The stalker children are here to stay. I can not begin to tell you how utterly disappointed I am about that. I forget when it was we found out, but Mom of stalkers poked her head out to say "HI!" as B was again watering his grass seed. (The man is now obsessed with growing grass out front.) So he asks, all innocent like, "How's the house hunt going?" And she says "Oh, we're not moving after all. . ." She then goes into this long diatribe about her divorce and the impossibility of finding the right house for their budget. Again I say, DRAT!
I'm going to run over one of those stalkers one day - not on purpose mind you, but it'll happen. You must all swear now to come to my sentencing and say nice things about me. Yesterday I come home from a quick jaunt to the store and pull into garage noticing that the lot of them are milling around outdoors. I squeeze my growing belly between the car and the side wall, having once again pulled in a bit too far to the left. Grab my purchases and nearly leap out of my skin as I hear "HI!" Mind you the stalker magnet (aka my child) is in the house napping while his Dad watches a ball game on TV. Littlest stalker does not know this. She just assumes that she's going to be able to tackle us as we unload ourselves from our car and glob on to us for a good hour.
"Oh, hi," I say. I try to keep moving, as if she won't notice - not that it matters to her. She's already managed to propel her scooter (on which he rides with no shoes and no helmet, mind you!) practically into my garage.
"I'm going to my friend's birthday party today at the carousel" she says and I think to myself 'Then why aren't you home changing into something actually weather and age appropriate instead of being a pain in my butt?' For the record this weekend has been rainy and cool for June. Its in the 60s and yet stalker kids seem to have an immunity to cold. C is running around in super short shorts and a belly bearing halter top that makes this now 6 year old look like she's a disillusioned 40 year old trying to be 18.
Instead I say "oh, that'll be fun. Have a good time." I move deeper into the garage - my back to her.
"Tomorrow is *my* birthday!" she says.
"Oh, neat," I say. "Happy Birthday!" I am now placing my hand on the door knob that will provide me escape from garage into basement. I check to see that she's not on my heels - yes, stalker child has attempted to enter the house before by following us in. This time though she's realized that her prey (aka the child) is not with me and she turns and starts to push herself back down our driveway.
"Oh!" she yells loud enough that I'm sure she's awoken my child at the other end of the house. "I got a hermit crab for my birthday. I'll come over later with it so L can see it."
I never responded and she never came over.
6.06.2004
5.28.2004
Green Thumbs
Today my thumbs were green. Granted they got that way by handling grass clippings AND what is actually green are my gardening gloves, but still I think it counts. This year I am tending to my very first veggie garden. Yes I am 31 years old have just planted my very first garden. I've had herb gardens before - in fact I had *the* herb garden at my parent's house my entire High School career. I've had flower gardens. I've just never planted rows of edible results before.
As I obesses over this neat set of mounded rows I find myself wondering why I never did this before. It takes a lot of time from me. I end up watering it daily if its not rained. My brother did the work of turning it and preparing it for me this spring while B was on his business trip. Bro decided that the best way to structure the garden was with raised beds - and so I have raised beds. When the current crop of photos in my camera get developed I'll post a picture of what I'm talking about in the blog. Well raised beds, I'm finding, tend to get dry fairly quickly. Or maybe its just my imagination. Lord knows. Anyway, I am a watering fiend. Luckily the little guy helps me out. Or so he says. He walks next to me holding one the hose about a foot and half below the nozzle and commands me to water 'that one' and then to move on.
I also seem to weed daily. The area my garden is in used to be a row of raggedy, pathetic trees that starved each other for light and nutrients. It was also an area where nothing but vines and weeds grew and we never did much to contend with either until the 'boys' (aka my husband and brother) cut down a few trees and then my brother turned the ground over where the garden would go. I'm convinced the weeds I see today are seeking revenege on us for destorying their parents. I can weed tonight and still go out tomorrow to a garden that looks like I've ignored it for four months. That's ok. It gives me something to do while the little guy plays in the sandbox for the Nth time in a day. Oh, he also helps me weed. He sits in one of the trenches and pulls his little kid gardening tools through the ground pulling up weeds. So far he's very good about understanding what's "real" and what is "evil."
And I tend to experience extreme amounts of pride daily as if the three "W's" - my watering, weeding, and worshiping - really are what make these plants grow like mad. I swear I left for a weekend a way last week and my tomatoes were about 3 inches taller when I got home the following day. I find I take this like its an indication that I'm good at sticking something in the ground and convincing it to produce magic beans or something. Hey, at least I can honestly say that I have douced each plant once already with Miracle Gro and plan on doing so again tomorrow.
Details aside, what I've found most wonderful about gardening is the stress release it provides. Kneeling in cool dirt and pulling weeds I find I forgot whatever it is that has been eating at me. Pinching off early blooms from a tomato plant or retraining my pumpkin vines suddenly takes more focus than that idiot boss of mine and his sexist ways. Watching my son gleefully take handfuls of cut grass and tossing it down around the ever growing produce bearers makes me forget that just moments before he was throwing a fit because I refused to let him have pudding and chocolate for lunch. When I'm in that little space of garden my world s simple. Its pleasant. My biggest concern is whether the thing I'm thinking of pulling is a weed or a baby sunflower plant.
This garden gives me peace and pride - and honestly, what occurs to me now, what means the most quite honestly - is that its given me another thing to share with my children. My son loves to help in the garden. He's selected certain plants that are "his" and he waters them with his little elphant watering can like its all that matters in the world. "I good gardener" he says proudly as he smiles, dirt smudged on his cheek and a weed hanging from his not-yet-two-year-old hand. We stand in our trenches and we find worms to 'pet' and oogle at. We watch butterflies flit by. We collect ladybugs to re-deposit on cumcumber pants. We talk about how things grow and what "good bugs" are and how we can touch but only if we pet nice. Then we talk about how its ok to smush a mosquito. We talk about good foods to eat. Together we stand at the grass' edge and we admire how "our" garden grows. I know that someday he may hate the whole thing. He may roll his eyes when I ask if he wants to help weed. Or not. My brother, now 27 years old, still loves to get down and do the hard work. Turning the garden. Building said raised beds. He likes to help plant. He likes to watch things grow and to tend to it all. Even in his crankiest of days, he'll sit out there with my mom and garden. This is what I cling to. This is what I hope for. That this simple rectangle of land in my yard will become a constant for us too.
Well that, and that my tomatoes taste like real, yummy, Jersey tomatoes and my blueberry bush actually produces fruit. (And for the record, my tiny little blueberry bush has about a dozen green berries growing now!!)
As I obesses over this neat set of mounded rows I find myself wondering why I never did this before. It takes a lot of time from me. I end up watering it daily if its not rained. My brother did the work of turning it and preparing it for me this spring while B was on his business trip. Bro decided that the best way to structure the garden was with raised beds - and so I have raised beds. When the current crop of photos in my camera get developed I'll post a picture of what I'm talking about in the blog. Well raised beds, I'm finding, tend to get dry fairly quickly. Or maybe its just my imagination. Lord knows. Anyway, I am a watering fiend. Luckily the little guy helps me out. Or so he says. He walks next to me holding one the hose about a foot and half below the nozzle and commands me to water 'that one' and then to move on.
I also seem to weed daily. The area my garden is in used to be a row of raggedy, pathetic trees that starved each other for light and nutrients. It was also an area where nothing but vines and weeds grew and we never did much to contend with either until the 'boys' (aka my husband and brother) cut down a few trees and then my brother turned the ground over where the garden would go. I'm convinced the weeds I see today are seeking revenege on us for destorying their parents. I can weed tonight and still go out tomorrow to a garden that looks like I've ignored it for four months. That's ok. It gives me something to do while the little guy plays in the sandbox for the Nth time in a day. Oh, he also helps me weed. He sits in one of the trenches and pulls his little kid gardening tools through the ground pulling up weeds. So far he's very good about understanding what's "real" and what is "evil."
And I tend to experience extreme amounts of pride daily as if the three "W's" - my watering, weeding, and worshiping - really are what make these plants grow like mad. I swear I left for a weekend a way last week and my tomatoes were about 3 inches taller when I got home the following day. I find I take this like its an indication that I'm good at sticking something in the ground and convincing it to produce magic beans or something. Hey, at least I can honestly say that I have douced each plant once already with Miracle Gro and plan on doing so again tomorrow.
Details aside, what I've found most wonderful about gardening is the stress release it provides. Kneeling in cool dirt and pulling weeds I find I forgot whatever it is that has been eating at me. Pinching off early blooms from a tomato plant or retraining my pumpkin vines suddenly takes more focus than that idiot boss of mine and his sexist ways. Watching my son gleefully take handfuls of cut grass and tossing it down around the ever growing produce bearers makes me forget that just moments before he was throwing a fit because I refused to let him have pudding and chocolate for lunch. When I'm in that little space of garden my world s simple. Its pleasant. My biggest concern is whether the thing I'm thinking of pulling is a weed or a baby sunflower plant.
This garden gives me peace and pride - and honestly, what occurs to me now, what means the most quite honestly - is that its given me another thing to share with my children. My son loves to help in the garden. He's selected certain plants that are "his" and he waters them with his little elphant watering can like its all that matters in the world. "I good gardener" he says proudly as he smiles, dirt smudged on his cheek and a weed hanging from his not-yet-two-year-old hand. We stand in our trenches and we find worms to 'pet' and oogle at. We watch butterflies flit by. We collect ladybugs to re-deposit on cumcumber pants. We talk about how things grow and what "good bugs" are and how we can touch but only if we pet nice. Then we talk about how its ok to smush a mosquito. We talk about good foods to eat. Together we stand at the grass' edge and we admire how "our" garden grows. I know that someday he may hate the whole thing. He may roll his eyes when I ask if he wants to help weed. Or not. My brother, now 27 years old, still loves to get down and do the hard work. Turning the garden. Building said raised beds. He likes to help plant. He likes to watch things grow and to tend to it all. Even in his crankiest of days, he'll sit out there with my mom and garden. This is what I cling to. This is what I hope for. That this simple rectangle of land in my yard will become a constant for us too.
Well that, and that my tomatoes taste like real, yummy, Jersey tomatoes and my blueberry bush actually produces fruit. (And for the record, my tiny little blueberry bush has about a dozen green berries growing now!!)
5.26.2004
Friends and politics don't mix
My husband used to be an avid golfer. Not a great one mind you, just avid. Ok, he wasn't bad. I feel compelled to clarify that, lest you think he's some horrid duffer like me that gets excited if I don't need the "double par plus 1" rule of golf that the weekend player permits to be applied - if you know nothing of golf trust me, needing that rule is not very good. The rule essentially says if you suck at golf, the worst you can get on any given hole is twice the hole's par plus one. Par being the number of swings an average golfer would require to get that stupid ass little ball into the cup. So on a par three, I'd take a 7. . . often.
Anyway, so the husband used to play a lot. Then we had a kid and golf disappeared. But, truth be told, golf starting wanning a bit before that. He blames the decline on our brief era of 'boat ownership' the summer before I got pregnant. I look back and see that it almost coincides with the 2001 Presidential campaign.
Now, I don't often discuss politics publically. Its just one of those things that ever seems wise to do even with the most rational of people. For this entry's purpose though, I have to dwell on where I stand on the great political spectrum. I don't often tag myself to a party - but I've yet to meet a Democrat I could bring myself to vote for. ;) I tend to think the vast majority of elections become selecting the lesser of two evils. Sad really but I honestly believe factual. I am hardly what I'd call conservative. I'm that person that drives hard-cores on either side batty. I am a moderate...I just lean a wee bit to the right. My husband is standing right there with me just east of center.
So back in the golfing hey-day, Hubby met up with three buddies - older men he knew from way back when. The ring leader of this crew was so far to the left of the political spectrum its amazing he never fell off the ledge. They golfed throughout the Clinton years and the ring leader would every now and then spout off about vast right-wing conspiracy's while my hubby would bite his tongue fighting the urge to let loose. Every now and then he'd pop off a comment - something mild and humorous yet still, a point he felt he needed to make. And every now and then when he did so, the ring leader would grumble about stupid conservatives...which would make hubby and I laugh.
Then the election came. The ring leader got more boisterous in his pontifications. Hubby just settled into saying "Maybe we should just not talk politics and focus on golf. You're not going to change me and I'm not going to change you." The chatter went on but the calls to join up with the foursome started to drop off. Before long they stopped all together. I can't but think politics played a role. I find that terribly sad. To me this is an example of a sad fact - politics and friendships don't mix.
Its sad really. You can be cruising along in buddy-ship, clicking like two sides of a zipper. Then one of you blurts out an opinion on some hot politically hyped topic like its a basic fact the other will obviously go along with seeing as how you both enjoy things like old movies and campy comedy shows. And the other doesn't. The cynic in me - which quite honestly is a beast that rarely shows its ugly little head - believes that even in the most openminded, this difference can cause a wee little crack in friendship's foundation. Often times its not enough to dessimate the thing, but enough differences, esp vast differences, can crumble a friendship to pieces. Thus the lack of golf in my husband's life. Its even sadder when one person is happy enough to just ignore those issues when together as if they didn't exist but the other sees it as too great an obstacle.
So why write this now? Well we're in the heat of the 4-year cycle where even flushing a toilet becomes political. I read blogs, I talk to folks, I over hear chatter. And I bite my tongue. I fear that speaking up and spouting off will cause those riffs. I worry that I'll loose buds by saying "Hold on a minute, did you ever stop to consider that Iraq USED weapons of mass destructions on the Kurds post-1991. He had them, the bigger question is not did he have them. He did. Even France and Bill Clinton believed it and said so publically pre-2003. The big question, the scary question, is where the hell are they now? To me, the threat was never directly from Sadaam himself. The threat was him handing off those weapons to a guy like Bin Laden who is just biding his time waiting to use them. To me the fact that we can't find them is scary not because I feel 'mislead and betrayed' but because I'm terrified someone is holding on and just waiting to pop one off." But I don't say those things (ok so I just did but typically) because it'll start cracking open a can of worms. And THAT is scarier than either "evil" on the ballot.
Anyway, so the husband used to play a lot. Then we had a kid and golf disappeared. But, truth be told, golf starting wanning a bit before that. He blames the decline on our brief era of 'boat ownership' the summer before I got pregnant. I look back and see that it almost coincides with the 2001 Presidential campaign.
Now, I don't often discuss politics publically. Its just one of those things that ever seems wise to do even with the most rational of people. For this entry's purpose though, I have to dwell on where I stand on the great political spectrum. I don't often tag myself to a party - but I've yet to meet a Democrat I could bring myself to vote for. ;) I tend to think the vast majority of elections become selecting the lesser of two evils. Sad really but I honestly believe factual. I am hardly what I'd call conservative. I'm that person that drives hard-cores on either side batty. I am a moderate...I just lean a wee bit to the right. My husband is standing right there with me just east of center.
So back in the golfing hey-day, Hubby met up with three buddies - older men he knew from way back when. The ring leader of this crew was so far to the left of the political spectrum its amazing he never fell off the ledge. They golfed throughout the Clinton years and the ring leader would every now and then spout off about vast right-wing conspiracy's while my hubby would bite his tongue fighting the urge to let loose. Every now and then he'd pop off a comment - something mild and humorous yet still, a point he felt he needed to make. And every now and then when he did so, the ring leader would grumble about stupid conservatives...which would make hubby and I laugh.
Then the election came. The ring leader got more boisterous in his pontifications. Hubby just settled into saying "Maybe we should just not talk politics and focus on golf. You're not going to change me and I'm not going to change you." The chatter went on but the calls to join up with the foursome started to drop off. Before long they stopped all together. I can't but think politics played a role. I find that terribly sad. To me this is an example of a sad fact - politics and friendships don't mix.
Its sad really. You can be cruising along in buddy-ship, clicking like two sides of a zipper. Then one of you blurts out an opinion on some hot politically hyped topic like its a basic fact the other will obviously go along with seeing as how you both enjoy things like old movies and campy comedy shows. And the other doesn't. The cynic in me - which quite honestly is a beast that rarely shows its ugly little head - believes that even in the most openminded, this difference can cause a wee little crack in friendship's foundation. Often times its not enough to dessimate the thing, but enough differences, esp vast differences, can crumble a friendship to pieces. Thus the lack of golf in my husband's life. Its even sadder when one person is happy enough to just ignore those issues when together as if they didn't exist but the other sees it as too great an obstacle.
So why write this now? Well we're in the heat of the 4-year cycle where even flushing a toilet becomes political. I read blogs, I talk to folks, I over hear chatter. And I bite my tongue. I fear that speaking up and spouting off will cause those riffs. I worry that I'll loose buds by saying "Hold on a minute, did you ever stop to consider that Iraq USED weapons of mass destructions on the Kurds post-1991. He had them, the bigger question is not did he have them. He did. Even France and Bill Clinton believed it and said so publically pre-2003. The big question, the scary question, is where the hell are they now? To me, the threat was never directly from Sadaam himself. The threat was him handing off those weapons to a guy like Bin Laden who is just biding his time waiting to use them. To me the fact that we can't find them is scary not because I feel 'mislead and betrayed' but because I'm terrified someone is holding on and just waiting to pop one off." But I don't say those things (ok so I just did but typically) because it'll start cracking open a can of worms. And THAT is scarier than either "evil" on the ballot.
5.19.2004
My mind how it wanders
I have a few items rolling around in my brain today, so indulge me while I spit them out here.
First
I'm writing a piece for a magazine and I'm looking for one final person to interview. I want to interview someone that had preserved embryos and choose NOT to donate them to another couple. I want to know why donation was not an option. If you know of anyone that has gone through IVF, had preserved embryos,choose to either destroy or donate to research said embryos AND they would be willing to talk about it for publication (we can use a pseudonym.) please email me at redheadgur@yahoo.com. Thanks!!
Language is a funny thing
Listening to my son chatter away today I started thinking about how amazing the development of language skills really is. I mean really, think about it. Kids learn to words by listening to us use them. We point to things and label for them. "Tree, that's a tree. Can you say tree?" And perhaps our little one gleefully responds "Tee!"
In that vein there is some measure of instruction, but the complicated parts, they just happen. I never told my son how to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth in order to make an "N" sound. He just did it. I never showed him how to move his lips to utter the sound "Oh." Its instinctual. We hear sounds and somehow our brains just know how to mimic them.
Watching my child grow over the last two years has taught me more about the miracle the human body is than any science class ever could have. To see how many things are just inherent - things that we take for granted - is just baffling. To see how the wheels turn in the brain as we encounter something new is just fascinating. I find myself looking forward to the next discovery my child makes and to starting again from the beginning with my 2nd. It keeps me from getting bogged down in the "terribleness" of two. ha!
With a Kick-Kick Here
Speaking of the pending #2, she's really starting to get feisty. I started feeling movement about a month ago, but lately its gotten more consistent and more pronounced. Like her brother, this little bugger is active at night as I begin to wind down - she's punching my side as we speak. How am I sure she's punching and not kicking, you say?
Today we had our follow-up Level 2 ultrasound. I know the position she was lying in as of 9:45 this morning and unless she flip-flopped a 180 between then and now, she's punching.
Why a follow-up? Well last month they weren't able to see 'something' as clearly as they wanted. I have no idea what because the Perinatalogist doing the scan never said. He just said the baby was lying in a position that made it hard to get a good view of something he wanted to see so I had to go back. Well today we found out he was trying for a clearer view of the heart. Huh. Glad I didn't know that.
My husband, you see, has a mild heart condition. One wall is slightly thicker than it should be. His father had it too. And so hearing "We need to see the heart more clearly" would have sent me for a whirlwind panic attack. But alas, today Dr. H got a clear view and today all was declared well and wonderful.
Clearly nervous by the gathering storm of pink in our house, my paranoid spouse asked the doctor if he was sure this little turnip of ours was still a girl. So back I laid down on the table and back the little probey thing went on my belly. In the doctor's words - This is very much a little girl or one very poorly endowed little boy ready for Jerry Springer. So the pink stays. (Ok, actually we're not overloading on pink...I'm more a lavender and green for the girl type mom.)
And on the topic of kicking - my feisty little girl hates ultrasounds apparently. She the entire scan kicking the crap out of my stomach. Had she been larger than a mere 1 pound 1 ounce, the others in the room may have seen her little feet poking out my abdomen. What they did see, however, were her fists flying around several times. I'm thrilled actually, they printed out a picture for us of one balled up fist resting near her face. I have the same exact 'photo' of her brother when he was about half-way along in gestation.
First
I'm writing a piece for a magazine and I'm looking for one final person to interview. I want to interview someone that had preserved embryos and choose NOT to donate them to another couple. I want to know why donation was not an option. If you know of anyone that has gone through IVF, had preserved embryos,choose to either destroy or donate to research said embryos AND they would be willing to talk about it for publication (we can use a pseudonym.) please email me at redheadgur@yahoo.com. Thanks!!
Language is a funny thing
Listening to my son chatter away today I started thinking about how amazing the development of language skills really is. I mean really, think about it. Kids learn to words by listening to us use them. We point to things and label for them. "Tree, that's a tree. Can you say tree?" And perhaps our little one gleefully responds "Tee!"
In that vein there is some measure of instruction, but the complicated parts, they just happen. I never told my son how to press his tongue to the roof of his mouth in order to make an "N" sound. He just did it. I never showed him how to move his lips to utter the sound "Oh." Its instinctual. We hear sounds and somehow our brains just know how to mimic them.
Watching my child grow over the last two years has taught me more about the miracle the human body is than any science class ever could have. To see how many things are just inherent - things that we take for granted - is just baffling. To see how the wheels turn in the brain as we encounter something new is just fascinating. I find myself looking forward to the next discovery my child makes and to starting again from the beginning with my 2nd. It keeps me from getting bogged down in the "terribleness" of two. ha!
With a Kick-Kick Here
Speaking of the pending #2, she's really starting to get feisty. I started feeling movement about a month ago, but lately its gotten more consistent and more pronounced. Like her brother, this little bugger is active at night as I begin to wind down - she's punching my side as we speak. How am I sure she's punching and not kicking, you say?
Today we had our follow-up Level 2 ultrasound. I know the position she was lying in as of 9:45 this morning and unless she flip-flopped a 180 between then and now, she's punching.
Why a follow-up? Well last month they weren't able to see 'something' as clearly as they wanted. I have no idea what because the Perinatalogist doing the scan never said. He just said the baby was lying in a position that made it hard to get a good view of something he wanted to see so I had to go back. Well today we found out he was trying for a clearer view of the heart. Huh. Glad I didn't know that.
My husband, you see, has a mild heart condition. One wall is slightly thicker than it should be. His father had it too. And so hearing "We need to see the heart more clearly" would have sent me for a whirlwind panic attack. But alas, today Dr. H got a clear view and today all was declared well and wonderful.
Clearly nervous by the gathering storm of pink in our house, my paranoid spouse asked the doctor if he was sure this little turnip of ours was still a girl. So back I laid down on the table and back the little probey thing went on my belly. In the doctor's words - This is very much a little girl or one very poorly endowed little boy ready for Jerry Springer. So the pink stays. (Ok, actually we're not overloading on pink...I'm more a lavender and green for the girl type mom.)
And on the topic of kicking - my feisty little girl hates ultrasounds apparently. She the entire scan kicking the crap out of my stomach. Had she been larger than a mere 1 pound 1 ounce, the others in the room may have seen her little feet poking out my abdomen. What they did see, however, were her fists flying around several times. I'm thrilled actually, they printed out a picture for us of one balled up fist resting near her face. I have the same exact 'photo' of her brother when he was about half-way along in gestation.
5.11.2004
Caught in the great in between
In terms of fertility, I am caught in the great inbetween. Its a hard place to be, quite frankly. A present life firmly rooted in one world, yet a past life spent mired in another.
I won't rehash our entire history again, although maybe I should. Fact is after a year of non-conception, my husband and I sought out medical intervention as it were. We did tests - tests that strip you of all sorts of humility and faith in your own body. We did fertility drugs. To this day I swear that Clomid is the worst thing ever invented by man. I've never felt sicker or more emotionally disraught then while I was on that horrid little pill. Yet we got no where.
Six cycles of hell, er Clomid, later we paid a visit to our friendly neighborhood Reproductive Endochronlogist. More tests. More poking. More talking. More treatments - this time In Vitro. Shots are almost as bad as Clomid. Ok, shots mean self-inflicted needles (in theory, I never could do it myself) so shots are worse. Our IVF attempt was a miserable failure. Of 11 eggs we had 8 embryos. Of the 8, by the day of transfer we had 3 left. One of those was dying. Two weeks later, just in time for my blood work, I began to bleed. No viable pregnancy. I always consider that failed cycle a miscarriage. Not that I talk of it often, but there you go.
Neither I nor my husband had the emotional or physical fortitude to go through that again. Yeah, one cycle is probably not enough to be sure, but it was all we could afford out of our various banks - the emotional one, the physical one and the good old monetary one. We gave it a try and it didn't work. We set about to live our lives as a couple - a spoiled rotten couple. We committed ourselves to healthy eating and to exercise. We took great trips (the previously mentioned trip to Tahiti for example.) We bought ourselves great presents.
And then nearly a year and a half later I missed a period. And then I missed another...
And then I dared to do what I swore I would never do to myself again. I took a home pregnancy test. And it was positive. I didn't believe it so I took another. And another, and another and another. Five in all. All five said positive. I was pregnant. On my own. No Clomid. No tests. No RE. No IVF. Just me and hubby the good old fashioned way.
7 months later (remember I tested so very late!) my son was born. We decided to try again and we prepared ourselves for failure. But alas, failure decided we had spent enough dancing with one another and so he moved on to another poor soul. We conceived our second child - a daughter due in Sept - on the 2nd month of not even really trying.
So now I'm one of the regular folks that get pregnant the good old fashioned way - and yet I carry around with me the heartache of our infertility journey. I ache when I hear stories of couples struggling for a child and I want to hug them tight and say "I know. I know. I know. I've been there. The pain is awful." Yet I know if I do that the question comes - so your child is from a treatment? Ummm, well no. And suddenly its a slap in the face not a comfort.
There are times I hate to tell my story. I hate to share it because I remember hearing all the tales of women that magically conceived after completing adoption. I remember being told to just take a vacation and stop stressing about it, because after all I just needed to relax and boom, it'd happen. People mean well when they say that crap, but it hurts. It negates what you're feeling. That you've failed; that your body has betrayed you. It says that every time you feel broken and inadequate you're merely being melodramatic because after all all you really need to do is loose a little weight and stop stressing. In some cases that may be true - I suppose in mine it was, but in too many others its not. Too many others have real problems they face. Too many other couples have legitimate medical roadblocks and all the vacations and massages in the world won't fill their arms with a baby.
I hate to tell my story because I don't want it to be something others use to inflict on the infertile. I know they do because they tell me, their eyes glowing and their voices full of excitement "Oh, I have to tell Jane this, they've been trying for years and are on their 5th cycle of in vitro now. But hey, look at you, maybe if she goes to Weight Watchers and joins a gym!" Poor Jane, I think, and I smile weakly. Sometimes I even say "Please don't tell them. You don't understand. It'll hurt too much. Its not right." Oh, my, aren't you just a silly thing says the hand they flop at me. Of course it won't hurt, she'll hopeful. And my foot once planted in the 'other' world itches to plant itself up their butt.
Its a weird place this great in between. Knowing the pain and knowing the joy. Its hard to feel like I belong in either. I don't fit in the world where people get pregnant just thinking about it and never really have a notion that their fertility is a gift, not a given. I don't even quite fit in the world where people try for a while and finally get there on their own. I did that and more. I had Clomid Migranes and injection site bruises. I had the experience of watching my dreams crumble before my eyes -- as short lived as their demise turned out to be. Yet, I don't fit in with those that hug their children close today and thank God for a medical world that can work miracles. The medical world didn't get me to where I am today.
I'm my own unique breed, I suppose. I just sit back and listen quietly to either world share their stories. I feel a pang of guilt when I hear struggles. I still feel a pang of jealousy when I hear of pregnancy with ease. I guess I'll always be stuck in the middle.
I won't rehash our entire history again, although maybe I should. Fact is after a year of non-conception, my husband and I sought out medical intervention as it were. We did tests - tests that strip you of all sorts of humility and faith in your own body. We did fertility drugs. To this day I swear that Clomid is the worst thing ever invented by man. I've never felt sicker or more emotionally disraught then while I was on that horrid little pill. Yet we got no where.
Six cycles of hell, er Clomid, later we paid a visit to our friendly neighborhood Reproductive Endochronlogist. More tests. More poking. More talking. More treatments - this time In Vitro. Shots are almost as bad as Clomid. Ok, shots mean self-inflicted needles (in theory, I never could do it myself) so shots are worse. Our IVF attempt was a miserable failure. Of 11 eggs we had 8 embryos. Of the 8, by the day of transfer we had 3 left. One of those was dying. Two weeks later, just in time for my blood work, I began to bleed. No viable pregnancy. I always consider that failed cycle a miscarriage. Not that I talk of it often, but there you go.
Neither I nor my husband had the emotional or physical fortitude to go through that again. Yeah, one cycle is probably not enough to be sure, but it was all we could afford out of our various banks - the emotional one, the physical one and the good old monetary one. We gave it a try and it didn't work. We set about to live our lives as a couple - a spoiled rotten couple. We committed ourselves to healthy eating and to exercise. We took great trips (the previously mentioned trip to Tahiti for example.) We bought ourselves great presents.
And then nearly a year and a half later I missed a period. And then I missed another...
And then I dared to do what I swore I would never do to myself again. I took a home pregnancy test. And it was positive. I didn't believe it so I took another. And another, and another and another. Five in all. All five said positive. I was pregnant. On my own. No Clomid. No tests. No RE. No IVF. Just me and hubby the good old fashioned way.
7 months later (remember I tested so very late!) my son was born. We decided to try again and we prepared ourselves for failure. But alas, failure decided we had spent enough dancing with one another and so he moved on to another poor soul. We conceived our second child - a daughter due in Sept - on the 2nd month of not even really trying.
So now I'm one of the regular folks that get pregnant the good old fashioned way - and yet I carry around with me the heartache of our infertility journey. I ache when I hear stories of couples struggling for a child and I want to hug them tight and say "I know. I know. I know. I've been there. The pain is awful." Yet I know if I do that the question comes - so your child is from a treatment? Ummm, well no. And suddenly its a slap in the face not a comfort.
There are times I hate to tell my story. I hate to share it because I remember hearing all the tales of women that magically conceived after completing adoption. I remember being told to just take a vacation and stop stressing about it, because after all I just needed to relax and boom, it'd happen. People mean well when they say that crap, but it hurts. It negates what you're feeling. That you've failed; that your body has betrayed you. It says that every time you feel broken and inadequate you're merely being melodramatic because after all all you really need to do is loose a little weight and stop stressing. In some cases that may be true - I suppose in mine it was, but in too many others its not. Too many others have real problems they face. Too many other couples have legitimate medical roadblocks and all the vacations and massages in the world won't fill their arms with a baby.
I hate to tell my story because I don't want it to be something others use to inflict on the infertile. I know they do because they tell me, their eyes glowing and their voices full of excitement "Oh, I have to tell Jane this, they've been trying for years and are on their 5th cycle of in vitro now. But hey, look at you, maybe if she goes to Weight Watchers and joins a gym!" Poor Jane, I think, and I smile weakly. Sometimes I even say "Please don't tell them. You don't understand. It'll hurt too much. Its not right." Oh, my, aren't you just a silly thing says the hand they flop at me. Of course it won't hurt, she'll hopeful. And my foot once planted in the 'other' world itches to plant itself up their butt.
Its a weird place this great in between. Knowing the pain and knowing the joy. Its hard to feel like I belong in either. I don't fit in the world where people get pregnant just thinking about it and never really have a notion that their fertility is a gift, not a given. I don't even quite fit in the world where people try for a while and finally get there on their own. I did that and more. I had Clomid Migranes and injection site bruises. I had the experience of watching my dreams crumble before my eyes -- as short lived as their demise turned out to be. Yet, I don't fit in with those that hug their children close today and thank God for a medical world that can work miracles. The medical world didn't get me to where I am today.
I'm my own unique breed, I suppose. I just sit back and listen quietly to either world share their stories. I feel a pang of guilt when I hear struggles. I still feel a pang of jealousy when I hear of pregnancy with ease. I guess I'll always be stuck in the middle.
5.08.2004
When I grow up. . .
This morning my not-quite-two-year-old informed me that he was going to be an astronaut when he grew up. "I be astronaut," he said, "Fly Space Shuttle. ZOOM! Walk on moon." Now how he knows all about being an astronaut and flying to the moon is not of consequence for the moment. However, for the curious out there, its a combination of his fascination with the night sky, our time spent surfing the web looking at NASA's photo albums, and "The Shanna Show" short on Playhouse Disney.
His declaration got me thinking. When I was a kid, what were my career goals. (Not that I recall much from my 2nd year of life so we're talking "young child" not "toddler child.") I remember wanting to be a lot of things at various times and as I think it through I realize that in some way I've managed to reach many of those goals - at least in some form.
1. A Mommy - What little girl doesn't playhouse at some point in her childhood and pretend to be the big cheese? Ok, maybe some out there don't, but I did. I was going to marry Tommy from kindergarten and have two kids, a boy and a girl. Tommy's Dad was the Mayor so this was really a big deal at 5 years old - it was like marrying into the White House. Of course I only achieved half this goal. I am a Mommy. I do have a boy and a girl is on the way. I didn't, however, marry into the mayor's office. Tommy is now a funeral director in town and I married an older man I met at my first marketing job.
2. A ballerina - Oh I was all flushed thinking about wearing pink tutu's and pointy toed satin slippers. I took ballet lessons for what seemed like ages. "Run, Run, Run, Leap!" my teacher would command as she tapped her long pointer on the floor and with a fluid motion of her arm seemed to levitate us over a pile of records. I was going to be great. I am not a ballerina. I doubt my bigger-then-they-should-be hips and misc body parts would look all that hot in a tutu to be quite honest. BUT, I am a dancer. Of course my music is a far cry from Swan Lake. I dance around to the Wiggles and JoJo's Circus CDs. I don't get my body up on my toes much, but I do spin and dip a lot. I guess you can say I made it a third of the way there. Ha! Or less.
3. An Astronaut - yeah, I too wanted to fly through space. My math skills, however, left much to be desired and my interest gradually waned. I'm fascinated by the stars and what not, I just have no desire to actually fly that close to them. When we took our "IVF failed miserably we're going to wallow in the fact that we'll never have kids" trip to Tahiti, we paid to have this nutty British guy give us a "night sky tour" in Moorea. It was one of the best things we did that trip - and that trip was amazing from start to finish. But, like I said, standing on a hilltop with a pair of a binoculars and a nutty professor complete with umbrella as pointer is different than strapping in to experience zero gravity. The closest I get today is laying in the grass on a cool night, pointing to the moon, stars and planets as we tell our son what is what. I don't even think that counts as getting very far to the career goal.
4. A Teacher - Yup. Another stereotypical little girl thing. I'm sure there are a zillion girls that never wanted to teach, but at one point I did. I remember making tests for my brother to take and grading them when he was done scribbling away on them. (He is, afterall, four years younger.) As I moved through school, other long-term career goals got in my way, but it is something I've reconsidered a few times in my adult life. I even went as far as attending a seminar on alternate route certification. I thought teaching would be a great way to allow me to be home when my school aged children were. But alas, there's that older man I mentioned previously. We spoke at length and since I can earn more in a corporate world than a teacher will its important that I be in a point in my career that I can be considered 'primary bread winner' when the kids are college-aged. My dear husband will, at that time, be a sweet 60-something year old man. It scares him. He worries about his ability to have a job with decent pay and benefits when he's 60. My father is nearing 57 and is convinced he's going to be offered an early retirement package by January from the company he's been with for over 35 years. Hubby knows this and it scares him more. Being 13 years younger than the 'old man' of mine, I know he's right, I do have to be in a position in my career that I can be "the provider." So teaching is a done idea.
That said - even though I'm not a teacher in a formal career sense, I am still a teacher by default. All parents are. I taught my son to walk. I taught him his alphabet. I've taught him to count to 14. I've taught him the language skills he has. I've taught him about the moon, the astronauts and the Space Shuttle. I've taught him about trucks and planes and trains. I've taught him to feed himself and to pick out his own shirts. I've taught him to say please and thank you. And I keep teaching him new things every day.
This week my mom taught me when to plant tomatoes and how to cover the beds with grass clippings to help keep the weeds down. She taught me how to feign excitement over the 10-millionth bulldozer we see in a day. She's taught me how to be a good mother...and from that I know that my in formal job as 'teacher' never ends. Career goal obtained without pay.
5. A lawyer - My aunt was a lawyer - a corporate lawyer that used to work for Hanna Barbarah (bad spelling!?) and used to send me calendars filled with cartoon characters. I wanted to be a lawyer too. Then I spent the day, as a child, with a real attorney and I decided that it was actually quite boring. To me, being a lawyer was only good when you had Perry Mason type moments and seeing as how those could be few and far between, the job lost its appeal.
6. A writer - This is the one that made it all the way. My "Day Job" has been in marketing. Even now, in my technically self-employed state, my primary contract is to perform marketing and public relations duties for my former company. In this role I write. I write a lot. I write everything from press releases and trade show signs to white papers and sell sheets.
I also have this blog - no pay but lots of satisfaction in that I can write what I want, when I want to. On the money side, I've ventured into the freelance market and have written a wee bit for publication. Its not a lot and I certainly should get off my ass and pitch more ideas so I can write more for pay...which is actually in reality more about the glory of seeing my name in print. I have a ton of excuses why I've not pitched more to date. Nothing worth wasting time over now though. They are, in fact, just excuses.
All of this certainly falls short of that novel I was going to write at 13 and its all very different from what I set out to do as a college Freshman. I'll have you know that I was going to challenge the fame of Woodward and Burnstein someday. I was going to be a great reporter. A red-headed Lois Lane. That was me. Then my journalism professor had a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer speak to us. All I can recall today about that lecture is that journalist get crappy pay to have the one hightest suicide and divorce rates in the country. Understandably, when you put that up against the speaker we had in our PR class, writing for papers lost some of its luster.
The way I see it, I'm young - I'll only be 31 at the end of this month. I have time to write that novel. My fiction writing professor used to drum into our heads the rule that you "write what you know" if you want to write a good piece of fiction. I don't feel like I know enough yet - at least nothing interesting and so I put off the great novel. Some day maybe I'll do it. I just haven't felt a book begging to get out of my head yet. Essay's - sure...they become blog entries and some day maybe things I pitch for the heck of it...but books no. At least no book since I hit a point in maturity to recognize what was a "good story" vs some sort of cruddy predictable teenage vision of great literature. ;)
So I guess, looking back on it, my little kid dreams of "when I grow up" weren't so far off. Then again, I'm not "all" grown-up yet by any stretch of the imagination. That'll come later. For now, there's still time to grow and learn and expand.
This morning my not-quite-two-year-old informed me that he was going to be an astronaut when he grew up. "I be astronaut," he said, "Fly Space Shuttle. ZOOM! Walk on moon." Now how he knows all about being an astronaut and flying to the moon is not of consequence for the moment. However, for the curious out there, its a combination of his fascination with the night sky, our time spent surfing the web looking at NASA's photo albums, and "The Shanna Show" short on Playhouse Disney.
His declaration got me thinking. When I was a kid, what were my career goals. (Not that I recall much from my 2nd year of life so we're talking "young child" not "toddler child.") I remember wanting to be a lot of things at various times and as I think it through I realize that in some way I've managed to reach many of those goals - at least in some form.
1. A Mommy - What little girl doesn't playhouse at some point in her childhood and pretend to be the big cheese? Ok, maybe some out there don't, but I did. I was going to marry Tommy from kindergarten and have two kids, a boy and a girl. Tommy's Dad was the Mayor so this was really a big deal at 5 years old - it was like marrying into the White House. Of course I only achieved half this goal. I am a Mommy. I do have a boy and a girl is on the way. I didn't, however, marry into the mayor's office. Tommy is now a funeral director in town and I married an older man I met at my first marketing job.
2. A ballerina - Oh I was all flushed thinking about wearing pink tutu's and pointy toed satin slippers. I took ballet lessons for what seemed like ages. "Run, Run, Run, Leap!" my teacher would command as she tapped her long pointer on the floor and with a fluid motion of her arm seemed to levitate us over a pile of records. I was going to be great. I am not a ballerina. I doubt my bigger-then-they-should-be hips and misc body parts would look all that hot in a tutu to be quite honest. BUT, I am a dancer. Of course my music is a far cry from Swan Lake. I dance around to the Wiggles and JoJo's Circus CDs. I don't get my body up on my toes much, but I do spin and dip a lot. I guess you can say I made it a third of the way there. Ha! Or less.
3. An Astronaut - yeah, I too wanted to fly through space. My math skills, however, left much to be desired and my interest gradually waned. I'm fascinated by the stars and what not, I just have no desire to actually fly that close to them. When we took our "IVF failed miserably we're going to wallow in the fact that we'll never have kids" trip to Tahiti, we paid to have this nutty British guy give us a "night sky tour" in Moorea. It was one of the best things we did that trip - and that trip was amazing from start to finish. But, like I said, standing on a hilltop with a pair of a binoculars and a nutty professor complete with umbrella as pointer is different than strapping in to experience zero gravity. The closest I get today is laying in the grass on a cool night, pointing to the moon, stars and planets as we tell our son what is what. I don't even think that counts as getting very far to the career goal.
4. A Teacher - Yup. Another stereotypical little girl thing. I'm sure there are a zillion girls that never wanted to teach, but at one point I did. I remember making tests for my brother to take and grading them when he was done scribbling away on them. (He is, afterall, four years younger.) As I moved through school, other long-term career goals got in my way, but it is something I've reconsidered a few times in my adult life. I even went as far as attending a seminar on alternate route certification. I thought teaching would be a great way to allow me to be home when my school aged children were. But alas, there's that older man I mentioned previously. We spoke at length and since I can earn more in a corporate world than a teacher will its important that I be in a point in my career that I can be considered 'primary bread winner' when the kids are college-aged. My dear husband will, at that time, be a sweet 60-something year old man. It scares him. He worries about his ability to have a job with decent pay and benefits when he's 60. My father is nearing 57 and is convinced he's going to be offered an early retirement package by January from the company he's been with for over 35 years. Hubby knows this and it scares him more. Being 13 years younger than the 'old man' of mine, I know he's right, I do have to be in a position in my career that I can be "the provider." So teaching is a done idea.
That said - even though I'm not a teacher in a formal career sense, I am still a teacher by default. All parents are. I taught my son to walk. I taught him his alphabet. I've taught him to count to 14. I've taught him the language skills he has. I've taught him about the moon, the astronauts and the Space Shuttle. I've taught him about trucks and planes and trains. I've taught him to feed himself and to pick out his own shirts. I've taught him to say please and thank you. And I keep teaching him new things every day.
This week my mom taught me when to plant tomatoes and how to cover the beds with grass clippings to help keep the weeds down. She taught me how to feign excitement over the 10-millionth bulldozer we see in a day. She's taught me how to be a good mother...and from that I know that my in formal job as 'teacher' never ends. Career goal obtained without pay.
5. A lawyer - My aunt was a lawyer - a corporate lawyer that used to work for Hanna Barbarah (bad spelling!?) and used to send me calendars filled with cartoon characters. I wanted to be a lawyer too. Then I spent the day, as a child, with a real attorney and I decided that it was actually quite boring. To me, being a lawyer was only good when you had Perry Mason type moments and seeing as how those could be few and far between, the job lost its appeal.
6. A writer - This is the one that made it all the way. My "Day Job" has been in marketing. Even now, in my technically self-employed state, my primary contract is to perform marketing and public relations duties for my former company. In this role I write. I write a lot. I write everything from press releases and trade show signs to white papers and sell sheets.
I also have this blog - no pay but lots of satisfaction in that I can write what I want, when I want to. On the money side, I've ventured into the freelance market and have written a wee bit for publication. Its not a lot and I certainly should get off my ass and pitch more ideas so I can write more for pay...which is actually in reality more about the glory of seeing my name in print. I have a ton of excuses why I've not pitched more to date. Nothing worth wasting time over now though. They are, in fact, just excuses.
All of this certainly falls short of that novel I was going to write at 13 and its all very different from what I set out to do as a college Freshman. I'll have you know that I was going to challenge the fame of Woodward and Burnstein someday. I was going to be a great reporter. A red-headed Lois Lane. That was me. Then my journalism professor had a reporter from the Philadelphia Inquirer speak to us. All I can recall today about that lecture is that journalist get crappy pay to have the one hightest suicide and divorce rates in the country. Understandably, when you put that up against the speaker we had in our PR class, writing for papers lost some of its luster.
The way I see it, I'm young - I'll only be 31 at the end of this month. I have time to write that novel. My fiction writing professor used to drum into our heads the rule that you "write what you know" if you want to write a good piece of fiction. I don't feel like I know enough yet - at least nothing interesting and so I put off the great novel. Some day maybe I'll do it. I just haven't felt a book begging to get out of my head yet. Essay's - sure...they become blog entries and some day maybe things I pitch for the heck of it...but books no. At least no book since I hit a point in maturity to recognize what was a "good story" vs some sort of cruddy predictable teenage vision of great literature. ;)
So I guess, looking back on it, my little kid dreams of "when I grow up" weren't so far off. Then again, I'm not "all" grown-up yet by any stretch of the imagination. That'll come later. For now, there's still time to grow and learn and expand.
5.01.2004
Neighbors
I've decided its just me. I thought maybe I was a freaky neighbor magnet - but that's just asking too much. It must be me. I'm the weird one and they're all perfectly normal. Its the only thing that makes sense. Me and neighbors - we go way back.
When I was a kid Donald and Mary lived to the right of us (right being if you were in the house looking out.) They were a nice enough couple. Mary, perpetually tan, was 10 years older than Donald. They smoked pot with wild abdandon and liked to parade around naked. This shouldn't have been an issue with the stockade wood fence between our yards by the time nudity became the rage over there, but we had a tree fort. Or I should say my brother had a tree fort. My mom used to think he was just a young boy that liked being up a tree - it wasn't until Mary asked, rather uncomfortably I might add, if Mom could keep the kid out of the tree a bit more often that it became apparent WHY he liked being up a tree. Sure, the tree was great, but he liked to watch her sunbathe in the nude, clean in the nude, swim in the pool in the nude, well you get the idea. When questioned about this years later, my brother merely grins and says "Hey, I was 12." Yeah, right. As if he'd have stayed out of the tree if he was 17. ;)
Donald and Mary moved, selling the house to Janine and Richard. He was an uptight, white-collar, rod up his spine Wall St kind of guy. She was big hair, late 80s Jersey girl through and through. They were the oddest couple I'd ever seen. Janine was loud. Nice, sure, but loud. I remember falling asleep on a summer's night - my window up to allow some lame excuse of a breeze puff in to my hot, non air-conditioned room - hearing that cackle of hers. They had two children eventually, Christopher and Erica. Both were understandably perfect. In terms of odd neighbors these four were actually the most normal.
When I married and moved into the former bachelor pad apartment I found myself with bizarre neighbors once again. The girl in the apartment across the street was another nudist. She'd walk around her room - a window facing ours - buck naked, blinds wide open, lights turned on. We called her naked girl. The man downstairs (aptly nicknamed Man downstairs because never did know his real name) liked to watch the Spice Channel. Think porn on cable. I remember sitting on my couch at night, our own TV momentarily silent as one show turned to another, and hearing the moaning. He'd sit down there with his lights off, curtains drawn tight, and moaning TV pumped up loud. Man downstairs also had a weird dog. The poor thing would flip out if you walked to close to it. Apparently it was abused in a previous life - sad certainly, but bizarre when paired with this bizarre single man who'd yell back at it "Oh Ferdie! You're such a chicken!" Ferdie, by the way, was also terrified of our then puppy. That little 8 lbs of Husky was enough to send the full grown dog into a tizzy. Man Downstairs also liked to go to the apartment complex pool in a Speedo. Mind you, I've yet to see a man that actually truly looks good in a speedo, but Man Downstairs had no business trying.
Also in the apartment complex we had a couple that would scream and shout at each other almost nightly. There walls seemed to butt up against ours. One day the super can with an eviction notice, but the screamers were already gone. Below them was a young couple with a baby. They were always afraid to have the super come do work on their place because they had built a full, real, functional wall across their dining room making the place a 2 bedroom apartment instead of a 1 bedroom as they were paying for.
So we thought we might luck out and leave the bizarre behind at "Mansions at Middlebrook" when we bought our house. The first week or so the place seemed normal enough. No screamers, no pumping loud Spice Channel or middle-aged, pasty-white, bald men in spandex tight bathing suits. Normal. Sure, right.
Steve and Edie live to our left. Their three adult kids and granddaughter live there too. Its quite a full house. Steve is a real chatty fellow. He means well. One day he called us and said "Hi! My name is Steve. . ." then pitched DH on a pyramid scheme. Ahh, no thanks we said. Steve didn't talk to us for a while after that. It did, however, explain the line of cars that seemed to show up at his place regularly and leave after a short stay. We used to try to guess if he was part of a cult or drug ring. Guess it was just pyramid schemes. Steve and Edie used to have a German Shepard named MacKenzie. Mac didn't like her backyard. She used to dig her way out under the wood fence and roam the street. I used to think it was odd that the old folks that owned our house previously had erected a chain link fence barrier down either side of our front yard. The first time that dog sat on her front yard and barked her head off at me for being on mine I was thankful for said barrier.
Steve and Edie have a new dog - I have no idea what its name is, everyone just calls it puppy. Yes, everyone. Puppy, you see, gets out of the yard too. Steve knows this. Steve doesn't care. Their wooden fence blew over during one of our bad storms this winter. They had tried merely propping it up for a while against our chain link. I liked to tip it back into their yard for fun when no one was home. :) The fence is now 3/4 removed. They talk about getting a new chain link that will run up against ours. In the meantime there exists this 6 inch or so gap between what's left of his wood fence and our fence. Puppy gets put in the backyard and runs for freedom. She's small enough to squeeze by the lame excuse for a bush that sprouted between the two fences once upon a time and spends oodles of time roaming the block. She always seems to return to her backyard, as did Mac before her. But one of these days, Puppy is going to meet car and its not going to be pretty. I spend much of our outside time trying to coax puppy back into her own yard. I use my child as bait - "Come here puppy! Come see L!" L, you see, loves puppy. He thinks its funny that the dog likes to lick his fingers through the chain link. He also thinks its hysterical to see the puppy run in wild circles everytime Tasha (our dog) barks and howls. Today Puppy came to play with us on our front yard. If I didn't find one dog to be enough of a pain in my ass lately I might just adopt Puppy - she's here enough.
On the other side lived Ray, Ray's wife (no I have no idea what her name is) and their four obnoxious stalker children. When we moved in they were newborn through 5. Now they are 11 through almost 6. Ray and his wife were the most normal neighbors I had ever had at first. They borrowed cups of milk. They chatted over the front lawn fence with us. Their stalker kids turned their bikes around on our driveway but we didn't care. Better to be nice to young hoodlums so they won't egg your house later. :)
Then one day I heard screeching followed by a slammed door and mad Ray storming from the house. A week or so late there was more screeching followed by a police car stopping in front of our house. Talk about heart in throat. I couldn't imagine they'd send police out because we had ripped the tags off the mattress or something. And they hadn't. No the police went next door to the 'normal' house and spoke to both Ray and wife o' Ray. Several more weeks went by and Ray was no longer seen around these parts. Days after his disappearance "New Ray" showed up. A younger, buffer version of the guy we had once thought normal.
Since then "New Ray" has left and "New Ray 2" (called New Ray for short, although recently I've learned his name is Steve) moved in. Yes, moved in. Ray shows up sometimes to pick up the four stalkers for the weekend. Some weekends he, the Ex-Mrs. Ray and New Ray stand around by Ray's beat up "amazed it really runs" car and shoot the breeze. Laughing at little jokes and seeming like old friends. Other times the police make a visit and speak to each - she in house, he in car - separately. I've heard all about how Ray can't give her another penny because after she bleeds him dry for this house and all that crap he's left with maybe a $100 a month to live on. No, Ray didn't tell me this himself, he sort of shouted it for the whole block to hear - or maybe it was just her. Not sure.
Now, Ex-Mrs. Ray doesn't reserve her screeching for Ray. No. Ex-Mrs Ray shares it with her children and therefore with all of us. There are days she screams at them to stay outside "I SAID STAY OUTSIDE DAMN IT! DO NOT COME IN UNTIL I SAY!" There are other days she yells at them stuff like "SHUT UP ALREADY! JUST SHUT UP! I SAID STOP! DAMN IT! STOP!" Yes, you read that right - there are days they must stay outside. I recall one cool day when the youngest was maybe 3 she made her stay outside - sans jacket - for hours. Not out back, no out front...Sitting on the front stoop. Is it a wonder they are little stalkers? Even prior to L's arrival, the littlest stalker - we'll call her C since she's a minor, would come over and chat everytime I was out front. Now having a little buddy with me makes me all the more attractive apparently. Sadly L seems to adore C. So every time we go outside, and she's there, he calls out her name and waves. Of course, every time we go out front she is ALWAYS there unless she's at school or Ray's. Its like radar or something. She must sense our front door open because she comes running right away. Top speed - ZOOM! She's chased us down the block before if we were walking down the street when she spotted us. Its like bees to honey. Its annoying. I'd like to go in my front yard without C hanging around all the time.
Happily, C says they are moving. They are the aforementioned neighbors with the house for sale but not a for sale sign. I can only hope the next set of new folks fails to follow history. I'd like normal people living near me. People without run away dogs or domestic dispute phone calls. I'd like people that like to walk around in clothes and not cackle and snort louder than the buzz of crickets on a warm summers eve. I want a lot, I know. But, hey, haven't I paid my dues?
I've decided its just me. I thought maybe I was a freaky neighbor magnet - but that's just asking too much. It must be me. I'm the weird one and they're all perfectly normal. Its the only thing that makes sense. Me and neighbors - we go way back.
When I was a kid Donald and Mary lived to the right of us (right being if you were in the house looking out.) They were a nice enough couple. Mary, perpetually tan, was 10 years older than Donald. They smoked pot with wild abdandon and liked to parade around naked. This shouldn't have been an issue with the stockade wood fence between our yards by the time nudity became the rage over there, but we had a tree fort. Or I should say my brother had a tree fort. My mom used to think he was just a young boy that liked being up a tree - it wasn't until Mary asked, rather uncomfortably I might add, if Mom could keep the kid out of the tree a bit more often that it became apparent WHY he liked being up a tree. Sure, the tree was great, but he liked to watch her sunbathe in the nude, clean in the nude, swim in the pool in the nude, well you get the idea. When questioned about this years later, my brother merely grins and says "Hey, I was 12." Yeah, right. As if he'd have stayed out of the tree if he was 17. ;)
Donald and Mary moved, selling the house to Janine and Richard. He was an uptight, white-collar, rod up his spine Wall St kind of guy. She was big hair, late 80s Jersey girl through and through. They were the oddest couple I'd ever seen. Janine was loud. Nice, sure, but loud. I remember falling asleep on a summer's night - my window up to allow some lame excuse of a breeze puff in to my hot, non air-conditioned room - hearing that cackle of hers. They had two children eventually, Christopher and Erica. Both were understandably perfect. In terms of odd neighbors these four were actually the most normal.
When I married and moved into the former bachelor pad apartment I found myself with bizarre neighbors once again. The girl in the apartment across the street was another nudist. She'd walk around her room - a window facing ours - buck naked, blinds wide open, lights turned on. We called her naked girl. The man downstairs (aptly nicknamed Man downstairs because never did know his real name) liked to watch the Spice Channel. Think porn on cable. I remember sitting on my couch at night, our own TV momentarily silent as one show turned to another, and hearing the moaning. He'd sit down there with his lights off, curtains drawn tight, and moaning TV pumped up loud. Man downstairs also had a weird dog. The poor thing would flip out if you walked to close to it. Apparently it was abused in a previous life - sad certainly, but bizarre when paired with this bizarre single man who'd yell back at it "Oh Ferdie! You're such a chicken!" Ferdie, by the way, was also terrified of our then puppy. That little 8 lbs of Husky was enough to send the full grown dog into a tizzy. Man Downstairs also liked to go to the apartment complex pool in a Speedo. Mind you, I've yet to see a man that actually truly looks good in a speedo, but Man Downstairs had no business trying.
Also in the apartment complex we had a couple that would scream and shout at each other almost nightly. There walls seemed to butt up against ours. One day the super can with an eviction notice, but the screamers were already gone. Below them was a young couple with a baby. They were always afraid to have the super come do work on their place because they had built a full, real, functional wall across their dining room making the place a 2 bedroom apartment instead of a 1 bedroom as they were paying for.
So we thought we might luck out and leave the bizarre behind at "Mansions at Middlebrook" when we bought our house. The first week or so the place seemed normal enough. No screamers, no pumping loud Spice Channel or middle-aged, pasty-white, bald men in spandex tight bathing suits. Normal. Sure, right.
Steve and Edie live to our left. Their three adult kids and granddaughter live there too. Its quite a full house. Steve is a real chatty fellow. He means well. One day he called us and said "Hi! My name is Steve. . ." then pitched DH on a pyramid scheme. Ahh, no thanks we said. Steve didn't talk to us for a while after that. It did, however, explain the line of cars that seemed to show up at his place regularly and leave after a short stay. We used to try to guess if he was part of a cult or drug ring. Guess it was just pyramid schemes. Steve and Edie used to have a German Shepard named MacKenzie. Mac didn't like her backyard. She used to dig her way out under the wood fence and roam the street. I used to think it was odd that the old folks that owned our house previously had erected a chain link fence barrier down either side of our front yard. The first time that dog sat on her front yard and barked her head off at me for being on mine I was thankful for said barrier.
Steve and Edie have a new dog - I have no idea what its name is, everyone just calls it puppy. Yes, everyone. Puppy, you see, gets out of the yard too. Steve knows this. Steve doesn't care. Their wooden fence blew over during one of our bad storms this winter. They had tried merely propping it up for a while against our chain link. I liked to tip it back into their yard for fun when no one was home. :) The fence is now 3/4 removed. They talk about getting a new chain link that will run up against ours. In the meantime there exists this 6 inch or so gap between what's left of his wood fence and our fence. Puppy gets put in the backyard and runs for freedom. She's small enough to squeeze by the lame excuse for a bush that sprouted between the two fences once upon a time and spends oodles of time roaming the block. She always seems to return to her backyard, as did Mac before her. But one of these days, Puppy is going to meet car and its not going to be pretty. I spend much of our outside time trying to coax puppy back into her own yard. I use my child as bait - "Come here puppy! Come see L!" L, you see, loves puppy. He thinks its funny that the dog likes to lick his fingers through the chain link. He also thinks its hysterical to see the puppy run in wild circles everytime Tasha (our dog) barks and howls. Today Puppy came to play with us on our front yard. If I didn't find one dog to be enough of a pain in my ass lately I might just adopt Puppy - she's here enough.
On the other side lived Ray, Ray's wife (no I have no idea what her name is) and their four obnoxious stalker children. When we moved in they were newborn through 5. Now they are 11 through almost 6. Ray and his wife were the most normal neighbors I had ever had at first. They borrowed cups of milk. They chatted over the front lawn fence with us. Their stalker kids turned their bikes around on our driveway but we didn't care. Better to be nice to young hoodlums so they won't egg your house later. :)
Then one day I heard screeching followed by a slammed door and mad Ray storming from the house. A week or so late there was more screeching followed by a police car stopping in front of our house. Talk about heart in throat. I couldn't imagine they'd send police out because we had ripped the tags off the mattress or something. And they hadn't. No the police went next door to the 'normal' house and spoke to both Ray and wife o' Ray. Several more weeks went by and Ray was no longer seen around these parts. Days after his disappearance "New Ray" showed up. A younger, buffer version of the guy we had once thought normal.
Since then "New Ray" has left and "New Ray 2" (called New Ray for short, although recently I've learned his name is Steve) moved in. Yes, moved in. Ray shows up sometimes to pick up the four stalkers for the weekend. Some weekends he, the Ex-Mrs. Ray and New Ray stand around by Ray's beat up "amazed it really runs" car and shoot the breeze. Laughing at little jokes and seeming like old friends. Other times the police make a visit and speak to each - she in house, he in car - separately. I've heard all about how Ray can't give her another penny because after she bleeds him dry for this house and all that crap he's left with maybe a $100 a month to live on. No, Ray didn't tell me this himself, he sort of shouted it for the whole block to hear - or maybe it was just her. Not sure.
Now, Ex-Mrs. Ray doesn't reserve her screeching for Ray. No. Ex-Mrs Ray shares it with her children and therefore with all of us. There are days she screams at them to stay outside "I SAID STAY OUTSIDE DAMN IT! DO NOT COME IN UNTIL I SAY!" There are other days she yells at them stuff like "SHUT UP ALREADY! JUST SHUT UP! I SAID STOP! DAMN IT! STOP!" Yes, you read that right - there are days they must stay outside. I recall one cool day when the youngest was maybe 3 she made her stay outside - sans jacket - for hours. Not out back, no out front...Sitting on the front stoop. Is it a wonder they are little stalkers? Even prior to L's arrival, the littlest stalker - we'll call her C since she's a minor, would come over and chat everytime I was out front. Now having a little buddy with me makes me all the more attractive apparently. Sadly L seems to adore C. So every time we go outside, and she's there, he calls out her name and waves. Of course, every time we go out front she is ALWAYS there unless she's at school or Ray's. Its like radar or something. She must sense our front door open because she comes running right away. Top speed - ZOOM! She's chased us down the block before if we were walking down the street when she spotted us. Its like bees to honey. Its annoying. I'd like to go in my front yard without C hanging around all the time.
Happily, C says they are moving. They are the aforementioned neighbors with the house for sale but not a for sale sign. I can only hope the next set of new folks fails to follow history. I'd like normal people living near me. People without run away dogs or domestic dispute phone calls. I'd like people that like to walk around in clothes and not cackle and snort louder than the buzz of crickets on a warm summers eve. I want a lot, I know. But, hey, haven't I paid my dues?
4.26.2004
Out from under the covers
Did I not write it here? Not only did I have the joy of a sinus infection and strep throat at the same time, I also had pink eyes. Yes, eyes. Went to the doctor with one very bloodshot, gooey eyeball and woke up the next day with its mate. Several days of antibiotics and eye drops later, I at least feel more human than I did a week ago - even if I still have blood shot pink eyes.
AND, drum roll, I am about 20 hours away from having survived the dreaded business trip induced single-mommyhood. Thankfully I had oodles and oodles of help from my parents last week during the great sick-in. My mom even pitched in a great deal - that was even as she was being a fellow member of the strep+ club. She had all but the pink eye balls. Instead she opted for the "can't keep anything in my stomach" variation. Today though, was a "just us" day. The grandparents are off on a vacation, the uncle is doing his typical long day at the office, and the dad's not home yet. Just me and boy. And it was a good day. A very good, pleasant, fun day.
Gripe for the day - because hey, looking back over recent posts would it be my blog if I wasn't whining?
How the heck are my freak neighbors going to sell their house if they keep taking down the for sale sign?! I never even realized the thing was up on the market until the 5 year-old-pain-in-my-ass (yes that is her offical title) mentioned it Saturday as she tried to get me to buy every toy at her garage sale. That very night a sign appeared on the lawn - complete with an "Open House 1-4!" header. I wanted to stand discreetly in my bay window and judge the potentials. Maybe jumping out to scare the ones that didn't seem like someone I'd want that close to me every day.
Well the next day the sign was gone. . .and yet some lady in a very nice car sat out front making phone calls on her cell and meeting people in other not-as-nice-but-still-running cars throughout the afternoon. I just don't get the "sell without a sign out front" thing.
Please, don't let them be tricking me into feeling safe that they'll be gone before those freak children hit puberty!
Did I not write it here? Not only did I have the joy of a sinus infection and strep throat at the same time, I also had pink eyes. Yes, eyes. Went to the doctor with one very bloodshot, gooey eyeball and woke up the next day with its mate. Several days of antibiotics and eye drops later, I at least feel more human than I did a week ago - even if I still have blood shot pink eyes.
AND, drum roll, I am about 20 hours away from having survived the dreaded business trip induced single-mommyhood. Thankfully I had oodles and oodles of help from my parents last week during the great sick-in. My mom even pitched in a great deal - that was even as she was being a fellow member of the strep+ club. She had all but the pink eye balls. Instead she opted for the "can't keep anything in my stomach" variation. Today though, was a "just us" day. The grandparents are off on a vacation, the uncle is doing his typical long day at the office, and the dad's not home yet. Just me and boy. And it was a good day. A very good, pleasant, fun day.
Gripe for the day - because hey, looking back over recent posts would it be my blog if I wasn't whining?
How the heck are my freak neighbors going to sell their house if they keep taking down the for sale sign?! I never even realized the thing was up on the market until the 5 year-old-pain-in-my-ass (yes that is her offical title) mentioned it Saturday as she tried to get me to buy every toy at her garage sale. That very night a sign appeared on the lawn - complete with an "Open House 1-4!" header. I wanted to stand discreetly in my bay window and judge the potentials. Maybe jumping out to scare the ones that didn't seem like someone I'd want that close to me every day.
Well the next day the sign was gone. . .and yet some lady in a very nice car sat out front making phone calls on her cell and meeting people in other not-as-nice-but-still-running cars throughout the afternoon. I just don't get the "sell without a sign out front" thing.
Please, don't let them be tricking me into feeling safe that they'll be gone before those freak children hit puberty!
4.22.2004
My NOT so boring 19 week OB check up
Well as many of you know I've been sick since Tuesday - to me it felt fluey and I had a fever. But it wasn't all that high so I didn't worry too much knowing I had a regular old OB appt today. This am I still register a fever on the ear therometer- which I'm now thinking is not a wise idea to use on yourself. ;) D'uh moment. Anyway... off I go to the doctor. He tells me I sound like I have a head thing. Yes I do sir, and I feel like crap, my ears hurt...and I think I had a fever.
Dr - Do you have one now?
Me - Ummm, not sure I did this morning I think, assuming the therometer was accurate.
Dr - Oh. Umm, well look hopefully it never happens again, but next time call us and we'll send you to the ER instead of having you in here to possibly get others sick.
Me - thinking not saying - gee thanks so for your concern. Should I don my face mask now or do you want to make sure the potential fever hasn't caused any concerns.
Dr - let's check for heartbeat then we'll send you next door for a checkup and ultrasound.
The hosptial, btw, is LITERALLY right next door. As in walk across a few parking spots and into the ER.
So he looks for the heartbeat - finds it right away and its very strong and beating very well. Off I go to the hosptial - him not yet deciding if I have to come back in 2 weeks or 4. Now mind you I love my OB practice, but of the three docs, this one is my least favorite. I tend to think he has a fast panic button. . .and that was before today.
So here I am in the ER. They do my vitals -no fever. Nope, its 98. . . and my BP is perfect (as it was moments ago) but my pulse is a little high although coming down. Well sure, hello, pregnant women to ER? I could feel my heartbeating through my chest.
Back I go to Triage. The nurse peppers me with questions. How long (since Tuesday pm), how high (101 was highest but down to 99 with tyelnol), how do you feel? (like shit) ANy cramps? (no) Any discharge? (not unless you mean my stuffy nose) Any bleeding? (nope) Any vomiting? (Me, not unless you count morning sickness which had showed signs of letting up last week. . .oh yeah and tuesday night's dinner. And frankly it may be pure mind over matter because frankly my throat hurts like Girl Scouts are holding a bonfire in it and puking would be akin to torture of the cruelest kind.) Nurse, says - I think its the flu. now what did the doctor say? So I tell her again how we talked very little about before he kicked me out and sent me here when he heard "I'm sick, had low fever." She laughed. Then she called back to Quick Care to see if they'd look me over instead of making me sit for hours on end in the other side of the 'regular' ED. The very nice (and cute) doc in the Quick Care says "Sure!" So I'm off again.
Quick Care is wonderful - they pull you back fast, they see you fast, and the doctor is cute. ;) Oh, and he's really nice...and thorough. So we do the questions again - you know, when, how, discharge, bleeding, cramping... I tell him about Logan's virus and add - you know Dr. P did find the heartbeat fairly quickly and said it was nice and strong. Is it really a concern at this point? ER doctor - let's check you out first. Peeks in ears - ears clear. Peeks in throat - throat very red and swollen. Peeks up nose - nasal membranes swollen.
He says to me - Did you ever have a sinus infection before?
I laugh - Uh, yah. Annually it seemed like there for a while. It seems since High School everytime I get some sort of head or upper respirotory cold I get a sinus infection.
He says - Yeah, well I'm fairly certain you're working on one now. Does this hurt?
Me - Ummm, yeah!!!!
Him - Yup. Ok, so you're allergic to like what.
I tell him the two antibiotics I can't take - I fail to mention that this is yet another fun detail from my chronic respirotory infections in High School. Several rounds on Penicillin and Eythoromicyn (sp?!) and I get what looks like prickly heat. Can I blame the crappy, bacterica festering closed air circulation in that 1970s shoe box?! Of course the Pen. is also a big HUGE issue for my mother and my brother...both had serious reactions.
He laughs.
Me - I know, I'm fun. Doctor's love me when I'm sick.
He says -What can you take?
Me- Oh geez, well I forget what I had the last time but I know I used to get Ceclor a lot and never had problems.
Him - Good you can take that now too. Ok, nurse will be in for a strep culture.
Me - what about my ulstrasound?
Him - Huh? Why?
Me - Dr P said I was coming here for an eval and an ultrasound.
Him - why did he say that?
Me - Because of the fever stuff.
Him - Did he know you did'nt have a fever now?
Me -Well no because this morning I thought I did.
He says - Well now you don't. How high did it get?
I tell him again. He stares at me for a minute.
He says - No vomiting? No diaherra, no discharge, no bleeding, no cramping? He found the heartbeat and it was strong.
Me - says what is basically a lot of nos and yes he did and he said it was.
ER doc says - Sometimes they get a little panicy there. Did he ask you about the cramping and stuff?
Me - no he rushed me over here.
Doc - other patients?
Me - Yeah.
Doc - Well look. To be quite honest, this fever wasn't high enough to cause problems and what you have is not related to the pregnancy. You have no signs of the pregnancy in distress and the baby seems to be doing well based on hearbeat. Do you feel movents?
Me - some...I think. Its still kind of early but sometimes either I'm hallicinating or I feel her moving.
Doc - Ok, well there's a 3 hour wait for the u/s in the ER which is where you'd have to go AND since its in the ER and not scheduled they won't have you drink water even with a wait because they can't be sure how long it'll be so they're going to insert a catether to pump fluids into your bladder and its not going to be fun. I really don't want to put you through something like that if you don't have to do it. Know what I mean?
Me - If you are comfortable with the idea that its not needed after all this then I'm ok skipping the catether.
Doc - I'll call Dr. P for you and explain what we discussed. He'll be ok. (And he winks...did I say he was cute?)
He leaves and the nurse that I now hate for no other reason other than she brings in with her the giant evil cotton swab for my tonsils enters. Swab, Swab, gag. I tell her its VERY mean to do that to a woman who is JUST finding her way out of morning sickness from hell. She laughs and says - I hate it too. When I have to have it done, I make them let me do it to myself. (Ok, so she's just weird)
Doc comes in less than 5 minutes later - I'm still sitting there swinging my feet off the bed and wearing the lovely hosptial gown with my yoga pants grumbling to myself how at least in the OB's office I had magazines and in the lobby here I had CNN to watch. Now I get to count drips of water from a leaky faucet.
He says - Ummm, you are getting an antibiotic because you do have a sinus infection AND you have strep throat.
Me - WHAT?! No.
Him - Yes. The strep is positive.
Me - no way. L's wasn't!! Both times?!
Him - Laughing - well ok, but yours is...so you're getting an antibiotic and you're going home and I'll talk to doc P about why you didn't get an ultrasound. Put your shirt back on, leave the gown there and hang in the waiting room a few more minutes while I type this up.
Me - Shit. This sucks.
So I dress and I wait....I get my discharge papers and I tell the nurse how extremely sorry that I am now one of "those" people that go to the ER for something her primary care doctor (no matter how much I hate said PC) should have taken care of and I really would have gone to the aforementioned out of favor PC had my OB not freaked out about me being Typhoid Mary and sent me immediately over here. The discharge nurse laughs and says "Oh, yeah, we get that alot, don't feel bad." But I do.
I call my mom from the car - she's home watching L. Gram also with a fever and sore throat now. I tell her about my adventure and suggest before she heads off on vacation she may want to see her Doctor for one of those delightful throat swabs. She's going tomorrow am.
So I'm now on the search for a regular old fashioned oral temp taker. We used to have one in the house. The ear thingy is still saying I've got a fever...but its hard to believe since I'm so paniced over what I could have screwed up before I know I'm not getting a good angle now. The only other thermometer I can find is one we used under l's arm and eventually...ahhh...other places. I know the new ear thingy is accurate when I use it on L because the first few go arounds with the 'new mommy ear toy' as L calls it - I did a second test rectally on him = it matched up each time almost within a tenth of each other. I am convinced that I did have a fever at least some time during this ordeal because I FELT feverish - the chills, the fact that my skin hurt to have something on me. Sweating even though I was dressed lightly and it was 70 in the house. Now I just wonder how long I had said fever and how high it really didn't get. ;) UGH!!!! WHY MUST THE DEAR HUBBY TRAVEL WHEN I'M SICK AND DELIROUS?!
Well as many of you know I've been sick since Tuesday - to me it felt fluey and I had a fever. But it wasn't all that high so I didn't worry too much knowing I had a regular old OB appt today. This am I still register a fever on the ear therometer- which I'm now thinking is not a wise idea to use on yourself. ;) D'uh moment. Anyway... off I go to the doctor. He tells me I sound like I have a head thing. Yes I do sir, and I feel like crap, my ears hurt...and I think I had a fever.
Dr - Do you have one now?
Me - Ummm, not sure I did this morning I think, assuming the therometer was accurate.
Dr - Oh. Umm, well look hopefully it never happens again, but next time call us and we'll send you to the ER instead of having you in here to possibly get others sick.
Me - thinking not saying - gee thanks so for your concern. Should I don my face mask now or do you want to make sure the potential fever hasn't caused any concerns.
Dr - let's check for heartbeat then we'll send you next door for a checkup and ultrasound.
The hosptial, btw, is LITERALLY right next door. As in walk across a few parking spots and into the ER.
So he looks for the heartbeat - finds it right away and its very strong and beating very well. Off I go to the hosptial - him not yet deciding if I have to come back in 2 weeks or 4. Now mind you I love my OB practice, but of the three docs, this one is my least favorite. I tend to think he has a fast panic button. . .and that was before today.
So here I am in the ER. They do my vitals -no fever. Nope, its 98. . . and my BP is perfect (as it was moments ago) but my pulse is a little high although coming down. Well sure, hello, pregnant women to ER? I could feel my heartbeating through my chest.
Back I go to Triage. The nurse peppers me with questions. How long (since Tuesday pm), how high (101 was highest but down to 99 with tyelnol), how do you feel? (like shit) ANy cramps? (no) Any discharge? (not unless you mean my stuffy nose) Any bleeding? (nope) Any vomiting? (Me, not unless you count morning sickness which had showed signs of letting up last week. . .oh yeah and tuesday night's dinner. And frankly it may be pure mind over matter because frankly my throat hurts like Girl Scouts are holding a bonfire in it and puking would be akin to torture of the cruelest kind.) Nurse, says - I think its the flu. now what did the doctor say? So I tell her again how we talked very little about before he kicked me out and sent me here when he heard "I'm sick, had low fever." She laughed. Then she called back to Quick Care to see if they'd look me over instead of making me sit for hours on end in the other side of the 'regular' ED. The very nice (and cute) doc in the Quick Care says "Sure!" So I'm off again.
Quick Care is wonderful - they pull you back fast, they see you fast, and the doctor is cute. ;) Oh, and he's really nice...and thorough. So we do the questions again - you know, when, how, discharge, bleeding, cramping... I tell him about Logan's virus and add - you know Dr. P did find the heartbeat fairly quickly and said it was nice and strong. Is it really a concern at this point? ER doctor - let's check you out first. Peeks in ears - ears clear. Peeks in throat - throat very red and swollen. Peeks up nose - nasal membranes swollen.
He says to me - Did you ever have a sinus infection before?
I laugh - Uh, yah. Annually it seemed like there for a while. It seems since High School everytime I get some sort of head or upper respirotory cold I get a sinus infection.
He says - Yeah, well I'm fairly certain you're working on one now.
Me - Ummm, yeah!!!!
Him - Yup. Ok, so you're allergic to like what.
I tell him the two antibiotics I can't take - I fail to mention that this is yet another fun detail from my chronic respirotory infections in High School. Several rounds on Penicillin and Eythoromicyn (sp?!) and I get what looks like prickly heat. Can I blame the crappy, bacterica festering closed air circulation in that 1970s shoe box?! Of course the Pen. is also a big HUGE issue for my mother and my brother...both had serious reactions.
He laughs.
Me - I know, I'm fun. Doctor's love me when I'm sick.
He says -What can you take?
Me- Oh geez, well I forget what I had the last time but I know I used to get Ceclor a lot and never had problems.
Him - Good you can take that now too. Ok, nurse will be in for a strep culture.
Me - what about my ulstrasound?
Him - Huh? Why?
Me - Dr P said I was coming here for an eval and an ultrasound.
Him - why did he say that?
Me - Because of the fever stuff.
Him - Did he know you did'nt have a fever now?
Me -Well no because this morning I thought I did.
He says - Well now you don't. How high did it get?
I tell him again. He stares at me for a minute.
He says - No vomiting? No diaherra, no discharge, no bleeding, no cramping? He found the heartbeat and it was strong.
Me - says what is basically a lot of nos and yes he did and he said it was.
ER doc says - Sometimes they get a little panicy there. Did he ask you about the cramping and stuff?
Me - no he rushed me over here.
Doc - other patients?
Me - Yeah.
Doc - Well look. To be quite honest, this fever wasn't high enough to cause problems and what you have is not related to the pregnancy. You have no signs of the pregnancy in distress and the baby seems to be doing well based on hearbeat. Do you feel movents?
Me - some...I think. Its still kind of early but sometimes either I'm hallicinating or I feel her moving.
Doc - Ok, well there's a 3 hour wait for the u/s in the ER which is where you'd have to go AND since its in the ER and not scheduled they won't have you drink water even with a wait because they can't be sure how long it'll be so they're going to insert a catether to pump fluids into your bladder and its not going to be fun. I really don't want to put you through something like that if you don't have to do it. Know what I mean?
Me - If you are comfortable with the idea that its not needed after all this then I'm ok skipping the catether.
Doc - I'll call Dr. P for you and explain what we discussed. He'll be ok. (And he winks...did I say he was cute?)
He leaves and the nurse that I now hate for no other reason other than she brings in with her the giant evil cotton swab for my tonsils enters. Swab, Swab, gag. I tell her its VERY mean to do that to a woman who is JUST finding her way out of morning sickness from hell. She laughs and says - I hate it too. When I have to have it done, I make them let me do it to myself. (Ok, so she's just weird)
Doc comes in less than 5 minutes later - I'm still sitting there swinging my feet off the bed and wearing the lovely hosptial gown with my yoga pants grumbling to myself how at least in the OB's office I had magazines and in the lobby here I had CNN to watch. Now I get to count drips of water from a leaky faucet.
He says - Ummm, you are getting an antibiotic because you do have a sinus infection AND you have strep throat.
Me - WHAT?! No.
Him - Yes. The strep is positive.
Me - no way. L's wasn't!! Both times?!
Him - Laughing - well ok, but yours is...so you're getting an antibiotic and you're going home and I'll talk to doc P about why you didn't get an ultrasound. Put your shirt back on, leave the gown there and hang in the waiting room a few more minutes while I type this up.
Me - Shit. This sucks.
So I dress and I wait....I get my discharge papers and I tell the nurse how extremely sorry that I am now one of "those" people that go to the ER for something her primary care doctor (no matter how much I hate said PC) should have taken care of and I really would have gone to the aforementioned out of favor PC had my OB not freaked out about me being Typhoid Mary and sent me immediately over here. The discharge nurse laughs and says "Oh, yeah, we get that alot, don't feel bad." But I do.
I call my mom from the car - she's home watching L. Gram also with a fever and sore throat now. I tell her about my adventure and suggest before she heads off on vacation she may want to see her Doctor for one of those delightful throat swabs. She's going tomorrow am.
So I'm now on the search for a regular old fashioned oral temp taker. We used to have one in the house. The ear thingy is still saying I've got a fever...but its hard to believe since I'm so paniced over what I could have screwed up before I know I'm not getting a good angle now. The only other thermometer I can find is one we used under l's arm and eventually...ahhh...other places. I know the new ear thingy is accurate when I use it on L because the first few go arounds with the 'new mommy ear toy' as L calls it - I did a second test rectally on him = it matched up each time almost within a tenth of each other. I am convinced that I did have a fever at least some time during this ordeal because I FELT feverish - the chills, the fact that my skin hurt to have something on me. Sweating even though I was dressed lightly and it was 70 in the house. Now I just wonder how long I had said fever and how high it really didn't get. ;) UGH!!!! WHY MUST THE DEAR HUBBY TRAVEL WHEN I'M SICK AND DELIROUS?!
4.17.2004
Gosh, its been a while since I posted anything. I have a slew of excuses but none really worth taking my precious "Toddler is napping finally time!" to write. I am spending this week as single Mom and the first 2 hours did not go well. The previously dreadfully ill child woke up extremely cranked up. His fever is offically gone after 5.5 days and his nose does not run nearly as much. He however, even after nearly 12 hours of sleep, decided that massive amounts of crying and demanding were in order. He wants me to hold him - standing up - for hours on end. Preferably as we walk in circles through the house although in front of the TV is fine. We had "discussions" about how Mommy can not possibily spend the day holding all 25 pounds of boy and that boy must either a) let me sit and hold him b) play on the floor/computer with me or c) figure out how to move around on his own. After 2 hours of this debate - which included two time-outs in the crib that were either more about calming mommy down or calming the toddler down depending on who's telling the story - I just lost it. I broke down in a horomonal mess of tears. Frustrated by my child's inability to understand that holding him up for too long means a backache and shaulder pain. I sat in a chair with him on my lap and balled as badly as he did.
You know what? Nervous breakdowns work. My formerly teary eyed toddler looked at me - a hysterical mess - and laughed. "Silly mommy." he said and he laughed.
"Its not funny!" I said.
"Is funny" he told me.
Whatever. I decided not to continue fighting with a 21 month old about what is and is not humor. Of course moments later the "Mommy up, carry you" (which is his way of saying stand up now and carry me somewhere) demands began again in earnest. I thought for a moment about locating the number for the airline currently transporting my hubby to London and demanding that they turn around and deliver him to my door immediately. Instead I stood up - for a moment tricking crank monster into thinking he got his way. I plopped him on the seat by himself and grabbed his shoes from the basket next to the chair. He screamed, grabbed the one shoe I had rested on the chair next to him and threw it. The dog barked to go out - I, frustrated at the three of us, yelled the dog to go away and just wait. I picked up the shoe and placed it out of reach. Put the other on the wriggling foot.
"Outsigh?" sniffed the monster child
"yes, we can go outside now if you just calm down."
"Calm down now!" he sniffed. "No cry. No carry. Re-axe."
"Yes, relax. Just relax." I sighed and silently prayed that he would.
"Outsigh play. Dig?" he asked.
"Yes, yes we can dig." Then crossing my fingers I said "Just hold on a sec. wait here and watch Stanley while I get my shoes on and go potty."
"Mommy potty then outsigh dig." he said in return.
I peed as fast as I could. Tied my own shoes up silently offering up any bribe that I could in the form of prayer that this day would get better. Outside we finally went...and my moodswinging child became the happy, playful, even willing to use his own two feet toddler that I thought I had actually been living with once upon a time. He ran over to this "larger than him" styrofoam plane his father bought him the other day.
"Daddy fly plane! Vroom! Whoosh! Bye bye daddy! Over sea." he said hurriedly. We've been telling him that Daddy is going away for a little while on a plane. We have shown him on his globe where we live and where daddy is going. Apparently at least the words if not the concept sunk in. "Daddy fly plane now." he said again.
And I thought to myself "yes, damn him."
You know what? Nervous breakdowns work. My formerly teary eyed toddler looked at me - a hysterical mess - and laughed. "Silly mommy." he said and he laughed.
"Its not funny!" I said.
"Is funny" he told me.
Whatever. I decided not to continue fighting with a 21 month old about what is and is not humor. Of course moments later the "Mommy up, carry you" (which is his way of saying stand up now and carry me somewhere) demands began again in earnest. I thought for a moment about locating the number for the airline currently transporting my hubby to London and demanding that they turn around and deliver him to my door immediately. Instead I stood up - for a moment tricking crank monster into thinking he got his way. I plopped him on the seat by himself and grabbed his shoes from the basket next to the chair. He screamed, grabbed the one shoe I had rested on the chair next to him and threw it. The dog barked to go out - I, frustrated at the three of us, yelled the dog to go away and just wait. I picked up the shoe and placed it out of reach. Put the other on the wriggling foot.
"Outsigh?" sniffed the monster child
"yes, we can go outside now if you just calm down."
"Calm down now!" he sniffed. "No cry. No carry. Re-axe."
"Yes, relax. Just relax." I sighed and silently prayed that he would.
"Outsigh play. Dig?" he asked.
"Yes, yes we can dig." Then crossing my fingers I said "Just hold on a sec. wait here and watch Stanley while I get my shoes on and go potty."
"Mommy potty then outsigh dig." he said in return.
I peed as fast as I could. Tied my own shoes up silently offering up any bribe that I could in the form of prayer that this day would get better. Outside we finally went...and my moodswinging child became the happy, playful, even willing to use his own two feet toddler that I thought I had actually been living with once upon a time. He ran over to this "larger than him" styrofoam plane his father bought him the other day.
"Daddy fly plane! Vroom! Whoosh! Bye bye daddy! Over sea." he said hurriedly. We've been telling him that Daddy is going away for a little while on a plane. We have shown him on his globe where we live and where daddy is going. Apparently at least the words if not the concept sunk in. "Daddy fly plane now." he said again.
And I thought to myself "yes, damn him."
4.06.2004
Cranky
I'm now at 17 weeks and I'm still puking my guts out. It's pissing me off. If I wasn't sure that we were done at two kids, I'd be sure now. Puking sucks. My witty (I really do like him quite honestly) OB smiled at my last visit and said "well most women are done with morning sickness at this point, but it's still normal to still be sick." This was in response to my question "WHEN WILL THIS END!?" I wanted to tell him to go leap off a bridge.
So this puking has me cranky lately. And irrational I'm afraid. There are people that have never have kids who will say to me "Are you still sick? You must be better now. I bet that just sucks." I want to just say simply "F you." Or perhaps to elaborate it even further "Please don't tell you think this lame attempt at pity is making me feel better." The weird thing is - it doesn't bother me when people WITH kids comment on the suckiness of prolonged morning sickness. Perhaps because I feel like they can really identify and its more "I hear ya sista." For some reason the inexperienced just piss me off when they bring it up - much like men or women who have not yet given birth commenting on the pain of labor and delivery really gets my goat lately. Don't get me started. Like I said, I'm cranky.
I'm now at 17 weeks and I'm still puking my guts out. It's pissing me off. If I wasn't sure that we were done at two kids, I'd be sure now. Puking sucks. My witty (I really do like him quite honestly) OB smiled at my last visit and said "well most women are done with morning sickness at this point, but it's still normal to still be sick." This was in response to my question "WHEN WILL THIS END!?" I wanted to tell him to go leap off a bridge.
So this puking has me cranky lately. And irrational I'm afraid. There are people that have never have kids who will say to me "Are you still sick? You must be better now. I bet that just sucks." I want to just say simply "F you." Or perhaps to elaborate it even further "Please don't tell you think this lame attempt at pity is making me feel better." The weird thing is - it doesn't bother me when people WITH kids comment on the suckiness of prolonged morning sickness. Perhaps because I feel like they can really identify and its more "I hear ya sista." For some reason the inexperienced just piss me off when they bring it up - much like men or women who have not yet given birth commenting on the pain of labor and delivery really gets my goat lately. Don't get me started. Like I said, I'm cranky.
4.02.2004
Pink or Blue
In exactly two weeks from yesterday we'll find out, assuming Turnip cooperates, if our 2nd child is a boy or a girl. Yes, I am one that "spoils" the surprise - although I take issue with that belief. As one that was convinced her first was a girl - trust me, I was shocked and all sorts of surprised when the doctor looked at the little ultrasound monitor and said "Its male." Had we waited I'd have merely been exhausted AND stunned. Instead I settled for merely stunned.
The closer we get to "peek-day" the more I realize that finding out is not just about satisfying my 'spoil-sport' detestation of surprises. No. Its about making this all real. You'd think with 16 weeks of puking (yes, I'm still ill) and the fact that I'm now full-time in maternity clothes despite having lost 5 pounds, the reality of pregnancy would have sunk in. But it hasn't. Not really. I mean yeah, I *know* I'm pregnant, but its still surreal. Talking about "when the baby comes" still seems very abstract. Almost hypothetical. I was thinking may its just this time - maybe its being so busy with a toddler that keeps it from really truly sinking in. But its not.
I realized this morning, as I pulled up my belly paneled carpenter jeans that are still big enough to slide down when Toddler is seated firmly on my hip, that I felt this way last time too. The idea of having "baby" didn't become real until he was really a he and I could call him by name. I was no longer "when the baby arrives we need to do this." it was "when L comes we will do. . ." He was real and we were just waiting for him. That's what I need this time. I need to prepare my son for when M or S shows up. Maybe I'm just nuts, but it seems easier to make it reality for him if Turnip is an actual name, a real person that we're just waiting to welcome. Someone we can label and identitfy. I can't wait to have those ultrasound pictures - the ones that show a hint of a face. A formed a head. Real hands. Something I can hold and say "That is my little [fill in gender], my [fill in name]" I can start to develop our personal relationship based on the actual person - not the idea of some person. If that makes any sense.
I know this isn't true for everyone. There are people that waited to find out and had no problems bonding - but for me, I *need* to know. Its not just want. Its need. Sure, if Turnip chooses to cross those legs tight then we're out of luck and I'll survive - but we're hoping it doesn't come to that.
In exactly two weeks from yesterday we'll find out, assuming Turnip cooperates, if our 2nd child is a boy or a girl. Yes, I am one that "spoils" the surprise - although I take issue with that belief. As one that was convinced her first was a girl - trust me, I was shocked and all sorts of surprised when the doctor looked at the little ultrasound monitor and said "Its male." Had we waited I'd have merely been exhausted AND stunned. Instead I settled for merely stunned.
The closer we get to "peek-day" the more I realize that finding out is not just about satisfying my 'spoil-sport' detestation of surprises. No. Its about making this all real. You'd think with 16 weeks of puking (yes, I'm still ill) and the fact that I'm now full-time in maternity clothes despite having lost 5 pounds, the reality of pregnancy would have sunk in. But it hasn't. Not really. I mean yeah, I *know* I'm pregnant, but its still surreal. Talking about "when the baby comes" still seems very abstract. Almost hypothetical. I was thinking may its just this time - maybe its being so busy with a toddler that keeps it from really truly sinking in. But its not.
I realized this morning, as I pulled up my belly paneled carpenter jeans that are still big enough to slide down when Toddler is seated firmly on my hip, that I felt this way last time too. The idea of having "baby" didn't become real until he was really a he and I could call him by name. I was no longer "when the baby arrives we need to do this." it was "when L comes we will do. . ." He was real and we were just waiting for him. That's what I need this time. I need to prepare my son for when M or S shows up. Maybe I'm just nuts, but it seems easier to make it reality for him if Turnip is an actual name, a real person that we're just waiting to welcome. Someone we can label and identitfy. I can't wait to have those ultrasound pictures - the ones that show a hint of a face. A formed a head. Real hands. Something I can hold and say "That is my little [fill in gender], my [fill in name]" I can start to develop our personal relationship based on the actual person - not the idea of some person. If that makes any sense.
I know this isn't true for everyone. There are people that waited to find out and had no problems bonding - but for me, I *need* to know. Its not just want. Its need. Sure, if Turnip chooses to cross those legs tight then we're out of luck and I'll survive - but we're hoping it doesn't come to that.
3.24.2004
Whine fest
Ok, so a few different people lately have told me that I am a "glass half-full" kinda perky gal. Well today I am dumping the whole freakin' half full glass on the floor so I can cry over spilled milk. I'm sick and tired of being sick. Its depressing. I've found that the only cereal in the house that I can bring myeslf to eat right now - which is also the only thing I can imagine having for breakfast - is destined to remain in my stomach each day just long enough for me to place my bowl in the sink and run to the bathroom.
IF I don't eat I throw up saliva or water or stomach acid or I just hang over a toilet gagging and hacking. So I eat - which apparently is just so I have something to actually void. I have to eat four meals a day - one of which I call my "practice breakfast." Its the one that doesn't last 5 minutes and leaves me famished a few hours later.
Smells are making me sick now. I mean I've noticed stronger smells before and the smell of seafood would make me queasy from nearly the first positive line on the preggo test - but this is different. Yeserday I nearly threw up at my desk when someone in the office microwaved God knows what for lunch. It's not that it smelled bad - it just smelled strong and it made me incredibly ill. I think it was mircorwavable pizza or something. I sat at my desk planning the fastest route to the "guest" bathroom in our lobby - the only place without multiple stalls affording some privacy for my lunch removal.
I find that I want to search out the idiots that can't microwave popcorn without burning it and strangle them. Luckily the overwhelming urge to regurgitate keeps me from commenting such an attack. ITs horrible. Its making me cranky. Its making me weary. Its also hurting my throat. I find my throat is raw - and I'm not sure if its allergies (nice weather = high pollen) or if its the puking. I hate having to wonder.
I go to the doctor tomorrow and if my home scale is accurate he'll find that I've not gained an ounce over the last 15 weeks of this pregnancy. Not a single one. I'm not worried about this part because I know that I have weight to spare. I know that this isn't a bad thing at this point and infact after the "I gained too much and landed myself with pre-eclamsyia that said weight may have contributed to) this stalemate on the scale can be a good thing.
I'm wondering if I can talk my OB into more of those little Reglan pills - although truth be told I sometimes threw up those and the water i swallowed them with.
UGH!
Ok, so a few different people lately have told me that I am a "glass half-full" kinda perky gal. Well today I am dumping the whole freakin' half full glass on the floor so I can cry over spilled milk. I'm sick and tired of being sick. Its depressing. I've found that the only cereal in the house that I can bring myeslf to eat right now - which is also the only thing I can imagine having for breakfast - is destined to remain in my stomach each day just long enough for me to place my bowl in the sink and run to the bathroom.
IF I don't eat I throw up saliva or water or stomach acid or I just hang over a toilet gagging and hacking. So I eat - which apparently is just so I have something to actually void. I have to eat four meals a day - one of which I call my "practice breakfast." Its the one that doesn't last 5 minutes and leaves me famished a few hours later.
Smells are making me sick now. I mean I've noticed stronger smells before and the smell of seafood would make me queasy from nearly the first positive line on the preggo test - but this is different. Yeserday I nearly threw up at my desk when someone in the office microwaved God knows what for lunch. It's not that it smelled bad - it just smelled strong and it made me incredibly ill. I think it was mircorwavable pizza or something. I sat at my desk planning the fastest route to the "guest" bathroom in our lobby - the only place without multiple stalls affording some privacy for my lunch removal.
I find that I want to search out the idiots that can't microwave popcorn without burning it and strangle them. Luckily the overwhelming urge to regurgitate keeps me from commenting such an attack. ITs horrible. Its making me cranky. Its making me weary. Its also hurting my throat. I find my throat is raw - and I'm not sure if its allergies (nice weather = high pollen) or if its the puking. I hate having to wonder.
I go to the doctor tomorrow and if my home scale is accurate he'll find that I've not gained an ounce over the last 15 weeks of this pregnancy. Not a single one. I'm not worried about this part because I know that I have weight to spare. I know that this isn't a bad thing at this point and infact after the "I gained too much and landed myself with pre-eclamsyia that said weight may have contributed to) this stalemate on the scale can be a good thing.
I'm wondering if I can talk my OB into more of those little Reglan pills - although truth be told I sometimes threw up those and the water i swallowed them with.
UGH!
3.12.2004
Commerical Ruin
My child has figured out how to turn on the small clock radio in his room by pressing the "Sleep" button. Its most likely something he could have done before if we ever actually showed him this clock thing played music. That, however, is neither here nor there. He now turns on music whenever he feels like hanging in his own room. We keep the radio set to 100.7 - the Oldies station located down-town. Its also the only local station truly "local" as in it resides in our town and not some where else along the coast. Again - neither here nor there.
Today my boy flips on his radio and what is playing? The California Raisin song. Of course that's not really the song's name, but everytime I here it all I can picture are shrivled up clay grapes dancing a modified conga. This is what commericals do to me.
For what its worth, my son has decided that Simon and Garfunkle - based only on the sound of them singing "I have a rock" or whatever that song is - must be the Wiggles. I will never listen to "Mrs Robinson" the same way again.
My child has figured out how to turn on the small clock radio in his room by pressing the "Sleep" button. Its most likely something he could have done before if we ever actually showed him this clock thing played music. That, however, is neither here nor there. He now turns on music whenever he feels like hanging in his own room. We keep the radio set to 100.7 - the Oldies station located down-town. Its also the only local station truly "local" as in it resides in our town and not some where else along the coast. Again - neither here nor there.
Today my boy flips on his radio and what is playing? The California Raisin song. Of course that's not really the song's name, but everytime I here it all I can picture are shrivled up clay grapes dancing a modified conga. This is what commericals do to me.
For what its worth, my son has decided that Simon and Garfunkle - based only on the sound of them singing "I have a rock" or whatever that song is - must be the Wiggles. I will never listen to "Mrs Robinson" the same way again.
Simple things
Yesterday was a bad pregnant day - lots of queasy feelings and being sick. Lots of tired, I just want to find a hole and hibernate type moments. Today is a good day. Today is a day without Reglan (aka puke pills) and without puking. This is good. This is HUGE progress.
Today I am finding joy in little things:
The fact that my son is still asleep even though his 2 hours of normal nap time has expired. This child decided he only needed a half hour yesterday
The fact that a search to satisfy a sweet craving led me to a recipe for hot chocolate on the back of the powered cocoa box and its yummy!
The fact that its sunny, albeit cold and windy.
The fact that its Friday and because of my parents long weekend trip in honor of my mom's birthday I am not working until Thursday.
The fact that I actually am not falling asleep on my feet.
When I'm not rejoicing I'm being reflective. I'm wondering how it is I've landed in a friendship that I really could do without. I'm sure you say as you read this: walk away you fool why maintain it if its that bad? Well the truth is this person is annoying but not "bad" and she has a son my son's age -- meaning playdate. In truth she's not someone I'd be friends with if we didn't have same-aged children. We are completely different people and that is exactly what irks me most times about her. Not that she's not "me" - none of my friends are truly "me." Its just that she's so very different from me. The things we enjoy, the way we approach parenting - all those things differ between us.
Its so hard to put into words. Its just that I find myself rolling my eyes often when I speak with her or sharing humorous retellings of her latest statements to others. Its catty I know, but its true. What gets me most about her is that I don't think she really enjoys parenting as much as she enjoys having an extension of herself that she can brag about. The child is perfect (he is not.) The child is destined to be a baby model (he was not.) The child is a genius (who can tell how smart a 1 year old us...but I think its fairly safe to assume based on parentage that the chances that he's a genius are not in his favor.) The child is incredibly outgoing and friendly and will NEVER be afraid of strangers (the child is currently in the midst fo wicked separation anxiety which seems to really aggravate his mother.) In truth, the child is your typical, cute 17 month old who is fun-loving and can be outgoing. But he is your typical 17 month old and so he's also moody and needy and that part seems to bug her more than it bugs most parents. I mean hey, there are days I want to run and hide on my child - when the whining makes me want to scream "GROW UP!" But most of the time I remember that this is normal and I really am not ready for him to grow up. With this friend of mine, I sometimes think that what bugs her most about the 'real' parts of a toddler are that they are not bragworthy. She can't impress her friends with the fact that this child is screeching if she leaves a room or that his favorite thing to do is throw food. Those aren't perfect stories. And that's sad.
What's prompted this latest reflection on her is the simple statements she made about having a second child - she wants a second someday and the reason she attached to it was simply that she didn't want her son to be alone. I find that so sad. Sure, part of the pursuit of this second child was because we did want to try to avoid the whole "only" child thing. We knew that our first would benefit from a sibling - but that's not why we choose to have one. It just felt right. We had a second child in our life story - we knew it. We had the love and the resources to support a 2nd. We felt our family was missing someone very important. This little turnip is loved for him/herself. This little being is wanted simply for being the individual that (s)he already is. The fact that our son will reap rewards from having him/her in his life is merely a side benefit. It saddens me to think of this friend's 2nd child - at least the way she words her desire for one now.
By the way - for those still counting my little one's nap is now at 2 hours and 45 minutes. I'm amazed. I've also not been productive unless you count gossiping and blogging. ;)
Yesterday was a bad pregnant day - lots of queasy feelings and being sick. Lots of tired, I just want to find a hole and hibernate type moments. Today is a good day. Today is a day without Reglan (aka puke pills) and without puking. This is good. This is HUGE progress.
Today I am finding joy in little things:
The fact that my son is still asleep even though his 2 hours of normal nap time has expired. This child decided he only needed a half hour yesterday
The fact that a search to satisfy a sweet craving led me to a recipe for hot chocolate on the back of the powered cocoa box and its yummy!
The fact that its sunny, albeit cold and windy.
The fact that its Friday and because of my parents long weekend trip in honor of my mom's birthday I am not working until Thursday.
The fact that I actually am not falling asleep on my feet.
When I'm not rejoicing I'm being reflective. I'm wondering how it is I've landed in a friendship that I really could do without. I'm sure you say as you read this: walk away you fool why maintain it if its that bad? Well the truth is this person is annoying but not "bad" and she has a son my son's age -- meaning playdate. In truth she's not someone I'd be friends with if we didn't have same-aged children. We are completely different people and that is exactly what irks me most times about her. Not that she's not "me" - none of my friends are truly "me." Its just that she's so very different from me. The things we enjoy, the way we approach parenting - all those things differ between us.
Its so hard to put into words. Its just that I find myself rolling my eyes often when I speak with her or sharing humorous retellings of her latest statements to others. Its catty I know, but its true. What gets me most about her is that I don't think she really enjoys parenting as much as she enjoys having an extension of herself that she can brag about. The child is perfect (he is not.) The child is destined to be a baby model (he was not.) The child is a genius (who can tell how smart a 1 year old us...but I think its fairly safe to assume based on parentage that the chances that he's a genius are not in his favor.) The child is incredibly outgoing and friendly and will NEVER be afraid of strangers (the child is currently in the midst fo wicked separation anxiety which seems to really aggravate his mother.) In truth, the child is your typical, cute 17 month old who is fun-loving and can be outgoing. But he is your typical 17 month old and so he's also moody and needy and that part seems to bug her more than it bugs most parents. I mean hey, there are days I want to run and hide on my child - when the whining makes me want to scream "GROW UP!" But most of the time I remember that this is normal and I really am not ready for him to grow up. With this friend of mine, I sometimes think that what bugs her most about the 'real' parts of a toddler are that they are not bragworthy. She can't impress her friends with the fact that this child is screeching if she leaves a room or that his favorite thing to do is throw food. Those aren't perfect stories. And that's sad.
What's prompted this latest reflection on her is the simple statements she made about having a second child - she wants a second someday and the reason she attached to it was simply that she didn't want her son to be alone. I find that so sad. Sure, part of the pursuit of this second child was because we did want to try to avoid the whole "only" child thing. We knew that our first would benefit from a sibling - but that's not why we choose to have one. It just felt right. We had a second child in our life story - we knew it. We had the love and the resources to support a 2nd. We felt our family was missing someone very important. This little turnip is loved for him/herself. This little being is wanted simply for being the individual that (s)he already is. The fact that our son will reap rewards from having him/her in his life is merely a side benefit. It saddens me to think of this friend's 2nd child - at least the way she words her desire for one now.
By the way - for those still counting my little one's nap is now at 2 hours and 45 minutes. I'm amazed. I've also not been productive unless you count gossiping and blogging. ;)
3.09.2004
The important things in life.
I want Peeps. There I said it. Which isn't saying much since I've been bitching about wanting Peeps since yesterday afternoon when I saw chocolate covered Peeps in the Boscov's at the mall near the office. Yes, delicate little marshmallow and sugar chicks dipped up to their necks in milk chocolate. This is what I've been craving since 1pm Monday afternoon. Freakin' Peeps.
The entire 13 weeks of this pregnancy I've craved two things:
1. Strawberries, which in light of a "Don't want to eat for five" resolution this time around was a good thing.
2. Chocolate covered Peeps.
Of course, one of my favorite people did tell me that 'regular' old Peeps are only two Weight Watchers points for three little chickees. I wonder what the dipped variety would be?
On to real important things - I'm excited today. Floating really and not just because someone improved Peeps. I'm excited because one of my oldest and dearest friends (or after 30 do we need to start saying "one of my longest friendships") just told me that she's expecting her third child in November. This means that little Turnip will have a built-in buddy. A same aged playmate she/he can be forced into friendship with at an early age. This is even more fun, however, because this friend has a 5 year-old that my little man is in love with AND a 2 year old boy that has become my guy's best bud. I'm just so giddy with the thought that such a good friend and I will have two sets of kidlets the same age. It seems almost unreal. It was fun going through pregnant together for a while last time (her now two-year-old is 4 months older than my getting-closer-to-2-year-old.) So this time around we get to switch roles and do it all over again. It was so nice of her to accommodate me like this. HA! Just kidding.
And finally, that brother of mine may actually have a real honest to goodness job. That is mean. He's actually a very hard worker that has been working hard to find good work. He had a few hiccups at first - a really pathetic "taking advantage of your longer for a job" type offer - but we're not going to go there. Anyway, a few weeks ago he had what he thought had been a great interview at a dining services company. The 'boss' told him that should he get the job he'd be an Executive Sous Chef. Bro would have to call and make an appointment to take a hands-on test and a 2nd interview. Then there was nothing - no word. No call.
So my actually quite shy and not high on the self-esteem-o-meter called and left a message about scheduling the test. Someone called back. He went today. 7am. My brother that sleeps till noon (at the earliest) when he's not working or in classes, was up at 4:15 am to be dressed and in the car for the hour+ commute to this test. It was apparently a long test because no one heard from him for a long time. He showed up at my Dad's office (about 15 minutes or so from the test site) close to 2 pm. Dad knows the results - they won't share with the rest of us though because Bro wants to tell himself and he wants to tell in person...which sucks because I won't see him today at all. I won't see him till tomorrow at the earliest and so I sit and twist in the wind. I hate surprises.
Here's what I do know - I said to Dad "Its mean to tease the pregnant lady. I'm just going to assume it went well." And he said in return "It did, but let him tell you." SO I'm going to take that to mean that my little brother is now a chef somewhere with real people hours (as opposed to restaurant 6 day a week, what the hell is a social life long night hours) with real benefits and the chance to meet women. This is a good thing. . .something of which a sister can be proud and post a blog note about. So I did.
I want Peeps. There I said it. Which isn't saying much since I've been bitching about wanting Peeps since yesterday afternoon when I saw chocolate covered Peeps in the Boscov's at the mall near the office. Yes, delicate little marshmallow and sugar chicks dipped up to their necks in milk chocolate. This is what I've been craving since 1pm Monday afternoon. Freakin' Peeps.
The entire 13 weeks of this pregnancy I've craved two things:
1. Strawberries, which in light of a "Don't want to eat for five" resolution this time around was a good thing.
2. Chocolate covered Peeps.
Of course, one of my favorite people did tell me that 'regular' old Peeps are only two Weight Watchers points for three little chickees. I wonder what the dipped variety would be?
On to real important things - I'm excited today. Floating really and not just because someone improved Peeps. I'm excited because one of my oldest and dearest friends (or after 30 do we need to start saying "one of my longest friendships") just told me that she's expecting her third child in November. This means that little Turnip will have a built-in buddy. A same aged playmate she/he can be forced into friendship with at an early age. This is even more fun, however, because this friend has a 5 year-old that my little man is in love with AND a 2 year old boy that has become my guy's best bud. I'm just so giddy with the thought that such a good friend and I will have two sets of kidlets the same age. It seems almost unreal. It was fun going through pregnant together for a while last time (her now two-year-old is 4 months older than my getting-closer-to-2-year-old.) So this time around we get to switch roles and do it all over again. It was so nice of her to accommodate me like this. HA! Just kidding.
And finally, that brother of mine may actually have a real honest to goodness job. That is mean. He's actually a very hard worker that has been working hard to find good work. He had a few hiccups at first - a really pathetic "taking advantage of your longer for a job" type offer - but we're not going to go there. Anyway, a few weeks ago he had what he thought had been a great interview at a dining services company. The 'boss' told him that should he get the job he'd be an Executive Sous Chef. Bro would have to call and make an appointment to take a hands-on test and a 2nd interview. Then there was nothing - no word. No call.
So my actually quite shy and not high on the self-esteem-o-meter called and left a message about scheduling the test. Someone called back. He went today. 7am. My brother that sleeps till noon (at the earliest) when he's not working or in classes, was up at 4:15 am to be dressed and in the car for the hour+ commute to this test. It was apparently a long test because no one heard from him for a long time. He showed up at my Dad's office (about 15 minutes or so from the test site) close to 2 pm. Dad knows the results - they won't share with the rest of us though because Bro wants to tell himself and he wants to tell in person...which sucks because I won't see him today at all. I won't see him till tomorrow at the earliest and so I sit and twist in the wind. I hate surprises.
Here's what I do know - I said to Dad "Its mean to tease the pregnant lady. I'm just going to assume it went well." And he said in return "It did, but let him tell you." SO I'm going to take that to mean that my little brother is now a chef somewhere with real people hours (as opposed to restaurant 6 day a week, what the hell is a social life long night hours) with real benefits and the chance to meet women. This is a good thing. . .something of which a sister can be proud and post a blog note about. So I did.
3.01.2004
So here I am writing the obligatory "day after the Oscars" entry. Truth be told, in the three category's of Oscar people I am not in the one that goes to Oscar themed parties and bets on the outcome. Nor am I someone that shuns the "big event" entirely. No. I am a closet Oscar watcher. I watch pieces of it - an hour here or there. I wake up the next day and I lunge for a TV set to find out what I missed. . .I just don't like to admit it.
This year, although I can count on less than all 10 fingers the number of movies I've seen in the last 20 months, I actually saw four of the films nominated for an award. Of those four - one of them "swept" the show. (Although the sweep concept is tough to wrap my brain around. I mean I know it won each thing it was up for - but to me a 'clean' sweep would be winning every stinkin' Oscar offered up last night. But I digress.) Anyway, yes, one of the movies I saw was Lord of the Rings.
I've never rooted for a movie to win before, but I did want this one to win Best Picture. Not because I thought it was the best movie in the running - I mean I didn't honestly have an opinion on that. No, I wanted it to win because it was a sentimental favorite, at least for me. I should admit before I go any further that I have never read the trilogy. I saw them often sitting on the book shelf amongst the rest of my father's collection - but I never read them. My father, however, loved them.
I was an early reader. I was reading to myself by the age of 3 - full stories out of picture books. My parents would take me to the library and sit me with a stack of books while they browsed for their own. I never budged. I'd get a slew to take home with us and have them read on the way home in the car. It drove my mother nuts.
Even though I read early, my father did not stop reading to me each night. We just expand the level of book we read. For Christmas each year I'd get a novel - something with an age appropriate story although the degree of difficulty in terms of reading to oneself was beyond me. Each night I'd settle into bed, pull up the covers and listen. My father sat next to me reading a chapter a night of classic books like Wind in the Willows. . .and the Hobbit.
Some of you '70s children may recall a cartoon edition of the Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins as a short bright red-headed little Hobbit with big fat hairy feet. Animation pleasing to my child eye. I saw the film - although I can't recall if I saw it in a theatre or not. My copy of the book was actually a very thick picture book. It took frames from this animated movie and incorporated the actual book text below it. With this book my father read me the Hobbit - a prelude to one of his favorite authors.
My attraction to the Lord of Rings movies is not that I loved the Hobbit with an unquenchable passion. I was drawn to those films because it reminded me of that girl I was sitting in her pink frilly room sharing a special moment with her father. My dad loves books. He's passionate about reading and through these nightly rituals he passed on the legacy to me. I learned to see vivid pictures in my mind's eye from nothing more than black print on white paper. I learned the intricacy of the English language. I learned how simple words become complex phrases which become full sentence thoughts which become stories you can't bear to put down.
And from reading I learned to write. I think you'd be hard pressed to find a 'real' writer that didn't love to read. Writers learn at the knee of those that have penned before them and so a good writer must study hard by reading. When you think of it like that, my father gave me not just my love of reading words, but also my calling to write them.
When the Lord of the Rings movies came out I wanted to see them for so many reasons, but I wanted to see them with my father because of the memories I had of the Hobbit. When the Oscar nods came out I wanted it to win because in some way it was almost like a validation that these books were indeed special because they birthed a golden trophy worthy movie. I know, however, that as good as some think these stories are it wasn't the book itself that was so incredibly life changing - it was the way my father read to me.
This year, although I can count on less than all 10 fingers the number of movies I've seen in the last 20 months, I actually saw four of the films nominated for an award. Of those four - one of them "swept" the show. (Although the sweep concept is tough to wrap my brain around. I mean I know it won each thing it was up for - but to me a 'clean' sweep would be winning every stinkin' Oscar offered up last night. But I digress.) Anyway, yes, one of the movies I saw was Lord of the Rings.
I've never rooted for a movie to win before, but I did want this one to win Best Picture. Not because I thought it was the best movie in the running - I mean I didn't honestly have an opinion on that. No, I wanted it to win because it was a sentimental favorite, at least for me. I should admit before I go any further that I have never read the trilogy. I saw them often sitting on the book shelf amongst the rest of my father's collection - but I never read them. My father, however, loved them.
I was an early reader. I was reading to myself by the age of 3 - full stories out of picture books. My parents would take me to the library and sit me with a stack of books while they browsed for their own. I never budged. I'd get a slew to take home with us and have them read on the way home in the car. It drove my mother nuts.
Even though I read early, my father did not stop reading to me each night. We just expand the level of book we read. For Christmas each year I'd get a novel - something with an age appropriate story although the degree of difficulty in terms of reading to oneself was beyond me. Each night I'd settle into bed, pull up the covers and listen. My father sat next to me reading a chapter a night of classic books like Wind in the Willows. . .and the Hobbit.
Some of you '70s children may recall a cartoon edition of the Hobbit. Bilbo Baggins as a short bright red-headed little Hobbit with big fat hairy feet. Animation pleasing to my child eye. I saw the film - although I can't recall if I saw it in a theatre or not. My copy of the book was actually a very thick picture book. It took frames from this animated movie and incorporated the actual book text below it. With this book my father read me the Hobbit - a prelude to one of his favorite authors.
My attraction to the Lord of Rings movies is not that I loved the Hobbit with an unquenchable passion. I was drawn to those films because it reminded me of that girl I was sitting in her pink frilly room sharing a special moment with her father. My dad loves books. He's passionate about reading and through these nightly rituals he passed on the legacy to me. I learned to see vivid pictures in my mind's eye from nothing more than black print on white paper. I learned the intricacy of the English language. I learned how simple words become complex phrases which become full sentence thoughts which become stories you can't bear to put down.
And from reading I learned to write. I think you'd be hard pressed to find a 'real' writer that didn't love to read. Writers learn at the knee of those that have penned before them and so a good writer must study hard by reading. When you think of it like that, my father gave me not just my love of reading words, but also my calling to write them.
When the Lord of the Rings movies came out I wanted to see them for so many reasons, but I wanted to see them with my father because of the memories I had of the Hobbit. When the Oscar nods came out I wanted it to win because in some way it was almost like a validation that these books were indeed special because they birthed a golden trophy worthy movie. I know, however, that as good as some think these stories are it wasn't the book itself that was so incredibly life changing - it was the way my father read to me.
2.16.2004
New Discoveries where you least expect them
So I'm writing an article for a magazine. Amongst the array of parents I'm interviewing, I've decided to talk to one of my very good friends. She just sent me back her responses and I'm stunned. She shared an awful lot of information about her early days of motherhood and I realized as I read that I knew so little of it. She and I were at different points in our lives when her first child was born - she was a new Mom and I was struggling to get pregnant. We spoke during that time, but its was always brief and over the phone as she found her footing in her new world. We didn't actually get together face to face until she was well into the second half of her first year of parenting.
Here we are just over 5 years later and I learn so much more about her. Is it odd that I ache to reach out to that past version of her and just hug her tight. I know that there is no way the me of 5 years ago could have offered adequate support to her then. There was just no way I'd understand the notion of leaving a child with others while you go to work or dealing with that first fever, first thunderstorm, etc. There is no way I could have identified enough to be able to say the right thing or realize that sometimes the right thing to say is nothing at all.
I think today I will call her and I will tell her how much I love her as a person and idolize her as a mother. She's such a fantastic example of both roles. Amazing what a little side work can teach you. Here I thought I was just embarking on a new side trip of my career and instead what I've done is expanded my understanding of those around me. How lucky I am.
So I'm writing an article for a magazine. Amongst the array of parents I'm interviewing, I've decided to talk to one of my very good friends. She just sent me back her responses and I'm stunned. She shared an awful lot of information about her early days of motherhood and I realized as I read that I knew so little of it. She and I were at different points in our lives when her first child was born - she was a new Mom and I was struggling to get pregnant. We spoke during that time, but its was always brief and over the phone as she found her footing in her new world. We didn't actually get together face to face until she was well into the second half of her first year of parenting.
Here we are just over 5 years later and I learn so much more about her. Is it odd that I ache to reach out to that past version of her and just hug her tight. I know that there is no way the me of 5 years ago could have offered adequate support to her then. There was just no way I'd understand the notion of leaving a child with others while you go to work or dealing with that first fever, first thunderstorm, etc. There is no way I could have identified enough to be able to say the right thing or realize that sometimes the right thing to say is nothing at all.
I think today I will call her and I will tell her how much I love her as a person and idolize her as a mother. She's such a fantastic example of both roles. Amazing what a little side work can teach you. Here I thought I was just embarking on a new side trip of my career and instead what I've done is expanded my understanding of those around me. How lucky I am.
From Under my Rock
I'm lax with this blog. I completely intended to be at least good for a weekly update and yet here we are - weeks since my last blabber. Well, a girl can claim overwhelming demands at work and home I suppose. Or better yet, she can just find solace in remembering that this is for me and just me. The person or two that stumbles across it to read will hardly notice I've been MIA.
I also struggle with updating because it seems that when one takes such a hiatus the breaking of blog writing fast should really be something more than mindless prattle. It should verge on earth shattering or not. Perhaps I'm letting hormones and writer's block take me a bit too far into the melodrama.
This weekend my baby brother, my only brother, graduated with his Bachelor's Degree. He's going to be a chef - or he is one. I'm never sure of that distinction. Is one a chef before having gainful employment because he has a degree in hand from the "Ivy League" edition of cooking schools? Is it like being a doctor in that way? Anyway, I digress. So the brother has graduated and he's done so with little effort to find himself a job.
Of course, lack of effort means nothing in his graced life. The guy has two job offers already. He's handed a degree on Friday and today he has a meeting with his former externship employer to talk about a job with that fancy, high-flautin, rock-stars-eat-here, three figure dinner tabs eatery. On his way home from the college on Saturday he stopped in and spoke with another former employer. This one wants him to come in for dinner on Wednesday to talk about a job. When does the grace life end and reality set in?
My dear brother put out little effort for a job previously because he was convinced his externship was hiring him back. He went there for a pseudo-interview several weeks ago and was told they had nothing. It was only then he lobbed over a few resumes to various places. Yet here he sits, a single day into his first week post-graduation and he stares at two potential job offers. No one knows if either will be worth the effort to take. If the pay will be more than poverty level or even if the job is one that he's interested in. . .but there they are.
I meanwhile wonder if its possible to find my dream job - the one that pays me decently, keeps me within my chosen profession and doesn't require me to work more than two days. Maybe I should have my brother look for me.
I'm lax with this blog. I completely intended to be at least good for a weekly update and yet here we are - weeks since my last blabber. Well, a girl can claim overwhelming demands at work and home I suppose. Or better yet, she can just find solace in remembering that this is for me and just me. The person or two that stumbles across it to read will hardly notice I've been MIA.
I also struggle with updating because it seems that when one takes such a hiatus the breaking of blog writing fast should really be something more than mindless prattle. It should verge on earth shattering or not. Perhaps I'm letting hormones and writer's block take me a bit too far into the melodrama.
This weekend my baby brother, my only brother, graduated with his Bachelor's Degree. He's going to be a chef - or he is one. I'm never sure of that distinction. Is one a chef before having gainful employment because he has a degree in hand from the "Ivy League" edition of cooking schools? Is it like being a doctor in that way? Anyway, I digress. So the brother has graduated and he's done so with little effort to find himself a job.
Of course, lack of effort means nothing in his graced life. The guy has two job offers already. He's handed a degree on Friday and today he has a meeting with his former externship employer to talk about a job with that fancy, high-flautin, rock-stars-eat-here, three figure dinner tabs eatery. On his way home from the college on Saturday he stopped in and spoke with another former employer. This one wants him to come in for dinner on Wednesday to talk about a job. When does the grace life end and reality set in?
My dear brother put out little effort for a job previously because he was convinced his externship was hiring him back. He went there for a pseudo-interview several weeks ago and was told they had nothing. It was only then he lobbed over a few resumes to various places. Yet here he sits, a single day into his first week post-graduation and he stares at two potential job offers. No one knows if either will be worth the effort to take. If the pay will be more than poverty level or even if the job is one that he's interested in. . .but there they are.
I meanwhile wonder if its possible to find my dream job - the one that pays me decently, keeps me within my chosen profession and doesn't require me to work more than two days. Maybe I should have my brother look for me.
1.29.2004
Why write
I've been thinking a lot lately about why we write - or should I say not "we" but I. There's the practical side - I write to earn money. In this I will admit to sometimes whoring myself out for the cash. I sometimes write about the most unsexy things and I type the words "By [fill in a name that's not mine]" underneath it. Its money and we all need that. I write marketing materials for cash. I write press releases because they'll pay me. But that's not "my writing." That's my work.
My real writing - the stuff that I put in here or the things I try to evolve into essays that I can attempt to sell for more of that cash - is cathartic. I write. That's just what I do. Some people have therapist that they can unload on. I don't have that nor do I want that. Some people bitch and moan to their friends or lovers. Sure, I do that. I do it a lot.
But there are things that aren't quite as eloquently expressed verbally. Too often feelings get interrupted by someone else's two cents. There are times when advice is nice to have. There are times when you really do go to a person looking for their take on a situation. But then there are other times when all you really want is someone to listen to you not to guide you. This is a skill too few people have today. Too often we, myself included, want to fix it. We see someone we care about in pain and we want to make it better by telling them what to do or how to feel or what to think instead of just listening to whatever it is they just said. There are times when this is far from helpful despite the best intentions it comes with.
So sometimes I write. I stare at a blank screen and I spit out the bile welling within me. I let the emotions or the conflict flow out me through my fingers and fill the "paper." Once there its removed from me. Its not gnawing at me any longer, its there waiting to be read, to be processed, to be managed if need be as if it was another person's concerns. When its out on the paper it can be dealt with. I can stand back and think it through a bit more objectively.
Other times I write to silence the chatter in my head. There are things that just flow from a writer without her stepping in to direct it. Its as if something bigger than herself is putting those words out there using her body as a conduit. The essay, the story, the written verse is just begging to be birthed and all a writer can do is let it out. These, I often feel, are the most honest, most evocative pieces a writer can ever produce.
For me, this blog's second entry on fear and fertility came from that spot and also satisfied the emotional purging I needed. It was a way to deal with emotions so I could put them behind me and approach the attempt for a second child a bit more rationally. At the same time, it was a verse that was singing itself in the most inner recesses of my right brain, begging to be unleashed. I merely set it free.
By the way, for what its worth, when I wrote said post, I was, unbeknownst to me, already pregnant with our second child. I have a whole new set of internal battles being fought - most predominately the one over whether or not I get to digest my lunch without sharing it with the porcelain throne. But alas, this is another post for another time.
I've been thinking a lot lately about why we write - or should I say not "we" but I. There's the practical side - I write to earn money. In this I will admit to sometimes whoring myself out for the cash. I sometimes write about the most unsexy things and I type the words "By [fill in a name that's not mine]" underneath it. Its money and we all need that. I write marketing materials for cash. I write press releases because they'll pay me. But that's not "my writing." That's my work.
My real writing - the stuff that I put in here or the things I try to evolve into essays that I can attempt to sell for more of that cash - is cathartic. I write. That's just what I do. Some people have therapist that they can unload on. I don't have that nor do I want that. Some people bitch and moan to their friends or lovers. Sure, I do that. I do it a lot.
But there are things that aren't quite as eloquently expressed verbally. Too often feelings get interrupted by someone else's two cents. There are times when advice is nice to have. There are times when you really do go to a person looking for their take on a situation. But then there are other times when all you really want is someone to listen to you not to guide you. This is a skill too few people have today. Too often we, myself included, want to fix it. We see someone we care about in pain and we want to make it better by telling them what to do or how to feel or what to think instead of just listening to whatever it is they just said. There are times when this is far from helpful despite the best intentions it comes with.
So sometimes I write. I stare at a blank screen and I spit out the bile welling within me. I let the emotions or the conflict flow out me through my fingers and fill the "paper." Once there its removed from me. Its not gnawing at me any longer, its there waiting to be read, to be processed, to be managed if need be as if it was another person's concerns. When its out on the paper it can be dealt with. I can stand back and think it through a bit more objectively.
Other times I write to silence the chatter in my head. There are things that just flow from a writer without her stepping in to direct it. Its as if something bigger than herself is putting those words out there using her body as a conduit. The essay, the story, the written verse is just begging to be birthed and all a writer can do is let it out. These, I often feel, are the most honest, most evocative pieces a writer can ever produce.
For me, this blog's second entry on fear and fertility came from that spot and also satisfied the emotional purging I needed. It was a way to deal with emotions so I could put them behind me and approach the attempt for a second child a bit more rationally. At the same time, it was a verse that was singing itself in the most inner recesses of my right brain, begging to be unleashed. I merely set it free.
By the way, for what its worth, when I wrote said post, I was, unbeknownst to me, already pregnant with our second child. I have a whole new set of internal battles being fought - most predominately the one over whether or not I get to digest my lunch without sharing it with the porcelain throne. But alas, this is another post for another time.
1.18.2004
Open Letter to a pregnant friend and anyone else who will listen,
By now you have heard more advice than you ever thought was humanly possible to have heaped on one set of shoulders. Well I've got some more for you. Undoubtedly you've heard a couple of pearls a few times over.
First, I know you've heard this one so often it starts to sound like a matra - stock up on sleep now. Right. Like if you could hibernate through your final trimester those stores of sleep would carry you through the early sleep starved stages of parenthood. Face it, what sleep you get now isn't going to matter then. This is not to mention that merely suggesting "gather sleep while ye may" to a very pregnant woman is nothing short of cruel. Your body is no longer your own. The little person who has taken up residence in your womb now owns your once girlish figure. You sleep with so many pillows tucked around you at night your husband wonders if you're even in bed anymore or are you merely trying to fool him with a pile of fluff. Your bladder is more tissue paper than steel that its gotten to the point where you get up to pee more often than you actually sleep a decent stretch.
Besides, let's just be real for a minute. Yes, you will loose sleep once baby arrives. And yes, even when you reach that blessed point where your child 'sleeps through the night' you will have nights where you wonder if it was even worth unmaking your bed. These are the times those with good intentions speak of when they cluck their tongues and bid you to store up now. But, again, let's be real. Those very same experienced people stand before you alive and seemingly sane enough to not be committed somewhere. The survived sleep deprivation and you will to.
Second, many a mom has pleaded with you to not rush forward too quickly. To keep that baby a baby for as long as you can. They'll tell you how bittersweet it is to see your once wholly-dependent child take those first steps. They'll talk about how fast it's all gone. One day you cradle them gently being careful not to let their head tip back - the day they're driving off to college. Yes, it goes fast, but here's where my real advice comes in.
Live today. Yesterday is something to keep in a scrapbook. You can linger over it when you get a rare free moment over the next several decades. You can remember what it represents but don't lament its passing.
Tomorrow is lying before you. Its something to plan for, something to consider, but not to obsess over. Don't expend so much energy on tomorrow that you ignore today. Tomorrow will always be this thing that exists just beyond your grasp. The present is all you can directly impact at any given moment.
And so yes, today. Live within this day. Savor every moment with your child but don't forget to also make moments for your spouse and yourself. Don't get so caught up in being Mom that you stop being Woman and Wife. Remember none of those facets is complete without the other two.
Every stage your child passes through will be more miraculous than the one before it. I still remember holding my days old son close to me marveling what a miracle he was. I remember the awe he inspired by merely breathing in a set rhythm - his body's cadence matching my own. I remember distinctly thinking how amazing it was to watch him stare at things. Knowing that he was unable to mobilize and get to whatever it is had his attention. He wasn't able to verbalize what he saw or question it. But he could study it and study it he did. I learned so much about myself from those early days. I learned to stop rushing and take time to really stop and study the small things. I learned that even a cloud dotted blue sky can be worth a few minutes of consideration. I learned that everything is wondrous and new if you let it be.
Then he learned to sit up and began to explore his surroundings. I will be honest, I didn't really miss that blob stage. I enjoy interacting with my son. I like watching him test and experiment. This was a wonderful stage of his development and one that will never come to an end. The mundane was suddenly exciting again. A simple block held such possibility.
Next came walking and talking. He may be only 18 months old, but I am his student. Through him I've come to understand the nuances of my very own language. The way sounds are formed. The confusing nature of a single sound spelled so many different ways and meaning different things. I, eye, Aye. I wonder how it is we ever learn to differentiate and yet he does. I can see the wheels turning in that little head.
I watch his eyes fill with understanding. I see his absolute delight and pride when he's accomplished a new skill - hearing his excited, proud little voice calling out "Mommy! I DID IT!" When is it that we loose that ability to find great joy in small accomplishments. When did we ever toss out the small goals to focus on just the big, overwhelming and seemingly unattainable.
Before I know it we will move to another stage. I will tuck this raw little person into a scrapbook and I will watch a work in progress move to the next level. I will smile when I look at the video and the pictures. Perhaps still shake my head in amazement that he survived all the climbing and running. I will watch him step off the school bus from his first day of school or climb out of his first car. . .still smiling with absolute delight and pride.
These stages as wondrous as the ones before them
Yes, friend, each milestone is to be celebrated then moved on from. Don't linger too long that you fail to appreciate the next small step for your little person. There is no holding back. This child of yours will grow and become adult some day. Just hug your dear one tight every chance you get. Inhale the smell of baby deeply every day. Savor the moment and live today.
By now you have heard more advice than you ever thought was humanly possible to have heaped on one set of shoulders. Well I've got some more for you. Undoubtedly you've heard a couple of pearls a few times over.
First, I know you've heard this one so often it starts to sound like a matra - stock up on sleep now. Right. Like if you could hibernate through your final trimester those stores of sleep would carry you through the early sleep starved stages of parenthood. Face it, what sleep you get now isn't going to matter then. This is not to mention that merely suggesting "gather sleep while ye may" to a very pregnant woman is nothing short of cruel. Your body is no longer your own. The little person who has taken up residence in your womb now owns your once girlish figure. You sleep with so many pillows tucked around you at night your husband wonders if you're even in bed anymore or are you merely trying to fool him with a pile of fluff. Your bladder is more tissue paper than steel that its gotten to the point where you get up to pee more often than you actually sleep a decent stretch.
Besides, let's just be real for a minute. Yes, you will loose sleep once baby arrives. And yes, even when you reach that blessed point where your child 'sleeps through the night' you will have nights where you wonder if it was even worth unmaking your bed. These are the times those with good intentions speak of when they cluck their tongues and bid you to store up now. But, again, let's be real. Those very same experienced people stand before you alive and seemingly sane enough to not be committed somewhere. The survived sleep deprivation and you will to.
Second, many a mom has pleaded with you to not rush forward too quickly. To keep that baby a baby for as long as you can. They'll tell you how bittersweet it is to see your once wholly-dependent child take those first steps. They'll talk about how fast it's all gone. One day you cradle them gently being careful not to let their head tip back - the day they're driving off to college. Yes, it goes fast, but here's where my real advice comes in.
Live today. Yesterday is something to keep in a scrapbook. You can linger over it when you get a rare free moment over the next several decades. You can remember what it represents but don't lament its passing.
Tomorrow is lying before you. Its something to plan for, something to consider, but not to obsess over. Don't expend so much energy on tomorrow that you ignore today. Tomorrow will always be this thing that exists just beyond your grasp. The present is all you can directly impact at any given moment.
And so yes, today. Live within this day. Savor every moment with your child but don't forget to also make moments for your spouse and yourself. Don't get so caught up in being Mom that you stop being Woman and Wife. Remember none of those facets is complete without the other two.
Every stage your child passes through will be more miraculous than the one before it. I still remember holding my days old son close to me marveling what a miracle he was. I remember the awe he inspired by merely breathing in a set rhythm - his body's cadence matching my own. I remember distinctly thinking how amazing it was to watch him stare at things. Knowing that he was unable to mobilize and get to whatever it is had his attention. He wasn't able to verbalize what he saw or question it. But he could study it and study it he did. I learned so much about myself from those early days. I learned to stop rushing and take time to really stop and study the small things. I learned that even a cloud dotted blue sky can be worth a few minutes of consideration. I learned that everything is wondrous and new if you let it be.
Then he learned to sit up and began to explore his surroundings. I will be honest, I didn't really miss that blob stage. I enjoy interacting with my son. I like watching him test and experiment. This was a wonderful stage of his development and one that will never come to an end. The mundane was suddenly exciting again. A simple block held such possibility.
Next came walking and talking. He may be only 18 months old, but I am his student. Through him I've come to understand the nuances of my very own language. The way sounds are formed. The confusing nature of a single sound spelled so many different ways and meaning different things. I, eye, Aye. I wonder how it is we ever learn to differentiate and yet he does. I can see the wheels turning in that little head.
I watch his eyes fill with understanding. I see his absolute delight and pride when he's accomplished a new skill - hearing his excited, proud little voice calling out "Mommy! I DID IT!" When is it that we loose that ability to find great joy in small accomplishments. When did we ever toss out the small goals to focus on just the big, overwhelming and seemingly unattainable.
Before I know it we will move to another stage. I will tuck this raw little person into a scrapbook and I will watch a work in progress move to the next level. I will smile when I look at the video and the pictures. Perhaps still shake my head in amazement that he survived all the climbing and running. I will watch him step off the school bus from his first day of school or climb out of his first car. . .still smiling with absolute delight and pride.
These stages as wondrous as the ones before them
Yes, friend, each milestone is to be celebrated then moved on from. Don't linger too long that you fail to appreciate the next small step for your little person. There is no holding back. This child of yours will grow and become adult some day. Just hug your dear one tight every chance you get. Inhale the smell of baby deeply every day. Savor the moment and live today.
1.13.2004
Pasta-doodle
It occurred to me that I don't have to be profound in these entries. Its my blog, I can blather on for pages and pages about the over-abundance of white socks if I wish. Of course that's not what I feel like going on about. No, today I want to rant about pasta. Namely the disparity between "traditional" pasta and healthy whole wheat pasta.
I am not a dietician. I have no idea the scientific ins and outs of refined flour vs good old whole wheat. I only know that the brown stuff is better for you. I try to eat whole grain breads. I actually prefer them to so-called white bread, truth be told. Pasta, however, I've been a bit cautious on.
I love my pasta. I could never be good student of the Atkins diet. It would require me to give up too much of my only one true food passion - pasta. You don't mess with pasta. You put different sauces on it, sure. You mix it with some fresh diced tomatoes. Right, that's fine. . . but you don't alter it. You don't make it out of tofu or something funky. You have plain old regular pasta.
But, I also want to be healthy and good and do the right thing. I want to try to eat better and to make wise choices for my child. So I broke down and bought whole-wheat pasta. Now I've yet to eat it. I did make it up last night so I could bring in some pasta salad for lunch today. I tired a single Rotini noodle. Although the taste is different, its nots so dramatically different that I feel as if I've betrayed my pasta-loving tongue.
So I get to thinking. Perhaps we'll make the leap. Perhaps I'll give up that regular stuff and just make the brown stuff. Perhaps I'll ditch that refined flour and stick with whole grains. Then I remember the aisle in the supermarket and how severely limiting that declaration seems all of a sudden.
The pasta in our supermarket takes up half of one side of a traditional aisle. There are multiple brands and every size and shape noodle you can imagine. Small pastina stars, long thin angel hair, twisty corkscrew rotini and bent elbows. I feel like a kid drooling in a candy store. Of all this selection, however, there is minimal options when it comes to whole wheat. Of that long span of loaded shelves, there are merely a fraction of the good stuff. I stared at merely a dozen or so different boxes - seperated by brand and shape.
The bread aisle is similar. Nearly an enter side of a full aisle dedicated to loaves of pre-cut, packaged bread. The vast majority of these loaves made of refined flour - white bread, buttermilk bread, potato bread, etc. The whole wheat, Whole grain, health-nut options pale in comparison.
Is it supply and demand or a conspiracy? Is there are secret group of diet-diva's desperate to make a buck off our fat butts pushing for less shelf space dedicated to 'good' food so we have less chance of finding our own way? Or is have so many of us fallen far off the beaten path that we've matted down a new one called the "not so hot for ya" trail.
I don't think regular old pasta or white bread will kill me any time soon. I also think its more chocolate and heaping servings that have contributed to my extra pounds. . .but I also don't think the disparity in good vs not-as-good quanities of food options have helped things. SO, all that rambling and thesis - for what?
Do you think its an oxymoron to have my whole-wheat pasta based pasta salad with a slice of french bread made from refined flour?
It occurred to me that I don't have to be profound in these entries. Its my blog, I can blather on for pages and pages about the over-abundance of white socks if I wish. Of course that's not what I feel like going on about. No, today I want to rant about pasta. Namely the disparity between "traditional" pasta and healthy whole wheat pasta.
I am not a dietician. I have no idea the scientific ins and outs of refined flour vs good old whole wheat. I only know that the brown stuff is better for you. I try to eat whole grain breads. I actually prefer them to so-called white bread, truth be told. Pasta, however, I've been a bit cautious on.
I love my pasta. I could never be good student of the Atkins diet. It would require me to give up too much of my only one true food passion - pasta. You don't mess with pasta. You put different sauces on it, sure. You mix it with some fresh diced tomatoes. Right, that's fine. . . but you don't alter it. You don't make it out of tofu or something funky. You have plain old regular pasta.
But, I also want to be healthy and good and do the right thing. I want to try to eat better and to make wise choices for my child. So I broke down and bought whole-wheat pasta. Now I've yet to eat it. I did make it up last night so I could bring in some pasta salad for lunch today. I tired a single Rotini noodle. Although the taste is different, its nots so dramatically different that I feel as if I've betrayed my pasta-loving tongue.
So I get to thinking. Perhaps we'll make the leap. Perhaps I'll give up that regular stuff and just make the brown stuff. Perhaps I'll ditch that refined flour and stick with whole grains. Then I remember the aisle in the supermarket and how severely limiting that declaration seems all of a sudden.
The pasta in our supermarket takes up half of one side of a traditional aisle. There are multiple brands and every size and shape noodle you can imagine. Small pastina stars, long thin angel hair, twisty corkscrew rotini and bent elbows. I feel like a kid drooling in a candy store. Of all this selection, however, there is minimal options when it comes to whole wheat. Of that long span of loaded shelves, there are merely a fraction of the good stuff. I stared at merely a dozen or so different boxes - seperated by brand and shape.
The bread aisle is similar. Nearly an enter side of a full aisle dedicated to loaves of pre-cut, packaged bread. The vast majority of these loaves made of refined flour - white bread, buttermilk bread, potato bread, etc. The whole wheat, Whole grain, health-nut options pale in comparison.
Is it supply and demand or a conspiracy? Is there are secret group of diet-diva's desperate to make a buck off our fat butts pushing for less shelf space dedicated to 'good' food so we have less chance of finding our own way? Or is have so many of us fallen far off the beaten path that we've matted down a new one called the "not so hot for ya" trail.
I don't think regular old pasta or white bread will kill me any time soon. I also think its more chocolate and heaping servings that have contributed to my extra pounds. . .but I also don't think the disparity in good vs not-as-good quanities of food options have helped things. SO, all that rambling and thesis - for what?
Do you think its an oxymoron to have my whole-wheat pasta based pasta salad with a slice of french bread made from refined flour?
1.10.2004
My mind, it wanders
This path that's not a path - the one on which we merely try not to avoid pregnancy rather than hotly pursue it - is confusing. I find myself pondering many things concerning the logistics. For example, when does one bite the bullet and pee on that damn stick? I wonder not because I sit here staring at box of First Response, but because I'd rather have it straight in my head before I get to that point.
The first time around I'd be running out for the HPT within the first few days of what I had assumed was "being late." Of course, each time I found my body playing a cruel practical joke - a new cycle starting just a day after I broke down and took the stupid test. I'm not what you'd called 'irregular' in terms of said cycles, but being irregular is not unheard of for my body. I've learned that being a few days late means nothing more than my body decided to take a leisurely stroll that particular month. So logic would say, you give it more than a few days - but how much more. I've yet to wrestle the answer out of myself.
Issue 2 - assuming someday fate smiles upon us and #2 is in production - when does one formerly infertile couple spread the news? With our son, we lived in denial of possibility so long we were nearly two full months along before even *we* knew of it. Telling our family and closest friends almost instantly wasn't nearly as big an issue since we were already closing in tight on that big "2nd trimester" doorway.
But, one would assume it'd not take us quite as long to test the 2nd time around. Then what? Do we sit on our news, bursting with excitement, and just wait? Perhaps its worth noting, my 18 month old has more patience than I sometimes. A 12-14 week wait won't happen. Do we wait till we see that heartbeat? Will we be as neurotically worried as we were the first time that the 1st to 2nd threshold will be viewed as critical a window?
I also worry about the mundane. How will I explain to my son that Mommy's belly isn't interested in sharing her lap? How do I balance the "no carrying anything over 10lbs" rule my OB tossed my way last time with the 24lb (granted more than that by the time its every an issue..if it ever is) snuggle monster? How do I get my sleep, drink my OJ (little boy thinks its awesome stuff but only when its from Mom's cup!) or maintain sanity?
I'm lucid enough now to know that I will not know these things until I do. I will not wrestle the answer from myself until I need to know it. I will not have a plan of attack. I can't because having one means allowing for the possibility that I'll need one...and right now, that's still too scary.
This path that's not a path - the one on which we merely try not to avoid pregnancy rather than hotly pursue it - is confusing. I find myself pondering many things concerning the logistics. For example, when does one bite the bullet and pee on that damn stick? I wonder not because I sit here staring at box of First Response, but because I'd rather have it straight in my head before I get to that point.
The first time around I'd be running out for the HPT within the first few days of what I had assumed was "being late." Of course, each time I found my body playing a cruel practical joke - a new cycle starting just a day after I broke down and took the stupid test. I'm not what you'd called 'irregular' in terms of said cycles, but being irregular is not unheard of for my body. I've learned that being a few days late means nothing more than my body decided to take a leisurely stroll that particular month. So logic would say, you give it more than a few days - but how much more. I've yet to wrestle the answer out of myself.
Issue 2 - assuming someday fate smiles upon us and #2 is in production - when does one formerly infertile couple spread the news? With our son, we lived in denial of possibility so long we were nearly two full months along before even *we* knew of it. Telling our family and closest friends almost instantly wasn't nearly as big an issue since we were already closing in tight on that big "2nd trimester" doorway.
But, one would assume it'd not take us quite as long to test the 2nd time around. Then what? Do we sit on our news, bursting with excitement, and just wait? Perhaps its worth noting, my 18 month old has more patience than I sometimes. A 12-14 week wait won't happen. Do we wait till we see that heartbeat? Will we be as neurotically worried as we were the first time that the 1st to 2nd threshold will be viewed as critical a window?
I also worry about the mundane. How will I explain to my son that Mommy's belly isn't interested in sharing her lap? How do I balance the "no carrying anything over 10lbs" rule my OB tossed my way last time with the 24lb (granted more than that by the time its every an issue..if it ever is) snuggle monster? How do I get my sleep, drink my OJ (little boy thinks its awesome stuff but only when its from Mom's cup!) or maintain sanity?
I'm lucid enough now to know that I will not know these things until I do. I will not wrestle the answer from myself until I need to know it. I will not have a plan of attack. I can't because having one means allowing for the possibility that I'll need one...and right now, that's still too scary.
1.05.2004
Some meandering thoughts
Off to a start?Five days into the new year and I've yet to make a daily resolution. Unless you count the fact that I avoided buying junk from the vending machine at the office. This is good. It'd be better if I had gotten to the gym. I have a theory that the boss and his buddies are conspiring to keep me from getting in shape. I'm not yet sure why, but it seems every day I go into the office with the intentions of spending my lunch at the gym, some one loads up my schedule with meetings the hours the gym is open.
Illogic
Speaking of meetings - how am I to complete 60 hours of work in 16 hours *at* work if I spend 10 of those hours in meetings about more work I have to do? Somewhere in hell there is a person I once slighted laughing gleefully at my plight.
Beauty of self-entertainment
So the little boy is learning how to play on his own, sort of. Someone is still required to be in the room with him - or at least in sight. However, he's content to play with his airport or trains all by himself. This is huge. This means I actually got 2 months of 6 months worth of photographs slugged into a scrapbook. (Slugged being a keyword.) I suppose one can backtrack and say this was a bit of a resolution - to get my arms around my piles of photos (I take a lot!) before the boy turned 20. So go back and ignore item #1. . .in 5 days I have said no to the vending machine, did something with those photographs and held back from telling boss man that he's one of those words I'm working on cutting back on. One must cut back on all sorts of phrases when you have a parrot for a toddler.
Baby thoughts
Of course, with the little guy learning to be more independent (even if his new favorite phrase is "Mommy hep!" aka Mommy help!) I feel slightly less anxiety about juggling two dependent little creatures. Notice I used the word "slightly." Of course, this is not to suggest that our quest for pregnancy is over. I just like think ahead and be prepared. Ok, the truth? I just like to obsess over the unknown. Or something like that.
Cheers!
Off to a start?Five days into the new year and I've yet to make a daily resolution. Unless you count the fact that I avoided buying junk from the vending machine at the office. This is good. It'd be better if I had gotten to the gym. I have a theory that the boss and his buddies are conspiring to keep me from getting in shape. I'm not yet sure why, but it seems every day I go into the office with the intentions of spending my lunch at the gym, some one loads up my schedule with meetings the hours the gym is open.
Illogic
Speaking of meetings - how am I to complete 60 hours of work in 16 hours *at* work if I spend 10 of those hours in meetings about more work I have to do? Somewhere in hell there is a person I once slighted laughing gleefully at my plight.
Beauty of self-entertainment
So the little boy is learning how to play on his own, sort of. Someone is still required to be in the room with him - or at least in sight. However, he's content to play with his airport or trains all by himself. This is huge. This means I actually got 2 months of 6 months worth of photographs slugged into a scrapbook. (Slugged being a keyword.) I suppose one can backtrack and say this was a bit of a resolution - to get my arms around my piles of photos (I take a lot!) before the boy turned 20. So go back and ignore item #1. . .in 5 days I have said no to the vending machine, did something with those photographs and held back from telling boss man that he's one of those words I'm working on cutting back on. One must cut back on all sorts of phrases when you have a parrot for a toddler.
Baby thoughts
Of course, with the little guy learning to be more independent (even if his new favorite phrase is "Mommy hep!" aka Mommy help!) I feel slightly less anxiety about juggling two dependent little creatures. Notice I used the word "slightly." Of course, this is not to suggest that our quest for pregnancy is over. I just like think ahead and be prepared. Ok, the truth? I just like to obsess over the unknown. Or something like that.
Cheers!
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