scared Archives - burnt toast life

photo credit: the berry

I recently rediscovered all the infertility blogs. I’m not really sure why I ever forgot they were there. Yesterday afternoon I was bored and had just done a little redesigning on this blog, so I decided to head over to Stirrup Queens and start searching around. One hour of reading turned into seven.

As much as I appreciate all the kind words and support of family and friends, there’s something about reading tales of other IF journies that gives me contentment. The world of IF blogs makes me feel… normal? Yeah, that’s it. Like I totally fit in.

I remember back when I had my old blog, I used to feel a little thrill of shock when I saw someone posting with their real name and picture on an IF blog. I thought to myself, “Wow. Ballsy.” But now I’m one of them and I take it one step further – I post that shit on Facebook. Yeah, that’s right, all 308 of my friends and frenemies and old high school classmates know my most intimate secrets. Why did I start doing this? Well, for one thing Burnt Toast started out as a blog about living with dogs and chickens, not about infertility. That one bomb-drop post was sort of unprecedented.

I’m starting to realize that I posted spoiler alert because I’ve been incredibly cocky since we got accepted into the clinical trial. I can tell you I’d never be writing about this and sharing it with everyone if we weren’t doing IVF. On my last blog there was a lot of complaining and not a lot of problem solving, whereas here I’m actually going down a road. It may not be a guarantee, but it’s a hell of a lot better than just sitting around whining.

That’s not a dis to anyone who remains anonymous by any means. Sometimes it feels a little weird knowing that anyone on my friend list may know when I’m ovulating. But I figure I give enough disclaimers and clicking on the links is a conscious choice, so if you know that about me, it’s your own fault for looking. It’s not like I’m putting “Ovulation day – YAY!” as my status. It’s basically a good way to keep everyone who cares up to date with what’s going on.

I also wasn’t prepared for any backlash. Again, I’m not sure why I think I’m immune to these simple things. And 99% of you have all been supportive, so thanks for that. I’m hesitant to say anything about that other 1%, so I’m just going to leave it at that for now.

I noticed that I’ve been making my posts like little stories with intros, middles, and hopeful little end phrases. I don’t know why I keep doing this. Blogging is kind of hard because nine times out of ten I hate what I write three days later. It sounds less cheesy when I’m writing it, and then I post it, and then I go back and it sounds all chipper and happy and fake. I think a part of me is trying to maintain this veneer of perfection for all those Facebook followers just so no one gets uncomfortable. And that’s why it’s really refreshing to go back to my anonymous IF sisters and see the nitty gritty, which makes me want to get back to speaking from the heart with the good, the bad and the very ugly. Going through IVF is harrowing. It’s messy, it’s weird, and I hate it while simultaneously being so grateful that I have the opportunity to do it. So there you have it. If you came here looking for sunshine and roses, I don’t have any. I’m terrified out of my friggen mind. And if I recently showed up on your blog with a random comment, I want to thank you for reminding me why we’re doing this.

Why, hello! It’s been so long. Long enough to acquire a few more animals, of course. So here’s the current headcount:

2 dogs

8 chickens

5 fish

1 turtle

1 cat

One of these days I’m going to start charging people admission to come over to the Harding Family Petting Zoo. It’s a grand old time.

Anyway, we got this cat. A rescued, 3-year-old, no-one-wants-me-anymore-and-my-owner-is-moving away cat (who is fat). I saw him for approximately 3 seconds on the day he came home before he skittered off to hide in the basement for 5 days straight. We did not catch a glimpse of him for that long, but knew he was alive simply because the litter box was still being used. He was rightfully a little apprehensive about the dogs, who were joyously curious and scared the hell out of him. Now that some time has passed the cat (who we have named Clembough, Clemmie for short as a nod to Groupon’s $1,000 baby-naming deal which may or may not have been a total publicity stunt) cautiously comes up from the basement, pausing at the top of the stairs and meowing loudly for a little attention, please. The dogs oblige immediately, which causes him to flee back down the stairs to his secret lair. The only time he is comfortable going as far as the kitchen is when he hops onto the kitchen table, which is more than a little bit gross.

Since he has taken up residence in the basement, we put his food and water down there. Unfortunately, the dogs can reach it. And since Ryder is afraid of his own water, he is delighted to be able to steal the cat’s non -threatening water.

Allow me to explain. Ryder is what you may call a scaredy-dog. I love Ryder. In fact, of all these animals, he is by far my #1 favorite. But he is also a purebred Golden Retriever and inbred enough to be a bit dumb. We found one of those continuous water dispensers at a yard sale for $3 and picked it up, thrilled that we didn’t drop $40 for the one I had been eyeing at Target. The dogs took to it just fine – until that horrifying moment when the 3 gallon water jug made a GLUG GLUG noise and traumatized Ryder for life. Now he refuses to drink from it, approaching it only when I stand beside him and stick my finger into the water, indicating that it is in fact NOT a giant monster poised to attack him. Since I don’t always stand there with my finger in the water, he tries to find alternate sources for thirst quenching. Every time I take him outside, he drinks rainwater from the lip of an overturned pond that’s waiting to be installed in the backyard. He noses his way into our showers every morning to lick the suds in the tub. And he steals the cat’s water from the tiny dish. The whole thing is maddening.

I know, I should just give him back his old (non-scary) watering dish and stop torturing the dog. But wouldn’t that just be pandering to his insecurity? Giving credit to inane neuroses? Ok, so he’s just a dog. But Bird has no problem with it, and it GLUG GLUGGED at him, too. I’m at a loss here. Poor scaredy dog.