burnt toast life

ew, turkey

Ever hear of Wawa? It’s one of those places that I thought was everywhere, only to realize pretty late in life is only in my immediate area (it’s actually embarrassing how often that happens to me). Wawa is a convenience store/gas station with really delicious food. Their sandwiches are made to order, and they’re really, really good. They have breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, fabulous coffee… you know, lots of stuff you’d find at a convenience store. It’s also really clean and smells great. Just a good vibe all around at Wawa.

Today I went there (really, just to take a break in the day) and thought, oh, I’ll just get a Paleo-friendly pulled pork and mashed potato bowl. It was, predictably, quite yummy. Because I was curious, when I got back to work I decided to Google the ingredients. It had a few preservatives, but overall, not too bad. But then I kept reading various ingredients listings on their website.

They have these really good sandwiches around November/Thanksgiving-time called Gobblers. It’s not like they seem healthful…they have turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and gravy… I mean, they’re obviously a splurge, calorie-wise. But while researching today, I started to see just how bad they really are. Allow me to share the ingredients in Wawa’s “Hot Turkey.” Not the sandwich, mind you…just the meat.

HOT TURKEY INGREDIENTS:
SEASONED ROASTED TURKEY BREAST STRIPS CARAMEL COLOR ADDED (COOKED TURKEY BREAST, TURKEY BROTH, SALT, TURKEY FLAVOR (TURKEY BROTH, MODIFIED POTATO STARCH, TOCOPHEROL, NATURAL FLAVORS, CITRIC ACID) SODIUM PHOSPHATE, MODIFIED POTATO STARCH, SEASONING (FLAVOR, MODIFIED CORNSTARCH, SALT, SUGAR, YEAST EXTRACT, ASCORBIC ACID), CARAGEENAN, CARAMEL COLOR), WATER, 2% OR LESS OF MODIFIED CORNSTARCH, CHICKEN FAT, SEASONING (MALTODEXTRIN, AUTOLYZED YEAST EXTRACT, SALT, CHICKEN FAT, DRIED CHICKEN BROTH, FLAVORING, CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF DRIED CHICKEN, DRIED TURKEY BROTH, SUGAR), BLEACHED WHEAT FLOUR, CHICKEN FLAVOR (YEAST EXTRACT, CHICKEN POWDER, SALT, NATURAL FLAVORS, L-METHIONINE), BUTTER (CREAM, SALT), SEASONING (AUTOLYZED YEAST EXTRACT, CALCIUM LACTATE, LACTIC ACID), SEASONING (CHICKEN BROTH, AUTOLYZED YEAST EXTRACT, MALTODEXTRIN, NATURAL FLAVOR, CHICKEN FAT, SALT, SILICON DIOXIDE), CHICKEN FAT FLAVOR (CHICKEN FAT, FLAVORS, CHICKEN BROTH), SOYBEAN OIL, SALT, DEHYDRATED ONIONS, YEAST EXTRACT, SUGAR, SEASONING (HYDROLYZED SOY AND CORN PROTEIN, SALT), SEASONING (MALTODEXTRIN, SUNFLOWER OIL, MODIFIED TAPIOCA STARCH, CANOLA OIL, FLAVORING, AUTOLYZED YEAST EXTRACT), SEASONING (MALTODEXTRIN, NONFAT DRY MILK, SALT, BUTTER (CREAM, ANNATTO), ENZYME MODIFIED MILK FAT, ASCORBIC ACID, CALCIUM LACTATE, DISODIUM PHOSPHATE, FLAVORING, LACTIC ACID, MODIFIED CORNSTARCH, SODIUM CASEINATE, WHEY PROTEIN CONCENTRATE), SPICES, NATURAL FLAVORING, DATEM, DISODIUM INOSINATE AND DISODIUM GUANYLATE, DEHYDRATED GARLIC, CARAMEL COLOR..

I mean… it’s horrifying. It makes me never want to eat out at a restaurant ever again. You think you’re safe, ordering something like “turkey.” You think you are, but then for whatever reasoning you’re ingesting all these unpronounceable chemicals and additives. They add TURKEY FLAVOR to TURKEY. Shouldn’t turkey already taste like turkey? What is happening to this world?

I think I mentioned before how impressed I was that Turkey Hill released an all-natural ice cream with just four ingredients – milk, cream, sugar and cocoa. I just saw a commercial the other day for a cookie company bragging the same thing, with cookies that had a few simple ingredients and no preservatives. But aren’t we missing the point here? Shouldn’t the simple, all natural things be the norm and not the novelty?

Ugh, sorry for the rant. Sorry that these past few posts have been rant-y/whiny. I’m just so cognizant of food ingredients now. And clearly, my safest course of action is to just buy my own food and make my own lunch and trust no restaurant or convenience store. I guess I’m frustrated that I have to do that. I should be able to order turkey and know that I’m eating… turkey. Just meat, pure and simple.

Ute update: AF due tomorrow. Ever do that thing where you try to “outrun” your period? I swear, driving home from work today I looked at the clock and thought, oh, it’s 5:30, she doesn’t have much time to get here. As though if she’s late, that means I’m somehow pregnant. As if there’s a giant hourglass somewhere keeping time and if she doesn’t arrive before time runs out, that’s somehow a ‘win’ for me. Ah, the infertile mind.

I don’t feel pregnant. I had a really promising itchy nip episode on Saturday night that sent my hopes into a tailspin, but other than that… just cramps and moodiness and general feeling of “so not pregnant.” Blah. Sorry to be such a downer. Between the turkey and the impending AF along with all her superbitch hormones, it’s been a rough coupla days.

a swelling rage

Warning: graphic/disturbing post to follow. Keep reading at your own risk, and only if you’re in an emotional place to handle some seriously heavy shit.

I’m sorry for posting this. I get super annoyed with people that litter my Facebook news feed with sad pictures of abandoned/neglected animals all day, because I am totally in favor of animal adoption. My pets are adopted. Why should I be subjected to these horrific images when I’m one of the good guys? It doesn’t seem fair that I should be forced to see depressing images and occasionally have to stifle my weeping while at work (solution: stop checking Facebook at work and/or hide frequent offenders).

With that in mind, I need to apologize for sharing this story with you. Because you don’t deserve to know about it. But I just can’t stop thinking about it, and when something is on my mind like that, this blog is my source of catharsis. Plus, I know I can count on you all for some righteous anger, especially in light of the situation.

First, take a look at this person. Take a nice, long look at her:

fuckingpieceofshit

She recently came into local (and maybe even national?) news level fame for giving birth in the bathroom of a local restaurant, suffocating her newborn son, and leaving him dead in the toilet. Her full-term, 100% viable baby son. Suffocated. Murdered. And left dead in a fucking bathroom.

That was bad enough. Even though it’s been all over my news feed (dammit, Facebook!), I was content to not even read the article and just know that this world is seriously messed up. This is not the first time something like this has happened, though it was extra creepy that it happened so close to home, at a restaurant I’ve actually been to. When the story broke, they didn’t even have a suspect yet, it was just an anonymous infant dead in a toilet. Sickening. But still, I tried to avoid it and not think about it.

But today. Today I started to see posts indicating that they had identified this lovely woman, a 26-year-old who unfortunately shares the same name as me. 26, as in old enough to know better. Not a stupid teenager at prom (not that her being a teenager would make it OK, but it would at least provide some sort of explanation). She’s 26. The same age I was when I started trying to conceive.

Here’s what made me shake with rage and know I needed to post this. They found out that this bitch was hanging out at the restaurant watching a wrestling event on TV. She did her “business” in the bathroom, and then went back out to continue drinking, smoking and watching wrestling for another hour before leaving. I just… I just can’t. Not even the slightest modicum of remorse. Just another night at the bar for her. You know, stop by, have some drinks, give birth, murder baby, keep drinking, go home to bed. Fucking awesome.

People are already demanding the death penalty for this piece of trash (yup, we fry ’em here in PA). It will probably be a while before she goes to trial, and even longer before she’s actually executed, if that is in fact the decision they make. But the point is, it doesn’t even matter. That precious child is gone. Not that he deserved her for a mother, but to enter this world and leave it so quickly, and in such a traumatic way…well, I’m crying as I type this. I can’t wrap my head around it.

And I don’t understand. I don’t understand why she got pregnant, and one of us infertiles who is desperately dreaming of that precious gift just can’t. I don’t understand why she got to carry a baby to term when I can’t make it past 8 weeks. I don’t understand why no one was in that bathroom – at a bar? During an event? Did no one hear this going on, something like labor and delivery, in a damn bathroom? I wish to God I would have been there. I wish I would have stumbled in right before she made that choice and had just taken the baby from her. She was a few miles from a hospital, where she could have left the baby, penalty free. Hell, she could have left the living baby in the bathroom and someone would have saved him. Anything. Any decision would have been better than the one she made.

There’s really nothing else to say. I’m so pissed at the world tonight. I’m pissed at how unfairly these things are dealt out, and I sincerely hope it makes sense to me one day, maybe in the next life after this. Sorry for bringing you down. But I can’t get this off my mind. I’m so disheartened right now.

guest blogger: my little sister (the 24-year-old, not the 8-year-old)

we got married a month apart the same year, so we had a joint bridal shower; this is a pic from that really awesome day

we got married a month apart the same year, so we had a joint bridal shower; this is a pic from that really awesome day

I had such fun being a guest blogger that I decided to invite some guests of my own to host right here (up next: Eric with The Penis Perspective. I swear to God that’s what he named his post). Maybe I was feeling a little lazy…guest bloggers mean you don’t have to think of posts. I was also feeling a bit narcissistic, I suppose. I figured they’d write about me, and I kind of wanted to hear what exactly they’d say. Today we have my little sister, Ashley. She’s fertile. Very, very fertile. She’s also one of my biggest advocates and supporters, the first one to commiserate over obnoxious ultrasound pics on Facebook. She may not understand what it’s like to be me, but she’s hella sympathetic. She’s already got one foot in the stirrup ready to be my surrogate the moment I say the word. She’s a good sister, the kind of sister you want on your side when you’re conceptionally challenged. She has a blog, Perfectly Imperfect, where she documents the challenges and joys of raising three little ones. Here’s her take on me and my drama.

First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage. Isn’t that how we all assumed it would go? What happens when things happen out of order and are less than perfect? Or what happens when things aren’t happening? My sister and I join separate blog worlds, that’s what happens. I am new to blogging and I hardly think I am qualified to be a guest on my sister’s blog. I am very intimated by the whole thing and it’s not just because Amanda is a much better writer than I am (she is). I am intimidated because my struggles seem far less difficult than the audience I’m writing to.

I’m a mother of three and my audience is women who are or have had trouble having children. What could you possibly want to hear about from me? When I asked my sister this very question, she said, “Talk about what a bitch I am, talk about what it’s like to have a sister who can’t have kids or tell everyone having kids isn’t always roses and sunshine.”

I can’t talk about her being a bitch because despite occasional bitchy comments (we are all guilty of those), she isn’t a bitch. Obviously having kids isn’t always roses and sunshine, even women without kids know that. However, kids who drive you nuts and having a sister who can’t have kids (yet), share common ground. There are a lot of tears, there’s questioning and there is doubt. Her tears are over a child she doesn’t have, over the children she’s lost and over the unfairness of it all. My tears are over the children I do have. I have lost (I’ve had two miscarriages); the difference is that I already have kids. I understand that, but that doesn’t make it any less painful. No woman should ever have to experience a miscarriage. However, I believe it’s much more devastating for a childless woman to go through that. It’s unfair that a woman so capable of loving a child doesn’t have one. I occasionally feel it’s unfair that I have a child with a disability. My oldest child, Aiden, was recently diagnosed with autism. I shouldn’t feel unfairness for him or myself because if you’re going to have a disability, autism is the most manageable one. Does that sound bad? I am easily overwhelmed, so despite the fact that its manageable, we have a lot of hard days.

I often question why my sister is struggling. All of you have gotten to know her (you may even know her better than I do), so I’m sure you see how maternal she is. I have never stopped praying for her. She deserves a baby. I know God will give her a baby. I just wish I could tell her when and how. She’s my big sister and always seems to have answers for my questions. I’d love to be able to return the favor. When someone you love hurts, you want to take the pain away. How can I possibly take the pain of not having a child away? I’ll give her my kids! Yes! I know, that’s not what the infertile woman wants to hear from fertile myrtle. However, I suffered from postpartum depression after both of my daughters were born. There’s my sister praying, hoping and wishing for a baby. Then there I was, with my newborn feeling so disconnected and sad. In those first few months, I really didn’t want my girls. I would’ve gladly given my sister my baby.

There’s a lot of guilt that comes along with all of this. I pretty much feel guilty all the time. Not only did I at one time or another not want my kids, she has to deal with when I do want them. After every picture, status and post the next thought I have is, “I hope that doesn’t upset Amanda.” I bring my children around her, I talk about them and all I keep thinking is, Get the children away from her! Shut up, don’t talk about them. Your stories aren’t interesting anyway. I don’t know why I’m making her sound like a monster. She loves my kids and she’s OK with seeing and hearing about them (or so she says). I hope she isn’t lying about that because I know they love seeing her.

I haven’t answered any questions and I haven’t given any advice. I hardly think I’m in any sort of position to do so. I am 24 with no college degree, I’ve been working at the same place since I was 16 and I’m not the picture perfect mother I thought I’d be. Here is what I do know. God will never give us more than we can handle and we are living this life because we are strong enough to live it. My mother was the first person to tell me this. I use to think God entrusted me with a lot, and I thought I was strong. Now I know, my sister is the strongest and most trusting woman. The doubt rarely comes, and if it does it’s quickly pushed aside. She knows there is a plan for her (she just wants to know what it is). She will get her baby. She is a mother and always has been. Amanda is loved deeply and that’s where her strength comes from. She loves deeply and that’s where her courage comes from. All I can give are my prayers, and trust me, I’m always praying for the childless mother.

little sister + little brother = big, huge blessing

Besides just the rarity of suffering multiple miscarriages, I’m also weird in another way. I mean, really weird.

You may have (or may not have, I’m unsure how intensely you stalk me) noticed that I have two young siblings. Like, young young siblings. Alessandra was born a few weeks before I turned 21 and Michael was born when I was 24. And as I’m always quick to point out because this makes it even less common, this was no “second marriage, let’s have one of our own” hurrah. They are my 100% biological siblings. (I also have two other siblings who were born when I was 5 and 7 respectively, but they’re not nearly as shocking to bring up. I just felt it appropriate to at least mention them here lest they get offended).

Mikey was born with a sad face

Mikey was born with a sad face

Having young siblings is very different from having nieces and nephews. I can say this because I have both. For one thing, when the little ‘uns were born I was still living at home with my parents (well, you know. Moved out and then came back in typical Gen Y fashion). I helped to raise them from the day they came home from the hospital until the day I moved in with Eric a few months before our wedding in 2010. I changed diapers, I shuttled them to and from daycare, I rocked them when they had fevers. My arm muscles got ridiculously toned from constantly hefting car seats everywhere to the point that total strangers would inquire what kind of arm workouts I did (and trust me, they ain’t asking that anymore). They were my quasi-kids. They were my practice (ha, ha!) kids.

This is part of the reason I know I want kids and have zero romanticized notions on what parenting really means. Well, in a way I did have it pretty good just being a sibling. I could always pick and choose which activities I wanted to participate in and could hand the screaming baby back to my mom when I felt like taking a nap. At that point in my life I was still bar-hopping with my friends every weekend, but it’s not like I needed to line up a babysitter in order to go out or anything. It truly was the best of both worlds. I knew then and still know now how blessed I was/am to have them.

I guess I’ve just been thinking what it would be like if they didn’t exist. It goes without saying that I can’t imagine life without them, but it’s deeper than that. I think having them has made this infertility shit slightly easier to handle because I always have a child I can borrow when I’m feeling lonely. In a way it sucks, because I totally know what I’m missing out on. And of course I think of them as being the brightest, sweetest, bestest kids on Earth, so that makes the longing-to-be-a-mother feelings even worse. But then, it’s not like I’m living some incredibly lonely life in a quiet, empty house. At my old job I used to bring them in to company hosted trick or treat on Halloween so I could pretend I was a parent. If I ever need a small hand to hold, I drive the two miles to my parent’s house and find one. It’s not quite like having my own kids, sure. But their hugs and adoration sure do make this interim a lot closer to bearable.

cousin love

cousin love

And that brings me to the point of this post. Over the weekend I was struck with how old they’re getting, and how mature. The first thing I do when I see Allie is fix her hair. It’s not a conscious thing, it’s more that I always notice her messy, falling out and unbrushed ponytail and feel the immediate need to fix it. It’s not even like she batted me away when I was trying to do it… it’s just that I started thinking about how I can’t keep fixing her hair forever. She’s 8 now and totally idolizes her 11-year-old cousin, not her almost-30-year-old sister. When she’s 15, I seriously doubt she’ll still have that sloppy, careless ponytail like she does now (or if she does, it will be an intentional fashion statement or something).

And don’t even get me started on the frequent debate that my 24-year-old sister and I have about whether or not we should be her bridesmaids. I say yes – we are her sisters, what friend will ever compare? But Ashley argues that we’ll be so old that we’ll ruin the pictures, so she should pick her young, beautiful friends instead. Seriously! I may not have won the genetic lottery with my flat brown hair and undefined chin, but one thing my 50-year-old mom (and by default, as her clone, me) does not have is wrinkles. I plan to still be attractive when that little lady gets married. God-willing, I’ll be a total MILF. And she damn well better put me in her bridal party.

for some reason, he's always posing with Ryder

for some reason, he’s always posing with Ryder

I’m way off-topic, aren’t I? So yeah, I kind of hate that they’re growing up. I’m jealous of my sister Ashley who gets to watch them a few days a week and is therefore more involved in their everyday lives. I usually see them at least once a week, and I know I could take a turn with aftercare pick-up, but it’s amazing how much time and energy my DINK existence encompasses. I have a routine at night. I’d rather see them on my own time, which is how it is now, but still, I feel like I’m missing out. In truth, it can never be like it was before because they are no longer infants who depend on me. I miss them being babies. I miss living with them, watching gigantic milestones happen right before my eyes. It’s a void that could be filled with, oh I don’t know… with some babies of my own, perhaps? That would be most excellent.

I’m lucky and I’m grateful that I was given this blessing of siblings, and at an age that I could truly appreciate them. I’m more than a sister, more than an aunt, less than a mom… I’m just Deeda to them. And to them, our unique relationship isn’t all that weird. That’s just how life is. Never quite what you expected.

could not live without them... not one bit

could not live without them… not one bit

random monday mumblings

You’re all too kind.

No, seriously…you guys are too nice to me.

First, no one pointed out the egregious error on my last post pairing an FET with an IUI. I mean, how stupid was that? I have no excuse besides, perhaps, that I’ve never done an IUI and that I was trying to “sound cool.” (Assuming that even fertiles are familiar with the term IVF but may not have heard of IUI, so it made the whole line more obscure in general).

Next – perusing Pinterest, I saw this:

usmachine

There I was, several posts ago, claiming that I’d make my millions with an at-home ultrasound machine when lo and behold one already exists (with an iPhone app, of course)! Well, wouldja look at that. Now I feel stupid (again).

And then while browsing The Berry (I had some spare time this weekend, what of it?), I found some dude who managed to create cotton candy flavored grapes. Anyone who knows Erika from Something Beautiful would understand that she needed to be informed about the existence of these grapes, like, yesterday. As I was frantically emailing her, my dear husband sauntered over to ask what I was doing.

Me: “I have to tell Erika about these grapes!”
He: “Who is Erika?”
Me: “Like, duh, she’s one of my favorite bloggy friends, of which I have many, and who I have most certainly mentioned before!”

I won’t rehash the whole argument, but let’s just say he and I have differing opinions on what consititutes “friendship.” His opinion: never met, not friends. My opinion? Friends come in all forms. True, I haven’t seen any of your smiling faces in real life or even in photos (and some of you I only know by blog name), but many of you gals know me better than people who I know in real life.

And I’m not going to lie – I have a deep and abiding fear that those of you who are pregnant right now will abandon your blogs once the bouncing bambino(s) make an arrival. And rightly so – it’s your blog, it’s your life. Yes, there have been countless posts arguing whether or not a parenting blog has any business existing in the world of IF blogs if the author is technically an IF’er. But still, selfishly, I don’t want it to end. I don’t want you all to leave me. I’ve come to depend on your advice, your encouragement, your commiseration… hell, if that’s not friendship, I don’t know what is. My real life friendships have suffered if those friends are not blog followers (thankfully, most of them are). Because it’s kind of annoying to answer the “What’s new?” question with a laundry list of treatments, failures and lamentations. Better to just say, “Well, besides what you read on the blog…”

Perhaps this is laziness. Really, I think I’d be more guarded and reserved when it came to sharing if I didn’t have a space to write. Mostly because I’m far more eloquent with written words than spoken words, but also because who wants to tell these stories over and over again? How many times can I say the word “miscarriage” out loud before my head explodes?

Psychologically, I’m sure it goes deeper than just missing your blogs if you chose to abandon them. I don’t want to get left behind, period. I don’t want to be the only one left in our group still cycling and failing. On a related note, when confronted with a date in early September that would involve drinking, I immediately thought, “But no, that’s the 2ww and I can’t drink.” Seriously? I am thoroughly convincing myself that this off-cycle is a real try, proving once again that even while taking a break, I can’t actually take a break. There’s always something going on in my baby-scheming mind.

Oh, hello, rambling and nonsensical post. To sum up, in case you have as much trouble following my thought train as I do:

1) I feel stupid re-reading my own posts, because I keep making stupid mistakes that you’re all kind enough to ignore, so thank you
2) I miss you even though you’re not gone yet
3) I think we are friends, even if just bloggily
4) I genuinely care about your welfare and depend on your support and encouragement more than you know (see item 3)
5) I wish we could all have a playdate (technically I didn’t even mention this yet, but it’s a fact); (see item 3)
6) I can’t actually take a break even when I’m supposed to be taking a break

Well, in case you haven’t noticed, I am deliriously tired (emphasis on delirious, heh). We went to my uncle’s house in Massachusetts for the weekend and camped out Woodstock-style in his backyard, and then we didn’t arrive home until after 11 last night. Even the dogs were too tired to go out this morning, which is a first for them. While they spent the day recovering in bed, I went to work and tried to contribute worthwhile, inspiring cigar copy whilst refilling my coffee cup as quickly as I could empty it (and no, I still haven’t given up caffeine. Dammit).

Now I’m a little punch-drunk and completely drained of coherent thought. So why am I blogging right now? No clue. I’m done. Goodnight.

I’m basically like a minor celebrity

Risa took my guest blogging virginity, woo hoo! I can’t help but feel like I’ve really made it now. A book deal should be just around the corner, right?

In the blogging world, there’s bound to be some overlap in followers. Our current “graduating class,” if I may call it that (thank you, Erika, for this brilliant analogy) is overwhelmingly pregnant right now – and to that I say, “YAY! So happy we are overcoming this awful infertility thing!” But there are some of us who are so NOT pregnant right now. And then there are some of us who had miscarriages. And for us, I wrote this post.

Now, I don’t really know the proper etiquette when it comes to plugging my own blog post – I figured I shouldn’t post it here, because you should have to go to the other blog to read it, right? I don’t want to screw this up; it’s my first time! Without further ado (because seriously, this was way too much ado already), here is the link to the guest blog post I wrote for one of my favorites:

My first ever guest blog post – posted on “Who Shot Down My Stork?”

change of a dress

Today was so much better. I guess that’s just how life is – good days and bad days. You can’t lose all hope during the bad days, and you can’t expect the good days to last forever. You just have to keep breathing, keep living and keep going.

Want to know what really helped? My dress today. As most of you may have noticed, I’ve been lamenting my weight gain over the past couple of months and have been reluctant to buy any new clothes, but I feel awkward and uncomfortable wearing my regular clothes because they don’t fit correctly. My mom did a closet cleaning this weekend and I was able to snag a couple of things from her. My mom: she’s the sort of person who will buy things and forget she has them, resulting in a closet stuffed full of brand-new-with-tags merchandise and unworn shoes. She was finally forced to confront the situation when her closet rod detached from the wall and collapsed from the sheer weight of her dress collection. True story.

Besides having a bunch of brand new stuff, she has a range of sizes spanning from size two to about size sixteen. It was nice, because I snatched up a bunch of stuff that wasn’t quite the right size for her or my sister. It was like going shopping and not spending any money. New clothes (literally) for free? Yes, please!

When I put on my brand new, perfect fit black sheath, Coach heels and chunky funky necklace this morning, I felt a little bit glamorous. And that’s when I realized… I’ve been kind of slacking in the personal maintenance department. Sure, I shower every day and put on makeup and blow dry my hair. But that’s where the effort stops. We have a casual dress code at work, so I can literally wear jeans and a t-shirt every single day. My outfits lately have been just that, with flip flops and maybe a bracelet if I’m feeling adventurous. After work I come home, peel off my comfortable clothes and put an even comfier ensemble of yoga pants and oversized shirts (often Eric’s that I’ve stolen) with a messy bun. It’s not sexy. Sometimes it’s not even presentable. And I do believe that your outfit can make your mood better, and your view of yourself can change your whole day.

I doubt I’m going to start dressing up all the time now, and I still love me some wine and yoga pants at the end of a long day. But still… putting in a little effort today made me realize how much I’ve been neglecting me. The girly, silly, makeup and stilettos version of me. I don’t have kids yet, that’s true. So I’m thinking it’s my time to be a little selfish and even a little vain. And if it boosts my mood in the process, that’s really a good thing. Bring on the dresses and impractical heels.

On the fertility front, I got an email from New Hope today that nearly gave me a heart attack right there at my desk. I assumed that they were emailing me to let me know I was out of the trial, my time was up, it’s been real fun but now it’s done. Of course it didn’t actually say that. They asked if I was getting a hysteroscopy (Dr. L mentioned that last time) and also inquired about my well-being. Then at the end they said to “let them know when I’m ready to move forward.”

What an uplifting email, right? See, they don’t normally communicate with me at all. This proves that they still want to keep me around, which helps to ease my worrying mind. On top of that, my friend at work (the same dear soul who suggested clinical trials in the first place) found a Reproductive Immunologist who, according to some quick research, does free Skype consults. FREE! I’ve yet to call or investigate what that entails, but it sure beats $900. At the very least, it gives me a little bit of hope for right now.

So, to sum up – I’m less worried about starting up treatments again (when I’m ready, of course), today I was all, “Damn, I feel like a woman” in my new dress and tomorrow I leave for vacation. My mood is better. My outlook is sunnier. It’s been a pretty good day.

my first hate comment

For the most part, the world of infertility blogs has been a safe place. We are endlessly supportive of one another. We cheer together, we cry together, we vent together. We are all bound by a monumental and elusive common goal – to have a baby (or even a few). Without you ladies, I just don’t know how I’d survive this never-ending roller coaster of emotional highs and lows. I count on each and every one of you to say all the right things (and you always do). Of course I’m grateful for the family and friends who have been nothing but supportive and sympathetic, but they don’t know what it’s like. Thank God they don’t know. I appreciate all the people in my life – online and offline – for the unique, important ways that they have helped me survive this shit. I’m so lucky.

That said – I got my very first hate comment! Woo hoo! I guess I was a little thrown by the whole thing. I’ve had this blog since 2011 and have been writing in earnest about infertility since last fall. In that time I’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing negativity. Everyone has been all, “You go, girl!” for so long that I forgot differences of opinion even existed. MY BAD. A few words about The Hater:

1) I totally respect that she didn’t hide behind the typical “anonymous” cloak of secrecy. That’s pretty ballsy to put your real email out there on a stranger’s blog. Good for her.

2) Her email address is from HARVARD. Because… obviously.

3) Her comment, while out of left field and slightly difficult to understand, did give me pause. Maybe I need to be a little more sensitive.

The comment was in resonse to this post. As posts go, it was far from the most insightful or personal. It was just meant to give a little chuckle to all my knowing infertile ladies out there who have ever combated ignorance on any level. The basic gist of it is that I went to the nail salon, got asked about when I would have kids and ended up telling the nail tech I was infertile and even that I had just gone through a miscarriage. My hope was that telling him would perhaps curb this line of questioning for future clients. I also wrote out verbatim what he had said, so I was in essence “mocking” his broken English (but really not, I was just telling it as I heard it).

Here is her comment:

Sorry to bust the bubble here, but there was also a bit a cultural divide in this scenario. I’m an American (second generation Taiwanese-American) but now live as an expat elsewhere (Europe). From this vantage point, I can say that the entire school we’ve fashioned for ourselves about what constitutes personal and private information, what constitutes infertility sensitivity, and what constitutes a “tale of tragedy”…it’s completely and totally American. We love to name our issues, attach rules to what is or is not acceptable to say, do, and discuss, and cheer each other on for “schooling” manicurists on those rules… [N.B. I’m swallowing the Asian-American “rules” and not schooling you on your take on broken English by a foreigner.]

I’m not one who sets out to hurt feelings maliciously. Admittedly, I’m not always the most politically correct person nor am I especially careful about what I say on my personal blog. This is my home. This is where I come to express my opinions freely, and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to read it. Of course the thing that bugged me the most about her hate comment wasn’t the fact that she disagreed or wanted to “school” me, but that she had the audacity to question my classification of miscarriage as a tragedy by using quotation marks. Really, bitch? I hate to say this and be “that girl,” but unless you have gone through it yourself, SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH. It WAS tragic. Yes, I’m prone to hyperbole and dramatics. Yes, I often exaggerate. That’s in my nature. But when that happened, it was the first time in my life when an over-the-top reaction was actually appropriate. If anything, I under reacted to the whole event. So until you’ve walked a mile in my Target flip flops… just stop.

Next – I was not mocking the nail tech dude. It was endearing (though it’s probably so racist of me to be feeling this way over him) that he tried to offer me a solution to infertility, and even had a basic working knowledge of how IVF worked. It was surprising and adorable (shit, there’s that telltale condescension again). BUT, and here’s the BUT – if he was a caucasion woman, if he was an African American transvestite cross dresser, if he was a lesbian little person, if he was WHATEVER… it’s not OK to start questioning people on when they plan to have kids. Using her line of logic, isn’t that breaking a code? Sure, ask your sister or even your close neighbor. Ask your cousin. But I am a total stranger, and my uterus and it’s goings-on are none of your concern. Let’s talk about the weather. Let’s talk about the merits of French tips and the wondrous advances of shellac manicures.

I’m not really that mad about it. More than anything, I’m confused. First, what the hell was she searching that she stumbled upon my blog? Hopefully not infertility sensitivity, because if so, she’s not doing a great job grasping the fine art of that. And then, happening upon my silly little blog (silly to her, of course, it’s become more than very important to me)… what prompted her to think I would respond to her criticism?

At the very least, I will think twice before writing out my probably degrading imitations of the ways all the Asians in my life speak. I’ll think twice, then probably do it anyway. Cause haters is gonna hate.

Haters_Gonna_Hate_03

from the mouths of babes

The following is a conversation I had with my 8-year-old sister last night, while at the pharmacy waiting to pick up my Estrace refill, my hopefully wonder-drug Prednisone and some OTC baby aspirin:

Allie Sue: “Why do you need baby aspirin? That’s for babies.”
Me: “Well, yes, but sometimes it helps adults, too.”
A: “Should I still be praying for you to have babies?”
Me: “Oh, yes, Allie you need to be praying a lot right now for those babies to come.”
A: “You had babies in your tummy. But then they died. In your tummy.”
Me: “Yes, that is true. God brought them back to heaven because he needed them.”
A: “Maybe they were too perfect. Or maybe… maybe they would have been mean!”
Me: “I’d go with the first one, kid, I think they were just too perfect.”
A: “Why do you need medicine to have babies? Most people just have babies and they don’t need any medicine. They just wait and wait until it’s time for them to have babies and then they have them!”
Me: *Sigh* “You’re right, honey. I guess I’m just impatient. I want them now!”
A: “OK. Can I have chicken?”

Sometimes, you just have to laugh. Also, I wanted this conversation recorded for posterity.

me and my favorite little chatterbox

me and my favorite little chatterbox

looking into the crystal ball (a post about psychics)

I have two stories about psychics. Ready? Here we go.

Psychic Story #1:

In this post I talked about my friend’s 2011 Mother’s Day message and how she went to see a psychic and asked about my infertility woes. Long story short in case you don’t feel like reading or re-reading it, she foretold that we would get pregnant eventually, it had something to do with the number 2 and it had something to do with February.

I also mentioned that I pestered her for weeks afterwards for more than she originally told me. Well, she gave me more. Specifically, she said that she wrote down (in reference to my situation), “the second one sticks” and “she will have a beautiful baby girl.”

Guys – I totally worried about this when I first heard it and again when I got pregnant. First of all, “second one sticks” to me sounds like second try. At the time, I believed that it meant I would have a miscarriage, and it scared the crap out of me. Of course when I got pregnant with twins, I assumed “second one sticks” meant second embryo sticks in addition to the first. Duh. Everything that psychics say is not literal.

What worried me then was the “beautiful baby girl” comment. Girl. A girl. Singular. Again, I tried to justify this by saying that maybe one would be a girl and one would be a boy, and the girl would just be particularly beautiful. Plus, IT’S NOT LITERAL. I had never even met this woman. But still, I couldn’t shake a funny feeling about it.

That’s not to say that I had any inkling that the pregnancy would go so horribly wrong. I put the prediction out of my mind (mostly) when I saw that first ultrasound. All looked good. The psychic was wrong. Whatever. But then… the impossible happened. We lost them. And “second one sticks” started to sound so relevant again.

As far as February… well, the first embryo transfer was in February. The embryos were created in February. But now I’m just thinking…this second transfer is going to be early June, which, if successful, would give me a late (or early, if it’s twins) February due date. For the second one. And NOW I’m officially freaked out, despite the fact that I could certainly have two again and she only saw the one girl. Maybe one will be kind of attractive, but smart? Maybe only one will take? Oh, I could do this allllll day. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

Of course, I want to believe all this because it would mean that I carry this next baby(ies) to term, and that she (they?) will be stunningly beautiful. If nothing else, it will help calm my nerves when I (hopefully, oh so hopefully) get pregnant again. I’m already dreading pregnancy as much as I’m looking forward to it because I am absolutely, batshit crazy terrified of being pregnant. Like, ridiculously scared. I’ve never simultaneously wanted and feared something so much in my life.

Psychic Story #2:

Last fall, before we found the clinical trial, I was feeling particularly hopeless. One afternoon I convinced myself that visiting a psychic would be the best way to cheer myself up (obviously, right?). The woman who I went to see came highly recommended from several sources, and since the other psychic had been such a comfort for almost two years, I figured I had nothing to lose.

I’m not exaggerating when I say that this woman was approximately 565 years old. I have never met anyone that old, ever. I hope I don’t sound insensitive when I say that I would not have been surprised if she keeled over and died in the middle of the reading. She was that old. She also took two phone calls – loudly, and on speaker phone – during the reading and chicken scratched appointments into her ancient, paper appointment book. Yeah, I was teeny bit skeptical.

She read my cards and gave be a bunch of vague generalizations, as I’d imagine psychics tend to do, such as, “Someone who was in the military says hello” (seriously, is there a single person living who doesn’t have a dead relative who served in the military?) and “Children love you. They really love you.” (Wow…shocking). The longer the session went on without her answering my burning questions, the more agitated I became.

At one point she got very quiet with concentration for a few seconds and eventually said, “There’s a bird in your house. He keeps pecking at food in the corner of the table, near the leg of the table. He just keeps eating it!” She kind of chuckled at this. Finally, she asked if I had any questions and I exasperatedly asked about having kids, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. She (pretended to?) think about it, then asked if twins ran in my family. She said we would possibly have twins, but not for a couple years. I left with a sense of bitter disappointment.

I did think more about the bird comment though, especially since we have a dog who is named Bird (which she couldn’t have possibly known, of course). He had been going into the dining room for no apparent reason for a few weeks, which was odd because the dogs normally follow us around and we never go in the dining room. I checked and re-checked the table legs, but there was no crusted on food. It just didn’t make sense.

A couple of weeks after the reading, Eric and I were rearranging the dining room. We had been given some really cool vintage pieces from his godmother that we had thrown in there until we figured out how we wanted to use them. While moving a large and cumbersome sideboard that we had placed in front of our little sofa table, we discovered this:
dogfood

Crazy, right?! She was totally right! Bird (the dog) was nibbling at this random pile of dog food in the corner of the table. Like… whoa. Not that this matters or is relevant to my life in any way, but it proves that she must have some sort of psychic abilities.

If we are “ranking” predictions, I put a lot more credit on the first psychic. Maybe I just choose to believe her because that would mean that this (potential) pregnancy sticks AND that it’s our much-longed-for, absolutely beautiful little girl who we’ve already named (in, like, 2003). The twins comment is interesting, though…either Old Lady Psychic was referring to the twins we lost, or even this next set of twins. I went for the reading in 2012 and they would be due in 2014, so technically that is “a couple years.”

I’m not saying that I believe wholeheartedly in psychic predictions. But then again… I’m not saying I don’t believe them either. Anyone else have experience with all this craziness?