to it (some paperwork and spitting in a test tube which you send back to them in the mail) - and no, you probably won't benefit from it personally.

But, hey - if we can help future generations, why not? You'll find more at End to Endo.

Thanks!

march madness: or, why newly pregnant infertile women should not watch the NCAA tournament.

2010-03-21T17:29:00.000-07:00

It's ALL about basketball at our house. My husband is a huge college basketball fan, so these few weeks in March are his idea of paradise. Fortunately, I enjoy basketball too, which is good, because otherwise this would be a very long month for me.

At this point, our various just-for-fun brackets are in shambles (thanks, Kansas) and we've only got one local team left to cheer for, but you can be sure that any game available will be on our television, whether we really care about the team or not. It's not a bad distraction for me. My day is largely spent either a.) feeling nauseous or b.) being hungry, which means I will be nauseous momentarily, interrupted only slightly by c.) realizing I am not nauseous at the moment, which makes me happy until I panic that it means I have had a miscarriage in the last twenty minutes.

And this is where basketball is doing me no good.

Because here's the thing about basketball: it ain't over till it's over, as they say. You can almost never count on a win until the last buzzer sounds; and this is so often true that even a 20-point lead with 2 minutes to go is hard to trust. My home team won yesterday by a handy amount. It really wasn't much of a close game after the first ten minutes. But because we were the underdogs, I could not bring myself to accept the win until it was completely done. Hell, we were up by 25 points at one stage of the game, with not nearly enough time left to lose the lead, and I still couldn't believe it was happening.

Not coincidentally, this is exactly (so far) how I am spending this pregnancy. I know the statistics: I know that seeing a heartbeat, as we have, greatly increases our chances of a successful outcome. We're ahead of the game. If the fat lady is not singing, she's warming up.

But she has to warm up for another seven damn months, and this is my problem. Plus, I watched Parenthood the other day (the movie, not the show; love the movie, am afraid the show will ruin it), and I could have cried when Jason Robards, in the midst of trying to decide what to do about his gambling, lying son, says, "you never cross the finish line. You never dunk the ball. It isn't over when they're eighteen, or twenty-eight, or forty. It's never over. You're never done."

Dude, that was profoundly unhelpful for me.

So I have changed the channel to the latest rerun of a Harr.y P.otter movie. And I am watching a lot of Ho.use Hun.ters. Sometimes denial is the best way to go.

Also, I cannot eat enough hot dogs. This is disgusting to me. However, it might work out well once baseball season starts. Now that's a game for a pregnant woman: it crawls by with interminable slowness, you can eat the whole time, and it's all about coming home so you can go back to the dugout and sit down. I'll be pregnant (she says, with crazed confidence) during the whole of baseball season, after all. Should be good.

sigh of relief

2010-03-15T16:46:00.000-07:00

We have a baby.

Insert huge sigh of relief here.

The doctor scared us a bit at first, when the first thing out of his mouth was, "well, that's odd," but it turns out that both embryos implanted and one didn't develop. "Do we have one or two?" asked my husband. "Well, one and a half," said the doctor, and then explained, but our momentary disappointment (I was mostly relieved, to be honest) was quickly eclipsed by the one very healthy, perfectly-measuring, 152 bpm-heart-beating baby in sac A. We even got a little photo, complete with an arrow pointing as if to say, "THIS IS YOUR BABY." This is helpful, because right now, it looks more like a gummy bear.

Measuring right on track at 7 1/2 weeks, and due on October 28th.

Seeing the heartbeat really is amazing. Wow. I think this is actually happening.

6w5d

2010-03-09T11:21:00.000-08:00

I haven't written much lately, but the truth is, there isn't much to say. Besides, "excuse me, I need to go throw up" (or, more accurately, "excuse me, I need to go gag myself silly in the bathroom without throwing up, which in itself would be a bit of a relief after the gagging").

I used to read the blogs of women who were pregnant after fertility battles, and I would swear up and down to myself that I would never complain about morning sickness. I would happily throw up and rejoice in every second of it, because it meant that the long-held dream was coming true.

My mother says that the reason women gain so much weight after pregnancy is because they have to eat so many words. So many, "I will never," "I would never," "I could never" - right out the window. (Or, on the hips.) Don't get me wrong: I actually do revel in the nausea, just a bit, because it helps make this all feel more real. But said "reveling" is getting a little less fervent.

Some of you have suggested that I might try to move up my ultrasound date (which is this coming Monday), and I have considered it. But I've decided that I need to practice waiting, a skill at which I, to be perfectly honest, suck, because I'm going to need to get better at that over the next nine months. Plus, I figure that waiting until I'm 7 1/2 weeks will mean we can really see some good stuff on the ultrasound, and then it's only another 2 weeks until my first OB appointment.

I'm freaking out a little bit about leaving my RE. The idea of it, in theory, is great: no more injections! No more wandings (on such a regular basis)! No more freaking blood draws all the freaking time! But the actuality, walking away from this clinic where I have been treated so well, is just one more reminder that I am walking away from this huge part of my life, this definition of myself - infertile - which I have become comfortable with over the past four years.

More comfortable than you'd think, actually. So much so that, when a woman at my church told me a few days ago that she was pregnant, my first thought was something like, "Ugh. I hate you." (Not really, of course, but you know what I mean.) It took me a good ten seconds to remember that I am pregnant too. (I forget this on a regular basis. It's another good thing about the nausea: handy reminder.)

It's funny how the life you know, even if it's not the life you want, becomes so familiar that, when someone hands you the life you've always dreamed of, you're not sure what to do with it. It's a dilemma I'm happy to work on, however.

favor

2010-03-05T09:04:00.000-08:00

I spent last weekend at a women's retreat, which I organized months ago for a group from my church. We had a great time, and I managed to hide the fact that I wasn't drinking any wine by telling people that I had given up alcohol for Lent. Handy season, Lent.

However, you get a group of 30 women together and there is bound to be a whole lot o' conversation about children, birth, conception, and gynecological topics of all sorts. Nobody knew I was pregnant, so there was no need for them to be careful, and let me tell you: I heard horror stories the likes of which I really, really did not need to hear. At all.

Much of the time, I'm experiencing a great sort of zen about the pregnancy. The nausea is increasing, though not at a terrible rate. Boobs still sore. (Poking still abounds.) I am hungry all. the. time.

But I'm not zen all the time. Sometimes, when I think about the ultrasound in a week (10 days, to be exact), my heartbeat stops for a second. I imagine the doctor saying, in a sad voice, "I'm sorry; there's no heartbeat." I imagine trying to get out of the office without sobbing. I imagine my husband's heartbreak. I don't think about this a lot, but it's the sort of thing that pops into my head at 3am when I've gotten up to pee (again) and can't quite get back to sleep.

So, I could use a favor. If you have stories of yourself or others who have experienced pregnancy loss, or some terrible complication: please, don't tell me. Please don't mention it in a comment. There was such a comment on my last post, and while I'm sure it was not meant to hurt, believe me: I don't need any help scaring the shit out of myself. I'm perfectly capable of doing that on my own. I can't comment privately to that person because their blog is private, and it's not really about one person anyway: I'm just making my own personal public service announcement.

This blog just needs to be a happy place. Feel free to think of me as an unrealistic Pollyanna, but it's what I need. Thanks.

5w5d. Really?

2010-03-02T13:25:00.000-08:00

My average day looks like this:

Wake up. Feel pretty good. Then panic about feeling good. Surely should be feeling morning sickness as it is, in fact, morning? But then again, am only 5 weeks. So perhaps not. Poke boobs. Still sore. Relief. Shower, have one cup of coffee, which frankly, doesn't taste all that great. Go to work. Poke boobs intermittently throughout day, alternating with panic about not feeling nauseous. Then gag, cough, gag again, and feel relieved about sort-of nausea. But then panic that am actually creating gag reflex from personal panic about not feeling nauseous. So, poke boobs again. Still sore. Usually feel gag reflex shortly after eating, which surely is strange? Thought that morning sickness came from not eating? Poke boobs. Still sore. Feel momentary concern that someone at work will report me for molesting myself. But then again, probably not. Go home in afternoon because very, very tired. Cranky because must return to work in the evening. Sometimes forget am pregnant. Then realize this and panic because am feeling too good to be pregnant. Then calm self, as no reason to think anything is wrong. Poke boobs. Still sore.

I. am. exhausted. Mostly from the panic. And maybe the boob-poking.

Just under two weeks to go until my first ultrasound. On the one hand, I really wish I could get confirmation earlier that somebody is still in there. But on the other hand, this whole pregnancy thing is a big waiting game anyway, so I might as well practice right off the bat.

Sometimes I can hardly believe that I am nearly six weeks pregnant. Where did the time go? Then, at other times, I feel like I have been pregnant for four years and every day is creeping by.

Also, I feel carsick half the time. Like, for example, right now.

It's going to be a long nine months. This is for sure.

I am...

2010-02-24T09:47:00.001-08:00

For the past few years, our now-college-aged niece has been struggling with depression. Major depression. Which she has denied for a long time, but is finally realizing has swallowed her life, and she's trying to figure out how to deal with it.

Infertility and depression are not the same thing, by any means. But I've been thinking about some commonalities between the two, especially in terms of language.

I remember the day, in November 2006, that I had to use the word "infertile" about myself. It was the day before Thanksgiving. I was getting ready for an evening worship service. I went to the bathroom about 5:00, and there it was - my period. Not just one more period, one more time - this was the 12th in a row with no pregnancy. All I could think of was a single sentence: "Infertility is defined as 12 months of trying without achieving pregnancy." I had read this in a book somewhere, or possibly online, and I had been trying to dodge it for weeks. "Surely this is not happening to me," I said to myself in the mornings. "I am not infertile."

And then, that night, I was. I am infertile. It was the first time I said that. I didn't entirely believe it, of course, but the definition had finally chased me down.

It's a strange way to refer to a medical disorder. At the time, I didn't know what was causing the problem. I was some 6 months away from the semen analysis which would tell us that my husband's swimmers were almost entirely the wrong shape. It would be another year after that before I discovered that I had stage IV endometriosis.

I didn't know what the problems were, but something was wrong. And yet, the only way to explain it was not to say that I had a problem (or that the problem had me) - the only way to refer to this problem was as if it were integral to my very identity. Nobody goes around saying, "I have infertility." You might say, "I have fertility problems," but if you want to use the big word, the I-word, you have to plant it firmly in your identity, right at the center of who you are. "I am infertile."

It's not linguistically normal to say, "I have depression," either, although I do hear people say that from time to time. You're more likely to think, "I am depressed." Nobody says, "I am cancer," or, "I am lupus," but here we are, the infertile and the depressed, stuck with language that does us no favors. Over time, you forget that you're simply stuck with a medical problem the way many people are. You forget this, and you become convinced that you're the problem. Consequently, you often think that you should be able to fix it, cure it, get past it, get over it. And other people may well support that theory: "just relax," "snap out of it," "get out of the house."

I wonder if this is why so many women who endure infertility feel that pregnancy does not fix the problem. "I am pregnant," does not cancel out, "I am infertile." Not immediately, anyway. At the moment, I find myself someplace in-between: I know, logically, that I am pregnant. But after four years of the refrain, "I am infertile," this leap is not easy to make.

On the other hand, I've always gotten really pissed off at women who get pregnant and insist on continuing to refer to themselves as infertile. I get it, the deep connection we make to that diagnosis, but I think it belittles those who are still in the struggle, to act as if you can be both things at the same time. This is just my opinion. Feel free to disagree.

I do think, though, that you can be in a weird space between the two. No longer one, and yet not quite realizing you are the other. So attached to the fear you know, that the newness before you is simply not real.

That's where I am at the moment. Someplace in-between.

In Which Bill Shoots Giuliana (sort of), and I don't blame him

2010-02-23T16:08:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm officially pregnant. Which means it's time to switch from the tried-and-true 'infertility panic' (is that my period? are those cramps? did I just screw up that injection?) to the all-new-and-exciting pregnant-panic (is that a cramp? why am I not nauseous right now? oh shit, is this herbal tea going to kill the baby?).

Which means that I'm still in need of distraction. Which means, I'm going to watch Giuliana and Bill: Demonstrating How Being Rich Does Not Make You Less Irritating, Even If You Are Infertile.

In today's episode, G & B are traveling to Hong Kong. Also, I think they are going to have to try some kind of fertility drugs. I'm sure the Hong Kong thing will be fascinating, but let's face it: we all know why I'm watching this show. And it ain't the travel.

4:00 - Cheesy theme song. Scold self for continuing to watch show. Blame this on baby, who is causing me need for distraction. Remember that also blamed baby last night for state of extreme gaseous-ness. (Husband tried same excuse, to no avail.)

4:01 - G has been invited to China to start new Asian version of E! news. Would like to formally apologize, in advance, to China for arrival of Giuliana. Even if G is originally from Italy.

4:02 - B will be speaking at some business school in Hong Kong. Hmmm...so amazing that they would have plans at the same time halfway across the world! Surely very spontaneous and not-at-all-contrived by reality show in preparation for episode!

4:03 - G says they have "been trying to get pregnant for awhile now." Wish they would be more specific about timeline. Perhaps has been a year (or at least 6 months, as G looks 35+ to me), but have suspicion that G may have been talking into Important Infertility Storyline for show after, say, 2 months of negative pregnancy tests.

4:04 - G & B try to explain "IUI." Find self wishing had gun so could shoot television. They use word "implant." Infertility Rage returns. "Turkey baster," they say. G does not know whether sperm goes into uterus or ovaries. Ha ha ha, G. Ignorance is funny: it's a Hollywood staple.

4:06 - However, G proves with Random Assistant that she can pronounce variety of complicated fashion-related names and concepts, so - why not learn the difference between a freaking uterus and a freaking ovary? Sharp shooting pains in head. Maybe can sue E! news for giving me a small stroke.

4:08 - Dr. Not An RE is explaining their injectables. Shots will start on day 3. Bill quite capably explains follicle development (take a lesson, G). B & G are set for IUI. Also, Bill is going to help G gain 5 pounds, which she has not yet done. Can feel every woman in America (or, the 10 watching this show) hating her right now.

4:10 - G packs fancy, expensive clothing. B peruses restaurant guides. Bye, B & G! See you in Hong Kong!

4:11 - G describes Hong Kong as "New York on crack." Sure that natives of Hong Kong will love that line. Also sure they are not watching this show, so is probably okay.

4:12 - G has so much to get ready for! E! party! All sorts of E! events! Useless celebrity gossip to spread! Clearly, must shop! Lots!

4:13 - G & B go to meat market. (Hmm...maybe nausea is returning.) B & G perform Supremely Irritating American Trick of speaking English really loudly, as if this will help.

4:14 - G claims she is all about trying the "local cuisine." Find this not quite believable. Suspect G will be heading for the first McDonald's she can find.

4:16 - G whines about eating said local cuisine. SHOCKER. She likes the dumplings at P.F. Chang's better. Again: shocker.

4:18 - G is trying to find knock-off bags. They go to the "Hong Kong Ladies Market," which seems like kind of a sexist name, but then again, I don't know any guys who want to spend their afternoon looking at plastic Chanel rip-offs.

4:20 - we meet a prof at Hong Kong University, who's invited Bill to speak at his class. Bill pontificates about Donald Trump and Important Business Stuff. Dudes. BORING. Get back to the infertility.

4:21 - G uses the term 'Aunt Flo.' Hate G right now.

4:21 - However, arrival of said Aunt Flo means time to figure out the shots. Remembering times self had to give shots while traveling - was, indeed, hard. Also remember first shot ever, which totally made me panic, so am trying to have empathy for B & G. Or, at least for B.

4:22 - Dr. Not An RE explains injectables. They have a pen-style shot. G is not excited about B giving her shots. However, B is confident as used to watch Trapper John, M.D. B is completely stumped by pen-shot. Would feel empathy here except swear I can hear show's director whispering, "now, try to open it but then have trouble. No, more trouble! I need this shot to last at least 15 seconds! LOOK CONFUSED, BILL!"

4:23 - thankful for commercial break. Need, once more, to register my objection to E! about moving this show to 60 minutes. That is just way too much G.

4:36 - B still trying to figure out pen. G suggests reading directions. (G may have a point on this one.) Recall that this is part of why gave self shots instead of letting husband try to figure it out. Also, husband tends to pass out when injections and blood involved. Find self considering, for 1000th time, what this will mean for labor, then realize have zoned out on the show. Consider rewinding, but then again, the plot is not that complicated. Will just guess what happens next: G will whine about something.

4:39 - good guess. G is whining about getting on a fishing boat.

4:40 - B & G take harbor tour of Hong Kong. Today's Moment In Which Giuliana is Sure They Are All Going to Die: big waves on boat. Freaks G out.

4:41 - time for important work stuff. Malaysian interviewer confirms that G is, indeed, 35. (Thanks, Malaysian reporter!) G apparently learned to speak English by watching news. And also, apparently, thinks of herself as a "news anchor." Find self in despair that Malaysian interviewer refers to G that way. Wish Diane Sawyer had reality show. But Diane is clearly too smart to put her life on TV. Bummer.

4:43 - B & G visit fortune teller in market. G will have long life because she has big ears. She is "like the Buddha." Cannot actually think of someone who is less like Buddha, but whatever. He foretells at least 2 children. And also, if they don't have children, their marriage is screwed. Would have punched fortune teller. Bad international press, however.

4:44 - B & G visit temple because they "are religious and spiritual people," (not, "because we needed 10 minutes of filler before the next fertility segment"). Nice Hong Kong people try to explain incense ritual. They also learn about ritual in which dropping two half-moon shaped figures determines whether or not your wish will come true. Bill keeps getting "no" on his wish. Want to laugh at this, except that must confess that I have, embarrassingly often, tried to figure out "signs." As I live in glass house, cannot throw stones. Sigh. Whole point of watching this show is stone-throwing.

4:47 - G gets "yes" in answer to her question: "Will we get pregnant soon?" Feel that answer, just possibly, may have been manipulated by show's producers. Scandalous.

4:49 - B is horrified by price of bags. G needs to do more shopping.

4:51 - B & G wear new clothes to fancy E! event. Boring speeches.

4:53 - Shot Day. B is finally reading directions. G is very nervous. Feel for G. G whines. Now, do not feel for G. G cannot handle World's Smallest Injection Needle. Feel that G should seriously reconsider squeezing watermelon-sized baby out her hoo-ha. (Or maybe canteloupe, but still: big baby. Small hole. Think about it, G.)

4:54 - G wins the gold medal at whining. B gives her shot. It looks like he's giving it to her in her lower back, but later angle shows definite butt-inejction. Good job, B. I would have injected it into her head.

4:57 - B surprises G by taking her to a restaurant she can go to at home. (Must admit, gorgeous view.) G loves traveling with B because he "opens her eyes to different things." Such as, for example, a new location of a restaurant she goes to all the time. Way to expand your horizons, G.

4:58 - G heard a great quote: "you have to immerse yourself in an unfamiliar world to truly understand your own." Suspect that she "heard" this "great quote" from the guy behind the camera who is whispering it to her one word at a time.

4:59 - G tries to explain IUI to Random Assistant Or Perhaps Friend, Don't Care. Friend seems horrified by procedure. Do not like friend. Cue the upbeat music.

5:00 - Dr. Not An RE gets ready for IUI. G is "excited and nervous." Seems about right. Evidently G has 3 follicles. Then G has to be tilted backward and stay that way for 30 minutes. Suspect that Dr. Not An RE is not an expert in this. "Whatever happens, happens," says Bill. True that. B & G must wait 12 days. If B & G succeed on first try, will definitely stop watching this show.