burnt toast life

it could happen to you (yes, you)

September 10, 2016 was almost the worst day of my life.

Almost.

It started off innocently enough. Molly’s first dance class, a baby shower, some laundry, and some light cleaning. It was a lazy, warm, and sunny day.

At around 4 pm, Liam started getting fussy and I knew he was ready for his afternoon nap. Molly was also napping, and I was impatiently waiting for her to wake up so we could go to my in-law’s pool and swim (leaving a sleeping Liam at home with Eric). I made Liam a bottle, laid him in the boppy on the living room floor, and sat down right next to him. Then I got out my phone and started doing whatever one does on their phone. Instagram, Pinterest, email? Something like that.

I’m not sure how much time passed. It felt like 30 seconds but maybe it was more like 3 minutes. I had kind of gotten lost in iPhone land, idly reading articles or pinning recipes perhaps. After an unspecified amount of time, I suddenly heard a very strange sound.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

“What the hell are the dogs doing?” was my immediate thought. But then I looked next to me at the empty boppy and a sinking realization slowly set in. Liam. The basement. THE STEPS.

I’ve never run so fast in my life. I jumped up, chucked my stupid phone across the room and basically flew to the basement doorway. There, at the bottom of the steps, was my baby. My 9 and half month old baby boy, lying flat on his back on the concrete floor, wailing.

I did the thing you’re not supposed to do and thundered down the steps and picked him up without checking for a neck injury. How could I not pick him up, though? At some point Eric, who had also heard the noise and quickly figured out what it was, materialized next to me.

So, it turns out I’m not the person you’d want on hand in an emergency. I was panicked and close to hyperventilating, yelling nonsense, while Eric managed to keep a cool head and assess the damage, so to speak. Long story short… we got lucky. So, so, so, so lucky. In what could have been a fatal or incredibly damaging accident, Liam escaped with some nasty looking black and blue marks and a little bit of brush burn on his cheek. It’s only been two days and the bruises are practically gone.

Our basement steps are wood, not concrete, though the floor at the bottom is concrete and I’m sure that didn’t feel great. Also, the more I walk up and down the steps, the more I consider the very real possibility that he could have rolled either right or left rather than straight down, thus dropping from a good distance down to the floor. It makes me cringe every time I think of it.

I’ve told this story quite a few times now, and every single time I do I’m rewarded with a similar story. Kids falling down stairs, falling off tables, falling out of strollers. Hearing stories like that does make me feel better… and makes me feel less like a crappy mom…but still. This was my fault, and I’m taking responsibility.

I’m the one who left the door open.
I’m the one who was supposed to watching him.
I’m the one who was looking at my phone.

And of course I have a million excuses – I usually don’t leave the door open. I was sitting right next to him! I was distracted for a matter of minutes.

But despite all that… it’s still my fault.

Here’s the worst part of all. That morning, I had judged another mom. I sat there with my judgy, judgy self and judged, and then something like karma came and bit me in the ass. (I don’t actually believe in karma, but if I did this would be a really good example of it).

I took Molly to her first dance class Saturday morning (which was freaking adorable, but that’s another story for another time). As I’m sitting there, one of the other moms was giving her newborn baby a bottle. But rather than holding him lovingly and gazing into his eyes, she was kind of letting him dangle off her lap as she shoved the bottle in his mouth and scrolled through her phone.

I’m not usually one to judge (OK, yes I am, but I’m really trying not to). But this really got to me. Mostly because I had just read a pro-breastfeeding article discussing how covering up to breastfeed robbed mothers of eye contact with their babies while feeding, which is part of the whole bonding experience, which is why breasts are positioned where they are because newborns don’t have sharp eyesight yet, etc, etc. So with this in mind, I was thinking, what the hell is she looking at on her phone that’s more impressive or amazing than her 3 week old baby? Why is she skipping this beautiful moment to look at Facebook?

So you can see the foreshadowing here. Mere hours later, rather than bonding with or watching my own son eat, I looked at my phone and ultimately let my child fall down the stairs. Turns out I’m not one who should be passing judgement. Like, at all. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.

Everyone who shared their own accident stories assured me that the guilt and anxiety will pass, and I’m sure they will, but at this moment I’m feeling very guilty + anxious about it. I just keep thinking what could have happened.

The night after the incident, I barely slept. I woke up every couple of hours to go make sure he was still breathing (and I think Eric was shaken too, because he was getting up and checking just as often). At work today, all I kept thinking was, “My son is alive. Thank God he’s alive,” which is a strange thought to have.

There’s not much point to this post other than to share my story and hopefully inspire someone somewhere to double check their baby gate, possibly preventing an accident from happening. Because despite the fact that I’m a loving, caring, protective, and vigilant mother, I let my guard down, and something truly terrible almost happened.

But it didn’t.

this story will make you smile

Something exciting happened in our family.

I have a new cousin.

But she’s not a newborn. Not even close.

Let me explain…

I don’t have to preach to this blog’s audience about the pervasiveness of infertility. I don’t have to tell you about the thousands upon thousands of childless couples suffering in silence. I think that now in the blogging age, things are a little different, and more open. But even in this open, tell-all climate of oversharing, some of the blogs I follow remain anonymous. There’s still a stigma surrounding infertility. I would imagine that ten or twenty years ago it was even worse.

I found out that my aunt and uncle wanted to have kids and couldn’t many years after they had probably stopped trying. Anyone could see that they would make excellent parents. Back when I was young and much more self-absorbed, I didn’t spend too much time wondering why they never had children. It was only after my mom told me about it that it all started to make sense. And it made me so, so sad.

I don’t need to go into the details of their struggle, nor could I, because I don’t even know the half of it. But what do the specifics of dates and treatments really matter, anyway? We all know the story. Many of us lived it, or some version. Try. Fail. Try again. Spend money. Spend more money. Cry. Cry again. Keep hoping. Give up hope.

My uncle and I never sat down and had a heart to heart when I opened up about our struggle to get pregnant, but we did discuss it a little bit. I remember complaining over the exorbitant cost of Bravelle and he laughed quietly. “Is that all? It used to cost ten times that much,” he said. And yeah, then I felt bad for complaining.

It brings joy to my heart when I think about how many of us have made it through to the other side. I started blogging about infertility in late 2012. As of now, every single infertility blogger who I followed through the years is now a parent through fertility treatments, adoption, luck, or some combination of those things. Many of them stopped blogging or don’t blog very often because they’re so busy parenting that they don’t have time to write anymore. That’s amazing. I hate that, because I don’t have as many blogs to read, and I LOVE that, because it’s awesome.

But I promised the story of my new cousin, so here it is. Last summer, the email group my family uses to stay in touch received an interesting message. My uncle announced that he and his wife would be hosting a little girl from Colombia for part of the summer. In his words…

Her name is Paula and she is 12 years old.

Paula is an abandoned child who has been living in an orphanage in Colombia. She will be staying with us this summer through the Kidsave Summer Miracles program. Kidsave is a nonprofit organization that attempts to find families for children who have been deemed “unadoptable.” Usually, children are deemed unadoptable when they reach the age of 11 or 12.

Paula will be living with us from June 27 until August 3. Each weekend, we will take Paula to a special “Kidsave event.” At these events, Paula will be introduced to families that are interested in adopting her. These are in a sort of speed-dating format.

Paula is a very nice little girl who is very shy, lacks confidence and is in need of some encouragement. She seems to have talent in both art and music.

Just as I expected, the outpouring of excitement over meeting Paula began immediately. This is something I love about my family – we welcome people in. No matter who you are, you are welcome. I can’t tell you how many Thanksgivings and Christmases have included invited guests from a variety of circumstances… people who were new in town, coworkers with nowhere else to go, neighbors, friends, anyone. My favorite part is how we never treat it as a strange situation to have a random new dinner guest. No one gushes over the new person or makes them uncomfortable, but rather they’re absorbed right into the family as though they’ve always been there. To be fair, holiday celebrations are incredibly hectic, so maybe no one notices a few extra people thrown in…

Anyway, I knew she’d be accepted and loved from the moment she appeared on the scene. I met Paula at my parents’ 4th of July party in 2015, and then spent the week with her (and approximately 40 of my extended family members) when we went on our annual beach vacation. We couldn’t communicate much beyond “Hello” (she only speaks Spanish, and once again my 5 years of honors French proved utterly useless), but she was always smiling, taking everyone and everything in. My then 10-year-old sister Allie and 13-year-old cousin Kate adopted her into their pre-teen girl gang (Lord help us all). There were dance parties. There was fun. And just as I expected, Paula fit in as easily as anyone else who has ever accidentally or purposefully been initiated into my family.

She left a short time later, and I think we were all secretly wondering if my aunt and uncle would want to adopt her themselves. In late November, we had our answer— they announced that they had sent their letter of intent to the Colombian child welfare agency, stating that they wanted to adopt a specific child.

I can’t believe how long the adoption process takes. I can’t imagine how expensive, and nerve racking, and exciting it must have been for all those months between November and now. They had to skip our family ski trip in March because they assumed (correctly) that any and all vacation time would be spent in Colombia, where they’d need to run around for many weeks cutting through all the red tape. We were hoping they’d make it to the beach trip, which grew to 50 people this year, but they ended up missing it by a matter of days. You know what? It’s OK, because all three of them will be there next year.

Everyone is home now. I officially have a new cousin. I did ask permission to tell the story here because I wasn’t sure how they felt about having their story broadcast to the world (not that millions of people read my blog, but you know what I mean). I was just so excited to share it, especially with people who “get it,” and I hope that by this point you are smiling.

Smiling because it’s never too late.

Never too late to become a parent if that’s what you really want.

Never too late to find a family, even if you’ve reached an age that some consider to be “unadoptable.”

I’m smiling because I was at a family party last weekend, and I’ve never seen my aunt and uncle so happy.

Paula looked pretty happy, too. I still can’t understand a word she’s saying, but I hugged her and she kissed my fat baby and squeezed his chubby cheeks, which is something that supersedes any kind of language barrier.

Sometimes, at the end of a long road, there is redemption.

with the judge, in a special dress, getting her new birth certificate

with the judge, in a special dress, getting her new birth certificate

OCMD, 2015. I asked my uncle to send me his favorite picture of the 3 of them, and here it is

OCMD, 2015. I asked my uncle to send me his favorite picture of the 3 of them, and here it is

he’s here!

Introducing Liam Hurd Harding, born November 27th at 2:54 p.m. A hearty 7 lbs, 3 oz, 20.5 inches long.

You know the drill – long and dramatic birth story to follow, because, of course there is! But so far we are all adjusting well and his sister really likes him. For some reason she calls him “Cotton Candy” (or something indecipherable that just sounds like Cotton Candy).

liamshere

something very bad will probably happen soon

This post has been floating around in my head forever. I guess it’s time it finally came out. Sit back and relax…it’s going to be a long one.

It’s actually quite exhausting to try to sum up what it’s like being related to my brother Eric (not to be confused with my husband Eric). The simple fact is that he has always been an exhausting person. High energy from the very beginning, really for as long as he has been alive. Outgoing, popular, self-confident. Always quick to make friends. But also selfish, demanding, and exceedingly self-absorbed.

Here’s an old story – I’ll never forget one year on our annual beach vacation when he decided he needed a very specific logo screen printed onto a t-shirt. I can’t remember what it was for, or why it was so important – rest assured that it was not required for any event or team, just that he got it in his head that he needed it. He couldn’t have been more than 10 at the time. We literally spent the entire week stopping at various print shops all over Maryland trying to find someone who could create this specific t-shirt he had dreamed up in his imagination. My grandmother, an artist, tried to draw him the exact logo as he described and even that wasn’t good enough. He talked about it day and night, and our planned family activities were all cut short in order to just “check out one more place to make the shirt.” Several shirts were made but none of them were just right, and so we had to keep trying, daily, for the entire week. In the end, I don’t think he was ever satisfied with the dozens of shirts that were printed for him. But also, more tellingly, he felt absolutely no shame over hijacking the entire summer vacation and ruining everyone’s good time in order to get what he wanted. In his mind, he was – and is – the only person who matters.

That my parents allowed him to act in such a way and endlessly bent to his wishes has always been a sore subject. He was for a long time the only boy and the baby of the family – the stereotypical golden child who could get away with anything. But then again, he was obnoxious to the point of delirium. If they hadn’t taken him to every screen printer on the Eastern seaboard, he would have just kept repeating himself and pleading his case ad infinitum, until we all wanted to jump off the 20th floor balcony of our beach condo (or just push him off – which in retrospect, would have solved a lot of future problems).

This is just one example of many to illustrate the sort of person my brother is and always has been. The first descriptor that comes to mind when I think of him is selfish. He is spoiled and selfish and for the past God knows how many years, he is also a drug addict.

And yes, these traits go hand in hand, though I think the selfishness in this case did precede the addiction. If you’ve ever seen an episode of Intervention, then you know that my family’s story is hardly original. (Though I do feel like, on Intervention, there’s always that moment where the text appears on the screen that says, “And that’s when Carrie’s dad left,” when you can say to yourself, ahhhhh, ok, now it all makes sense. In my brother’s case, I can’t think of any obvious moments like that.)

I come from an upper middle class family, a safe neighborhood, two loving parents and a relatively normal upbringing. We’ve always had more than enough and as I’ve already mentioned, my brother has always had even more than that. Naturally gifted and athletic, he was a nationally ranked wrestling star with a bedroom full of trophies and medals and more friends than I could ever keep track of. Despite the fact that I was seven years older, people would always refer to me as “Eric’s sister,” and most of them didn’t even realize he had two older sisters since neither of us played sports or stood out in any way – at least not compared to him. He was outgoing and talented and impossible to ignore. And then, at some point, it all fell apart.

Part of the problem is that we lived this nice, innocent, normal existence and really had no inkling of the warning signs of drug addiction until they were smacking us right in the face. Even then, it took my parents a really long time to admit how bad the problem was. They both worked long hours and relied on us kids to be self-sufficient – we were left home alone and expected to take care of our own after-school snacks, homework, and entertainment. My sister and I never had a problem with this. For my brother, the lack of rules and structure turned out to be disastrous.

Who knows how it started, when it started… at this point, I’m sure it doesn’t even matter. It’s been going on for so long that my memories of those early days are hazy and it’s really not worth going back and rehashing every painful moment (plus, my memory has never been that good). There are just a few things that stick out in my mind–

All the things he stole. Oh, did he steal. Things from my parents, mostly. Irreplaceable things. All of my mom’s jewelry, both my parent’s class rings, the silver flatware we used to eat Christmas dinner, phones, iPads, tools, cash, purses, televisions, car batteries… everything. Anything. Things we still don’t even realize we are missing.

Once he stole my father’s air compressor and sold it to a pawn shop. My dad went and bought it back. Then Eric sold it again.

The worst for me was when he stole my laptop, which had pictures I hadn’t backed up and would never see again. The next morning we brokered a deal with the drug dealer he sold it to and offered him $600 cash – no penalty – to get it back. We of course never got it, and the cash disappeared, too.

You know what, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was when he stole my little sister’s gift cards that she got for her birthday party (maybe she was 4? 5?) and told her that he took them because he planned on taking her to the movies. He never took her to the movies.

All the times he has ruined. I guess the beach story was just a harbinger of things to come. He has a knack for choosing moments to ruin – mostly vacations, and always Christmas. Eventually it just became commonplace that he would fall asleep at the dinner table or need to borrow a car and go out on some urgent errand. That he needed money for the errand. That he would pester and plead and threaten and scream until you gave in and gave him what he wanted just so he would shut the hell up. Then he’d bring the car back with fenders missing or giant dents and no reasonable explanation, only that it “wasn’t his fault.” I can’t tell you how many of my parent’s cars he has ruined.

Or how about the Christmas when my mom was cleaning his room, getting ready for the guests we have every year, and pricked herself with one of his used needles. My mom is so strong but when I walked in and saw her crying, helplessly, I genuinely didn’t know what to say or do.

All the potential he wasted. You see stories of these kids, born into poverty, toiling day and night and to get into decent colleges and then working their asses off to become doctors and lawyers…my brother is the exact opposite of that. He was born with every opportunity, with so much talent and potential, on the fast-track to getting a full-ride to college on a sports scholarship and then doing whatever he wanted with his life. Making money, being successful, making his dreams come true. Instead, he got kicked out of high school, eventually did get a GED, and has had yet to hold down a real job. He mooches off my parents or whatever girl he happens to be seeing and has absolutely nothing to his name. You know what he has? He has one small duffle bag of clothes and a cracked iPhone. That’s about it.

There was a brief, shining oasis in the middle of this when I actually thought he was “cured.” I remember it was 2010 because they allowed him to leave rehab to be in my wedding – and he looked better than he had looked in years. He smiled, made eye contact, engaged. Didn’t disappear mysteriously. Acted like a normal human being. It was the longest I’ve ever seen him sober and the difference in his demeanor was astonishing. Naively, I allowed myself to imagine it was over.

It wasn’t. It isn’t. His drug of choice these days is heroin, and has been for a long, long time. Maybe I should just count my blessings because it’s actually much better than crack – crack makes him wild, crazy, uncontrollable. Heroin, at least he can function. He can pretend to the point that I wonder if he’s still doing it right up until the point that one of my parents mentions he’s in rehab – again.

Writing this post was supposed to be therapeutic but now I don’t even know. I’ve written this much so I might as well finish. There is no ending, no resolution – he still is who he is and I stay out of the drama as much as possible. It’s just a fact at this point – either he’s finally going to get clean, or he’s going to overdose and die. I’m not sure it makes much of a difference now.

For me, I’ve managed to distance myself emotionally, because what else can I do? He and I were never close – I’m 7 years older, and in general just a very different kind of person. He has always frustrated me, even before the drugs, and now I just can’t muster the sympathy.

I’ll be honest – I can be hard on people. I don’t understand weak personalities and self pity and addiction in general, despite the fact that I’ve known many addicts. I’m familiar with it – but I’m not the most sympathetic. Maybe it’s because I’ve been through some heavy shit in my own life and the most wallowing I’ve ever allowed myself are a few “woe is me” blog posts and some nights spent crying inconsolably. I’ve never numbed the pain with drugs and alcohol. I’ve always been of the mindset that life is tough, and you should buck up, work hard, and get over it.

The only people I truly feel bad for in this situation are my parents. I hate what he is doing to them. It’s funny, I often think of myself as more worldly, and more able to handle things than my parents – and in a way, like I need to protect them. Sort of like when I watch a movie and tell my mom it’s “too graphic, with too much nudity and violence” for her. My parents are former band geeks, high school sweethearts who have been married for 32 years and go to church every Sunday. My mom has never even smoked a cigarette. I really cannot fathom how they ended up with a son living this kind of life.

I think addiction is selfish. I do recognize that it’s a disease, and I respect that, but every time he goes to rehab (I’ve lost count, it has to be anywhere from 50 to 100 times by now), I expect things to change. He detoxes the drugs out of his system – gets sick – suffers. And then it’s a clean slate. A new beginning. Every. Single. Time. He’s lucky enough to have parents who are still supporting him (maybe not like they once did, but he is on their insurance, and has the opportunity to go to rehab in the first place). And yet, he comes home, and makes a call, and starts the cycle all over again. I just want to shake him. STOP MAKING THE PHONE CALL. START OVER.

So yeah, I’m tough, but I also don’t hold grudges. I will forgive and forgive as many times as it takes. If he were to get clean, for real, tomorrow, I wouldn’t constantly remind him of the past or harp on all the Coach bags that I still think about and will never be able to replace because they don’t even make them anymore. I would embrace him and forgive him and tell him he’s doing a great job. But with each passing day, I become less and less convinced that day will finally come.

My brother Eric is 24 years old and every year I doubt he’ll make it to the next one. This year he went really went off the deep end right before our summer vacation (of course) and we heard that whatever girlfriend he’d been crashing with had kicked him out and he was living under a bridge somewhere. I thought for sure we’d get *the call* while we were on vacation. (And even then I thought, yet another vacation ruined). But we didn’t.

These past couple months since we got back from vacation I haven’t heard much about him and I haven’t asked. It’s just easier for me not to know. Then this past weekend he was suddenly at our weekly family dinner, ostensibly making a 2-day pit stop at my parent’s house between detox and rehab. It was weird to see him. He didn’t know Molly could walk, didn’t know I was having a boy. I’m not sure when I’ll see him again.

And I might be too exhausted to care.

and just like that, she turned one

I’ve spent the better part of the week obsessing over something I have 100% no control over – the weather. Looks like a massive rainstorm is poised to hit the entire east coast this weekend. Oh, and we’re throwing Molly a first birthday party. Outside. In a park.

It’s not all bad. We do have a pavilion… it’s just a rather small pavilion. So let’s just say everyone who shows up will get rather cozy with one another. I caught myself saying this morning, “This is the worst thing that could have possibly happened!” That’s when I realized – no. The worst thing would have been if I never got to have Molly, so there wouldn’t be a birthday party at all. Sometimes I need a little perspective.

Between making shopping lists and obsessing over weather.com, I never got to post on her actual birthday, which is what I meant to do. I did jot down some thoughts but just never got around to publishing them. Eric and I both took off work on Tuesday, her actual birthday, and spent a lovely day swimming at my in-laws and just enjoying the company of our daughter. I made her a cake from scratch and we sang to her. It was nice.

Below I’m going to share a letter I wrote to her in honor of her first birthday. Then, for those of you who haven’t already seen these on Facebook, I’m going to share some of the photos from her 1 year photo session (which was also outside, but not in the rain). Rain or shine, I truly am blessed to have this child in my life.

My dear Molly,

I can’t say that you made me a mommy. Your sisters who came before, now waiting for us in heaven, get credit for that. All my little embryos do. But you were the one who I got to hold. You’re the one who made me understand what that being a mommy really meant.

Before you were born I used to talk to you all the time. I was so excited to meet you! I’d be driving home from work and I’d just keep telling you how much I wanted to know you and you’d kick inside my belly like you knew what I was saying. I didn’t like being pregnant as much as I thought I would – mostly because I was impatient and just wanted to know you. What did you look like? What was your personality? The 9 month mystery was just too much for me.

I’ve already written so much about the day you were born, and I won’t say it all again now. You were late – you must have been so warm and cozy in there that you didn’t want to come out. I didn’t get to hold you right away but I did see you and hear you. So tiny, my little girl! But still healthy and strong. You were so much better than I could have imagined.

Molly, this year has been so different than every year that came before it. It’s almost as if I can’t remember a time before you existed – you have filled the spaces in our lives so completely that imagining life without you is basically impossible. We waited so long for you. Every tear I cried, every dark night I had, every doubt that plagued my worried mind has disappeared completely since you came into the world. Now every moment leading up to you makes sense because it brought us more than we could have dared to hope for. You were so, so worth the wait.

I love everything about you, all the little things and all the big things too. I love your smile and your laugh. I love how you don’t crawl, but instead scoot all around on your butt. How you clap when you’re happy and touch your cheek when you’re sad. How you kick your feet when you’re excited and tense them up and yell when you’re mad. The way you eat everything, all the time – and throw it on the ground and watch the puppies eat it when you’re all done. The way you tip your head back to drink from your sippy cup like a little gerbil. I love how you curl onto your side to fall asleep and how the first thing I hear every morning in your happy stream of babble through the baby monitor. I love how excited you get when I’m filling up the bath tub – you hold onto the edge and watch the water fill because you can’t wait to get in and splash around.

You’re so smart, little one. You’re so good at stacking blocks and rings and you love to read books together. You especially love the big book about babies and when we go through together and find all the different parts of the body (your favorite one is “mouth”). You know what “no” means (even though you don’t always listen). And it goes without saying that you’re the cutest baby I’ve ever seen! Even strangers at the store stop to tell me how cute you are. Everyone who knows you loves you. Everyone who doesn’t know you wishes that they did.

You’ve spent one year on this earth teaching us so much. I used to dream about what you would be like – but never in a million years could I have conjured you, and just how special and amazing you actually are.

I love you, peanut. I can’t wait for next year, and next year, and the year after that as I find out even more wonderful things about you. I’m so proud to be your mommy.

molly9

molly7

molly6

molly4

molly3

molly2

molly 5

Mollly 1 year

one week to one

My aunt yelled at me because I didn’t mention my five year anniversary in my last post. Oops! All in all it was a good day – we both stayed home from work and hosted a yard sale at our house, and actually sold a whole bunch of crap. It was so successful that we plan on having another in July (another yard sale – not another anniversary). Then that night we went to Wendy’s for dinner – not just the drive-thru, mind you, but dined in the restaurant as a family. Yes, so romantic. I don’t ever let Molly (or myself, for that matter) have fast food, so as you can imagine she was in chicken nugget heaven on this rare occasion. We only went because we were on our way to an indoor football game, which is how we closed out the evening. I was really expecting a lavish vacation or a romantic stay at a B&B for 5 years – but hey, a yard sale, Wendy’s dinner date, and football game turned out to be not bad at all.

Other than that, things are just kind of chugging along. I’m still pregnant. Still feeling little flickers of movement and still getting a little rounder each day. A friend of mine posted that her timeshare was available in October and asked if anyone was interested. As I’m sitting there googling flight prices and trying to think how I’m going to convince Eric to go, I had a sudden realization – October. Third trimester. Hello, I’m not going to be allowed on a plane! I literally forgot I was pregnant for a second. That’s something that never, ever happened with Molly.

In one week, my baby girl turns one! Ahhhh!!! One year ago today – 2 days shy of my due date – I was enormously fat and pregnant and hot and miserable. Today I am still kind of fat and definitely pregnant but not miserable. And sometimes I don’t even know I’m pregnant. It’s amazing the difference a year can make.

I just submitted a post to Scary Mommy (even though I have a love/hate relationship with the site in general, I figured it would be fun to be published there. They have over a million readers…and they pay $100 per post). I really hope it’s accepted. It’s all about my guilt over not finishing Molly’s baby book. I know, so ridiculous, right? I’m a writer and I can’t even do it. And she’s my first child! What the heck is wrong with me?

oh, hang on, I know I have a heart-shaped photo around here somewhere...

oh, hang on, I know I have a heart-shaped photo around here somewhere…

I am really going to try to work on it this weekend because my plan was to have it displayed at her birthday party. The most annoying thing – besides finding photos to fit in the weirdly shaped spaces allotted – is trying to remember when things started happening. Molly says Mama/Mommy and Dada/Daddy, but most of all she says, “I DID IT!” She says that all the time. And that’s why baby books exist, right? Because as much as this is part of her identity now, in 5 years I probably won’t remember that every other second she was exclaiming “I DID IT!” and “I DID THAT!” or intentionally dropping toys and saying, “UT!” (no uh-oh. Just ut!).

But when I go back and read old posts, it’s clear how much she has changed already. Like how there was once a time where I fretted over self-feeding and how she didn’t really have the hang of it. HA!! Now the girl could demolish a Porterhouse steak, and I probably wouldn’t even need to cut it. No teeth and all. She is the queen of self-feeding.

So yeah, baby book. I think I’m going to go through all my old photos/videos on my phone to determine when things took place since they are conveniently sorted by date (thanks, iPhone). I do have months 1-5 filled in at least. The photos are going to be the real challenge since the spaces provided are so specific and strange. I want to order a whole bunch to display at her party but I’m waiting to see if the photographer gets her one year photo session proofs done before I do that.

And for this next kid I’m not even attempting the guilt-inducing baby book. I recently discovered (too late for Molly but not too late for lil’ crouton) that there are apps where you input photos and milestones, then order a pre-made book once your baby hits a year. Genius, right? And so much easier than putting pen to paper. I’m definitely going that route for this and subsequent children. If I remember. Eeesh.

you’re not going to believe this…

Fewer than 24 hours until April Fool’s Day, but I promise this is no joke.

As of today, I am 6 weeks, 4 days pregnant.

Seriously.

No trying. No counting. No needles, no doctors, no betas, no PIO shots in the ass. Just a good old-fashioned roll in the hay and BAM! – it actually happened.

Believe me… never in a million years did I think this would be my life. I thought the whole “unexpectedly pregnant after infertility/adoption” thing was a complete urban legend. Ever notice how it’s always someone’s sister’s neighbor’s cousin once removed, and never anyone you know directly? I thought this was a story they told infertiles with the intention of providing hope, when really they were only pissing us off.

But then it happened to me.

And it is exciting, don’t get me wrong. I mean, at first there was an “Oh, shit!” moment because it was just so unexpected. Two babies in diapers, 17 months apart… 3 frozen embryos waiting patiently in NYC… it was just a lot to take in. I had this all planned out. Go for a transfer later this year, have a summer baby in 2016. Getting pregnant naturally? No, that definitely never crossed my mind.

So at first I was freaked out/surprised, then I was mildly irritated (not over being pregnant, more over the fact that everyone who ever said “you need to just relax” had some sort of validity to their statement), then I was complacent, then I started getting nervous/excited.

I found out when I took an HPT on March 16th (yes, it’s been very hard keeping this secret from you!). I took the test because 1) My period was three days late and 2) All my milk mysteriously dried up, totally out of nowhere. I called the OB/GYN the next day and they graciously decided to see me early, as in today, just based on my history of miscarriage.

Today kind of sucked, though it did go basically how I expected it to go. They detected a very blurry fetal pole that measured exactly 6 weeks 4 days, as it should. But they did not see a heartbeat. Now, my office has super old ultrasound equipment – nowhere near as advanced as the stuff they have at the RE or even at the hospital labs where I went for early ultrasounds with Molly. But still. Not seeing a heartbeat has plunged me back into Anxietyville. I did not miss feeling like this all the time.

It didn’t help that after the “maybe/maybe not” ultrasound, they decided to send me for blood testing today and again in 48 hours to confirm my levels are where they should be and rising. So apparently… they have concerns too. Though the (largely pregnant) ultrasound tech did assure me that not seeing a heartbeat right now was not necessarily bad news.

I have a repeat ultrasound in 1 week. At that appointment, they will know without a doubt whether or not this is a viable pregnancy. So until then, I will be over here quietly hyperventilating in the corner, thankyouverymuch.

Oh, and now for the creepy part. At the risk of totally oversharing (you read my blog, you should be used to this by now) – I can say with confidence that this baby was conceived exactly 2 years after the twins were implanted – TO THE DAY. What’s more, this follow-up ultrasound is scheduled for April 7th, 2015, and I had my “bad ultrasound” with the twins on April 8th, 2013. I swear if they had tried to make it for that day I would have said no. This whole thing is just eerie.

So… yay… I think? I don’t know. I have this hard knot of anxiety in my stomach. I feel guilty for not feeling elated from day one, though not to the point that I think it contributed in any way. It just sucks.

My mantra for the next week: “Worrying about something will never change the outcome.” Now if I could only believe it…

Prayers/thoughts/good vibes sent into the atmosphere are definitely appreciated. I will keep you all posted on new developments. Also – if I know you in real life, you can certainly talk about this with me, but please keep it quiet with others and on public forums. I am not sharing with the general public yet for obvious reasons.

my 15 minutes of fame have arrived

It’s the moment you’ve all (some of you?) been waiting for! The officially official, will not mystersiously disappear without a trace, blog post with details of my big television debut!

Got all that?

Good!

Set your DVRs to record the Dr. Oz Show on Wednesday, March 18th at 1pm ET. If you do, you will see me, in a bright pink shirt that I have since dried and accidentally shrank, talking about how frustose malabsorption led to uncomfortable bloating in my life. I know – very intense stuff.

Honestly it feels like it all happened so long ago that my excitement about the whole experience has waned considerably. I probably could have written a whole long and exuberant post about it a month ago, but now I don’t even remember that well. It just feels like so much has happened since then. But anyway, here’s as much as I recall.

They sent a car to pick me up at 6am sharp. In the car – me, Molly, Eric, and my MIL. My mom planned to come meet us in the studio later. We hit tonssss of traffic on the way there and I had a few minor “celebrity moments” when people from the show kept calling my driver asking for my status.

IMG_4574Finally we arrived at the studio – almost exactly one hour late – and were ushered inside. At this point a lot of things happened at once. One thing that I still marvel over is the controlled chaos in TV world, and how each person knows their specific role. I was in my little private dressing room (which came equipped with a breakfast spread, couches, and a television that showed a live feed from the set) and people just kept coming in and coordinating what needed to be done. Hair. Makeup. Wardrobe. The producers stopped by to go over the questions and answers one more time. It was seriously crazy when I was sitting in the makeup chair at 9:50 and I said to the woman doing touch-ups, “So what time do I need to be up there?” and she casually replied, “10 o’clock.” No one was panicked. It all ran like a well-oiled machine. A very fast-moving, well-oiled machine.

Unfortunately, due to some miscommunication with email, I told my mom the wrong time to come and she ended up missing the whole thing. Wahhh, wahhh. Eric stayed back in the dressing room with Molly and watched me from the live feed. My MIL came up with me to the set and watched from the side.

Everyone asked me afterwards if I was nervous, and I can honestly say there was no time to be nervous. I don’t know if it was just because I got there so late or because that’s just how it is when you’re on TV, but it was seriously like one minute I was chilling in the dressing room and the next someone was pushing me onto the stage. It was over before I could even think about it – or be scared.

I thought standing in front of the live audience would make me nervous, kind of like public speaking in college. It didn’t – the lights were so bright (and HOT) and I was so focused on what was going on right in front of me that the audience may as well have been empty. The most awkward part that I wasn’t prepared for (and tell me if you notice it when you watch) – is that I didn’t know exactly where to stand or who to look at. The camera cut away a lot to the food, or the doctor who appeared with me, or to Dr. Oz, so hopefully it’s not too noticeable. OH! Another thing. I picked out this cute necklace to wear and it had these individual little pieces on it, and apparently one of the sections was flipped up the entire time. Look out for that, too.

All in all it went well and I’m glad I did it. My mom finally got to the set just in time to jump in for a photo with Dr. Oz (he’s very nice, though obviously I didn’t speak with him much). I’m still waiting for that photo to get emailed to me. Funny how leading up to the day I was getting emailed details and instructions practically every hour and once the segment taped it’s been radio silence. Oh, well.

On to more recent news… this past weekend was our annual family ski trip to Vermont, and it was seriously so much fun. My MIL graciously came along to mind the baby so I could learn how to ski – which was awesome! I’m a huge fan of skiing even though I am really terrible. All together between aunts, uncles, cousins, etc, we had something like 23 adults and 10 children. It was crazy, but in a fun way. I’m already looking forward to next year. I have been soooo good about not giving Molly sugar or anything like that but I let her have a taste of her first ice cream (Ben & Jerry’s) and her reaction was priceless. I think it’s safe to say we have an ice cream fiend on on our hands here.

And… yeah, that’s all for today. Happy Saint Patrick’s Day Eve, everyone. Don’t forget to set those DVRs and let me know what you all think!

IMG_4794

onward and upward!

Goodbye cigars, hello organic bean sprouts!

I’m beyond pleased to announce that after nearly a month of phone calls, interviews, writing tests, freelancing, and waiting on pins and needles, I’ve been offered (and have ecstatically accepted!) a new position.

Not just any position… a full-time with benefits position at my dream company. The company I’ve been applying to every few months for the past five years. (That’s no exaggeration.)

It’s at a place called Rodale. It’s a massive publishing company, and if you’ve never heard of them, I’m sure you’ve heard of some of their titles: they’re the folks who publish magazines such as Men’s Health, Women’s Health, Runner’s World, Bicycling, Prevention, and more. They’ve also published popular books such as An Inconvenient Truth and Eat This, Not That.

So you can see why, as a writer, the place is like the Promised Land to me. In the past I’d been applying to editorial roles and never got so much as an email back. A friend of mine (another writer/editor) and I jokingly began referring to Rodale as “the iron fortress,” because it seemed all but impossible to get in, at least in any kind of writing capacity. A current Rodale employee friend-of-a-friend looked at my resume and explained that I wasn’t getting callbacks because my work experience was “too commercial.” So when they posted an opening for an e-commerce copywriter, I’ll admit my hopes were up a little higher than they were the 497 times I had applied before. For the past 4.5 years, I’ve been writing product copy like nobody’s business. And you know what? I’m actually good at it.

The position is with their e-commerce site rodales.com, which was just launched last year. All of the items are carefully selected, and they only choose products that are responsibly sourced. If it’s clothing, it’s most likely organic cotton. If it’s imported, they guarantee the workers received fair wages. So in other words, I can feel good about all the things I’ll be writing about. Gives you the warm fuzzies, doesn’t it?

Bonus: they happen to be headquartered in Emmaus, PA, a mere 35 minute drive from my house. AND, super bonus, my neighbor across the street works there, so we can carpool and save some serious cash on gas.

The Rodale campus has a running trail, a gym with free fitness classes and discounted personal trainers for employees, a café with organic produce sourced from their own farm, and… wait for it… a daycare on premises.

Of course, the daycare thing is awesome (since I get an hour for lunch and can walk over to play with Molly! How amazing is that?!!). But, it’s a really good daycare, and it’s also open to the public. Hence…there’s a waiting list. I left a message to find out more details and I haven’t gotten a call back yet. It’s all right, I’m not in a huge hurry. The whole concept is bittersweet anyway, since I love that she goes to my sister and is bonding so much with her cousins. Even when Molly “gets in,” we plan to split the time between Aunt Ashley and daycare so that she gets the best of both worlds.

WAIT A MINUTE, I didn’t even tell you the best part yet. Are you ready for this? Are ya? Are ya?

I took a peek at their healthcare handbook, and lo and behold…they have infertility coverage. That is unheard of in Pennsylvania. And considering we’ll be trying for #2 sometime next year (with our frozen embies) and an embryo transfer is $2,600 minimum… this is AMAZING news.

It’s always tough to say goodbye. Over the past 15 months, I’ve really come to appreciate cigars more than I ever thought I would, and the people I work with are awesome. BUT, they work long hours in cigarworld, and now that I have the baby, getting home at 6 or later sucks (especially on the nights she decides her bedtime is 7:00 sharp). Working nine and a half hour days is something I just won’t miss. I also won’t miss my clothes and hair smelling like smoke all the time. But the people, yes, I will miss them.

So, onward. To the next stage of my life and career, a place where hopefully I can plant some roots and stay for a long, long time. 2014 has really been the best year ever.

it’s been a hard day

First, since I finalllly sent out her birth announcements, I can show them off here:

birth announcement

And how amazing is this photo? I guess she’s going to like Star Wars (whether she likes it or not!)

starwars

Unbearable cuteness…that’s what I had to leave at home.

In many ways it was better than I thought, but in many ways it was worse.

I really wanted to try not to cry, but the waterworks started during her first feeding at 5 am. Dropping her off wasn’t that bad because it was my sister’s house, not a daycare center. That really, really helped. (I did cry… but only a little bit).

Work was so much busier than I had anticipated, and it made the day fly by. I didn’t get to wade back into my routine – I got pushed in, full force. I had 1,600 emails to sort and a new desk to set up. I had a pumping schedule to figure out. I had picture texts of my baby to check hourly. Before I knew it, the day was close to done.

So that was good. But going from a full day of Molly to a full day of work was weird. I FaceTimed with her at lunch, but in retrospect that probably wasn’t the best idea. The sound of my voice made her turn her head from side to side looking for me. That made my heart hurt (and made me cry, obviously).

This whole working mom thing… it’s not for me. I’d be just as happy barefoot and pregnant in a kitchen (while being treated as an equal to all men, obviously). But yeah. The pump is so cold and…unnatural. Everything about it is unnatural. Someone said that after going back to work, I’d be living for the weekends. Yeah, it’s only been a day, but I can totally see that. I’m hungering for Friday night. All day I dreamed of 5:30, and even though I’m freaking exhausted, I don’t want to go to sleep. I want to stare at her all night. I don’t want to waste a minute.

Because it is… it’s unnatural! We work all day to pay for these houses that we’re too tired to enjoy when we get home at night. We spend most of our time in them sleeping. Our family, the people we love the most, are the people we see the least. We spend our days with strangers who might become friends, sure, but they’re not flesh and blood. We sit at desks and stare at screens and get fat asses. It’s no way to live.

I love that I’m a writer. I’m grateful to have a job. But I miss my baby like hell and I wish I could do both. Plus, I found out today that my hours are really 8-5:30 despite the fact that for the last year I’ve been leaving at 5. Okayyyyyy…so now I’m getting home at 6. That’s 10.5 hours (counting my 7:30 morning departure, and assuming I don’t have to stop for groceries or anything). *Sigh.*

I know it will get better. Everyone keeps saying it will get better. Molly was fine, well-behaved even. Not fussy. My sister’s kids were beside themselves with excitement. They kept giving her toys and her cousin Addison was a little mommy, helping to change her diaper and give her her bottle.

Speaking of bottles – can I get advice from my fellow pumpers? Today at my sister’s house, Molly drank 15 ounces of frozen breastmilk. At work I pumped three times (at the insistence of a fellow coworker pumper, who claims that’s all I would need). All together I got 10 ounces. So… should I be pumping 4 times? I don’t want to run out, but if she’s drinking 15 ounces per day then I will soon. I’ll admit I was a little lazy about tracking how often she ate while I was home… mostly because I used nursing to soothe pretty often, so those weren’t really feedings. It just felt like I had a boob out 24/7, so this whole “schedule” thing is really throwing me.

OK, time to go enjoy my short time with my daughter. Also, how cute is her report card from today? Ha, my sister is crazy (but I love her).

schedule