burnt toast life

long term storage

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about our embryos in storage.

Right now they’re chillin’ (ha, I’m hilarious) in New York City, at the same clinic where we participated in that clinical trial and got our free IVF. We have three day-5 frozen embryos left. We want future children (according to my husband, he NEEDS a son). The hard, invasive, expensive part is done now… it only makes sense that we continue to store them until the not so distant future day that we choose to expand our family. And now I’m a helluva lot more confident in my ability to do so, too. No gluten. No corn syrup. Lovenox for at least 15 weeks. No sudden or abrupt movements. GOT IT.

Anyway. New Hope gives you six months of free storage from the date of your last monitoring appointment (for me, apparently, that date was 11/11/13). After that they offer long-term storage for the low, low price of $1,200 per year, but as they like to joke, “The rent in Manhattan is so high! If you wish to seek alternative storage, that is your right and we understand.”

Our six months free is up in May, so I figured I’d start calling around to see what my options were. Since I’m not going to be getting a free embryo transfer in the near future, I thought it made more sense to have them sent somewhere in Pennsylvania. But that’s where things get complicated. The clinic near me that we went to originally (where we were formally diagnosed and all that) does not offer long-term storage. They use a facility in Missouri, who I did call, and it turns out the storage fees are $400/year, or $700 for 2 years. Shipping is $215. Oh, and I already got a glimpse of the consent to ship form, which has all kinds of scary language such as “We have been informed that such a transfer may affect the embryos resulting in unknown kinds of injuries or damage that may lead up to their death.” YEAH. I know that’s all just liability stuff, but whoa. Talk about precious cargo. The woman from the place in Missouri said insurance was extra if I was interested, to which I automatically replied yes, but then I sat down and thought about it – insure what, exactly? If they’re lost, there’s no getting them back. No amount of money can replace those specific embryos. How does that even work? What exactly am I “insuring?”

Here’s the weird part, though. So I just kind of assumed that doing an embryo transfer would be cheaper in my neck of the woods (Pennsylvania: land of the Amish!). It has to be, right? Um, no. New Hope quoted me $2,400 for a transfer plus $800 for monitoring, while the place near me gave me a quote of $4,000. What the what?! Even with bus fare and Metro cards, I’m better off at New Hope. Soooo I guess that means I’ll have to keep calling places in my general vicinity, hoping to find someone cheaper. Sheesh.

This whole process has been very frustrating and time-consuming, and I caught myself getting very annoyed that I had to go through this. “Normal” people don’t have to worry about embryo storage. “Normal” people just make more kids when they want more kids. But then I started thinking about some of my favorite women of the blogosphere… women who are still waiting to get pregnant, women who just got terrible news of a failed transfer, women who are waiting patiently to take the next step in their journey. And then I felt crappy for complaining. It’s a good problem to have – too many good embryos. Yeah, it does suck that I have to pay for storage and it’s a huge pain the ass to figure out where to keep them until we’re ready to do this all over again. But I’m one of the lucky ones, and I need to keep that in mind.

In other news – Eric cleaned out the spare bedroom this weekend! There’s still no paint on the walls and no furniture set up, but at this point the room is 95% empty, which makes me feel a billion times better. We have a ski trip in Vermont this weekend with my whole extended family and some friends (they’ll be skiing, I’ll be reading/napping/visiting the Ben & Jerry’s factory and taking the tour several hundred times, harassing the tour guide about their liberal use of high fructose corn syrup in basically every single blend they make). But next weekend the calendar is clear, so I’m hoping to at least get some painting done. Baby steps here, baby steps! I think the weather has a lot to do with it, actually – I feel more motivated to clean/get moving when it’s sunny and mild than I do when it’s freezing cold. I need spring to hurry the hell up already.

Hope everyone had a good St. Paddy’s Day! Can we talk about how I’m like the only person who came in to work wearing green? And I’m not even Irish! It’s just a sign of respect, I think. And it’s fun.

a good heart and a registry

Greetings, blog world.

I know I keep saying “things just got real,” but honestly that’s how it is – every day it sinks in a little further that this could actually be happening and we could be bringing home a baby in just a smidge more than three months. A baby! I guess the closest thing to compare it to would be our wedding, but even that was not quite so hard to picture since (much to my mother’s dismay) we were already living together for a few months before the event. So while I really had no concept of how it would feel to be “husband” and “wife,” envisioning myself in a similar close situation with a man I already knew, with the added security of a ring on my finger and a really nice Kitchenaid mixer, just wasn’t a stretch. I knew what I was getting into. I dipped my toes. With a baby, it’s like I’ve been sitting on dry land for so long and now they’re slowly lowering me over the water, about to loosen the net and throw me in. It’s gonna be crazy, I can tell.

But I digress. Yesterday I had an hour-long in depth fetal heart ultrasound at the Perinatal center. I was told that this is standard practice for all IVF pregnancies, as there is an elevated risk for heart defects for IVF babies as compared to naturally conceived babies. I wasn’t about to complain because I was hoping to get another 3D shot of her face on the fancy schmancy ultrasound equipment that they have there. (Unfortunately, my little contortionist was folded up like a pretzel the whole time, knees to nose, so no such picture was possible. She’s still cute though).

As I was lying there, I heard a song. It’s a song I haven’t heard in a long, long time – in fact, the last time I remember hearing it, I was lying in the pre-op area waiting to undergo my D&C after my miscarriage with the twins. Awful, right? I’m sure I’ve probably heard it since then, but that’s the last time it really stuck out as memorable. The contrast between these two situations – the feelings I had, the emotions, the outlook – it was just so different. Even though yesterday I was in a happy place and every couple of minutes the doctor kept saying, “Looks perfect. Everything looks just right,” I couldn’t help crying. Tears of happiness and of gratitude just started pouring out of me. How did I get here? How did I make it this far?

It’s funny, I have a lyrics analysis for this particular song in my drafts and I just never got around to posting it. I’m sure most of us have a song or songs that we relate to infertility and loss for one reason or another. I can’t even read the lyrics to Pink’s “Beam Me Up” without dissolving into a puddle of messy emotion (if you’ve ever had a miscarriage, go listen to it. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s literally the saddest song ever). But in regards to infertility in general, and to having my baby, I’ve always been drawn to this one song – the one I heard yesterday. It’s from Twilight, please don’t judge me. The song is called “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri. Here’s the chorus:

I have died every day waiting for you
Darlin’ don’t be afraid I have loved you for a thousand years
I’ll love you for a thousand more

It speaks to me. Dramatics? Check. Hyperbole? Check! It so perfectly puts into words the extremity of feeling that I’ve been carrying around for years now. I’ve DIED every day waiting for this child. Not just mourned, not just yearned – died. My love for her is so big, it encompasses a thousand years before I existed, and it will go on for a thousand years more. Plus, the singer’s voice is really beautiful. I know she’s technically talking about a guy who she’s pining for, but ignore a few obvious lines and the song could easily be about an unborn child. I’ll post the lyrics to the entire song below in case you’re interested.

Anyway, the song played, I cried, we finished up the ultrasound and everything looked great. She has a good, strong heart, as far as they can tell.

Eric and I had been throwing around the idea of going to register (reality: I’ve been nagging, he’s been procrastinating). We finally decided that going out right after work might be easier since we’d already be out and about, plus the store was likely to be less crowded. In a sort of impromptu move, we decided to go last night, on Thursday. He made me swear we’d only be there for 30 minutes (for anyone who has ever done any kind of registry: this is your cue to laugh heartily).

We got to the store and were sitting down to relay pertinent information and get our handy dandy scanner, and you’ll never guess what song came on over the store’s loudspeakers. Yes! I haven’t heard it in ages, and then twice in one day? In such baby-centric situations? So bizarre. This time I didn’t cry…I smiled.

Registering was overwhelming, to say the least. Since my sister, my mom, and some of my friends who are done having kids are giving me a bunch of stuff, I almost felt like we wouldn’t need to do one at all. We have the crib… the changing table… swings, papasans, and a bassinet. Tons of clothes. (Mountains of clothes. I mean… she is fully clothed and covered for hourly outfit changes for 6 months solid. No lie). I went in to the store knowing that I needed to get a new Bobby cover, a Sophie the Giraffe, and a car seat. Other than that I figured we needed nothing. Ha. Ha. Ha.

As we walked and scanned and got fawned over by the employees who were obviously bored out of their minds working on a Thursday night (I can’t recommend weeknight registering enough. It’s the perfect time to go), I was completely floored by how many things we actually DID need. Bottles, pacifiers, bath towels, diapers, nursing covers… as much as we were getting secondhand, we still needed so much. And I’m sure the store is meant to make you feel that way. Like, duh, it’s a store.

I knew to pass over silly things like wipes warmers. I’ve read the articles, I’ve talked to the experienced moms; I sort of know what’s just a waste of time and money. But all that crap aside, we still just need so much stuff. And don’t even try to talk me out of the $188 Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag, because at heart I am a total bag snob (I worked at Coach for 3 years), and I’ve been coveting one of those since my days of selling them to the snobby new moms at Nordstrom. Eric may have begrudgingly scanned it, but it’s a need, not a want. It has a fold out changing pad! Genius, I tell you!

Plus, a funny thing happened over the course of the night. I started to think, wow, this is not just stuff… this is stuff for a real live child who will be joining us in our house soon. That little pink sun hat will go on her head at the beach. This stroller that folds so conveniently will come with us to Musikfest in August, so instead of filling a mug with straight vodka and staunchly avoiding eye contact with pregnant chicks at the ‘fest (like I’ve done every year so far), I’ll be pushing my baby in a stroller. My baby. This baby who I’ve loved for a thousand years, and who I’ll love for a thousand more.

We have so much to do. Completing the registry was supposed to make me feel accomplished, but instead it made me feel woefully unprepared. And yet, at the same time, I feel a sense of calm. No matter what we do or don’t do, my baby is coming. She may not have all the stuff yet, but she’ll get what she needs. In the end, what more does she really need than so much love and gratitude for her existence?

Oh, that’s right. She does need that Petunia Pickle Bottom diaper bag.

Here are the words to that song I was telling you about:

Heart beats fast
Colors and promises
How to be brave
How can I love when I’m afraid
To fall
But watching you stand alone
All of my doubt
Suddenly goes away somehow

One step closer

I have died every day
waiting for you
Darlin’ don’t be afraid
I have loved you for a
Thousand years
I’ll love you for a
Thousand more

Time stands still
beauty in all she is
I will be brave
I will not let anything
Take away
What’s standing in front of me
Every breath,
Every hour has come to this

One step closer

I have died every day
Waiting for you
Darlin’ don’t be afraid
I have loved you for a
Thousand years
I’ll love you for a
Thousand more

And all along I believed
I would find you
Time has brought
Your heart to me
I have loved you for a
Thousand years
I’ll love you for a
Thousand more

One step closer
One step closer

I have died every day
Waiting for you
Darlin’ don’t be afraid,
I have loved you for a
Thousand years
I’ll love you for a
Thousand more

And all along I believed
I would find you
Time has brought
Your heart to me
I have loved you for a
Thousand years
I’ll love you for a
Thousand more

viable

It’s been a while, I know.

Here’s the thing: I’m boring. I’m so, so boring. I get up, I go to work, I come home and cook dinner and then I collapse in front of the TV or disappear into the pages of my latest book until I drag myself into bed. It’s not that I’m tired, per se… not mentally, at least. It’s just my body is not my body anymore. My chair at work is insufferable. I cannot get comfortable. My legs are too fat to cross, my fingers are too fat for rings, my back is in constant pain. I can find no comfortable sleeping position. So physically, yes, I feel like a 90-year-old. One flight of stairs leaves me huffing and puffing. I find myself always looking for somewhere to sit down. No wonder so many old people are grumpy.

Glamorous pregnancy? Please.

That’s not to say I’m taking it for granted… far from it. Baby girl has become quite active over the past few weeks, and the novelty of feeling her move still has not worn off. So far it’s still pretty low and internal, but Friday night she must have found a new position because for the first time, I could feel her kicks on the outside. Pretty awesome. Haven’t been able to feel that again since, but I suppose it was like a preview of things to come.

Nursery progress: none yet. We’ve narrowed down paint colors and finally on Saturday we are going to register. As I might have mentioned, we have some gorgeous furniture in the attic (Allie’s old crib and dresser), so really all we need to do is bring it down and set it up. Plus remove the few items that we have in that room. It’s not a huge clean out and I can’t imagine it taking longer than a day (maybe a weekend?), but still I’m starting to stress a little. February was fairly tame events-wise, but the closer we get to spring, the more packed our weekends are going to get. I just want to have everything taken care of sooner rather than later. Maybe this is what they call “nesting.” But really, I think it’s more fear in the knowledge that Eric and I are both hopeless procrastinators. If we don’t start now, we won’t finish it until June. And my energy is already waning, hardcore.

Ah… what else. As of today I am 24 weeks pregnant, or officially at the stage of viability. This is exciting, though not quite the reassuring comfort that it should be. Rather than pre-term later, I’m still afraid of just inexplicably losing the heartbeat, in which case being pre-24 weeks or post-24 weeks would not really make a difference. I’m working on getting over this fear. The constant movement is helpful. I haven’t even needed to use my doppler in a really long time.

Like, literally nothing else going on. I feel bad with these horribly mundane updates that are boring to write and probably much more boring to read, but I also like to check in every now and again to prove I’m still “actively blogging,” or whatever. As I said, even after she’s born I plan to keep this up to the best of my ability, but hopefully I’ll have more interesting items to discuss. You know…more interesting than unrelenting low back pain and a blossoming sugar addiction.

Thanks for sticking with me. Hopefully next update will show some nursery progress. I’m pretty dang excited to get it going… I’ve had big plans for that room since we bought our house in 2011, and the fact that we are finally getting to put them into play is so gratifying. Also exhausting. But mostly… yeah, gratifying.

sugar, sugar

Way back before I was even out of the danger zone, I signed up on the “What to Expect” website and ever since, I’ve been getting a daily email with links to a message board populated solely by other women who are due in the month of June. There are usually a lot of boring-looking posts (“URGENT carseat question, help?!!!!” and “Carrying high or low?”), but occasionally the headline is compelling enough to make me click in and read (usually these posts start out with, “WARNING, TMI post ahead…”).

Anyway, I clicked on one this morning because it had to do with weight gain. Now, I know that I’ve already gained too much… actually, I’ve pretty much hit the point where I’ve gained as much as you’re supposed to gain for the whole pregnancy. But still, I wasn’t prepared for the responses, which made me want to throw up right into my bowl of sugar-laden (yet, gluten-free!) Cinnamon Rice Chex. No, the irony was not lost on me that I was reading this post and stuffing my face at the same time.

Some actual posts from the message board, on the topic “starting weight/height + weight gain to date?”:

-start weight 100…current weight 106…20 weeks today! 5’3 and 20 years old
-5’1 started at 107, now at 118 at 22 weeks
-23 weeks, 5 days…starting height/weight 5’2, 98 pounds, now 101 pounds, so +3! 20 years old
-I’m 22 weeks, 5’3. Starting weight 122, now 134, so up 12 pounds. 21 years old, second time mom (:
-Starting weight 114 height 5’5 current weight 134 at 20 weeks
-22 weeks 5’1 started at 125 and now 131

I could go on… but I won’t.

Bitches! First of all, why are they all so young? Second… now I feel like crap. I was lamenting this to Eric, who reassured me that it’s the internet and anyone can say anything they want, but it’s an annonymous message board. I don’t really see how they would benefit from lying.

Ugh. I’m 5’1 and my starting weight was 135 (ish). That’s high for me, but as I’ve mentioned, stress eating spurred by multiple miscarriages led to some weight gain in 2013. Wednesday I will be 22 weeks…and I’ve gained 25 pounds so far (DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN).

I’ve been hiding behind the popular adage that, “you just gain weight all over with girls.” And maybe that’s true. But it’s time to take a look in the mirror and realize that I’ve seriously been eating like total crap. All I want is sugar. All day long, sugar. And besides refraining from gluten and corn syrup, I’ve been granting myself an all-access pass to eat whatever the hell I want, whenever the hell I want. In a way, I feel like I’ve earned it… fought so hard to get here, spent so many years obsessed with food and dieting, PLUS I’ve given up bread and gluten entirely… so what’s wrong with a little sugar?

But the problem is that it’s not a little sugar… it’s a truckload of sugar. I’ve never been a sugary treats type person – my downfall is bread and carbs. Generally I only eat sweets in the form of fruit, especially berries, and dark chocolate. But apparently Baby Girl is my polar opposite, because ever since she made her presence known, I cannot get enough of the white stuff. And as a side note, I’ve been careful to use only real sugar (I guess that makes this a bit more justifiable?). I used to be a Splenda addict, but ever since my BFP I have avoided all artifical sweeteners and stuck to real white (or raw) sugar only. I’ve been known to gaze longingly at other people drinking Diet Cokes, but I just don’t think that’s a smart move right now.

Here is a typical day’s intake of sugar food:

BREAKFAST
1 (or 1.5) bowls of Cinnamon Chex
1 cup of coffee, with white sugar

SECOND BREAKFAST
2 oranges
Chamomile tea, with raw sugar

THIRD BREAKFAST (what do you mean, there’s no such thing as third breakfast?)
Chobani fruit on the bottom Greek yogurt

LUNCH
Varies, usually leftovers, not necessarily sugary. Miss Molly is really into cheeseburgers (bun-free, of course), so occasionally I will order one of those.

SNACK
Chocolate. Any kind of chocolate, kept stashed in my desk

DINNER
Varies, lately has been gluten-free pasta with tomato sauce

DESSERT
large bowl of chocolate ice cream, with sprinkles

ALL DAY
Decaf iced tea, with sugar

Yeah, it’s not pretty. I just looked up the glucose test time, and it looks like in 2 – 4 weeks I’ll have the answer to whether or not I really went off the sugary deep end. My sister had gestational diabetes. From what I saw, it wasn’t fun. I never worried about it for myself because like I said, I’ve never been a real sweets person. I just did not anticipate that my offspring would be a HUGE sweets person. You should feel her go crazy moving around every time I indulge in a sweet treat. So it’s part craving, part selfishness, because obviously I love feeling her move.

Wow, I’ve become impossibly lame, here… I’m not even saying I have gestational diabetes, I’m really just saying I think that I possibly do. Truth be told, there’s not much else going on in my world. We agreed to start talking about doing the nursery… but nothing has been decided so far. I do have a distinct vision of what I want, but as with all decorating projects, Eric likes to have input on these matters. I found some freaking adorable girl-themed Star Wars wall art on etsy (because that’s what my geek husband likes, of course) that fits my vision and color scheme perfectly, so here’s hoping that will sway him in the right direction. We have time. We still need to register. That’s on the agenda, for the near, near future.

That’s about all, folks. Sorry for absolute lameness.

gender reveal: it’s a…

Yes, you already know I’m gonna make you scroll for it.

First, let me tell you about the whole crappy morning. Yes, crappy! This magical appointment was SO not what we had imagined.

This morning it was snowing. Heavily. No, this is not Atlanta (sorry, Atlanta), but the roads were sketchy enough that even Eric said to me, “Are you sure we should really go?” He had already committed to working from home today, and my car is the only one with all-wheel drive, so he agreed to brave the dangerous roads if I promised to call out of work. That seemed like a reasonable compromise, so I did.

The roads were not great, but he’s a good driver, and like I said… I have all-wheel drive. We live in Pennsylvania; it snows a lot. We’re used to it. So anyway, it took us about an hour to go 15 miles, but we managed to get to the appointment right on time – 8 a.m. And it’s a good thing I made an early appointment because we found out later they were closing the office at 11. And this was at a HOSPITAL. So you can imagine how treacherous it really was.

We went back into the room and got introduced to our ultrasound tech, who shall henceforth be known as BUZZKILL (BK). She immediately started in on us, questioning why the hell we would risk life and limb to come in for this appointment “after all we had been through.” Um… excuse me, what? Do you know my life and what I’ve been through, or did you glance at my chart and make assumptions? Wow.

Anyway, we mentioned that we were really excited because we had this whole gender reveal party planned for tonight with our families and we were going to cut a cake and blah, blah, blah… nope, wrong answer. BK was appalled that we thought of it as a “gender scan” and just kept reiterating that it was a medical procedure to check the baby’s health, not pink or blue party time. She made it sound highly unlikely that she would get a shot of the girly bits or boy parts, but she would write it down “if she could find it, maybe, probably not, but maybe.”

Let me be clear: She KNEW that we didn’t want to know, and that we wanted it written down. After chastising us a few more times for having the audacity to drive in 3 inches of snow in our all-wheel drive car and shouting out the names of bones as she found them, she dropped the bomb.

“It’s a ____.” Then she wrote it on the screen.

I could have punched her! We were stunned into silence. Seriously, BK, seriously? Then Eric said something about being disappointed, and she thought he was talking about the gender, so she started berating him for that. She said, “Oh, I just can’t believe you would say that, after all you’ve been through.”

No, lady. He wasn’t disappointed about his baby’s gender. He was disappointed that he had to hear it from you, in a totally anticlimactic tone, completely out of the blue, when we’ve been planning and anticipating this party since I made the appointment two months ago. THAT’S why we drove through the snow. Even after all we’ve been through.

She realized her mistake about ten minutes later, and stopped all of the sudden and said, “Oh my gosh, you wanted me to write it down, didn’t you? Oh, I’m so sorry. I haven’t made that mistake in years!” And then she said, “…Oh, well.”

Yup… “Oh, well.”

Of course, we made the best of it. We got to see baby’s face. We slowly let it sink in – our baby had a gender. Everything else about the scan also looked great, which was a huge relief. But later during the appointment when Eric and I were talking about the miscarriages, she stopped and said, “Oh, you’ve been pregnant before?” So when she was going on and on about all we’ve been through, she was just talking about IVF… she didn’t even know the whole story! Imagine if she had… she would have thrown us out of the office on our ears.

We drove home. We started to get excited again. A small part of me was worried that we may have to cancel the gender reveal party since it was still snowing heavily, but luckily everyone in my family AND Eric’s family lives in a 5 mile radius, and the plows worked hard all day.

So without further ado, may I present the results of the gender reveal… in photos.

Ryder and Bird made the first guesses of the day:

ryderandbirdguess

Yellow plates, pink lemonade, and blue cups…because you never know.

gr2

Our beautiful cake, made by Aunt Deby.

gr3

Guesses for Team Pink:

gr4

Guesses for Team Blue:

gr5

Our “guesses” (pretending not to already know):

gr6

We let the grandmothers cut the cake, so at least someone was surprised. And inside, it was…PINK!!!

gr7

A 3D image of our baby girl, Molly Marie Harding.

gr8

We simply can’t wait to meet her, and we’re feeling overwhelmingly blessed. So in the end, the day was very, very good. A daughter. Our daughter. I wish it was June!

blip!

I’m pleased to announce that I finally started feeling movement.

It happened more suddenly than I would have thought. Friday morning (19.5 weeks) I had a quick checkup at the OB/GYN, which went just fine (she even found the heartbeat in a timely fashion). But when asked if I had felt movement yet I had to say, “Noooo!” in my most disappointed voice. The doctor explained that it might feel a bit like gas at first, and described the feeling as “little blips” in the lower portion of my abdomen. She added that since all my organs are pushed up to make way for the uterus, any minor twinge that I felt south of the bellybutton was actually the baby somersaulting away.

So it was either her explanation and me paying closer attention, or perhaps just one huge coincidence, but later that night I finally felt my first “blip!” And then I felt another, and another, and yeah it’s been pretty much nonstop since then whenever I’m sitting very still or lying in bed.

So what does it feel like? On my BBT Facebook page, I posted that it was “like my stomach is an aquarium and the fish keep bumping against the sides.” Even a few days later, that’s still my best description. There is bumping, but it’s not sharp, it’s very fluid in nature. I think “blip!” is an accurate way to describe it, too. It’s pretty damn amazing. But also… a little creepy?

This, more than anything, has made it feel real. Like, really real. There’s a person in there, nudging me. It’s just a little bizarre… and yes, creepy! Good creepy, awesome creepy, miraculous creepy, but creepy nonetheless. I’m sure I’ll get used to it. And just when I get used to the “blip!” I’ll start feeling the kid throwing elbows, which will take a whole other adjustment period.

Which brings me to my next point. My husband. My dear, dear husband. I’ve already hinted that he’s keeping a safe distance, not getting his hopes too high, etc., etc… but this latest development in the pregnancy journey has uncovered a whole new issue to contend with. He also thinks I’m creepy. And he wants to keep his distance, both literally and figuratively.

The fact that I’m feeling movement just kind of weirds him out. That along with my rapidly changing body and most likely rapidly changing hormones. My stomach is huge, my boobs are huge, and overall it’s like I’m ripening – like a piece of fruit. It’s not that he’s grossed out, per se… it’s more that he’s shocked and amazed, too, but in a “why don’t you just stand way over there for now while I assess this situation” kind of way.

It’s tough. On one hand I want to pout and stomp my feet because hey, isn’t this what we wanted all along? But on the other, I can’t help but agree with him, since I find it all a little crazy, too. I guess what I’m saying is that I know where he’s coming from, and I don’t necessarily blame him for this type of reaction. Plus I’m confident enough at this point to laugh it off rather than wallow in self-pity over the fact that my husband is just a little bit…well, frightened of me.

This is something I haven’t seen much on the blogs. I cannot be the only one! Please tell me someone else had to go through an adjustment period with their husband/significant other. Or hey, maybe he kept his distance the whole time. At this point, I’m just assuming that’s what will happen, since I’m only going to get bigger/creepier as time goes on.

He actually said to me the other day, “I’m starting to rethink this whole pregnancy thing. Can’t we just… have it dropped off when it’s done growing or something?”

I replied, “You mean…like the stork? Like we have a stork bring us a newborn?”

He agreed to that plan. And during this conversation, on the inside, Baby Crumb went “blip!”

And that’s what’s going on with me.

small things with great love

So, I found out that I’m a total nag/bitch. A nitch?

Here’s what happened: over the weekend, I was babysitting my little brother Michael and, unbeknownst to me, he used his iPod to record my dog running around the house. So as you may imagine, I kept on living my life and being myself without the self-conscious restraint that comes from knowing that your every word and action is being documented. Once we figured out he’d been recording us for like ten minutes, Eric and I immediately made him play it back. And I did not like what I heard. In the video, I sound harpy, squawky, and annoying. I got caught on film going on some rant about undone chores, as per usual. I hated the way I sounded.

Also, my sister recently posted an FB status about how despite the fact that her husband isn’t a typical “manly man” who is super into sports and good at swinging a hammer, he’s a great husband and father because he helps her out with chores around the house. Eric left a comment on her status saying that what she was describing, “sounded like my dream husband” (because that’s precisely the kind of thing I’d been nagging about and we’d been bickering about all weekend), and that comment made me feel kind of crappy. It made me feel like I don’t appreciate my husband. And you know what? Maybe I don’t appreciate him enough.

I think the problem lies in trying to change someone when you already know who they are. Case in point – one of my chores is doing the dishes. And sometimes I let the dishes go…for a couple days (and sometimes even a couple more days after that). When it comes to chores, I have two modes: psycho OCD dirt abolisher, or lazy, lounge about I-don’t-give-a-shit-I-will-just-live-in-my-own-filth-forever super-slob. So this weekend I was feeling like the latter and started harping on him that MAYBE he could NOTICE that the sink was full of dishes, pick up a sponge, and DO SOMETHING about it. But you know what? He didn’t notice. He totally didn’t.

Like the other day, I bought all new K-cups for our Keurig and put them in the k-cup holder directly adjacent to the Keurig. For a few days, he kept using regular Folgers coffee, until I finally asked him, “Why aren’t you using the new k-cups I just bought?” Well, guess what? He didn’t see them. Literally, did not see them. Despite the fact that they were right in front of his face, brightly colored, and totally obvious, he did not see him because he was not looking for them. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my husband.

In a similar vein, I really doubt he “saw” the overflowing dishes in the sink. Sure, he saw them… as much as you see anything that’s in your way, and I’m sure he did his share of adding to the pile, too…but it literally did not cross his mind to wash them. It wasn’t a conscious act of defiance or laziness, but rather a complete lack of thought altogether. It would have been just as logical (in his mind) for him to smear on some lipstick and start lip-syncing to Justin Bieber as it would have been to do the dishes. I was home, it was my job, and I slacked on it. So why should he take up the burden?

And that’s the real crux of the problem here. I was mad at myself for being so lazy, and I was taking it out on him, who was just as lazy, but in no way more punishable for this laziness than I. What did I do this weekend? I napped. I read for long stretches until my eyes got heavy, then I napped, then I woke up and read some more, and then I napped again. Oh yeah, swinging social life right here. I stayed in yoga pants and didn’t leave the house (well, until I went to book club Sunday night to talk about what I read). It was really nice, and sadly, very similar to how I’ve been spending most of my weekends lately. But you know what? He didn’t bother me or wake me up or ask me why the hell I was neglecting the gross sink full of dishes. He just let me be a bump on a log. He let me sleep.

And it’s not like he does nothing. Yes, my chores are more numerous, and more “year-round.” But when the grass is long, I certainly don’t get out the lawn mower just because I notice it. When it snows, I don’t pick up a shovel. It really is the same concept.

This extends to pregnancy, too, and my last post about expectations for being pregnant. I expected to be put on a pedestal throughout the whole time. I expected things to just be…different. But they’re not. We still have the same fights, we still interact the same way. Much to my dismay, he’s not fascinated by my doppler and doesn’t kiss my belly every night. However…I think he’s just as scared as I am to believe it’s really going to happen, and is maintaining some level of detachment from the whole thing in case things go south. I know he’s excited, to an extent… but why get your hopes up over something that’s not guaranteed? He’s like that about everything. Plus, there’s the oft-quoted phrase, “A woman becomes a mother when she gets pregnant, a man becomes a father when he holds his baby for the first time.” So true, so relevant. I think it feels more real because at the moment it’s happening mostly to me, but come June there will be no denying that it’s happening to BOTH of us.

Back to chores. I’ve decided that as a late new year’s resolution, for as long as I can last, I will do all my chores without the usual chip on my shoulder. (You’re all my witnesses that I’m saying this!) I’ll stop being such a martyr about it. I’ll remember why I do them: because I love my family, my messy husband and my messier dogs. Chores aren’t meant to be enjoyable, and no matter how much I complain, they’ll still need to get done. So I can either undertake these unpleasant tasks with a scowl and a snarky comment, or I can do them with a smile. My attitude is my choice.

greatloveI keep going back to the Mother Theresa quote, “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” I’m sure she wasn’t talking about laundry and dishes, but I do feel that the concept is applicable here. That’s my new mantra: small things, with great love. Chuck the sarcasm at the door. Save the martyrdom for the real martyrs. And start appreciating all of the things that my husband does do for me.

And that way, when he does pick up the sponge unexpectedly and do the dishes, I’ll be oh-so-pleasantly surprised.

18 weeks…still just me

Ever hear that expression, “The cobbler’s children have no shoes?”

I’m living that right now. Which is why I’ve been largely absent from the blogosphere, both in posts and in comments. I’m sorry! I’m still reading all of your blogs on my phone, promise.

The expression refers to the phenomenon where professionals in one particular field spend so much time on that thing during work hours that they have neither the time nor the inclination to perform those same services for their friends and loved ones. Case in point – my laptop inexplicably contracted a virus. I have no idea how that’s even possible… I’m one of those people who literally only uses a computer for Google and email, I never download weird or sketchy programs, I don’t surf porn (I swear), I don’t do anything crazy or technical. So how the hell did I get a virus? I don’t know. But my computer has been dead for almost a week now, and my dear techy/nerd/IT husband (I think I know his title at work but honestly I have no idea what he does for a living besides make more money than me) is too stressed out when he gets home from work to work on it. I don’t blame him – one of the downfalls of having a writing job by day is that I don’t really feel like penning the next great novel when I get home at night. I’m tired and spent, word-wise. But still… this lack of laptop makes me feel quite unhinged. I’m dashing this off on one of our “extra” computers and the keyboard is super loud and annoying so I might have to make this brief.

I was thinking today about how as I creep up to the halfway mark of this pregnancy (SERIOUSLY?!), things are just not how I expected them to be. Please don’t take this as complaining, because it’s not – it’s more reflecting on how different reality vs. fantasy really is.

As an infertile, I spent a lot of time daydreaming about being pregnant. I imagined it to be a magical time where everything went right and every day was perfect. It sounds silly, but when I pictured myself pregnant, I couldn’t help but see myself surrounded by a sort of glowing light, angel style. My imagination is quite vivid.

But…no. I’m still me, just fatter me. I still have to wake up every morning and go to work and come home and cook dinner. Aside from some conversations that I wouldn’t otherwise be having, a big belly, and never-ending lower back pain, not much is different. I’m still me. I still feel like me. I’m not sure if this is a side effect of infertility (never get too comfortable!) or if all pregnant people feel this way… just, blah.

I remember having lunch with a pregnant friend once and listening to her lament how she felt fat and unattractive. “But you’re pregnant! You’re beautiful!” I protested. Now I’m starting to see what she meant. I do love my belly; as I mentioned before, it’s like a fun accessory that makes all my shirts look cool. But then my fingers swelled up, forcing me to rock junk jewelry from 7th grade in place of my wedding bands. My ass expanded. My thighs are back to rubbing together. I feel huge and unattractive and puffy. The stomach does a lot to counterbalance that, yes. But if we’re being honest, I just feel gross.

Wow, I promised not to complain and this sounds an awful lot like complaining. Sorry. And I’m not saying it’s not worth it. But for right now, this is what’s on my mind. And at 18 weeks and with no sign of feeling fetal movement yet, it still just doesn’t feel “real.” I’m hormonal/puffy/sleepy/constipated for no apparent reason. I have to keep reminding myself to enjoy this time… and doesn’t that defeat the purpose? I WANT to enjoy it, of course I do, but this week especially I just don’t.

I think that the gender scan on February 3rd is really going to help make it feel more real. Right now it’s hard to picture the baby, but once I can assign a “boy” or “girl” designation and start calling him/her by a name, I’m hoping things will click into place. Plus by then I’ll be feeling movement… right? Hopefully? I already feel behind on that.

Ok, complain session over. Thanks for not throwing tomatoes at me. I would have if I were you.

dear doppler (a love letter)

Dear Doppler,

How shall I praise you? How will I find the words to convey all that you mean to me, and all the ways that I love you? I suppose all I can do is try…

I’ll start with a story. This morning, I awoke at 4am seized with panic. For no discernible reason, and without warning – I just did not feel pregnant anymore. Which doesn’t make much sense, because I would argue that prior to that time I didn’t feel particularly pregnant. But in that moment, I felt my heart sink, and could not shake this terrible thought: “I’m not pregnant.”

But you, Doppler. You were there. A few hours later when I was feeling a little more sane but still apprehensive, you hummed to life with that reassuring crackle and found my baby’s steady heartbeat in an instant. You quelled my fears and dispensed of my doubt. You soothed me, as only you know how to do.

How many times have I counted on you for sanity’s sake? How many times have I guiltily slipped into the bedroom to use you – often closing the door so my husband can’t see how truly crazy I am? Twice a day. Sometimes more. Sometimes I make you find the heartbeat again and again, then close my eyes and hold you there for more time than seems necessary, or make you re-find it over and over when squirmy baby moves out of earshot. But you do not judge. You just faithfully report, and comfort, and offer me the one thing I desperately need, probably for the duration of my pregnancy – reassurance on demand.

Without you, I’d be running to my OB/GYN on a weekly basis and driving them all crazy, or curling up in the fetal position trying not to panic. I’d be plagued by “What if?” on a daily basis. I would cry, and lash out, and slowly descend into panic during the endless weeks between ultrasounds. I would, without a doubt, have a mental breakdown (or several).

sonolinebBut you’re here… and you give me what I need. You may not always register the heartbeat on the screen (you’re weird like that, little Dopp), but that doesn’t matter because you let me hear it with my own two ears. That precious little chugging beat like a miniature train. That endless thump-thumping that I’ve come to crave almost as much as I’ve been craving oranges… and trust me when I say, I’ve been eating a hell of a lot of oranges.

Doppler, you cost me $50. That’s all. That’s less than we spent on hibachi last week. That’s a fraction of what I’ve paid for Coach bags. You were worth that, and so much more… for what you’ve given me, I’d gladly have paid triple (even if my dear husband does not understand our love).

I just want to say thank you, Doppler. Thank you for existing. Thank you for preserving my sanity during one of the most nerve-racking times of my life. Even on the rare occasions that I restrain myself from using you, just seeing you sitting at the ready on top of the dresser is enough to get me through. Because I know that in my moments of weakness, you will be there, and you will tell me everything I need to know.

Doppler…I love you.

Very Sincerely,

Amanda, one paranoid pregnant chick