Spring Evening

Here are some shots of the kids during a recent evening outdoors.

One Thing Leads to Another

Our neighborhood finally voted to approve an itty bitty miniscule increase in homeowners association fees in order to have curbside recycling. Hooray! Though we did our best to recycle before, I'll admit that sometimes it was just easier to throw the bottle in the garbage than it was to separate it all out and lug it to the recycling center (where workers always found some fault with what we brought in and took GREAT offense to it). But now it's so easy and it feels really good to be cutting our garbage pile so drastically. We wondered how much more we could cut down by composting as well. So last weekend, we also bought a compost bin and cut the trash heap down even more. My goal is one garbage bag per week. We're not there yet, but I am determined.

Feeling green has a way of making you think about other ways to take care of the earth. Buying local leapt to mind. Last weekend was Mother's Day and I really wanted to go have breakfast at the best restaurant in town on Saturday morning. So we packed up the kids and headed out. 'Twas SO good. On the way there we noticed the Saturday farmer's market I've been wanting to visit since we moved here, but never have. After breakfast we headed over to the market. I'd just been to the grocery store, so I didn't buy any produce, but I couldn't resist the fresh eggs. We decided to make the trip to breakfast and the market on Saturday a weekly tradition. I cannot wait to add fresh local veggies and eggs to our menu.

And speaking of Mother's Day, it was wonderful. I got to sleep in, then my son brought me a card he'd written all by himself (mostly) and gave me a huge hug. His sister followed close behind, breaking into a huge grin when she saw mama and toddling over for a hug. My husband got me an iPhone for Mother's Day. It was completely unexpected and completely exciting. A wonderful day to celebrate the miracle of motherhood.

Physically exhausting, Physically rewarding

Parenting little children is a physical endeavor. I cannot really speak to parenting older children since my oldest is only 3, however I assume it will be more mental than physical. The demands on a young parent involve using your body to care for theirs. There are tushies to be wiped, dressing and undressing, bathing, kissing boo-boos, meals to be prepared and fed, clutter to be cleaned, beds to be changed, and the list goes on. A mother is responsible for all of her own physical needs and all of her childrens', plus the vast majority of their household duties since they are simply too small to pitch in. While there are certainly mental challenges (how do I handle THIS new behavior?), the physical challenges predominate. And so do the physical rewards.

Last night, Mother's Day, I went in to kiss my son goodnight after his daddy tucked him in. I laid next to him and he wrapped his small arms around me. I hugged him. I know every inch of his body and his sister's. They are as familiar to me as my own. I marveled at how different it feels to hold him now than it did two years ago. How different he is than my daughter. He is so lean and long now; the baby fat has all but disappeared. He seems all arms and legs. There is no hugging a squishy little form now. It's more like hugging a tree. He told me he liked the sound of my breathing; he asked to feel my heartbeat and then asked me to feel his. He asked for butterfly kisses and giggled when I "kissed" his forehead. The he asked to lie quietly next to me. I cannot think of a better way to end Mother's Day (or any other day). Even now I can see that these physical moments with him are becoming more and more seldom. Sooner than I would like, I will have to settle for a stolen hug here are there.

My daughter is in the throes of stranger anxiety. When someone she doesn't know well speaks to her or comes too near, she buries her head in my shoulder and clings to me for dear life. I'll admit it. I love this stage. It's a normal part of her development to realize who her family is and that they are safe and will care for her needs. Each and every time this happens, I remember how much time I spent being the scary stranger, wondering if I'd ever be the safe mommy. Not to mention that I get these wonderful cuddles, her body melting perfectly into my neck and shoulder.

There are most certainly days that I am beyond wiped out by the time everyone is tucked safely into bed (everyday, in fact). It is physically exhausting to change, prepare, clean up and carry all day long. But the reward for all of that work, the snuggles of your babies, ah... I will cherish these moments forever. And while there are moments in every day when I think, "I cannot WAIT until they are old enough to do this themselves," I also know that all too soon they WILL be able to do it themselves. My son said it best the other night. "But, I don't want to get big. I just want to be who I am."

Winds of Change

Well, apparently it's been a year. Wow. How time flies. I started this blog mostly to have a place to unload my thoughts about infertility. Even though I had my beautiful boy at the time, I still felt infertile. There were complications following his birth that made it unlikely I would conceive again. And that was on top of the issues we already had that made 5 cycles of IVF and 2 miscarriages necessary to conceive him. Though I was blissful to have even succeeded once, I was still very hurt by the thought of never having another child. For one, I was an only child and hated it. And secondly, I wanted to be able to decide when we were done, not have it decided for me. So even having succeeded once, I was angry about our infertility.

Now I have my two. My son and my daughter. My improbable perfect family. I am content. I cannot say that we are done trying (and I also cannot say that we'll ever try again), however I do know that I can live my life happily and peacefully regardless of whether more children are in our future. Infertility will always be part of the mother I am and the person I am. I will never forget how painful our journey was. But I also would not change it now that I know the outcome. I am no longer angry. Thus, I've not had much to say for the past year. Life has been chugging along at a chaotic, happy pace.

So instead of abandoning the blog, I've decided to take it in a bit of a different direction. From angry infertile to busy mom. I know that there are a billion and one mom blogs out there, but it's not as if more than two people will ever read mine and mostly I am writing as a way to keep my thoughts and memories about this time in our life as a family. I am trying to figure out if it is possible to password protect the blog. I will be posting pictures of the kids and also using their names, so I feel more comfortable having a password.

So, let's get this party started. A few pics from our recent trip to Toronto:

To kick things off:

Silly boy at the Toronto Bluejays game.

The kids riding a hippo at the zoo.

Lil' Miss excited about the zoo.

But, can't you see that I'm NOT normal?!?

So the boy will be going to preschool in the fall. Today we got a big packet of information in the mail: medical forms, contact information, a class list, fall calendar... The fall calendar stood out. It listed the events that will occur in his classroom throughout the semester and which one parents would be invited to/asked to help at. Before that moment, I hadn't really pictured myself helping out in my son's classroom: assisting with holiday parties, chaperoning field trips, sewing costumes for pageants. Those things are such mom things to do. And I am being asked to do them, just like all of the other parents. But there are still so many days that I just don't feel like all of the other parents. I think my packet of information should have arrived amidst a bit more fanfare. Balloons, confetti, perhaps a marching band, Ed McMahon shouting: "Congratulations!!! You did it!!! You're a mom!!! And as a reward, you get to help out in YOUR VERY OWN CHILD'S classroom this year!!! Just like all of the other normal parents!!!" But instead, it arrived in a boring, white envelope, just like everyone else's. The person who put it all together and addressed it and sent it saw nothing special about my packet. Our mail carrier was not awed by it. But I'm still not like everyone else. Infertility sets you apart, makes you feel alienated from those around you who are conceiving their children with such ease. And when you finally do succeed in having children, everyone else treats you like a normal pregnant person, a normal parent. But you aren't. I'm not. And maybe I never will be. I don't love my kids any more. I am no more proud of their accomplishments. I am no more heartbroken by their pain and I am no less frustrated when they are difficult. But our journey to them was different, life altering in fact, and I suspect that it has changed the way I will view parenthood forever.

Quatro

...or more accurately, Quatra, is here. She arrived a month early, but perfectly healthy. And beautiful. And wonderful. I am still pinching myself. As happy as I was to be a mom to my son, I am doubly happy to be a mom to my son and daughter. Being a minivan-driving stay-at-home mom to the ever so mundane family of four- one boy, one girl (how very June Cleaver!) might sounds like unadulterated hell to some. I am not one of them. I am downright giddy, possibly pathologically so. No, it is not always perfect. In fact, it is never perfect and is sometimes even really rough. But one of the gifts of infertility is that when you have experienced the lowest low, the highs are that much higher and even the ordinary middle ground seems pretty darn good. As for my earlier proclamation that my uterus is closed for business... perhaps a Cinco wouldn't be the worst thing ever? A decision for another day (and for God, since I have long since learned that it's not our decision anyway). Today, I am happy. Truly happy.

Hello Again...

Yep, it's been a long time. Again. It's not that there has been nothing to say. It's just that sometimes it seems easier to write when you are in pain, frustrated, worried, or hurting. It's cathartic to put those emotions down. It's easier to throw sarcasm and anger at the world than it is to say, "Everything's... just fine." Don't misunderstand. I am blissfully happy with "just fine." It's just that I don't feel as compelled to write about it because I'd rather just be living it.

It's been ten months since we moved to our new town. While the house will probably not be the way I want it for years, it's fine for now. And I love living in it, and I love the neighborhood we're in. My husband's job is going well. His hours are very good and his partners treat him well. Sure, he has normal work frustrations, but nothing compared to what he had before we moved. The boy and I have settled into a comfortable routine. We spend our mornings at gymnastics or music class or the library story time or play group. And in the afternoons we play at home, often times with Daddy who is generally home by then. We've both made some good friends. We are happy.

My son is undeniably two. He tests the boundaries at every turn and loudly and angrily protests not getting his way. There are days I am doing well not to be halfway through my third bottle of wine by the time my husband gets home. But, all of that is normal (both for him and me) and his rapidly exploding vocabulary and grasp of the world is so amazing that the less desirable parts of living with a toddler just fade away.

And the pregnancy. After our rough beginning, it's so routine now that I sometimes forget to be continually amazed that I really am pregnant again. As of today I am 28 weeks along, in my last trimester. The baby appears to healthy, and is very active. We've had no further complications since 10 weeks. I am in the habit of not counting unhatched chickens, however I can't seem to shake the feeling that I might have two children soon.

So. That's all there is. See how boring that was? Blissfully boring, if you ask me.

Thankful...

This time of the year is sentimental for everyone. But it's really not uncommon to see me with tears in my eyes during the holiday season. It holds so much emotion.

I spent too many years sad at Christmas. I was always thankful for my family, my husband, the roof over my head, the food on our table and health. And I always knew that all of that is SO much more than so many people have. But at Christmas, there are reminders everywhere of children. They line up for Santa at the mall. They appear in sentimental commercials where they innocently sneak down the stairs to wait for Santa. They are adorable in the church Christmas Eve pageant. And our home was deafeningly quiet on Christmas morning. It was hard to be happy at a time when everywhere I turned I was reminded of the one thing that was missing. All I could do was wonder if it would ever be my turn to hold a tiny hand in the line for Santa; to make angel wings for the Christmas Eve pageant; to hear my child's laughter on Christmas morning.

And then three years ago on December 7, in a lab in North Carolina, 13 embryos came to be. Five days on December 12, three of them were placed back in my uterus. And five days before Christmas, my husband (who fielded all phone calls from the doctor to save me from hearing bad news from a stranger) told me that I was pregnant. Not for the first time. But for the first time the numbers looked very promising. The day before Christmas Eve he told me that the numbers were rising perfectly. By all indications, everything looked promising. And so for the first time ever on Christmas 2005, not even 5 weeks pregnant, I allowed myself to dream. One year later, on Christmas morning 2006, I had in my arms the most precious gift God can give. My infant son, perfect and healthy. And the memory of the prior Christmases, so filled with grief and longing, so filled with terrified hope, were as vivid as ever. The memory of pain will be with me forever, but the pain itself is gone. Now my Christmases include holding a tiny hand in the line for Santa, dressing my beautiful (yes, I am biased, but he seriously is) son in his Christmas best for Christmas Eve church and hearing his little feet pitter patter around to look at his presents on Christmas morning. And it seems as if next year we will add another little one to the mix.

So this season holds for me the memory of past hurt, the memory of desperate hope, and now a level of gratitude that can never be expressed with my feeble writing. Thankful... yes. So very, very thankful.

A New Day

It is gorgeous here. The weather is unseasonably warm (oh, who am I kidding... not really unseasonable for Texas), but not hot. The sky is that gorgeous deep blue of a clear autumn day and white clouds are floating in the sky. May sound idyllic and contrived, but it isn't. That's what sort of day it is. And it fits my mood to a T. I feel happy, peaceful, sunny and idyllic. I feel hopeful and excited. I feel patriotic and proud. I knew I wanted him to win. I voted for him. But I didn't realize how badly I wanted it until I woke up this morning feeling every happy emotion I can conjure. I am inspired. WE are inspired. I am ready. WE are ready. My son will never know a day when there was no way a minority could hold the highest office in the land. He will never think it odd that the children in the White House aren't white. It's not often that a parent is glad that things are the way they are now rather than wishing that they were like they used to be. But this is one of those times. I am so proud of this country. I am so proud to be an American (cue Lee Greenwood). I feel like standing on my roof today and cheering (which, unfortunately in my neck of the woods would probably result in me a-gettin' lynched by an angry mob). I feel light and free. Yes, we can. And yes, we did. And I for one think it's going to be a great four years.

"Penis is crying"

This is what my son said to me tonight. I'm not sure of he was referring to the fact that he'd just peed in the shower or if his penis was just feeling a little sad (it happens), but for whatever reason penis was crying.

One of the joys of living with a toddler is getting a glimpse into their view of the world. Today he told me that he wanted to go up into the clouds. When I asked him how we'd get there he said, "Take big steps." The he decided that there was a doggie in the clouds that needed feeding, so he started throwing imaginary food up into the sky. After his shower tonight he informed me that his shoes were tired. I love hearing his take on things. He is surprising. And creative. And funny. And lately, cranky. But we can overlook that for all the other things. Two is tough. And so very fun.

So, this baby. It's another little IVF miracle. It was an abysmal cycle and I don't think anyone expected it to work, least of all me. But, here I am. Fourteen weeks pregnant. I believe in God and I thank Him nightly because this one sure shouldn't have happened. It didn't go well at first. There was a hemorrhage between the baby's sack and my uterus, but hopefully that is resolving. Hopefully the next 26 weeks will pass with a live and healthy baby being born uneventfully at the end. And if that happens, I plan to close my uterus for business forever.

Lucas, who has absolutely no concept of what it all means (and how can he, really... when we ourselves had no idea when we brought him home?), has taken it all in stride. He points at my tummy when asked where the baby is. He answers "Quatro" when asked what we will name the baby. We're not sure why he chose the name Quatro, but it seems fitting for the fourth member of our family. He's probably a genius.

So. Crying penises. Hungry dogs in the sky. Baby in belly. Just another boring day.

Uno, Dos, Tres...

...Quatro (my sweet son's chosen name for the fourth member of our family- pretty dang smart, if you ask me)

Due to join us on quatro de Mayo.

Why I Love Him

... my husband, I mean. The other night while I was showering, a memory surfaced. I'm not sure why it picked that specific moment to come up (I have my ideas, but that's a story for another day).

When I was 17 weeks pregnant with my son, we had our "big ultrasound" (where you find out the sex, but we didn't because we're the ones who enjoy driving everyone else nuts by not "needing to prepare"). Instead, we found out that my triple screen (for neural tube defects and genetic abnormalities) had come back abnormal and that there were some abnormalities on the ultrasound that were markers for genetic problems. One evening while we were still reeling from all of that, I was lying on the couch and had a huge gush of blood. I. was. terrified. It's funny how your brain protects itself. I was too scared to think at all, yet I had the presence of mind to gather all reminders of what had just happened and the pregnancy itself and put them away. I was so sure that the next time I walked through my front door I would no longer be pregnant.

The car ride to the hospital and wait in the emergency room were like a dream... a bad one. I didn't know what was going on inside, but I did know that it was bad. And it had to be over. It was too good to be true after all. I was numb, not really processing much. When they put the doppler on my belly and we immediately heard a strong "whoosh whoosh whoosh," I cried. I wasn't sure if it was relief that the baby was still alive or horror that I was about to deliver a live, healthy, very non-viable baby because my body was failing again. At one point they told me that they saw some tissue (like ruptured membranes) coming out, later they said no, it was just blood. Finally there was an ultrasound and we were no closer to figuring out what was going on. Over the course of hours and several doctors, we began to understand that I wasn't dilated, they didn't think my membranes were ruptured, the baby was doing well, and nobody knew where the bleeding was coming from. I was to be admitted overnight for observation.

While I waited in the ED for a room upstairs, my husband ran home to take care of the dogs and get clothes. Throughout the whole ordeal, he'd never shown any sign that he was shaken at all. And I was too distraught to realize that of course he was. He just calmly led me through the motions, held my hand tight when we listened for the heartbeat and when I got a catheter, sat close to me, joked, but only at the right time. He later told me that when he walked out of the hospital, he called our families to explain what was happening. First my family to ask them to call me since he was worried about leaving me alone. And then his. As soon as his mom answered the phone, finally relieved of his duty to be the strong one, finally able to be the frightened parent, he broke down and couldn't talk. Of all that we experienced that day, that is the only part of the story that still brings tears to my eyes.

I love him because he is my rock, and man do I need one. I love him because he's stood right by my side through the hell we've endured in our quest for parenthood. I love him because we've weathered storms together and understand this experience mutually. I love him because he allows me to grieve our losses in my own way. I love him because he loves being a Dad as much as I love being a Mom. And I love him because he is a darn good one, just ask our son.

And Disneyland Rides in on His White Horse

I have belonged to an online community for women experiencing pregnancy after IVF since I was pregnant with my son. Though I have actually only met two of them in real life, I consider many of them friends and value their opinions highly. It's a unique mixture of intelligent, thoughtful, well-educated women bonded by a heartbreaking journey followed by the happiness of succeeding at one of life's fundamental joys. Being pregnant after failing for so long to either become and/or stay pregnant, while wonderful, can be really scary. Years of failure condition you to believe it will always be that way. You are painfully aware that it could all be taken away at any moment. The early days of parenting, I believe, are a shock for anyone. As it turns out, it is not a Hallmark commercial: calm and adoring mother, simply glowing in the light of her new little cherub, holding sleeping said cherub closely to her overflowing breasts while proud, admiring papa stands by ready to help in any way necessary as a soft light spills ever so gently through the sheer, billowing curtains. Noooo, not quite. And this can be a very big shock to someone who has been dreaming of and praying for this scene with increasing fervor over the course of years. So this community of women is a fantastic source of support and information for those of us navigating through a situation which often nobody we know in real life has.

In any case, there is a saying on the board oft-quoted to new moms who are somewhat dismayed to find that they spend all day caring for baby and the moment Dad walks in the door, baby couldn't care less if Mom is around or not. "Daddy is Disneyland." This is often true. Mom fixes boo-boos. Dad is fun. Mom cooks meals. Dad is fun. Mom finds the favorite shirt. Dad is fun. You get the idea. But, you know, that's not always a bad thing. Parents are different for a reason and having the different influences of each in a child's life is healthy and balancing, I believe. And, at least in our household, Dad has earned his Disneyland status.

After my last post, I had a little chat with myself about my lack of patience, did some reading on toddler behavior and discipline and woke up the next morning calmer and ready to respond to two-year-old-ism with a calm yet firm, rational yet loving approach. Additionally, I informed Disneyland that he would have to take Toddler to the park from time to time and give Mom a break. Which he happily agreed to. I also asked that he start giving baths since the transition from play to bath was a guaranteed battle at a time of day when I am generally running low on patience. He agreed to this as well. So the first night, instead of my method of giving a 5-minute warning, 4-minute warning, 3-minute warning, 2 minute warning, 1-minute warning, 30-second warning, etc. and then declaring it time for a bath, only to be met with a very angry toddler, towing said toddler up the stairs, wailing all the way... INSTEAD of all that, he simply said, "Hey, Toddler (not his actual name, you understand), race you upstairs!" and took off running. And heck if it didn't work. Second night, same thing. No crying. In fact, he GIGGLED all the way up the stairs. Well, duh! Why didn't I think of that? So Disneyland has saved the day (or rather, the night time routine). And I am fine with that. Peaceful evenings, happy Mommy. Thank God for Disneyland Daddy.

I am also happy to report that another bit of wisdom from my online community is also true. "Toddlers are like dogs. They can smell fear." Once I had a more solid plan for dealing with the tantrums and my frustration, he sensed that I am no longer afraid and hasn't even bothered. We're down from 3 meltdowns an hour to one a day. Haven't even had a time out in two days. I know that every day won't be so easy, but I feel like I've had a minor victory and that's enough for me.

Mommy Crappy

We spent last week as a family on vacation (at least two of us were) in the southwest. One of us was taking what we hope will be the last exam for the next 10 years. So my son and I came along to see a new city and have a little get away. Here's the thing. Two-year-olds don't really enjoy get-aways. At least my particular two-year-old doesn't. He'd rather be in his own house playing with his own toys and sleeping in his own bed. And when asking nicely for those things failed to get him anywhere, he resorted to making our lives just as miserable as his apparently was. Our last two days were spent listening to a screaming toddler object (LOUDLY) to every. single. thing. that happened. I was tired, hot (it was a hundred and freaking five degrees there), and my patience quickly wore quite thin.

Since being home, things have improved. A little. Which leads me to believe that some of his acting out was because he was tired and out of his element. And the rest was because he's two. And that's not going away anytime soon. We do battle a hundred times a day. In the car he wants me to get the toy he's just thrown onto the floorboard. At mealtimes, he wants more bread without having taken a single bite of vegetables. At night, transitioning from play to bathtime is a guaranteed tantrum. He screams at the top of his lungs. Time outs are ineffective. He'll happily sit in his time out spot for 2 minutes. Take away a toy- he couldn't care less. Yelling and hitting aren't options (for me, anyway), so I'm at a loss. And my patience, unfortunately, has not improved much at all.

I've been through med school so I am not at all unfamiliar with feeling like a total moron. But parenting has brought that feeling to a whole new level. Just when you are starting to feel confident- you're in a routine, everyone thinks your kid is great, you're in a happily symbiotic relationship- they up and change the game. And you're back to bumbling idiot. I always thought that parents had until their kids were teens to find out how little they (the parents) know. But, it happens from day one. How do I handle this? Why do they do that? Am I doing it right? How badly am I messing up?

A month ago I was happy Mommy. Today I feel like crappy Mommy.

Mommy Happy

Yes, so it's been 5 months since I've updated. Whoops. To sum up: got pregnant, moved to new town, got unpregnant, made some new friends, settled in, playgroups, playdates, played trains. And here we are.

This past weekend, my dear sweet son turned TWO years old! It amazes me that two years have passed since those emotion-filled, exhausted, hormonal, foggy first days of his life. They were happy, certainly, but a combination of health worries (him) and hormonal psychosis (me) and the reality of caring for a newborn and the absolute unfathomable enormity of finally having a child was just too much for me to really process at the time. Two years later, I still marvel that it finally happened, but I can generally (not always) do it without bursting into tears.

Our journey to him was rocky and unsettling. It was lonely and scary. It was isolating and hopeless. But, ultimately it was rewarding. And it was the journey that was meant for us. It has forever changed me. I am less confident, but also less arrogant. I trust less in myself, but more in God. I am less sure it will all be as I want it, but more sure that it WILL be ok. I am less likely to worry over insignificant things, and more likely to empathize with someone who is hurting. I am more aware of the possibility of it all being taken away, but I am more likely to enjoy even the smallest things. I catch in others glimpses of who I was and who I imagine I would be today without having traveled this road. And I am happier to be who I am now.

Motherhood is the most difficult task I've ever worked at. It is all-consuming. Once you are a mother, you are never NOT a mother. No matter where you are and who you are with, the reality remains that there is a human out there who is relying on you for something (food, safety, emotional guidance, education, medical care, transportation, prayers...). And never have I been more excited to work so hard. Never have I been more vested in the task at hand and the outcome. It's not easy. And it's not always happy. And it doesn't always bring out my best. But more often than not, it is phenomenal. More often than not, it is so wonderful it's hard to believe anything can be this good.

Tonight I was putting my son to bed. He was uncharacteristically snuggly, leaning his head firmly into my chest and holding one of my hands on his face. He would talk quietly to me for a minute, then we would rock in silence for awhile. I was loving every moment of this unanticipated moment of intimacy. Suddenly he spoke up. "Mommy happy." I couldn't have said it better myself, kiddo.

I Just Want This, Nothing More

Sometimes kids are very wise. This past weekend my son participated in his first Easter egg hunts. He caught on very quickly. The only thing he didn't really understand was the goal of collecting as many eggs as you can as fast as you can. He who gets the most wins. Instead, he'd find an egg, run to us with it in his outstretched little chubby hand, shake it, laughing, open it to see what was inside. Each egg he found was new, interesting, and enough for him. He could have picked up one and been perfectly happy to explore it. It was so very innocent and so very sweet. It saddens me to think that all too soon he will develop the "more, more, more" mentality.

It was a good lesson in being satisfied with what you have. It got me thinking about the morality of wanting another child so badly. Looking at my life from the perspective of most people, there is nothing to want. I have a wonderful, kind, well-employed husband, a beautiful, healthy son, the ability to stay home with him if I choose and the ability to work if I want to, a nice house in a nice neighborhood, food on the table, and so on. So why not just be content? I tell myself that if I am not happy now, another child isn't going to solve that. And I believe that to be true. It's not that I am not happy. I am so very grateful for the things I have. And if I never have another child, I will still be grateful. But I will also be somewhat empty. When we announced that we might not be able to have another, a well-meaning friend (whose wife was gigantically pregnant with their second) said, "Well, at least you have one." That's what I thought too before we had him. Please, just let me have one. (Be careful what you ask for.) The problem is that the desire is just as strong for the second, only in a different way. Before my son, I just wanted to be a mother. I wanted to share my life and home with a child. I had no idea what it would be like and I didn't care if the child was genetically mine. Now I know. Now I know how it feels to see and hear your baby's heartbeat for the first time, to feel those little kicks, to give birth, to nurse a baby. Those things mean so much to me. Obviously, there are ways for us to have a child without me being pregnant and I hope that if pregnancy is impossible, we can successfully pursue repeat parenthood in another way. But it will leave an empty place if my body can't participate again. I wish I could follow my son's lead and be perfectly content with this one, never needing another. But my son is the very one who is making that so hard.

Too Dumb To Conceive?

I know such a thing doesn't exist. I mean just look at some of the people who get pregnant... over and over and over and... But, I have made a colossal parenting mistake. I have done the dumbest thing imaginable. And I am wondering if that's why this cycle failed (yes it did, thanks for asking). I am wondering if God in his infinite wisdom is sitting up there saying, "Oh for the love of pete. How can you expect me to give you another one when you can't manage to learn the number one rule of parenting after EIGHTEEN MONTHS? Come on, give me something to work with here."

I have woken the child and it is now nearly midnight and I am not in bed because I have been battling him over going back to sleep for the past hour. Every night, I go check on him before going to bed. I stand over his crib, watch his chest rise and fall, notice how long he is now, look at the way his hair spills over his face, admire his small hands relaxed on his sheets. Partly it is my time to reflect on what a blessing he is, how unimaginably strong my love for him is, how grateful I am. And partly it is a superstitious ritual... if I make sure he's breathing before I go to bed, I guarantee that he will still be breathing when I wake up. Anyway, on this particular night as soon as I opened the door, his head popped up. I quickly retreated, but dared not close the door. No crying, all was well. Here's where the stupid comes in. I went back up AGAIN to try to grab some diapers that were on his floor so I could toss them in the wash (oh yes, I cloth diaper... you have idea the depth of my ubermom-ness). Stupid. Sleep more important than laundry. So I am inching in his door along the floor, hand on the diapers when he looks up again. I hastily retreat AGAIN, loudly banging into every solid surface on the way out. Still, no crying. And, oh my god, if I didn't attempt AGAIN. I decided I really needed to shut his door so that C doesn't wake him up when he goes to work in the morning, so I went back, pulled the door shut, discovered that it really needs WD40, and that was the end of my luck. He started crying. That was an hour and a half ago, and here I still sit. I managed to wiggle out of his room by lying a quilt on the floor with some pillows under it, jetting out the door while he wasn't looking, then admonishing "Lie down!" and "Shhh!" from the door so he thinks I am still there. Either that, or he's sitting in his crib rolling his eyes wondering how dumb I think he is.

So we'll start a new cycle immediately. Another frozen transfer. I fully expect the RE to recommend the same protocol, an idea with which I fully disagree. Four cycles of the exact same thing with the exact same results is my limit. We do something new, or I find someone new. Hopefully in the meantime I can gain some sense... I'm sure that's all it'll take. I mean, look at Jamie Lynn.

PUPO

It means "pregnant until proven otherwise." It means, to IVFers, that the embryos are in and until the blood pregnancy test there is a chance that you're pregnant. My natural inclination is to think of myself as NPUPO (not pregnant...). Go about my normal routine (you know, the fifths of whisky, the late night parties, the 2-pack-a-day habit, etc.) and try to completely forget the possibility. I mean, looking at this objectively, the things we have going against us are:

31 days of unopposed estrogen stimulation to get a decent lining
By "decent," I mean "horrible"
The possibility of uterine scarring remaining
Two lousy embryos that I am sure were still partially frozen
Me not taking it easy after the transfer AT ALL
3 frozen transfers under our belt, none successful

And here's what we have going for us:

Um... uh... um...

BUT, I am attempting to stay positive. Because the truth of the matter is that with infertility treatments there is no forgetting, there is no pretending that everything is normal and there is no way to protect your heart from the disappointment when it doesn't work. So you might as well enjoy the possibility while it still exists.

My husband has implored me to write something normal in my blog. He wants me to stop being so dreary and try to be more of a "dancing through fields of lilies while bluebirds sing on my shoulder" kind of gal. Huh. I thought I was funny. Guess not.

This past weekend, we made a trip to his family's farm. It is near the town we are moving to next month. We now have a house under contract and got to walk through it again. It's a new construction and is not done yet. But we are really excited about it. It's a 2-story in a neighborhood with a pool, tennis courts, basketball courts and hiking trails. It's on over an acre of land. It has an open floor plan, an awesome kitchen, custom cabinets, lots of built in storage, hardwood floors, faux paint finishes, a media room... It's cool. Right now I only have pics on my husband's cell phone, but next time I'll bring the camera and post some. (Was that normal enough?)

6 days until beta. Tick... tock... tick... tock...

At Least I Can Say My Endometrium is Skinny

It's been awhile. I haven't had much to say. As for the cliffhanger of the last post, did anyone expect me to really delay they cycle? Yes? Really? Well, no... wrong, wrong-o. I didn't. And since that was a whole month ago, I'm sure it'd be logical to expect some sort of announcement here. Nope. This has been the worst frozen embryo cycle in history, and we're not even to the meat of the cycle yet. I did scurry around getting this and that signed, talking to one lab, then the other, then the other, etc. until our embryos arrived safe and frozen here. Glad I was in such a big hurry because my first lining check resulted in a ridiculously tissue paper thin lining where no respectable embryo would attempt to snuggle in for nine month. Upped the estrogen, after another week we'd made minimal progress. At this point the doctor conceded to check my estrogen levels and lo and behold they weren't high enough. So we upped again and finally my lining was ready (and when I say ready I mean still entirely too thin for this to actually work, but thick enough that it did work once for someone, somewhere, so my doc feels justified in proceeding). Four weeks of estrogen and a lining other uteruses would point and laugh at and call "toothpick". Soooo... I have started progesterone in oil shots (PIO, to those of us in the know... PIA if you ask me). These are delightful little squirts of progesterone in olive oil right in the tushy muscle every night. Hopefully for 12 weeks. Walking not so good right now. And the little embryos are slated to be killed, I mean transferred on Friday. The nurses keep acting excited and hopeful. I feel kind of bad for them. I feel like I need to sit them down and say, "Look, it's good to have hope, but we need to be realistic here. I just don't want you to be too devastated when this doesn't work. There will be other tries." Honestly it surprises me somewhat when I hear their optimism because I keep forgetting that the point is to get pregnant. I feel like we're just cleaning out the freezer, so to speak, so that we can decide what to do next.

On a wholly unrelated and much happier note, we are a-moving. Hubs got a job in the same town as our alma mater. Said job promises better pay for better hours, so we're going. As of today we will have submitted an offer on a house that we fully expect the builder to laugh at, but it's worth a shot. Cross your fingers for us (and maybe your toes too just in case I might have the tiniest amount of hope for the aforementioned "thing").

How Much Do You Trust FedEx?

Would you trust them with your kids? What about your frozen globs of potential kids? We need to have our 12 frozen embryos shipped from our old stomping grounds in NC here to TX so that they can be transferred into my uterus where they will promptly raise their tiny cellular middle fingers at me and fling themselves out of my cervix, having lost all will to live (apparantly, judging by our past success, my uterus is like a shady Motel 6 with cockroaches on the floor and suspicious stains on the sheets and crackheads next door... no place for proper refined embryos... my son must have low standards). I have dragged my feet on this task mainly because it involves getting 35,000 pieces of paper from various sources plus my husband, a notary and me in the same place all at once and that has proved almost impossible. (Hey... sounds like a good joke... "A husband, a notary and an infertile walk into a bar..."). Without officially signed pieces of paper, the labs that currently house our embryos won't ship them and the lab here won't receive them. And now suddenly I find myself starting a cycle in which embryos are supposed to be put in me and said embryos are half way across the country. I am torn between giving up on this month but trying to get them here for next month and spending all day talking to labs, finding a notary, throwing him into the back of a speeding white van with no windows (ski mask on my face, obviously), binding and gagging him, dragging him into the OR where my husband is busily giving his patients happy drugs, taking a hit for myself, getting those papers signed and overnighted, and hoping that FedEx pulls through for me.