May this year be the one for those still waiting and in pain.
May it bring peace to those who have come to terms with their journey.
May it bring happiness to you and yours.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Time Machine
If I had access to a time machine, I'd go back two, maybe three years and tell myself (damn, was I thin back then! So unfair!) that a baby would come into my life and not to despair.
Then I'd check into a nice hotel and sleep for 48 hours.
Then I'd check into a nice hotel and sleep for 48 hours.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
And on the "small" front...
I can't tell you how many people have told me they weighed only 3 lbs or 4 lbs at birth.
And none of them are hobbits.
Bruiser has also caused several older men to talk to my man about their struggles with infertility.
I'm eager for the day when that pain and loss can be spoken of more openly.
And none of them are hobbits.
Bruiser has also caused several older men to talk to my man about their struggles with infertility.
I'm eager for the day when that pain and loss can be spoken of more openly.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Sometimes I have no idea
Where I've gone. The me who used to do all sorts of stuff? Gone. The new me spends the day strategizing how to poop with a restless baby who refuses to be put down for more than 10 minutes.
Sigh.
Sigh.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The requisite 6 week post
Midwife: So, what are you planning for birth control?
Me: [face begins to contort into predictable reaction]
Midwife: No laughing!
Me: [face begins to contort into predictable reaction]
Midwife: No laughing!
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Shame and Itty Bitty Baby Etiquette
Lots of people comment on Bruiser's petit size--though he's grown from 5 lbs to 8 in a month. And it makes me and my husband furious. Small is equated with defective or sickly in American baby culture--though B is neither.
But his size has been a source of secret shame for us both. So much so that in a fit of anger my guy suggested keeping him safe at home until he catches up with his bulkier peers.
Of course we take him everywhere safe--no hospitals or mine shafts, natch--but the feeling of wanting the world to understand that your child isn't some weak little pipsqueak persists. He's a fighter who is beating the odds. Worse still is the crushing shame of being ashamed of the person you love so deeply.
Moral: if you want to marvel at someone's preemie, praise their perfection or charm, not their itty bitty-ness. Just like the "Do you have kids?" question, harmless comments hurt.
But his size has been a source of secret shame for us both. So much so that in a fit of anger my guy suggested keeping him safe at home until he catches up with his bulkier peers.
Of course we take him everywhere safe--no hospitals or mine shafts, natch--but the feeling of wanting the world to understand that your child isn't some weak little pipsqueak persists. He's a fighter who is beating the odds. Worse still is the crushing shame of being ashamed of the person you love so deeply.
Moral: if you want to marvel at someone's preemie, praise their perfection or charm, not their itty bitty-ness. Just like the "Do you have kids?" question, harmless comments hurt.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Why IF will make you a better parent
Why? Well, here's a short list...
1. You already know what it's like to breakdown at 3 AM when all the world's asleep. Hell, you're used to missing sleep due to anxiety, sorrow, despair. And you know how to get past it.
2. All the hormones postpartum? They rock compared to Lupron, Follistim, etc etc. Oxytocin is a hell of a drug.
3. You're used to being an outlier, and having to do hard shit to accomplish your goals.
4. You're used to having little to no control over things. That helps when your baby is going bonkers for no particular reason.
5. You're a warrior and tough as nails. Even if you don't feel that way.
6. You are totally, totally ready for this. You've thought way more about what you want and need than most whoops parents.
7. Finally, while having a baby does not solve all your problems or guarantee your happiness, it certainly solves the problem that's been oppressing you for years/months/eons. Which makes all the challenges very easy to bear.
1. You already know what it's like to breakdown at 3 AM when all the world's asleep. Hell, you're used to missing sleep due to anxiety, sorrow, despair. And you know how to get past it.
2. All the hormones postpartum? They rock compared to Lupron, Follistim, etc etc. Oxytocin is a hell of a drug.
3. You're used to being an outlier, and having to do hard shit to accomplish your goals.
4. You're used to having little to no control over things. That helps when your baby is going bonkers for no particular reason.
5. You're a warrior and tough as nails. Even if you don't feel that way.
6. You are totally, totally ready for this. You've thought way more about what you want and need than most whoops parents.
7. Finally, while having a baby does not solve all your problems or guarantee your happiness, it certainly solves the problem that's been oppressing you for years/months/eons. Which makes all the challenges very easy to bear.
Friday, October 30, 2009
EDD magic
Just like that, lil' B started preferring boob to bottle and sleeping less. He's growing like crazy, too! So all the mad and maddening pumping worked.
How nice, to be normal in this department. For once.
How nice, to be normal in this department. For once.
Monday, October 19, 2009
In the wee hours
...this has what's been running through my head. (Thanks, Tim and Eric! Thanks a lot.)
Because pumping, it's not just a minor part of infant care. It's a fucking way of life, yo.
Because pumping, it's not just a minor part of infant care. It's a fucking way of life, yo.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
The mysteries of "near term"
This is going to be one of those information posts, the virtual breadcrumbs that maybe will be of help to someone out there with a little one born around 37 weeks. Not of much interest to those of you still in the trenches, and only relevant to kids born 36-37 weeks.
Bruiser was typical for many guys his gestational age and/or size: He was strong and a good breather, very active and aware for the first few days and able to get his needs met by nursing. He took to the boob like nobody's business.
Then he stopped. Fortunately for us, our hospital is very, very pro-breastfeeding. We talked to lactation consultants, finally working with a wonderful woman who got us supplementing him with some donor breast milk (our state is one of a mere handful with these amazing institutions--we IFers should rally for more, as they can be real lifelines for premies until your milk arrives) using a little syringe. That kept him from losing much weight.
Now, as near-term babies often face difficulties nursing from the breast, we're continuing to supplement, albeit with my milk. I pump--yes, do go and rent that hospital-grade pump to establish your supply; it's worth every penny--and we feed him with a lactation-consultant approved bottle (and you know it's a decent option if your totally holistic wise woman lactation consultant suggests it).
Now he's already over his birth weight, way before that's expected and he's learning how to nurse a bit more consistently thanks to a nipple shield.
These little near termers also do really well skin to skin, like earlier premies, and need to sleep more to get their grow on. Bruiser is a master napper, though he did exhibit signs the first few days of struggling to stay asleep, another typical pattern for these babies. We've been told to expect a major shift in his behavior at around his EDD, so I'm looking forward to the 40-week mark, when I can just stick him on the boob and be done with it.
Just wanted to put this out there. This approach is based on newish research, and not all pediatricians and obs are aware of the nuances of this particular gestational age, as they usually do splendidly in the hospital, only to face challenges after discharge. My husband thinks of it like the banana bread that just needs a minute or two more in the oven to be just right.
Bruiser was typical for many guys his gestational age and/or size: He was strong and a good breather, very active and aware for the first few days and able to get his needs met by nursing. He took to the boob like nobody's business.
Then he stopped. Fortunately for us, our hospital is very, very pro-breastfeeding. We talked to lactation consultants, finally working with a wonderful woman who got us supplementing him with some donor breast milk (our state is one of a mere handful with these amazing institutions--we IFers should rally for more, as they can be real lifelines for premies until your milk arrives) using a little syringe. That kept him from losing much weight.
Now, as near-term babies often face difficulties nursing from the breast, we're continuing to supplement, albeit with my milk. I pump--yes, do go and rent that hospital-grade pump to establish your supply; it's worth every penny--and we feed him with a lactation-consultant approved bottle (and you know it's a decent option if your totally holistic wise woman lactation consultant suggests it).
Now he's already over his birth weight, way before that's expected and he's learning how to nurse a bit more consistently thanks to a nipple shield.
These little near termers also do really well skin to skin, like earlier premies, and need to sleep more to get their grow on. Bruiser is a master napper, though he did exhibit signs the first few days of struggling to stay asleep, another typical pattern for these babies. We've been told to expect a major shift in his behavior at around his EDD, so I'm looking forward to the 40-week mark, when I can just stick him on the boob and be done with it.
Just wanted to put this out there. This approach is based on newish research, and not all pediatricians and obs are aware of the nuances of this particular gestational age, as they usually do splendidly in the hospital, only to face challenges after discharge. My husband thinks of it like the banana bread that just needs a minute or two more in the oven to be just right.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Deliverance
"Their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness."
I gave birth last Friday. All is well.
It didn't start out that way. We went to our 37 week appointment with our midwife. We had a non-reactive NST. Not a sign a doom, but definitely not good. So they gave me an ultrasound. My fluid was finally, actually low and Bruiser had not grown in a week.
The conclusion: induction. We reported to the hospital two hours later, after an emotional and swift housecleaning and a buffalo burger. The plan: start with Cervadil, move to amniotomy, and then pitocin to kick start labor. I was only 1 cm, 50% effaced, so we had what looked like a long road ahead. Vaginal was our ideal, but if Bruiser had shown any signs of distress, I was going on a one-way trip to C-Section Town.
I, in my infinite IF gloom, expected the worst. I settled in for a lengthy, likely painful and disappointing experience. As long as he was okay.
But that's not what happened. Bruiser perked up and seemed to be tolerating everything just fine. At three AM, I began to feel somewhat crampy, as I had been told I would. I got up with a telemetry unit and walked around starting at around 4 AM, finally waddling back to our room at around 5, when I noticed a clear pattern to the crampy feelings. They weren't particularly painful until about an hour later, when our doula arrived and she and my man worked ardently to help me with comfort measures.
Before I knew it, I was convinced I had to poop. It felt like I had terrible constipation, and I really wanted it out of my system before the real labor started. But then the pain kicked in, pain that pushed me into a whole other realm of existance. Everything disappeared around me. I ripped my monitors off, with the nurse's blessing. I crawled around on my hands and knees, yelling for about 15 minutes, until the nurse encourage me, my man, and our doula to get me onto the bed. She did the gentlest digital exam ever (I didn't feel it and didn't care). I asked, desperate, "Am I in transition?"
"You're having this baby now!" she laughed. And I pushed him out in three, irresistable pushes, bellowing with something so deep and primal, I felt as if some other force had taken over my body.
It wasn't an orgasmic birth, but it was profoundly powerful. He was born at 7:40 in the morning, crying and screaming and kicking. He was tiny, but perfect and perfectly healthy. I barely bled (for someone giving birth) and I was up and walking just an hour or so later (no one got a chance to tell me not to go pee yet, so I just up and went).
I was blessed. And that experience, that incredible, unbelievable good fortune, has blasted a huge hole in the wall of grief and bitterness. There is deliverance. There is.
I gave birth last Friday. All is well.
It didn't start out that way. We went to our 37 week appointment with our midwife. We had a non-reactive NST. Not a sign a doom, but definitely not good. So they gave me an ultrasound. My fluid was finally, actually low and Bruiser had not grown in a week.
The conclusion: induction. We reported to the hospital two hours later, after an emotional and swift housecleaning and a buffalo burger. The plan: start with Cervadil, move to amniotomy, and then pitocin to kick start labor. I was only 1 cm, 50% effaced, so we had what looked like a long road ahead. Vaginal was our ideal, but if Bruiser had shown any signs of distress, I was going on a one-way trip to C-Section Town.
I, in my infinite IF gloom, expected the worst. I settled in for a lengthy, likely painful and disappointing experience. As long as he was okay.
But that's not what happened. Bruiser perked up and seemed to be tolerating everything just fine. At three AM, I began to feel somewhat crampy, as I had been told I would. I got up with a telemetry unit and walked around starting at around 4 AM, finally waddling back to our room at around 5, when I noticed a clear pattern to the crampy feelings. They weren't particularly painful until about an hour later, when our doula arrived and she and my man worked ardently to help me with comfort measures.
Before I knew it, I was convinced I had to poop. It felt like I had terrible constipation, and I really wanted it out of my system before the real labor started. But then the pain kicked in, pain that pushed me into a whole other realm of existance. Everything disappeared around me. I ripped my monitors off, with the nurse's blessing. I crawled around on my hands and knees, yelling for about 15 minutes, until the nurse encourage me, my man, and our doula to get me onto the bed. She did the gentlest digital exam ever (I didn't feel it and didn't care). I asked, desperate, "Am I in transition?"
"You're having this baby now!" she laughed. And I pushed him out in three, irresistable pushes, bellowing with something so deep and primal, I felt as if some other force had taken over my body.
It wasn't an orgasmic birth, but it was profoundly powerful. He was born at 7:40 in the morning, crying and screaming and kicking. He was tiny, but perfect and perfectly healthy. I barely bled (for someone giving birth) and I was up and walking just an hour or so later (no one got a chance to tell me not to go pee yet, so I just up and went).
I was blessed. And that experience, that incredible, unbelievable good fortune, has blasted a huge hole in the wall of grief and bitterness. There is deliverance. There is.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Redemption
Another gal from my childbirth class just delivered and sent out a very joyous email to everyone. It really hit me, how inadequate I feel whenever I see something like that. The quiet litany begins: she didn't have to struggle for years to have her baby. She didn't have losses (that I know of). She didn't gain fifty pounds, only to grow some five-pound baby everyone's shitting themselves over. Oh no, she got a nice vaginal birth the way she wanted.
Fuck her, says the still bitter IFer.
I know why I still feel this way. Because I'll never be able to send out an email like that. Not that I don't have every intention of giving birth and coming home with a live child (with any luck at all). It's that for me, no matter how crappy my birth experience, if Bruiser makes it and is basically healthy, there will be no words. It's going to be something like the motherfucking fall of Barad Dur. The end of an entire reign of terror and darkness.
How do you send that kind of redemption around in an email? "Hi, guys! I just wanted to let you all know that my years of torture, exile, and depression are at an end! I no longer look grimly at my life and wish for a case of wine and a dozen mini-cheesecakes to get through the day! So take me off your suicide watch, peeps! Oh, and the L&D nurses were just so great! Good luck, everyone!"
It's just not going to happen. Because I'm so close to success, and I still feel like a bloody failure. Because when I see him, alive and kicking, it will mean I am finally, finally free of this fear.
Fuck her, says the still bitter IFer.
I know why I still feel this way. Because I'll never be able to send out an email like that. Not that I don't have every intention of giving birth and coming home with a live child (with any luck at all). It's that for me, no matter how crappy my birth experience, if Bruiser makes it and is basically healthy, there will be no words. It's going to be something like the motherfucking fall of Barad Dur. The end of an entire reign of terror and darkness.
How do you send that kind of redemption around in an email? "Hi, guys! I just wanted to let you all know that my years of torture, exile, and depression are at an end! I no longer look grimly at my life and wish for a case of wine and a dozen mini-cheesecakes to get through the day! So take me off your suicide watch, peeps! Oh, and the L&D nurses were just so great! Good luck, everyone!"
It's just not going to happen. Because I'm so close to success, and I still feel like a bloody failure. Because when I see him, alive and kicking, it will mean I am finally, finally free of this fear.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
A Brilliant Grasp of the Obvious
Hey! I've figure out this great thing that makes all things better.
It's this wacky thing called sleep. Apparently, when you're nine months pregnant you need to do a lot of it.
And when you do, you discover you are no longer convinced you are a failure for growing a small baby and that impending doom seems a lot less inevitable. You don't find yourself bawling your eyes out because you just. cannot. bear any more struggle with the terror that's been haunting you day in and day out for the last, oh, two years.
I came home from our gig last night (which went really wonderfully--I really sang my ass off) and collapsed into bed. Then, my guy, in a rare move, went out for a very brief time with his high school buddy. Which woke me up and kept me from sleeping. When he returned, I plummeted swiftly into meltdown, thinking about how everyone keeps commenting how great or cute I look, but they have no idea about the darkness I wrestle with, the fear. That the pregnant lady eating an ice cream cone with pigtails is begging the divine on a regular basis for a living child.
Yet sleep has changed all that--and perhaps getting it off my chest and being loved on by my confused yet comforting guy. Bruiser is going to make it, he's going to be fine, and a whole new type of worry and anxiety can begin, one I feel far better equipped to manage.
Well, at the very least, it will be a new kind of anxiety.
It's this wacky thing called sleep. Apparently, when you're nine months pregnant you need to do a lot of it.
And when you do, you discover you are no longer convinced you are a failure for growing a small baby and that impending doom seems a lot less inevitable. You don't find yourself bawling your eyes out because you just. cannot. bear any more struggle with the terror that's been haunting you day in and day out for the last, oh, two years.
I came home from our gig last night (which went really wonderfully--I really sang my ass off) and collapsed into bed. Then, my guy, in a rare move, went out for a very brief time with his high school buddy. Which woke me up and kept me from sleeping. When he returned, I plummeted swiftly into meltdown, thinking about how everyone keeps commenting how great or cute I look, but they have no idea about the darkness I wrestle with, the fear. That the pregnant lady eating an ice cream cone with pigtails is begging the divine on a regular basis for a living child.
Yet sleep has changed all that--and perhaps getting it off my chest and being loved on by my confused yet comforting guy. Bruiser is going to make it, he's going to be fine, and a whole new type of worry and anxiety can begin, one I feel far better equipped to manage.
Well, at the very least, it will be a new kind of anxiety.
Friday, September 25, 2009
The Tragic and the Banal
I've been clearing up a lot of banal details lately, disentangling myself from various engagements and employment, finding a pediatrician (we're going with a quirky gal with extensive training in infant care), cleaning up and organizing baby stuff and our erstwhile guest room (where my SIL will soon be moving--yeah, I know, we're crazy. Good thing she's awesome.)...
But something is weighing on my mind--besides my hopes that Bruiser manages at least another pound in the next four weeks.
[Warning: do not read if you're in a delicate place right now]
One of the gals from our childbirth class, a vibrant and very funny single mom (by choice? by default?), passed away recently, from a very serious and rare complication of HELLP. Her baby was born early but is doing well. But she rapidly went downhill due to Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, again a rare complication of a rare complication.
My heart is just aching for her family and her little girl. I can't believe someone so alive, so lively could suddenly and inexplicably die.
But something is weighing on my mind--besides my hopes that Bruiser manages at least another pound in the next four weeks.
[Warning: do not read if you're in a delicate place right now]
One of the gals from our childbirth class, a vibrant and very funny single mom (by choice? by default?), passed away recently, from a very serious and rare complication of HELLP. Her baby was born early but is doing well. But she rapidly went downhill due to Acute Respiratory Distress Syndrome, again a rare complication of a rare complication.
My heart is just aching for her family and her little girl. I can't believe someone so alive, so lively could suddenly and inexplicably die.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
...or perhaps a leprechan?
So, Bruiser is still doing well. Taking practice breaths, moving like crazy, good heart rate, growing at a consistent clip. He's just really, really small according to the ultrasound. Which is funny because my husband and I are pretty big and were big babies.
Am I having a hobbit?
My blood pressure was lower than last week, my placenta is about the same (still Grade II), no serious edema, nothing else to indicate problems (i.e. no protein in my urine). So, while the words "modified bed rest" have been tossed about, the word "induction" has been taken off the table for the time being. Sigh of relief.
I am performing at a big music festival Friday and Saturday, for about an hour each time. After that, I am going to put myself on semi-bed rest. I need it; I crave it.
One more week until we're term. Despite all the BS, I feel very, very lucky.
ETA: I just discovered several studies that show that being the survivor of a vanishing twin increases a kid's chances of being small. So maybe he's not a hobbit; he's just missing his twin.
Am I having a hobbit?
My blood pressure was lower than last week, my placenta is about the same (still Grade II), no serious edema, nothing else to indicate problems (i.e. no protein in my urine). So, while the words "modified bed rest" have been tossed about, the word "induction" has been taken off the table for the time being. Sigh of relief.
I am performing at a big music festival Friday and Saturday, for about an hour each time. After that, I am going to put myself on semi-bed rest. I need it; I crave it.
One more week until we're term. Despite all the BS, I feel very, very lucky.
ETA: I just discovered several studies that show that being the survivor of a vanishing twin increases a kid's chances of being small. So maybe he's not a hobbit; he's just missing his twin.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Breadcrumbs
For any of my IF sisters following this trail, I want to share something my doula--who keeps confirming her title as the coolest doula ever--shared with me after I emailed her an update of our appointment. Her two cents: 1) placentas after 30 weeks are often grade ii, no biggie; 2) unless your b/p is actually over 140/90, you don't have high blood pressure and the most recent ACOG standards say that is more important than whether your b/p is rising from its previous levels; and finally 3) the method used to evaluate my fluid level (AFI) is a lot more likely to give a diagnosis of low fluid than the single deepest vertical pocket method (SDVP) according to the latest studies (this is the method you'll get if you have multiples, as AFI doesn't work for twins and up). Finally, she noted that a reactive NST trumps all: the baby is kicking it (literally).
The moral of the story? Keep questioning. Watch out for the climate of anxiety that seems to haunt this process in the U.S.
I think docs are unwittingly--and with the very best of intentions--treating women who have dealt with infertility with kid gloves, making them more likely to react to a test and worry about results that are within normal ranges but not exactly perfect. After all, they know what's at stake and most likely long to do everything they can. That's seriously noble, but it leads, as I think it's doing in my case, to some concerns that are more faint shadows of potential problems than actual difficulties.
The moral of the story? Keep questioning. Watch out for the climate of anxiety that seems to haunt this process in the U.S.
I think docs are unwittingly--and with the very best of intentions--treating women who have dealt with infertility with kid gloves, making them more likely to react to a test and worry about results that are within normal ranges but not exactly perfect. After all, they know what's at stake and most likely long to do everything they can. That's seriously noble, but it leads, as I think it's doing in my case, to some concerns that are more faint shadows of potential problems than actual difficulties.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Good news/bad news
Well, first the good: Bruiser has grown perfectly since our last u/s. While he's definitely no sumo wrestler, he's getting to be a good size.
Bad news: my fluid is very, very low normal (i.e. 6) and appears to be falling, my placenta is degrading somewhat, and my blood pressure is rising.
All this made the midwife want to do a NST (non-stress test). Bruiser, again, was perfect: reactive and had great heart rates.
So we're going to be seen weekly from here on out. If things start looking worse, that will increase to twice a week. If things really go south, it may be time to discuss induction. But hopefully by then I'll have passed the 37-week mark.
Frankly, I'm a whole hell of a lot less worried than I was. Because, again, it's just me and my wacko body, going crazy. But Bruiser's doing a damn fine job, despite this. Could it be? Could we really be about to get a live baby out of this mess?
Bad news: my fluid is very, very low normal (i.e. 6) and appears to be falling, my placenta is degrading somewhat, and my blood pressure is rising.
All this made the midwife want to do a NST (non-stress test). Bruiser, again, was perfect: reactive and had great heart rates.
So we're going to be seen weekly from here on out. If things start looking worse, that will increase to twice a week. If things really go south, it may be time to discuss induction. But hopefully by then I'll have passed the 37-week mark.
Frankly, I'm a whole hell of a lot less worried than I was. Because, again, it's just me and my wacko body, going crazy. But Bruiser's doing a damn fine job, despite this. Could it be? Could we really be about to get a live baby out of this mess?
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
I Heart My Fetus
So, when I was all tied in knots last week? The very next day, the dude decides it's time to launch a movement campaign akin to David Byrne in his big-suit-wearing heyday.
Another odd thing: Being terrified about my body hurting Bruiser somehow made him more real. This whole experience has felt so bizarrely surreal at times. To the extent that I find myself thinking, "Wow, it would be great to be pregnant," only to realize that, wait, I am pregnant! That habit of mind from the years of IF is still with me (or my short-term memory is completely and utterly shot and I need to be treated for pregnancy-induced dementia).
I have been so overwhelmed with love for this little fetus/soon to be full-fledged person with legal rights. I can't believe I'm going to have the joy and privilege of raising him.
Six weeks or so, and we meet face to face. Holy shit.
Another odd thing: Being terrified about my body hurting Bruiser somehow made him more real. This whole experience has felt so bizarrely surreal at times. To the extent that I find myself thinking, "Wow, it would be great to be pregnant," only to realize that, wait, I am pregnant! That habit of mind from the years of IF is still with me (or my short-term memory is completely and utterly shot and I need to be treated for pregnancy-induced dementia).
I have been so overwhelmed with love for this little fetus/soon to be full-fledged person with legal rights. I can't believe I'm going to have the joy and privilege of raising him.
Six weeks or so, and we meet face to face. Holy shit.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Now with Planning!
Besides your comments and my husband's incredible tenderness, the only thing that really helps me is planning. And I've got a plan.
1. Rest. I've been overdoing it, I think. Not that I've been digging ditches or mining coal, but doing way too much intense and demanding intellectual work. I'm forcing myself to have 2-3 hours of nap and rest time every afternoon.
2. Nutrition. I've always eaten very well, but now I think I might need to eat more and as healthy as possible. I'm craving berries, tomatoes, and fish/meat, so I figure that's what I need to be consuming in large quantities.
3. Water. Perhaps a bit more hydration will help.
4. Taking it a bit easier in the pool and at the gym. I'd worked up to 1000 m per workout, and was pushing my heart rate up above 140 bpm. That might not be so great an idea at this point in the pregnancy.
Any other crazy suggestions? Funny things your grandma's bus driver's oral hygienist's niece's friend did?
1. Rest. I've been overdoing it, I think. Not that I've been digging ditches or mining coal, but doing way too much intense and demanding intellectual work. I'm forcing myself to have 2-3 hours of nap and rest time every afternoon.
2. Nutrition. I've always eaten very well, but now I think I might need to eat more and as healthy as possible. I'm craving berries, tomatoes, and fish/meat, so I figure that's what I need to be consuming in large quantities.
3. Water. Perhaps a bit more hydration will help.
4. Taking it a bit easier in the pool and at the gym. I'd worked up to 1000 m per workout, and was pushing my heart rate up above 140 bpm. That might not be so great an idea at this point in the pregnancy.
Any other crazy suggestions? Funny things your grandma's bus driver's oral hygienist's niece's friend did?
Tests, Failure, and Pomegranate Juice
Why does it feel like every time I get any kind of test to evaluate Bruiser--even the simple u/s we got yesterday--I end up getting smacked down by an anxiety tsunami? We did the u/s to track this mysterious, likely meaningless echogenic patch in his heart, but he refused to budge for the tech. Instead, she did a bunch of measurements and he's running two weeks behind.
This isn't the tragedy that it would be in the first or second tris, of course, and our midwife was good at explaining that (after I'd burst into tears while we were waiting to meet with her in the exam room). My amniotic fluid is on the lower side of normal, which can affect the read out. It's a new machine. Bruiser was in some kind of deep yogic wad (fortunately head down) with feet and arms in a distinctly fetal knot, and was hard to capture (we never did get that blasted heart shot). There's a variation of at least 10 oz to either side, which would still put him into the very normal range. My placenta looks fine, as do my uterine measurements. On and on, the justifications and possibilities go.
Of course, they provide relief--my consistently abnormal body is not about to kill my baby, as I had first feared, and who since the test has decided to exhibit spectacular bursts of movement on a regular basis. But they still don't take away the anxiety: another two weeks, and we'll see if he's grown appropriately. If not, closer monitoring, and most likely worst case scenario would be early induction, though, as my midwife said, "There's no way I'm going to induce you at 33 weeks." I still feel I'm failing, yet again.
And I feel the keen edge of loss, which is always there and makes any little question mark loom huge. Loss is like pomegranate juice: You can think, abstractly, you know what it's like, but until you've tasted it, you don't really know for sure. But once you do know how it tastes, you can never forget it, though you can't describe it to anyone who hasn't tried it. And if you've had to drink it every day, like some of our ALI sisters out there, its flavor lingers everywhere.
So I'm battling the terror that I'm about to be served another glass of pomegranate juice. And this time, it's not my well being or sanity that's at stake; it's a small person's life.
This isn't the tragedy that it would be in the first or second tris, of course, and our midwife was good at explaining that (after I'd burst into tears while we were waiting to meet with her in the exam room). My amniotic fluid is on the lower side of normal, which can affect the read out. It's a new machine. Bruiser was in some kind of deep yogic wad (fortunately head down) with feet and arms in a distinctly fetal knot, and was hard to capture (we never did get that blasted heart shot). There's a variation of at least 10 oz to either side, which would still put him into the very normal range. My placenta looks fine, as do my uterine measurements. On and on, the justifications and possibilities go.
Of course, they provide relief--my consistently abnormal body is not about to kill my baby, as I had first feared, and who since the test has decided to exhibit spectacular bursts of movement on a regular basis. But they still don't take away the anxiety: another two weeks, and we'll see if he's grown appropriately. If not, closer monitoring, and most likely worst case scenario would be early induction, though, as my midwife said, "There's no way I'm going to induce you at 33 weeks." I still feel I'm failing, yet again.
And I feel the keen edge of loss, which is always there and makes any little question mark loom huge. Loss is like pomegranate juice: You can think, abstractly, you know what it's like, but until you've tasted it, you don't really know for sure. But once you do know how it tastes, you can never forget it, though you can't describe it to anyone who hasn't tried it. And if you've had to drink it every day, like some of our ALI sisters out there, its flavor lingers everywhere.
So I'm battling the terror that I'm about to be served another glass of pomegranate juice. And this time, it's not my well being or sanity that's at stake; it's a small person's life.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Superdoula (yes, clearly, preg ment)
We have struck the doula jackpot, my friends: The most experienced doula in town has agreed to take us on as clients. This woman is amazing--a PhD holding, research loving, humor-filled wonder of a gal who can cite the most recent study on breast feeding initiation or labor at the drop of a hat.
My husband and I feel so blessed. She doesn't take many clients anymore, but decided she'd like to work with us because I'm an old buddy of her daughter and because of our challenging past.
I feel like we're building an incredible team between our nurse midwife and doula. It is such a comfort to me, as the little anxiety tsunamis come and wash over me from time to time.
My husband and I feel so blessed. She doesn't take many clients anymore, but decided she'd like to work with us because I'm an old buddy of her daughter and because of our challenging past.
I feel like we're building an incredible team between our nurse midwife and doula. It is such a comfort to me, as the little anxiety tsunamis come and wash over me from time to time.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Double D'oh!
I just committed one of the cardinal sins of the IFosphere, albeit in real life: I accidentally outed one of my (seemingly fertile) friends who's about 10-11 weeks pregnant.
And I did it on Facebook. As part of a message thread involving 20 other people.
Ooops.
Fortunately, she, like many fertiles, was relatively nonchalant about this kind of thing and blissfully accepted both my beanspilling and my humblest apology.
And I did it on Facebook. As part of a message thread involving 20 other people.
Ooops.
Fortunately, she, like many fertiles, was relatively nonchalant about this kind of thing and blissfully accepted both my beanspilling and my humblest apology.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Yet another dull update (pg mentioned)
Yes, I have indeed finally become a very boring pregnant lady. Except for my inability to sleep well due to the nasty humidity and heat in our lovely heartland and some bizarre faint numbness in my left thigh, I am a-okay. Still not gaining anymore weight (?!?) and still enjoying the headbanger's ball in my belly.
Thus another OB appointment bites the dust. He was impressed with Bruiser's strong heartbeat. You show 'em, kid.
Oh, and I think I found a doula. I asked our amazing childbirth educator for some recommendations, explaining my experience with loss and thus anxiety. I'm meeting her top pick on Thursday morning. It's all coming together.
Thus another OB appointment bites the dust. He was impressed with Bruiser's strong heartbeat. You show 'em, kid.
Oh, and I think I found a doula. I asked our amazing childbirth educator for some recommendations, explaining my experience with loss and thus anxiety. I'm meeting her top pick on Thursday morning. It's all coming together.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Yous Guys!
You're the best. Thanks for the commiseration, thoughts, birth stories (go, Joonie and Denise! Bucking the trends big time!), and non-legal advice (ah, Misfit!).
I feel much better. Still can't seem to find a doula (and I swear, I'm not that difficult a personality!). But it will all work out somehow.
Wishing all y'all a splendid, restful weekend.
I feel much better. Still can't seem to find a doula (and I swear, I'm not that difficult a personality!). But it will all work out somehow.
Wishing all y'all a splendid, restful weekend.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Anxiety and Weeds (birth and stuff mentioned)
They are two sides of the same coin for me, anxiety and depression. Last night's childbirth class was all about c-sections and the reasons for them. It wasn't anything I hadn't heard before, but it still filled me with deep anxiety and fear.
I'm terrified of another pelvic surgery. I'm terrified that I'll wind up with even more cards stacked against me, fertility-wise. I cringe at the thought of being fairly incapacitated, right when I'm supposed to be getting used to one of the bigger changes in my life.
But the bigger terror behind is all is that more stuff will be done to me without a very good medical reason. Now, of course, there are many life-saving reasons why women get c-sections and some women have no choice: It's do or die.
But the stats are harrowing: births by c-section have exploded from 5% in 1975 to around 30% in the past few years, twice the rate recommended by the WHO. Your chances of having a c-section if you've undergone treatment for primary infertility? More than 70%! (according to a study I read from the early 2000s) What the hell? Though many IFers wind up being higher risk for various legit reasons, you can't tell me there's not some physician skittishness and fear of litigation driving that particular number.
I've been misdiagnosed and mistreated several times in my life, and the experience has left its scars. This deep fear comes welling up when I think about someone insisting I need major surgery without a very strong, evidence-based justification where the benefits truly outweigh the risks. I feel like, once again, my infertility has smooshed me, a round peg, into a square hole where I may not be able to get what I want. And that that experience will in turn lead to a cascade of consequences...
Anyway, I woke up right as my husband was leaving for work at the crack of dawn. And then I was alone. I started to feel blue.
It's an anxiety hangover. So I went out in our garden, which has gotten terribly overgrown with weeds this summer, and ripped the shit out of some of the beds. I gathered our somewhat pitiful harvest of beets and carrots and a tomato and some kale that managed to make it despite our benign, guilt-ridden neglect of our veggie friends.
The lesson for me in this: keep digging. Even in the biggest mess, maybe you'll still find the golden, fragrant carrot.
(For those of you who haven't grown carrots, when they are fresh from the ground, they have a whole other smell, something heady and almost perfume-like that fades after a bit.)
I'm terrified of another pelvic surgery. I'm terrified that I'll wind up with even more cards stacked against me, fertility-wise. I cringe at the thought of being fairly incapacitated, right when I'm supposed to be getting used to one of the bigger changes in my life.
But the bigger terror behind is all is that more stuff will be done to me without a very good medical reason. Now, of course, there are many life-saving reasons why women get c-sections and some women have no choice: It's do or die.
But the stats are harrowing: births by c-section have exploded from 5% in 1975 to around 30% in the past few years, twice the rate recommended by the WHO. Your chances of having a c-section if you've undergone treatment for primary infertility? More than 70%! (according to a study I read from the early 2000s) What the hell? Though many IFers wind up being higher risk for various legit reasons, you can't tell me there's not some physician skittishness and fear of litigation driving that particular number.
I've been misdiagnosed and mistreated several times in my life, and the experience has left its scars. This deep fear comes welling up when I think about someone insisting I need major surgery without a very strong, evidence-based justification where the benefits truly outweigh the risks. I feel like, once again, my infertility has smooshed me, a round peg, into a square hole where I may not be able to get what I want. And that that experience will in turn lead to a cascade of consequences...
Anyway, I woke up right as my husband was leaving for work at the crack of dawn. And then I was alone. I started to feel blue.
It's an anxiety hangover. So I went out in our garden, which has gotten terribly overgrown with weeds this summer, and ripped the shit out of some of the beds. I gathered our somewhat pitiful harvest of beets and carrots and a tomato and some kale that managed to make it despite our benign, guilt-ridden neglect of our veggie friends.
The lesson for me in this: keep digging. Even in the biggest mess, maybe you'll still find the golden, fragrant carrot.
(For those of you who haven't grown carrots, when they are fresh from the ground, they have a whole other smell, something heady and almost perfume-like that fades after a bit.)
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Now I get...
...why the whales' ancestors returned to the sea: It's impossible to find a good position for sleeping at the moment. Which helps a lot with the short-term memory loss, of course.
I'm sure I have more to say; I just can't remember it.
I'm sure I have more to say; I just can't remember it.
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Non sequitur
May I just say, organic chocolate chocolate chip ice cream with a slathering of peanut butter is truly the nectar of the gods.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Bassakwards (more pg crap)
Interesting. My TSH is the lowest its ever been since I started getting my thyroid tested (well, except for the time I got all twitchy and ticky due to a brief flirtation with hyperthyroidism). I've stopped gaining weight (but the little one is growing right on target). I apparently passed the glucose threat test "with flying colors," to quote my midwife.
Body, must you always do everything assbackwards? At least the interesting bit is good, not bad, this time around.
I have a cold, but still feel good. We've decided to hire a doula. I really hope I can do this with minimal medical excitement and maximum hippitude. I don't think I have anything to prove; I just want to know what birth without all the bells, whistles, and interventions is like.
Body, must you always do everything assbackwards? At least the interesting bit is good, not bad, this time around.
I have a cold, but still feel good. We've decided to hire a doula. I really hope I can do this with minimal medical excitement and maximum hippitude. I don't think I have anything to prove; I just want to know what birth without all the bells, whistles, and interventions is like.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Heroes
"We're nothing... and nothing will help us
But we can beat them, just for one day..."
The hardest thing for me, besides keeping my fear and anxiety in check, has been the absolute lack of recognition of all I went through to get here and how that experience challenges my ability to be happy about it.
Since no one else will do it, I want to send this message to all of you, courtesy of the charming Mr. Bowie. No matter where your road takes you, I, as someone who's seen that road, know that you are heroes.
But we can beat them, just for one day..."
The hardest thing for me, besides keeping my fear and anxiety in check, has been the absolute lack of recognition of all I went through to get here and how that experience challenges my ability to be happy about it.
Since no one else will do it, I want to send this message to all of you, courtesy of the charming Mr. Bowie. No matter where your road takes you, I, as someone who's seen that road, know that you are heroes.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Viable
I never thought I'd fall for that word. But we've reached 28 weeks. It's all just cruising from here on out.
Womb, don't fail me now.
Womb, don't fail me now.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Apples and fireflies
...and the thrilling glucose threat test. I must admit: It is awful. Especially the first nauseating, so dizzy I might faint in the waiting room hour. I'm still not feeling right, several hours and several bowls of chickpeas and basmati rice later. That glucose drink is pure fruity evil.
Yesterday was lovely, again, thanks to my guy. He did not make any great plans--alas, the dude's been working 11 hours a day--but after our birth class, we stopped at this amazing little apple tree growing unnoticed at the edge of a university parking lot. We blasted Bach from the car stereo and collected windfall apples, as well as a few I managed to get down from the tree itself. Ever see a pregnant lady climb a tree? It's really funny.
Then for some reason we decided to stop by a park on the edge of town which has the most amazing playground, one scaled so that adults as well as kids can go nuts. It backs on this tall stand of trees which were all netted with hundreds of fireflies. So we talked, climbed, and swung before heading home.
Yesterday was lovely, again, thanks to my guy. He did not make any great plans--alas, the dude's been working 11 hours a day--but after our birth class, we stopped at this amazing little apple tree growing unnoticed at the edge of a university parking lot. We blasted Bach from the car stereo and collected windfall apples, as well as a few I managed to get down from the tree itself. Ever see a pregnant lady climb a tree? It's really funny.
Then for some reason we decided to stop by a park on the edge of town which has the most amazing playground, one scaled so that adults as well as kids can go nuts. It backs on this tall stand of trees which were all netted with hundreds of fireflies. So we talked, climbed, and swung before heading home.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
The Life Aquatic
My guy has been doing some of the sweetest things for me of late. Since we can't afford a vacation or babymoon or whatever, he's been secretly plotting various local outings and taking me on all sorts of adventures. My old adventures all involved really, really long walks or something of that nature, and they just don't happen anymore.
But he's found some new ones. Despite the peal of thunder that woke us at 5 am, he drove us down to our local reservoir and rented a little fishing boat. He packed a picnic of yummy treats. We hit the water, under overcast, cloudswept skies and had a great few hours tootling around the lake, watching the birds and fish. We got caught in several rainstorms and ate our picnic merrily under some trees as lightning flashed across the sky. I nearly puked and begged for mercy as we attempted to return to the marnia while my husband slammed us with great male glee through white capped swells stirred up by the inexplicable Midwestern wind. This last bit, I don't recommend it.
Yes, I went boating with my man in a thunderstorm. It was great. I feel great.
But he's found some new ones. Despite the peal of thunder that woke us at 5 am, he drove us down to our local reservoir and rented a little fishing boat. He packed a picnic of yummy treats. We hit the water, under overcast, cloudswept skies and had a great few hours tootling around the lake, watching the birds and fish. We got caught in several rainstorms and ate our picnic merrily under some trees as lightning flashed across the sky. I nearly puked and begged for mercy as we attempted to return to the marnia while my husband slammed us with great male glee through white capped swells stirred up by the inexplicable Midwestern wind. This last bit, I don't recommend it.
Yes, I went boating with my man in a thunderstorm. It was great. I feel great.
Friday, July 24, 2009
And it also bothers me...
Achtung! Pity party.
...that I can be doing everything right--exercising, and I mean really exercising, at least 30 minutes a day, eating like I did before I was youknowwhat--and still not pass the GD screen and still be gaining something like two pounds a week! It's like my body's gotten all turned around: "Oh, she's not eating any sweets or fun stuff that many preggos get to enjoy, so I'll have blood sugar funkiness!" and "Oh, now I need even less food than before!"
Can I just say that I feel for my PCOS sisters right now? I finally get it.
So, yeah, I get to go to the 3 hour torture test, with 12 hour fast and four blood draws and even more disgusting shit to choke down. Because I scored 138 when the cut off is 140 and "there are risk factors" (i.e. I'm 34 and gaining ridiculous amounts of weight for reasons known only to my mysterious body). Blech.
Frankly, I'd rather just go on a diet. One even more restrictive than the one I've put myself on, that is. I'm sick of getting bled, poked, tested, and evaluated. I want to go on strike.
ETA: On second thought, all the sample GD diets I saw are DISGUSTING. Designed by some pap-loving well-meaning elderly aunt who serves prune juice on a regular basis and thinks salsa is exotic. Just shoot me.
...that I can be doing everything right--exercising, and I mean really exercising, at least 30 minutes a day, eating like I did before I was youknowwhat--and still not pass the GD screen and still be gaining something like two pounds a week! It's like my body's gotten all turned around: "Oh, she's not eating any sweets or fun stuff that many preggos get to enjoy, so I'll have blood sugar funkiness!" and "Oh, now I need even less food than before!"
Can I just say that I feel for my PCOS sisters right now? I finally get it.
So, yeah, I get to go to the 3 hour torture test, with 12 hour fast and four blood draws and even more disgusting shit to choke down. Because I scored 138 when the cut off is 140 and "there are risk factors" (i.e. I'm 34 and gaining ridiculous amounts of weight for reasons known only to my mysterious body). Blech.
Frankly, I'd rather just go on a diet. One even more restrictive than the one I've put myself on, that is. I'm sick of getting bled, poked, tested, and evaluated. I want to go on strike.
ETA: On second thought, all the sample GD diets I saw are DISGUSTING. Designed by some pap-loving well-meaning elderly aunt who serves prune juice on a regular basis and thinks salsa is exotic. Just shoot me.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
It still bothers me sometimes...
...when friends and colleagues get pregnant easily. They get the gold ring after a dinky dash to the car, whilst I ran a marathon for it. They squished a pillbug, whilst I battled a dragon.
A friend just told me she's 7 weeks pregnant. She's very sweet and responsible and smart, but somehow, I'm annoyed on some level.
I wonder if I will ever stop caring.
A friend just told me she's 7 weeks pregnant. She's very sweet and responsible and smart, but somehow, I'm annoyed on some level.
I wonder if I will ever stop caring.
Love needed...
Please go over and give some love and support to Stace and her family.
***from here down, pg crap mentioned. Sorry.
As for me, I'm fine. Had GD test (gross, but tolerable). Had good midwife appointment: Bruiser's growing, bopping, running a great heartbeat. Weight gain (yes, despite everything, I'm still getting heavier) is acceptable, so long as I'm eating well and exercising very regularly (which I am).
Progress is being made swiftly on the dissertation. Husband is working 12-14 hour days. Insane.
That is all.
***from here down, pg crap mentioned. Sorry.
As for me, I'm fine. Had GD test (gross, but tolerable). Had good midwife appointment: Bruiser's growing, bopping, running a great heartbeat. Weight gain (yes, despite everything, I'm still getting heavier) is acceptable, so long as I'm eating well and exercising very regularly (which I am).
Progress is being made swiftly on the dissertation. Husband is working 12-14 hour days. Insane.
That is all.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Respect (pg and birth mentioned in general way)
I learned something I never knew before: Apparently, when the suffragettes were working their asses off to get the vote and to win a more active, visible role for women in society, they also fought for pain control during childbirth. This both surprised me and made absolutely perfect sense. Many of them advocated for what was called "twilight sleep," a deep narcosis first developed in Freiberg, Germany as a way of avoiding the pain of labor and birth. Women activists argued that they should be given the option to be pain-free.
However, twilight sleep and narcotics during birth meant physicians often had to slap newborns awake once they emerged from the birth canal. Literally flip them over, holding on their feet, and give them a hearty wallop.
So twilight sleep went the way of the corset. My grandma used it, I know, for one of her deliveries, due to some confusing and unspecified complications my mom didn't really know much about.
Then came the seventies, when women fought not to have narcotics and painkillers be a requisite part of a physician-dictated delivery regimen. Birth has gone from a curse we should be released from through science, to a "natural process" requiring no science at all.
But most importantly, women now have a choice--at least kind of sort of.* Pain relief or comfort measures, birth with medical support or home birth. And that's all thanks to our foremothers who raised the question of who gets to decide how a woman gives birth.
It fills me with profound respect for their efforts.
On a side note, apparently around 80% of women at our local hospital opt for an epidural. That really surprised me; we live in liberal Hippytown and I expected it to be closer to 50/50.
*Midwifery, except as practiced by CMN, is illegal in my state. Which is really pitiful, because many women in our community opt for midwifes to attend their births and these midwives are occasionally prosecuted by the state for practicing medicine without a license (even if the family involved did not want to press charges). So your choice is labor at home or in the one regional hospital that has an L&D ward.
However, twilight sleep and narcotics during birth meant physicians often had to slap newborns awake once they emerged from the birth canal. Literally flip them over, holding on their feet, and give them a hearty wallop.
So twilight sleep went the way of the corset. My grandma used it, I know, for one of her deliveries, due to some confusing and unspecified complications my mom didn't really know much about.
Then came the seventies, when women fought not to have narcotics and painkillers be a requisite part of a physician-dictated delivery regimen. Birth has gone from a curse we should be released from through science, to a "natural process" requiring no science at all.
But most importantly, women now have a choice--at least kind of sort of.* Pain relief or comfort measures, birth with medical support or home birth. And that's all thanks to our foremothers who raised the question of who gets to decide how a woman gives birth.
It fills me with profound respect for their efforts.
On a side note, apparently around 80% of women at our local hospital opt for an epidural. That really surprised me; we live in liberal Hippytown and I expected it to be closer to 50/50.
*Midwifery, except as practiced by CMN, is illegal in my state. Which is really pitiful, because many women in our community opt for midwifes to attend their births and these midwives are occasionally prosecuted by the state for practicing medicine without a license (even if the family involved did not want to press charges). So your choice is labor at home or in the one regional hospital that has an L&D ward.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
There will be meltdowns (pg mentioned, but mostly IF oriented)
So, I had my first childbirth class last night. At first, I thought I was going to have to go by myself: My ever hardworking hubby had training for a part-time job all day, and had to do his regular job at night. However, thanks to our slow economy, he could slip away with me to the exciting world of hippy birth class.
Now, when I say hippy, I don't mean the old-school, hard-core, Flower-and-River-build-a-birth-teepee-type class. Not even a home birth-oriented class. They take all comers, and are very, very sweet, thoughtful, and exceedingly well-informed (the main educator has a PhD and a brain like a steel trap). But, yeah, we were all sitting on rocking chairs and eating organic apples and hearing about the magic of the birth ball.
People at random meetings like this are always the most fascinating part. There was a woman there with her mother (single mom by choice? I wondered), a couple very scared looking gals who seem nice enough, a couple hipster/hippy couples working with a completely kick-ass local midwife whom I love and adore and would have gone with if... Well, IF. You get it.
***(if you're in a bad place, skip the babblings below)
My midwife does hospital births only, and that's fine. She's all about vaginal natural births, so I feel like I've found a good compromise for my insane anxious self and my side that sees childbirth as a totally natural biological process, albeit with complicated sides sometimes.
Anyhoo, the class was fun, the educator excellent, the information familiar but with some cool added facts and twists. It was amusing to watch the guys--the hipster with his eyes wide with wonder, the sullen shy guy-guy repressing gentle waves of terror and disgust and discomfort (his wife had introduced him, and he hadn't said a word). One guy even left in the middle of the class, leaving his nervous and very young partner? wife? to deal on her own.
Interestingly, the people who knew most about their own births had the most positive reaction to the mechanics of normal labor. Something for us gals to keep in mind.
***(Okay, it's all about IF now)
However, when we were introducing ourselves, I found myself using the wierdest formulation to describe myself and our state. Nothing too out there--I just said that our kid was "apparently male"--but enough to make my husband bristle. After the class, he brought it up with me, semi-seriously.
And what do you know. I had me a meltdown. I told him that it was all going to be provisional for me until I held a living child in my arms. I couldn't be sure that any of this would end happily, and I still had doubts about what my body was able to do, as it had so often left so much to be desired... the miscarriages, the bizarre inability to get pregnant except with injections and catheders. At first, this frustrated my man, but soon he understood--and I told him he could feel confident, he just needed to acknowledge my anxiety and pain.
In tears, I finally said out loud that I still felt like a fake and a failure, with all those seemingly blithely ignorant gals around me, hoping and planning for a beautiful birth experience. I still felt that my child would somehow be more precious, more shockingly miraculous for having required the long, dark journey, and that in the end, if this little boy lives, I will have no complaints about labor, birth, interventions, whathaveyou.
In the end, my birth plan could be summed up in a few, bitter words: Oh please don't let him die. Let me die first.
I've never felt this way before.
Now, when I say hippy, I don't mean the old-school, hard-core, Flower-and-River-build-a-birth-teepee-type class. Not even a home birth-oriented class. They take all comers, and are very, very sweet, thoughtful, and exceedingly well-informed (the main educator has a PhD and a brain like a steel trap). But, yeah, we were all sitting on rocking chairs and eating organic apples and hearing about the magic of the birth ball.
People at random meetings like this are always the most fascinating part. There was a woman there with her mother (single mom by choice? I wondered), a couple very scared looking gals who seem nice enough, a couple hipster/hippy couples working with a completely kick-ass local midwife whom I love and adore and would have gone with if... Well, IF. You get it.
***(if you're in a bad place, skip the babblings below)
My midwife does hospital births only, and that's fine. She's all about vaginal natural births, so I feel like I've found a good compromise for my insane anxious self and my side that sees childbirth as a totally natural biological process, albeit with complicated sides sometimes.
Anyhoo, the class was fun, the educator excellent, the information familiar but with some cool added facts and twists. It was amusing to watch the guys--the hipster with his eyes wide with wonder, the sullen shy guy-guy repressing gentle waves of terror and disgust and discomfort (his wife had introduced him, and he hadn't said a word). One guy even left in the middle of the class, leaving his nervous and very young partner? wife? to deal on her own.
Interestingly, the people who knew most about their own births had the most positive reaction to the mechanics of normal labor. Something for us gals to keep in mind.
***(Okay, it's all about IF now)
However, when we were introducing ourselves, I found myself using the wierdest formulation to describe myself and our state. Nothing too out there--I just said that our kid was "apparently male"--but enough to make my husband bristle. After the class, he brought it up with me, semi-seriously.
And what do you know. I had me a meltdown. I told him that it was all going to be provisional for me until I held a living child in my arms. I couldn't be sure that any of this would end happily, and I still had doubts about what my body was able to do, as it had so often left so much to be desired... the miscarriages, the bizarre inability to get pregnant except with injections and catheders. At first, this frustrated my man, but soon he understood--and I told him he could feel confident, he just needed to acknowledge my anxiety and pain.
In tears, I finally said out loud that I still felt like a fake and a failure, with all those seemingly blithely ignorant gals around me, hoping and planning for a beautiful birth experience. I still felt that my child would somehow be more precious, more shockingly miraculous for having required the long, dark journey, and that in the end, if this little boy lives, I will have no complaints about labor, birth, interventions, whathaveyou.
In the end, my birth plan could be summed up in a few, bitter words: Oh please don't let him die. Let me die first.
I've never felt this way before.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Good Times and Antarctic Exploration
Happy, happy ramblings about a good day, followed by bizarre musings on IF...
Lucky me: I got to have dinner with one of the coolest gals in the IF blogosphere: Io. And we ate Indian food. And she gave me a Pack and Play she found at a garage sale (where she also found not one but two pairs of perfect, awesomely green shoes for a quarter--I told you, she's cool). We had a great time chatting, chaating, and trading stories. I'm so grateful that this online community has allowed me to meet her, and it's about way more than simple support for our IF trials. It's about meeting an awesome free spirit with loads of joie de vivre and talents.
My guy and I spent the rest of the day in the Big City (where Io resides), enjoying Big City things: the zoo in the rain. Not for the faint of IF heart--everyone was toting idiotic kids and saying stupid shit to them about the animals: "Oooh, look at that cuddly [Amur] tiger! He's like a big kitty cat!" Uh, no it's not, moron: It's one of the most effective predators on the planet and is respected as a fearsome spirit by local indigenous people in SE Russia. Kind of like that polar bear you thought was really cute. It would tear your toddler to shreads without a second though. That is, after all, it's job.
No respect for animals and their natures! This is one of the many reasons why people still have such reactionary beliefs about "environmentalism." They just don't get what's really at stake.
But the dolphin show was really cool. Dolphins rule.
Anyway, we also went to the art museum and got really into the late medieval art and some very intriguing video installations. When video/multimedia stuff works, it can really move you.
****
So, I'm reading this very engaging book: Endurance, by FA Worsley. It's a surprisingly engrossing account of Shakleton's total polar fail. You might think this would be as dull as reading about ice melting, but it's not. There's also no mention whatsoever of pregnancy, so it's a very safe distraction for folks in the trenches.
It nonetheless reminded me of how many IF journeys unfold.
The expedition was a disaster: The main ship foundered and sank in some awful pack ice and the crew was stranded on Elephant Island, a towering hunk of rock and ice battered by some of the severest storms on Earth. A handful of men set out in a small boat, in the dead of the Antarctic winter, to find help. They make it, but what really struck me was some of the comments of the guys left behind on the island.
You'd think the physical suffering would be the biggest problem. But it wasn't: It was the waiting, and the despair. The monotony and the endless unknown of when help might come--if it was going to come at all--was their biggest deamon to conquer. Not the cold, the glaciers, the pounding swells, the poor food.
I sometimes felt vaguely like these men: cut off from the rest of the world, trapped, and bored with the seemingly endless wait. It took a greater part of my courage to manage the darkest days, and to keep looking out to sea with the fading hope that something might change. It's the mental challenge that's the hardest.
Lucky me: I got to have dinner with one of the coolest gals in the IF blogosphere: Io. And we ate Indian food. And she gave me a Pack and Play she found at a garage sale (where she also found not one but two pairs of perfect, awesomely green shoes for a quarter--I told you, she's cool). We had a great time chatting, chaating, and trading stories. I'm so grateful that this online community has allowed me to meet her, and it's about way more than simple support for our IF trials. It's about meeting an awesome free spirit with loads of joie de vivre and talents.
My guy and I spent the rest of the day in the Big City (where Io resides), enjoying Big City things: the zoo in the rain. Not for the faint of IF heart--everyone was toting idiotic kids and saying stupid shit to them about the animals: "Oooh, look at that cuddly [Amur] tiger! He's like a big kitty cat!" Uh, no it's not, moron: It's one of the most effective predators on the planet and is respected as a fearsome spirit by local indigenous people in SE Russia. Kind of like that polar bear you thought was really cute. It would tear your toddler to shreads without a second though. That is, after all, it's job.
No respect for animals and their natures! This is one of the many reasons why people still have such reactionary beliefs about "environmentalism." They just don't get what's really at stake.
But the dolphin show was really cool. Dolphins rule.
Anyway, we also went to the art museum and got really into the late medieval art and some very intriguing video installations. When video/multimedia stuff works, it can really move you.
****
So, I'm reading this very engaging book: Endurance, by FA Worsley. It's a surprisingly engrossing account of Shakleton's total polar fail. You might think this would be as dull as reading about ice melting, but it's not. There's also no mention whatsoever of pregnancy, so it's a very safe distraction for folks in the trenches.
It nonetheless reminded me of how many IF journeys unfold.
The expedition was a disaster: The main ship foundered and sank in some awful pack ice and the crew was stranded on Elephant Island, a towering hunk of rock and ice battered by some of the severest storms on Earth. A handful of men set out in a small boat, in the dead of the Antarctic winter, to find help. They make it, but what really struck me was some of the comments of the guys left behind on the island.
You'd think the physical suffering would be the biggest problem. But it wasn't: It was the waiting, and the despair. The monotony and the endless unknown of when help might come--if it was going to come at all--was their biggest deamon to conquer. Not the cold, the glaciers, the pounding swells, the poor food.
I sometimes felt vaguely like these men: cut off from the rest of the world, trapped, and bored with the seemingly endless wait. It took a greater part of my courage to manage the darkest days, and to keep looking out to sea with the fading hope that something might change. It's the mental challenge that's the hardest.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Off my chest
I used to think I didn't really get the jokes and gripes about in laws. Until recently. My guy's mom has flipped out, and this is the only place I can really come to grips with it, as my guy (understandably) feels very sensitive about it. Any advice/sympathy/similar tales welcome.
It all started when her house got broken into for the, oh, third time this year. Yes, you read that right: three robberies in seven months. For a long time, she'd taken to leaving her door open, as "they'll just break in anyway." After the second robbery, we convinced her to start locking her door. But for number three, the amateurs (who I suspect are meth heads--she's way out in the styx) broke a window in the door. For the third time, she called my guy in tears.
But my guy is a man. A manly man. He doesn't want merely to comfort; he wants to SOLVE. She got really upset with him for refusing to simply be her shoulder to cry on and hung up on him. A couple times. He was urging her to get some gates from her driveway, or a dog, or an alarm system. Anything. But no, she wouldn't hear of it. So my poor guy's left feeling so angry at the thieves, he could strangle them, and so angry at his mom for her seeming willingness to be repeatedly victimized.
Maybe a week or so later, she calls from a local eye clinic with a torn retina. She's being sent to a city an hour away for urgent surgery, maybe, and thus, "I need you to be on standby." I unfortunately, in my sleep-deprived, hormone-fogged haze, didn't think to pass the phone along to my husband. She was whispering rather disjointedly into the phone, and I barely understood what was up. Then, as my guy who was rightfully frustrated at my poor secretarial skills, tries over and over to call her cell, to page her through work, but no reply for several hours. We had friends coming over for dinner, something we had had planned for months. She did find someone to drive her there and back, but she decided that we didn't give a shit, even though her son desperately tried to reach her for hours. She, as a policy, just doesn't answer her cell.
Then, a week or so after that, a pipe bursts and her entire house is filled with several inches of water. Instead of, oh, I don't know, calling a plumber, she calls her son in a hysterical panic about the feet of water, how everything is ruined, and how he has to come over right away with a broom. He replies that he'll bring the shop vac and a pump as soon as he can, but that he just got home from a long day's work and need to grab a quick bite to eat, she hangs up on him. He spends five hours that night, helping her.
The next day, after getting read the (inappropriate) riot act by irrational me for putting up with behavior that made him crazy, he wrote her an email. It was somewhat scathing, noting that he couldn't think of any of his friends' parents who would call their kids instead of a pro, and then hang up on them when they said they were going to eat quickly before heading out. He also noted that while she likes to talk the talk about being an independent woman who can look down on men, she doesn't walk the walk. All true, by the way: she loves drama on some level, and gets mileage from playing the victim. Men are usually the ones doing the victimizing.
Things got worse from there: soon my MIL was accusing my husband, one of the most soulful and empathetic people I've known, of being heartless and cruel. Some typical passive-aggressive moves were made ("well, I just won't call you about anything ever again" and "I've printed out the email and will save it"), without the slightest recognition of my guy's feelings. She hung up on him several more times, before the final hang up that promoted my guy to throw up his hands. They haven't spoken since.
The problem isn't that she has problems or crises in her life; it's the completely self-centered hysteria added to a tendency to denigrate my husband when he doesn't obey, all while relying on his skills and strength to carry her. I know my guy will work something out eventually, and I tell him that she's wrong about him being a bad man. But the whole thing is kind of hanging around out there, with a grandkid on the way. I'm not sure how to deal with this kind of behavior on her part, especially if a kid's involved. It's really hard to stay neutral when someone's acting so crazy with so little provocation...
It all started when her house got broken into for the, oh, third time this year. Yes, you read that right: three robberies in seven months. For a long time, she'd taken to leaving her door open, as "they'll just break in anyway." After the second robbery, we convinced her to start locking her door. But for number three, the amateurs (who I suspect are meth heads--she's way out in the styx) broke a window in the door. For the third time, she called my guy in tears.
But my guy is a man. A manly man. He doesn't want merely to comfort; he wants to SOLVE. She got really upset with him for refusing to simply be her shoulder to cry on and hung up on him. A couple times. He was urging her to get some gates from her driveway, or a dog, or an alarm system. Anything. But no, she wouldn't hear of it. So my poor guy's left feeling so angry at the thieves, he could strangle them, and so angry at his mom for her seeming willingness to be repeatedly victimized.
Maybe a week or so later, she calls from a local eye clinic with a torn retina. She's being sent to a city an hour away for urgent surgery, maybe, and thus, "I need you to be on standby." I unfortunately, in my sleep-deprived, hormone-fogged haze, didn't think to pass the phone along to my husband. She was whispering rather disjointedly into the phone, and I barely understood what was up. Then, as my guy who was rightfully frustrated at my poor secretarial skills, tries over and over to call her cell, to page her through work, but no reply for several hours. We had friends coming over for dinner, something we had had planned for months. She did find someone to drive her there and back, but she decided that we didn't give a shit, even though her son desperately tried to reach her for hours. She, as a policy, just doesn't answer her cell.
Then, a week or so after that, a pipe bursts and her entire house is filled with several inches of water. Instead of, oh, I don't know, calling a plumber, she calls her son in a hysterical panic about the feet of water, how everything is ruined, and how he has to come over right away with a broom. He replies that he'll bring the shop vac and a pump as soon as he can, but that he just got home from a long day's work and need to grab a quick bite to eat, she hangs up on him. He spends five hours that night, helping her.
The next day, after getting read the (inappropriate) riot act by irrational me for putting up with behavior that made him crazy, he wrote her an email. It was somewhat scathing, noting that he couldn't think of any of his friends' parents who would call their kids instead of a pro, and then hang up on them when they said they were going to eat quickly before heading out. He also noted that while she likes to talk the talk about being an independent woman who can look down on men, she doesn't walk the walk. All true, by the way: she loves drama on some level, and gets mileage from playing the victim. Men are usually the ones doing the victimizing.
Things got worse from there: soon my MIL was accusing my husband, one of the most soulful and empathetic people I've known, of being heartless and cruel. Some typical passive-aggressive moves were made ("well, I just won't call you about anything ever again" and "I've printed out the email and will save it"), without the slightest recognition of my guy's feelings. She hung up on him several more times, before the final hang up that promoted my guy to throw up his hands. They haven't spoken since.
The problem isn't that she has problems or crises in her life; it's the completely self-centered hysteria added to a tendency to denigrate my husband when he doesn't obey, all while relying on his skills and strength to carry her. I know my guy will work something out eventually, and I tell him that she's wrong about him being a bad man. But the whole thing is kind of hanging around out there, with a grandkid on the way. I'm not sure how to deal with this kind of behavior on her part, especially if a kid's involved. It's really hard to stay neutral when someone's acting so crazy with so little provocation...
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Halfway to an Elephant (pg mentioned)
I did the math. As of the middle of this month, I will have been pregnant--at least technically, thanks to the molasses-slow recovery from last year's ectopic--for 11 months. With four still to go.
As my guy noted, "No wonder you're so sick of this."
Who else but an IFer would rival one of Nature's noblest beasts, the fantastic pachyderm, in this? And no wonder I'm about the size of a small elephant at the moment.
As my guy noted, "No wonder you're so sick of this."
Who else but an IFer would rival one of Nature's noblest beasts, the fantastic pachyderm, in this? And no wonder I'm about the size of a small elephant at the moment.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Book Giveaway
To the first taker via the comments, I have a copy of Randine Lewis' "The Infertility Cure" (a very thorough introduction to traditional Chinese medicine's approach to IF and treatment) and "Fertility, Cycles, & Nutrition" by Marilyn M. Shannon (a pretty good guide to nutritional treatment of various states and problems, put out by the Couple to Couple League). Let me know if you want them, and I'll send you an email or post how you can email me...
Hope all the Americans had a good 4th weekend and that everyone else had a good regular old weekend.
Hope all the Americans had a good 4th weekend and that everyone else had a good regular old weekend.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Greener grass
This is a typical train of thought for IFers, but it's still troublesome. You know those blogs you have to stop reading for a while because you're uncomfortably green with envy? Maybe someone got a BFP doing exactly the same thing as you, when you got nuthin'. Maybe it's just the simple fact that they had more follicles at trigger or, in my case, that both of their twins made it past eight weeks.
I've realized that I don't really want twins. That I was terrified when we found out that we had them, afraid of having a truly shitty and medicalized pregnancy after a crappy medicalized conception.
Yet that seemed to have no effect on my sorrow and frustration--see, yet again you're broken, some little voice said--at losing poor little Runty. I felt oddly competitive. An unusual set of feelings.
Now, however, a gal who got knocked up around the same time as me is in the hospital, hoping to keep her little ones in for just a few weeks more and struggling with life on bedrest. And my heart is bursting with compassion and sorrow for her, whom I had envied a few weeks before.
That's the funny thing (for me) about IF: it wrings you dry and leaves you hollow. But that hollowness is a space that can accommodate new empathy, new desire to reach to someone and let them know you care and understand. That's the light plunging into the darkness.
I've realized that I don't really want twins. That I was terrified when we found out that we had them, afraid of having a truly shitty and medicalized pregnancy after a crappy medicalized conception.
Yet that seemed to have no effect on my sorrow and frustration--see, yet again you're broken, some little voice said--at losing poor little Runty. I felt oddly competitive. An unusual set of feelings.
Now, however, a gal who got knocked up around the same time as me is in the hospital, hoping to keep her little ones in for just a few weeks more and struggling with life on bedrest. And my heart is bursting with compassion and sorrow for her, whom I had envied a few weeks before.
That's the funny thing (for me) about IF: it wrings you dry and leaves you hollow. But that hollowness is a space that can accommodate new empathy, new desire to reach to someone and let them know you care and understand. That's the light plunging into the darkness.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
In the swim
Damn it, I hate it when people are so fracking right. This swimming thing? Brilliant.
Yeah, it makes your back feel a bit funny because you have what feels like a second ass dangling from your belly button. But your arms and legs are free and cool and strong. I'm also managing to cut back a bit on the calories.
The most annoying part? It's all making me sleep better, feel better, endure the hellish heat better, yadda yadda.
Yeah, it makes your back feel a bit funny because you have what feels like a second ass dangling from your belly button. But your arms and legs are free and cool and strong. I'm also managing to cut back a bit on the calories.
The most annoying part? It's all making me sleep better, feel better, endure the hellish heat better, yadda yadda.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
This time, the midwife is serious (pg mentioned)
So, one more appointment down, and though she's kicking my now pudgy ass, I love my nurse midwife. Let's call her the CoolWife.
She really cracked the whip with me today on my weight gain. It's a strange thing for me--I'm usually a real stickler for maintaining my weight, which, while not nearly the struggle it is for gals facing things like PCOS, has never been an easy task, ever. But the beast has gotten away from me, and CoolWife is not happy.
But she taught me something: I won't harm Bruiser if I count calories a bit. So I'm supposed to hit no more than 2000 a day, and the hot-dog barge must set sail regularly at the Y pool. The added benefit, according to CoolWife, is that, and I quote, "swimmers just pop their babies right out, in my experience."
Here, here!
As you can tell, I'm one lucky bitch that this is all I get to report and complain about. We had a great u/s, Bruiser is measuring several days ahead, and he's doing the Electric Slide non-stop in utero. Six months, here we come.
She really cracked the whip with me today on my weight gain. It's a strange thing for me--I'm usually a real stickler for maintaining my weight, which, while not nearly the struggle it is for gals facing things like PCOS, has never been an easy task, ever. But the beast has gotten away from me, and CoolWife is not happy.
But she taught me something: I won't harm Bruiser if I count calories a bit. So I'm supposed to hit no more than 2000 a day, and the hot-dog barge must set sail regularly at the Y pool. The added benefit, according to CoolWife, is that, and I quote, "swimmers just pop their babies right out, in my experience."
Here, here!
As you can tell, I'm one lucky bitch that this is all I get to report and complain about. We had a great u/s, Bruiser is measuring several days ahead, and he's doing the Electric Slide non-stop in utero. Six months, here we come.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
My personal verdict (pg mentioned)
This is no fun at all. There, I've said it.
I'm not an ingrate--I am so eager to parent this Bruiser dude--but I just can't get into my current state all that much.
Okay, maybe I could if it wasn't 90+ frigging degrees outside with 90+ percent humidity. When outside, I feel like a barge made of swollen hot dogs. My wedding ring is acting as a finger tourniquet.
I've never loved air conditioning more in my life.
And even now, my brain still seeks out soothing milestones after which I can supposedly stop worrying, like 28 weeks. In short, I'm a grouchy, bloated, anxious, short-tempered mean old bundle of fat lady who's complaining about something she begged and pleaded for for years. Hilarious, aren't I?
I'm not an ingrate--I am so eager to parent this Bruiser dude--but I just can't get into my current state all that much.
Okay, maybe I could if it wasn't 90+ frigging degrees outside with 90+ percent humidity. When outside, I feel like a barge made of swollen hot dogs. My wedding ring is acting as a finger tourniquet.
I've never loved air conditioning more in my life.
And even now, my brain still seeks out soothing milestones after which I can supposedly stop worrying, like 28 weeks. In short, I'm a grouchy, bloated, anxious, short-tempered mean old bundle of fat lady who's complaining about something she begged and pleaded for for years. Hilarious, aren't I?
Friday, June 19, 2009
"Jesus Was Breastfed"
Yesterday, my dear man called me as he walked to work, remarking on what he felt was the stupidest bumpersticker he had ever seen. It exclaimed "Jesus Was Breastfed." Of course, it was not alone in adorning the bumper of a minivan. There were others about being a homebirthing mom or something. Just to put the sticker in context.
My guy suggested we print up and add some stickers of our own, something like, oh, "Pol Pot Was Breastfed," just to put the issue into proper perspective.
It made me think about the emotional difference between a strongly held, benign belief that someone may share with friends or acquaintances or use to guide their life, and a belief that someone feels they can proclaim to the world on the ass of their car. In the later case, the belief becomes ideology, becomes universally proclaimed and applied moral standard.
And all the women who can't breastfeed even if they'd like to--the deadbaby mamas, the adoptive moms, the women who just don't have their milk come in for some reason--may feel hurt.
Is a bumper sticker really worth that? Has that thought ever crossed hippy mom's mind?
My guy suggested we print up and add some stickers of our own, something like, oh, "Pol Pot Was Breastfed," just to put the issue into proper perspective.
It made me think about the emotional difference between a strongly held, benign belief that someone may share with friends or acquaintances or use to guide their life, and a belief that someone feels they can proclaim to the world on the ass of their car. In the later case, the belief becomes ideology, becomes universally proclaimed and applied moral standard.
And all the women who can't breastfeed even if they'd like to--the deadbaby mamas, the adoptive moms, the women who just don't have their milk come in for some reason--may feel hurt.
Is a bumper sticker really worth that? Has that thought ever crossed hippy mom's mind?
Sunday, June 14, 2009
I Married a Visigoth
Yesterday, my husband finally set out to boldly tackle the Pit of Despair that is our garage. Coming from a family that never throws anything away ever, even stuff that is obviously trash, he has his work cut out for him. It's taken a bit of convincing to get him to agree that disgusting old termite-eaten den paneling is garbage and has no absolutely no use value.
After a while, he comes out of the Pit, sans cast.
He somehow (he refuses kindly to tell me how) removed his own cast. The cast he needed because of something I've been sworn to secrecy about, but let's just say it involved showing off for a group of guys at work and way too much collective testosterone (no battery or assault involved, though).
So, please, if you have any rival tribes you need decimated, give us a call.
After a while, he comes out of the Pit, sans cast.
He somehow (he refuses kindly to tell me how) removed his own cast. The cast he needed because of something I've been sworn to secrecy about, but let's just say it involved showing off for a group of guys at work and way too much collective testosterone (no battery or assault involved, though).
So, please, if you have any rival tribes you need decimated, give us a call.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Perspective
So, it's been a far stranger past few weeks than I've been letting on. My husband broke a bone in his hand at work in a truly ridiculous way that I am not at liberty to divulge, and is currently in a cast. I sprained my ankle, having struggled with my new awkward bulk and taking nose dive into the grass in front of our local museum. An older, ill relative passed away (he had been suffering for some time, and had a very happy, long life, so it wasn't heartwrenching, just sad for the wife and children left behind).
A year ago, this all would have felt like extra wood for the "woe is me" fire. And that would have been a legit reaction, of course. But it just doesn't feel that way anymore. Naturally, there's one big reason it doesn't, but there are also a ton of small reasons, too.
These little things are all the moments I appreciate everyday: that I can cook good food, that I have a wonderful life partner, that I'm surrounded by caring friends and family, that our yard is filled with plants, bugs, and animals in all their glorious forms. The anguish, grief, coping, and rooting around in my subconscious has paid dividends.
A year ago, this all would have felt like extra wood for the "woe is me" fire. And that would have been a legit reaction, of course. But it just doesn't feel that way anymore. Naturally, there's one big reason it doesn't, but there are also a ton of small reasons, too.
These little things are all the moments I appreciate everyday: that I can cook good food, that I have a wonderful life partner, that I'm surrounded by caring friends and family, that our yard is filled with plants, bugs, and animals in all their glorious forms. The anguish, grief, coping, and rooting around in my subconscious has paid dividends.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
More on Indian food
There are lots of good cookbooks out there (and so-so hippy American versions that are still pretty tasty). Right now, we're obsessed with Yamuna Devi's Lord Krishna's Cuisine. It's basically an encyclopedia of veggie Indian food, with tons of recipes learned in India but adapted to US conditions (i.e. most of us don't cook over charcoal braziers, for instance). It's also like a crash course in cooking: precise directions and explanations, fun little stories about how Devi learned the dish, recommendations for various approaches if you don't have certain equipment or ingredients.
Anyway, check it out. And please, do stop by for dinner sometime (so long as you don't mind nibbling the experiments). :)
Anyway, check it out. And please, do stop by for dinner sometime (so long as you don't mind nibbling the experiments). :)
Monday, June 8, 2009
Enough of that
Whew, sorry. I almost feel like I need to tell some sort of bad joke to clear the air after that post. Can you tell I'm a bit on the cranky side of late? I never knew it was possible to be very happy, and yet oh so cranky.
There is absolutely nothing of interest here. I'm obsessed with Indian food--could a certain someone be expressing previous life preferences? Fortunately, the man is currently fascinated by learning to cook Indian food, which saves me from months of unrequited longing, as the Indian restaurants in town are profoundly mediocre, at best.
Longing again for a farm, and to live out in the country. We recently discovered a place that sounds awesome, but alas, again, the timing's not right. Someday, though...
There is absolutely nothing of interest here. I'm obsessed with Indian food--could a certain someone be expressing previous life preferences? Fortunately, the man is currently fascinated by learning to cook Indian food, which saves me from months of unrequited longing, as the Indian restaurants in town are profoundly mediocre, at best.
Longing again for a farm, and to live out in the country. We recently discovered a place that sounds awesome, but alas, again, the timing's not right. Someday, though...
Friday, June 5, 2009
And to beat this dead horse...
Sorry, dears, I just wanted to clarify: I am one of those folks who dislikes abortion intensely, but feels it should be a medical option available in close, thoughtful consultation with a health care provider. My wish is that we someday reduce unwanted pregnancies dramatically and promote adoption as an option by improving both women's health care and the child welfare system.
I respect people with differing opinions, so long as they don't spit vitriol or insult women trying to use the legal services of a clinic. (A family member was berated by truly disturbing protesters once on her way to a D&C for a missed miscarriage--wonder how often that happens?)
I respect people with differing opinions, so long as they don't spit vitriol or insult women trying to use the legal services of a clinic. (A family member was berated by truly disturbing protesters once on her way to a D&C for a missed miscarriage--wonder how often that happens?)
A fish in the percolator
Warning: rant ahead.
So what do we do with this family values stuff? Especially when the party that once claimed them so desperately as their own can't seem to make the darned things fit into their grand scheme of things, into their ideas about the relationship between government and private companies. It's like the fish in the percolator: Family values are out of place and stinky and unwelcome in the brewing, bubbling world of business.
Case in point: this morning, NPR carried two items back to back. One on new legislation proposing four weeks paid parental leave (ooooh, how generous!) started out with nice statements from both sides of the aisle and I thought, so maybe all this talk about bipartisanship and all of us wanting the same things is true. Then NPR talked to some Texan tool who talked about parental leave as if it were a deadly threat to the American economy and our society.
Next came a disheartening piece on the murder of Dr. Tiller, the Kansas physician who was shot for performing about a dozen late-term terminations of pregnancies over the last ten years, ALL mind you to save the life of the mother or prevent her from having to deliver a baby so ill or deformed that it would die immediately in agony, as required by Kansas law. This is underreported in the media, unfortunately. Anyway, it just seemed sad that after hearing the virulent condemnation of paid leave for federal employees, we get to hear more about why many people equate abortion with murder, and why some real wackos feel that justifies cold-blooded shooting in churches.
Thus, from some Republicans' perspective, as a woman (or a woman's devoted partner), you must have that baby, but you get zero support for doing so, except a flimsy guarantee that for 12 weeks with no income, you won't be kicked to the curb by your employer. Same goes if you want to adopt the baby from a woman who decided abortion wasn't her way. This in the richest nation in the world.
It's just pathetic. If we want to advocate for "family values," let's hear some plans to actually support families. If we want to support the unimpeded ability of businesses to cut costs and manage human resources, let's just say so, and screw the families.
So what do we do with this family values stuff? Especially when the party that once claimed them so desperately as their own can't seem to make the darned things fit into their grand scheme of things, into their ideas about the relationship between government and private companies. It's like the fish in the percolator: Family values are out of place and stinky and unwelcome in the brewing, bubbling world of business.
Case in point: this morning, NPR carried two items back to back. One on new legislation proposing four weeks paid parental leave (ooooh, how generous!) started out with nice statements from both sides of the aisle and I thought, so maybe all this talk about bipartisanship and all of us wanting the same things is true. Then NPR talked to some Texan tool who talked about parental leave as if it were a deadly threat to the American economy and our society.
Next came a disheartening piece on the murder of Dr. Tiller, the Kansas physician who was shot for performing about a dozen late-term terminations of pregnancies over the last ten years, ALL mind you to save the life of the mother or prevent her from having to deliver a baby so ill or deformed that it would die immediately in agony, as required by Kansas law. This is underreported in the media, unfortunately. Anyway, it just seemed sad that after hearing the virulent condemnation of paid leave for federal employees, we get to hear more about why many people equate abortion with murder, and why some real wackos feel that justifies cold-blooded shooting in churches.
Thus, from some Republicans' perspective, as a woman (or a woman's devoted partner), you must have that baby, but you get zero support for doing so, except a flimsy guarantee that for 12 weeks with no income, you won't be kicked to the curb by your employer. Same goes if you want to adopt the baby from a woman who decided abortion wasn't her way. This in the richest nation in the world.
It's just pathetic. If we want to advocate for "family values," let's hear some plans to actually support families. If we want to support the unimpeded ability of businesses to cut costs and manage human resources, let's just say so, and screw the families.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Nothing to see here
Really, there's nothing going on here.
I'm wrestling with ongoing angst about my dissertation and those "what am I going to do with the rest of my life"-type questions. I'm starting to bore even myself.
I'm also wrestling with new personality traits that have developed as my abdomen swells. I've become totally uninterested in working, exercising, and really into watching television shows (via the internets), sitting in air conditioned rooms, and eating crappy, fatty, sugary, gooey foods (though my midwife's stern warnings have helped me resist temptation). I've finally become a real American!
That was a joke, patriots. No need to get in a tizzy.
I'm wrestling with ongoing angst about my dissertation and those "what am I going to do with the rest of my life"-type questions. I'm starting to bore even myself.
I'm also wrestling with new personality traits that have developed as my abdomen swells. I've become totally uninterested in working, exercising, and really into watching television shows (via the internets), sitting in air conditioned rooms, and eating crappy, fatty, sugary, gooey foods (though my midwife's stern warnings have helped me resist temptation). I've finally become a real American!
That was a joke, patriots. No need to get in a tizzy.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
So, it's a... (preg mentioned)
Boy!
Everything looked good in there, though Bruiser refused to move the way the persistent u/s tech wanted. Thus, while we saw four chambers in the heart, they need to see if next month he'll give us a better view of his ticker and his profile.
He was unabashed about letting us know what equipment he's carrying, however.
I can already sense his father's influence.
Otherwise, I'm fine. Good b/p. Bad weight gain. So it's bye bye huge bowls of chocolate ice cream. Hello fruit. It's cool; I've been feeling a bit of sweet overload. And I'm no longer craving bacon. So hopefully I can get back on track.
Not that I really care. I've decided next spring, I'm going to start training again, either for a sprint tri or a 10 K or mini-marathon, whatever feels best. That and nursing should take care of this baby fat.
It finally seems real, seeing that strange cross between a cute kitten and Skeletor sloshing around in that sea of white noise...
Everything looked good in there, though Bruiser refused to move the way the persistent u/s tech wanted. Thus, while we saw four chambers in the heart, they need to see if next month he'll give us a better view of his ticker and his profile.
He was unabashed about letting us know what equipment he's carrying, however.
I can already sense his father's influence.
Otherwise, I'm fine. Good b/p. Bad weight gain. So it's bye bye huge bowls of chocolate ice cream. Hello fruit. It's cool; I've been feeling a bit of sweet overload. And I'm no longer craving bacon. So hopefully I can get back on track.
Not that I really care. I've decided next spring, I'm going to start training again, either for a sprint tri or a 10 K or mini-marathon, whatever feels best. That and nursing should take care of this baby fat.
It finally seems real, seeing that strange cross between a cute kitten and Skeletor sloshing around in that sea of white noise...
Friday, May 22, 2009
A warning to the IF brethern
Dears, if you are one of the three people on this planet who have yet to dive into the bizarro sea of Farcebook, don't do it. I have been to that ocean and I can tell you: everyone there has children or is pregnant.
Even me.
It would have been devastating six months ago to see all sorts of people I knew from years back, even, I must stress the ones who due to a terrible medical condition had been told they would likely never be able to bear children, have offspring. With a few, actually quite surprising exceptions (that cute dude with the big bucks never bred? Weird...).
You have been warned.
Even me.
It would have been devastating six months ago to see all sorts of people I knew from years back, even, I must stress the ones who due to a terrible medical condition had been told they would likely never be able to bear children, have offspring. With a few, actually quite surprising exceptions (that cute dude with the big bucks never bred? Weird...).
You have been warned.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A conversation
Q: "So, are you decorating the nursery? Do you have a theme?"
A: "Yes, our theme is 'we don't have any fucking money.'"
IFers, we live on another planet. I couldn't care less about a nursery. We couldn't really manage to pay for a redecoration to last a year or two anyway. I just want a child.
A: "Yes, our theme is 'we don't have any fucking money.'"
IFers, we live on another planet. I couldn't care less about a nursery. We couldn't really manage to pay for a redecoration to last a year or two anyway. I just want a child.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Update (for lack of a better title)
Things have been fine for the past week or so, in that lovely chartreuse period of late spring before summer's sauna kicks in. Our garden, after a marathon yard work session, is looking good. Spinach and lettuce are cooking, as are some tiny beets and some fast-growing peas. My anxiety has passed, at least until our next ob appointment in a week and a half. We've had some amazing spring storms and way more rain than usual.
I've been feeling good. Sometimes a bit tired, sometimes really slow and fat and winded compared to my old chop-chop self, but generally good. Evenings are spent watching hulu in two overstuffed chairs we've dragged into our tiny third bedroom (aka "the study" where the computer sits). My husband drinks beer--he is after all working 60+ hours so that we can have a nice pile of cash for October and beyond--and I eat ice cream.
I should be hard at work on my dissertation, but I seem to be finding a hundred little (often income earning) things to prevent me from working on it. Part of me feels deeply apathetic, or at least ambivalent. If I'm no longer all that hot to go into academia, why bother to write a book no one will read and no one will care about, not even me?
But then again, maybe I should just bite the bullet and finish the sucker--I'm almost halfway there and haven't touched it really since last summer--so that I can force people to call me Dr. Or maybe I can just get force people to call me Dr., without the work.
I've been feeling good. Sometimes a bit tired, sometimes really slow and fat and winded compared to my old chop-chop self, but generally good. Evenings are spent watching hulu in two overstuffed chairs we've dragged into our tiny third bedroom (aka "the study" where the computer sits). My husband drinks beer--he is after all working 60+ hours so that we can have a nice pile of cash for October and beyond--and I eat ice cream.
I should be hard at work on my dissertation, but I seem to be finding a hundred little (often income earning) things to prevent me from working on it. Part of me feels deeply apathetic, or at least ambivalent. If I'm no longer all that hot to go into academia, why bother to write a book no one will read and no one will care about, not even me?
But then again, maybe I should just bite the bullet and finish the sucker--I'm almost halfway there and haven't touched it really since last summer--so that I can force people to call me Dr. Or maybe I can just get force people to call me Dr., without the work.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
The Worry Gland
I've been experiencing waves of anxiety off and on for the past week or so. Part of it comes from exhaustion mixed with a sudden lack of things that absolutely have to get done now. Part of it is just part of me: I grew up with two anxious parents who sparkled with nervous energy at times. And part of it, I swear, is biological.
I feel like my anxiety is flowing from a special, newly awakened organ or gland, something that ensures I consider all the wretched, horrible options. I've noticed I'm more easily threatened or startled, more easily shaken by an extremely remote possibility. I'm not worried about what might happen to me per se, but what might happen to Bruiser inside me or outside me, to my husband, my parents, my neighbors, school girls in Pakistan, etc. Seriously, I'm reaching a whole new worry dimension.
Is this some kind of Braxton-Hicks contraction of the maternal mind? An involuntary movement preparing me for when the real worrying fun starts?
I feel like my anxiety is flowing from a special, newly awakened organ or gland, something that ensures I consider all the wretched, horrible options. I've noticed I'm more easily threatened or startled, more easily shaken by an extremely remote possibility. I'm not worried about what might happen to me per se, but what might happen to Bruiser inside me or outside me, to my husband, my parents, my neighbors, school girls in Pakistan, etc. Seriously, I'm reaching a whole new worry dimension.
Is this some kind of Braxton-Hicks contraction of the maternal mind? An involuntary movement preparing me for when the real worrying fun starts?
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thanks and tagged...
Ah. Now I know why I spill my guts. Your words--all of them--are a balm to my worry-wortin', mind-contortin' soul. Thank you for that.
I also walked around our muggy, spring-clad town and bought a very, very small little shot of Ben and Jerry's (Chocolate Fudge Brownie, in case you're wondering). And I sang with some friends who were also having a nerve-wracking day.
On another note, I have been tagged by the lovely JellyBelly with an auspicious octo-centric meme. A great distraction--just in time.
8 things I'm looking forward to:
1. October 22nd
2. Finishing my dissertation
3. Getting our damn house organized (especially the Pit of Despair, aka the garage)
4. Garden tomatoes and potatoes
5. The aforementioned ice cream
6. Not working so much
7. Rebuilding our savings to a good, solid level, post IF, home reno and refi (I know, I'm a Capricorn)
8. Using these savings to get a fly farm started in the next 4 years or so
8 things I did yesterday:
1. Gave lecture about Mongolian hip hop (seriously)
2. Ate mighty fine burrito
3. Dawdled on the internet at other university job (shhhh)
4. Ate amazing almond and chocolate croissants (hey, it was 2-for-1 day at my favorite bakery!)
5. Learned more about highland games and the bands who play at them
6. Admired our garden and pulled some weeds
7. Ate some really good salmon that my husband made (can you see where my mind is of late?)
8. Tried to find a good medieval German song to sing at a friend's wedding
8 things I wish I could do:
1. Have health insurance I didn't have to pay an arm and a leg for
2. Spend a year in Mongolia
3. Read Chinese
4. Make really good Japanese and Indian food
5. Work as a farmer and not have to worry about other jobs on the side
6. Buy a Thomas M0ser bed
7. Get fertiles to stop saying stupid shit to my IF sisters and brothers
8. Wave my magic wand and have everyone in the blogosphere have their dream baby, as well as an inheritance from a mysterious relation that somehow is exactly what they've already spent on treatment and heartache.
8 shows I watch...
Uh, I don't have a TV (you have to have cable in our town to get any reception, and we refuse to pay for it). I guess I could just type Battlestar Galactica eight times? I also like Top Chef and the Colbert Report, which I watch online sometimes.
See? I do know something about pop culture!
8 favorite fruits
1. Blueberries
2. Sour cherries
3. Strawberries
4. Raspberries
5. Blackberries
6. Persimmons
7. Pawpaws
8. Good funky apples from old stock
8 places I'd like to travel
1. India
2. Bhutan
3. Transylvania
4. Wales
5. Labrador
6. Greenland
7. Brazil
8. I'd love to go back to Germany and hike around with my guy drinking ridiculous amonts of beer. Is that a place? Beerland?
8 places I've lived
1. New York City
2. Portland, OR
3. Helsinki, Finland
4. Moscow, Russia
5. Stuttgart, Germany
6. A certain college town I'm very coy about in the Midwest
7. New Haven, CT (Awful, don't ever live there. Ever.)
8. A very small town in Missouri with four houses that I am also coy about.
Anyone else feel like a good meme to get over that midweek hump?
I also walked around our muggy, spring-clad town and bought a very, very small little shot of Ben and Jerry's (Chocolate Fudge Brownie, in case you're wondering). And I sang with some friends who were also having a nerve-wracking day.
On another note, I have been tagged by the lovely JellyBelly with an auspicious octo-centric meme. A great distraction--just in time.
8 things I'm looking forward to:
1. October 22nd
2. Finishing my dissertation
3. Getting our damn house organized (especially the Pit of Despair, aka the garage)
4. Garden tomatoes and potatoes
5. The aforementioned ice cream
6. Not working so much
7. Rebuilding our savings to a good, solid level, post IF, home reno and refi (I know, I'm a Capricorn)
8. Using these savings to get a fly farm started in the next 4 years or so
8 things I did yesterday:
1. Gave lecture about Mongolian hip hop (seriously)
2. Ate mighty fine burrito
3. Dawdled on the internet at other university job (shhhh)
4. Ate amazing almond and chocolate croissants (hey, it was 2-for-1 day at my favorite bakery!)
5. Learned more about highland games and the bands who play at them
6. Admired our garden and pulled some weeds
7. Ate some really good salmon that my husband made (can you see where my mind is of late?)
8. Tried to find a good medieval German song to sing at a friend's wedding
8 things I wish I could do:
1. Have health insurance I didn't have to pay an arm and a leg for
2. Spend a year in Mongolia
3. Read Chinese
4. Make really good Japanese and Indian food
5. Work as a farmer and not have to worry about other jobs on the side
6. Buy a Thomas M0ser bed
7. Get fertiles to stop saying stupid shit to my IF sisters and brothers
8. Wave my magic wand and have everyone in the blogosphere have their dream baby, as well as an inheritance from a mysterious relation that somehow is exactly what they've already spent on treatment and heartache.
8 shows I watch...
Uh, I don't have a TV (you have to have cable in our town to get any reception, and we refuse to pay for it). I guess I could just type Battlestar Galactica eight times? I also like Top Chef and the Colbert Report, which I watch online sometimes.
See? I do know something about pop culture!
8 favorite fruits
1. Blueberries
2. Sour cherries
3. Strawberries
4. Raspberries
5. Blackberries
6. Persimmons
7. Pawpaws
8. Good funky apples from old stock
8 places I'd like to travel
1. India
2. Bhutan
3. Transylvania
4. Wales
5. Labrador
6. Greenland
7. Brazil
8. I'd love to go back to Germany and hike around with my guy drinking ridiculous amonts of beer. Is that a place? Beerland?
8 places I've lived
1. New York City
2. Portland, OR
3. Helsinki, Finland
4. Moscow, Russia
5. Stuttgart, Germany
6. A certain college town I'm very coy about in the Midwest
7. New Haven, CT (Awful, don't ever live there. Ever.)
8. A very small town in Missouri with four houses that I am also coy about.
Anyone else feel like a good meme to get over that midweek hump?
Crazy
Sure, we're never gonna survive unless... etc. But I hate the way ob appointments always manage to make me completely and utterly psychotic for no discernible logical reason.
I should be happy: Bruiser's beating away at 144 or something bpm, my uterus is a good size, my cervix is closed and long, I've gained a bit of weight but not too terribly much, and everything's just hunky dory. It's our anniversary today.
But I'm wrapped in a web of anxiety, a delayed reaction to the pelvic exam today, methinks. I'm worried about my various test results. I'm worried about a fellowship I applied for. I'm worried because my in-laws bought us a lovely antique cradle and it's sitting in our living room, staring back at me. I'm worried about insurance next semester. I'm just worried, with that gut-knotting free-range anxiety that has no clear anchor or cause.
For the first time in months, I wish I could have a glass of red wine.
I should be happy: Bruiser's beating away at 144 or something bpm, my uterus is a good size, my cervix is closed and long, I've gained a bit of weight but not too terribly much, and everything's just hunky dory. It's our anniversary today.
But I'm wrapped in a web of anxiety, a delayed reaction to the pelvic exam today, methinks. I'm worried about my various test results. I'm worried about a fellowship I applied for. I'm worried because my in-laws bought us a lovely antique cradle and it's sitting in our living room, staring back at me. I'm worried about insurance next semester. I'm just worried, with that gut-knotting free-range anxiety that has no clear anchor or cause.
For the first time in months, I wish I could have a glass of red wine.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Theoretical Children
Um, clearly, children mentioned (the imaginary kind, that is)
At the kind suggestion of The Misfit, I've decided to share something that will likely expose me for what I truly am: one of those.
I'll explain. For about a year in my life, I was deeply committed to a yoga practice. I would do 30-60 minutes of practice a day, including 15 minutes or so of meditation and breathing exercises. This came during a very confused and confusing part of my late 20s, when I was still attempting to put my life together after divorce, unraveling in a very strange and complicated love affair, and drinking more than I should (but less than I had the year previous).
One day, during my meditation, I saw something, all in a flash, unwilled: I saw what I thought was a young boy, about three years old, with blondish, shoulder-length hair. He had dark eyes, and looked somewhat petulant but basically happy. He stood in front of a dark green row of bushes and trees, the kind of treeline you have at the back of some yards or some fields. I felt this was my future child.
Oddly enough, when I saw baby pictures of my guy, he looked a hell of a lot like this kid in my yoga-induced mental image.
Other than my hippy delusions, I haven't had really distinct images what what I hoped my child/ren would be like. I hope s/he loves nature like I do, and is curious. I hope s/he learns to do something that gives them joy and maybe even helps them earn a living. If everything goes well and genetics have their say, chances are this kid will have lots of energy, like to move, like to talk, and enjoy being right (characteristics my guy and I share).
My ideal is a bit odd: I'd like to be surprised by the unexpected, happy path this person forges for him/herself (damn, English pronouns are so fucking irritating when you're trying to be non-gender-specific!). I'd like to wake up twenty or thirty years from now, marveling at how the heck this person figured out such a wacky, beautiful way to get from Point A to the Point B they hoped for.
I'm going to reiterate Misfit's questions: Do you have a theorectical child? An ideal you wish and long for?
At the kind suggestion of The Misfit, I've decided to share something that will likely expose me for what I truly am: one of those.
I'll explain. For about a year in my life, I was deeply committed to a yoga practice. I would do 30-60 minutes of practice a day, including 15 minutes or so of meditation and breathing exercises. This came during a very confused and confusing part of my late 20s, when I was still attempting to put my life together after divorce, unraveling in a very strange and complicated love affair, and drinking more than I should (but less than I had the year previous).
One day, during my meditation, I saw something, all in a flash, unwilled: I saw what I thought was a young boy, about three years old, with blondish, shoulder-length hair. He had dark eyes, and looked somewhat petulant but basically happy. He stood in front of a dark green row of bushes and trees, the kind of treeline you have at the back of some yards or some fields. I felt this was my future child.
Oddly enough, when I saw baby pictures of my guy, he looked a hell of a lot like this kid in my yoga-induced mental image.
Other than my hippy delusions, I haven't had really distinct images what what I hoped my child/ren would be like. I hope s/he loves nature like I do, and is curious. I hope s/he learns to do something that gives them joy and maybe even helps them earn a living. If everything goes well and genetics have their say, chances are this kid will have lots of energy, like to move, like to talk, and enjoy being right (characteristics my guy and I share).
My ideal is a bit odd: I'd like to be surprised by the unexpected, happy path this person forges for him/herself (damn, English pronouns are so fucking irritating when you're trying to be non-gender-specific!). I'd like to wake up twenty or thirty years from now, marveling at how the heck this person figured out such a wacky, beautiful way to get from Point A to the Point B they hoped for.
I'm going to reiterate Misfit's questions: Do you have a theorectical child? An ideal you wish and long for?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Mulch
Not that I'm posting merely to cover the bare earth of an updated blog.
No, I'm thinking about mulch and what's called the Fukuoka method of farming. My man showed me some truly inspiring videos of this no-till, no-compost (except to start seeds), minimal soil disturbance approach. Basically, you establish good conditions in various ways--back to the mulch here--and let the plants pursue their own ends of growing, reproducing, dying. You leave their roots in the ground and lop off any parts you don't use to replenish the mulch.
I nearly burst into tears when I heard one particularly accomplished gardner/farmer mention that plants use only about 2% of the microelements and other soil nutrients to create their bodies. The rest is all light and air.
And they do this without knowing. Without trying. I started there... like any embryo, creating myself from two cells. At what point did I turn away from this and begin to doubt?
Shit. I have so much to learn from lettuce and leeks.
No, I'm thinking about mulch and what's called the Fukuoka method of farming. My man showed me some truly inspiring videos of this no-till, no-compost (except to start seeds), minimal soil disturbance approach. Basically, you establish good conditions in various ways--back to the mulch here--and let the plants pursue their own ends of growing, reproducing, dying. You leave their roots in the ground and lop off any parts you don't use to replenish the mulch.
I nearly burst into tears when I heard one particularly accomplished gardner/farmer mention that plants use only about 2% of the microelements and other soil nutrients to create their bodies. The rest is all light and air.
And they do this without knowing. Without trying. I started there... like any embryo, creating myself from two cells. At what point did I turn away from this and begin to doubt?
Shit. I have so much to learn from lettuce and leeks.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
13 weeks
Looks like I'm in my 2nd trimester. Holy smokes.
My pledge to you:
My pledge to you:
- No creepy tickers with mutant floating pixel fetus (no offense to others who enjoy them)
- No complaining about how "fat" I am, etc.
- No belly pics (I will post pictures of my cat's tummies, if asked, however)
- No lengthy discussion of fancy baby crap (I may crow if I find some cool junk used)
- No self-righteous shit about birth plans, attachment parenting, breastfeeding, whatever.
Friday, April 10, 2009
A funny thing happened on the way to my midterm...
(Pregnancy, theorectical children mentioned.)
I had to give a midterm yesterday (for my intensive 8-week class). While I was rushing to find an unoccupied ladies room, my advisor, whom I had been bugging about various things over email, appeared and insisted we talk.
We discussed various options for me next year, and had a good chat, as usual. He recalled his own grad student days, when he was expecting his kids. Like many grad students, his family was on Medicaid and WIC. He recommended I get the apple juice concentrate from WIC, which he said was pretty good straight.
Perhaps we need to change the name: Not WIC, but WICSCGS (Women, Infant Children, and Sugar-Crazed Grad Students).
It's crazy to think the guy running our department at a Research One major university, not all that long ago, was getting government support. And funny enough, he's a Republican.
I will likely also be on WIC and our child will hopefully qualify for insurance under the state children's health insurance plan. It's that, or pay $6500 a year through the university, or around $400 through my guy's job. That's a big chunk of his take home pay, at a time when that will basically be all we have (though my guy's already got two other part-time jobs cooking, bless his hardworking heart).
Which is why we are going to have the thriftiest damn layette in existance. I mean, we won't be using a cardboard box as a basinet, but we'll be close. Thank goodness for a bevy of psyched grandparents and incredibly supportive (and better earning) friends with toddlers and left-over baby loot.
I say this not to complain, but to get the word out: It's totally possible to have a good life on the cheap, with a little help from the community, and even state and federal government if need be. It really does take a village, when you're on a shoestring.
I had to give a midterm yesterday (for my intensive 8-week class). While I was rushing to find an unoccupied ladies room, my advisor, whom I had been bugging about various things over email, appeared and insisted we talk.
We discussed various options for me next year, and had a good chat, as usual. He recalled his own grad student days, when he was expecting his kids. Like many grad students, his family was on Medicaid and WIC. He recommended I get the apple juice concentrate from WIC, which he said was pretty good straight.
Perhaps we need to change the name: Not WIC, but WICSCGS (Women, Infant Children, and Sugar-Crazed Grad Students).
It's crazy to think the guy running our department at a Research One major university, not all that long ago, was getting government support. And funny enough, he's a Republican.
I will likely also be on WIC and our child will hopefully qualify for insurance under the state children's health insurance plan. It's that, or pay $6500 a year through the university, or around $400 through my guy's job. That's a big chunk of his take home pay, at a time when that will basically be all we have (though my guy's already got two other part-time jobs cooking, bless his hardworking heart).
Which is why we are going to have the thriftiest damn layette in existance. I mean, we won't be using a cardboard box as a basinet, but we'll be close. Thank goodness for a bevy of psyched grandparents and incredibly supportive (and better earning) friends with toddlers and left-over baby loot.
I say this not to complain, but to get the word out: It's totally possible to have a good life on the cheap, with a little help from the community, and even state and federal government if need be. It really does take a village, when you're on a shoestring.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Dreams, Old and Fresh
Last night, I dreamed I was in Moscow. It was a younger me, free of obligations or directions, unmarried and short-haired, but somehow still mysteriously pregnant. It was the very end of twilight, and the old winding streets of the heart of the city were deep in shadows, broad, leafy pools of darkness from the trees above. It was a dream Russia: everything was so well cared for and neat and calm. I walked without fear.
Suddenly, from around a corner, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He walked up to me and unexpectedly but very softly kissed me on the lips. Then he stood back from me and looked me deep in the eyes. I was not afraid. I was instantly in love.
I remember my dreams every night now, and they are usually jumbled messes of images stolen from the previous day's experiences. But this one somehow came from some other part of my psyche. It echoed with promise: that somehow, my other life that unfolded half a world away was still possible, relevant, a source of inspiration and creativity. My animus, my male muse had emerged, bearing a still unclear gift.
I don't know why, but it reminds me of another dream I had, several years ago, when still deep in the dark pit of IF despair. I think I've already discussed it here, but I'll repeat myself... I had somehow sneaked into Russia without meaning to, without a visa. Somehow, I was forced to confront a whole bad guys club (a la The Manchurian Candidate) who unleashed a dragon on an innocent man, woman, and their children. To save the family, I flung myself in front of them and somehow defeated the dragon. It became part of me, curled up in disturbing miniature on my cheek as a painful, permanent scar. Yet no one else could see it, and no one seemed to care that I had just done the impossible and survived.
That, friends, is the essence of the IF experience: We bear mysterious marks we can't erase, and once we've found our release, no one recognizes our secret yet astonishing heroism.
Suddenly, from around a corner, a young man stepped out of the shadows. He walked up to me and unexpectedly but very softly kissed me on the lips. Then he stood back from me and looked me deep in the eyes. I was not afraid. I was instantly in love.
I remember my dreams every night now, and they are usually jumbled messes of images stolen from the previous day's experiences. But this one somehow came from some other part of my psyche. It echoed with promise: that somehow, my other life that unfolded half a world away was still possible, relevant, a source of inspiration and creativity. My animus, my male muse had emerged, bearing a still unclear gift.
I don't know why, but it reminds me of another dream I had, several years ago, when still deep in the dark pit of IF despair. I think I've already discussed it here, but I'll repeat myself... I had somehow sneaked into Russia without meaning to, without a visa. Somehow, I was forced to confront a whole bad guys club (a la The Manchurian Candidate) who unleashed a dragon on an innocent man, woman, and their children. To save the family, I flung myself in front of them and somehow defeated the dragon. It became part of me, curled up in disturbing miniature on my cheek as a painful, permanent scar. Yet no one else could see it, and no one seemed to care that I had just done the impossible and survived.
That, friends, is the essence of the IF experience: We bear mysterious marks we can't erase, and once we've found our release, no one recognizes our secret yet astonishing heroism.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Even my appointments are boring now
Note: Stupid pregnancy wanderings ahead.
Unless it turns out that I have mysteriously acquired HIV or Hep B, I think this had to be one of the dullest appointments ever. Not that I miss the drama; it's just strange to have it suddenly exit, stage right, end Act I.
First, I asked if there was any way we could confirm that Bruiser was still among us. The nurse-midwife did a Doppler scan of my belly and voila. The swish swish that falls somewhere between crickets on Red Bull and a very aggressive washing machine. Way to live, Bruiser!
Then, the medical history. It was dull. Random relatives with random ailments, most of which were related to lifestyle. Or, in more distant relatives, insanity.
The most gut-clenching part was thinking about testing. Do I do the quad screen or the level II ultrasound? Would we abort a special needs child, if in the off chance we had one? Terror gripped me, and irritation. I'm at that ridiculous point, right on the cusp of 35, but not officially in the Advanced Maternal Age category. That means, no insurance coverage for any of this. The thought of paying out of pocket for something that would merely tell me I might need more testing frustrates me. The good ol' no guarantees, lots of cash bs we IFers know so well.
I think we might just opt out of the whole affair and take whoever we get, be s/he regular or unleaded. We have a wonderful program locally that helps disabled folks create amazing art and find useful, compassionate employment. When I thought of that, of the people I had met there, I realized that it didn't really matter. I only hope my child will have capacity for joy and creativity. The rest will be as it will be.
And now, the next appointment is in a month. When they'll do a pap and feel my uterus and likely give me another chance to hear the Doppler. It's all so easy and low key and stress-free.
I'm just baffled.
The only sour note: I've gained 15 pounds since, oh, some time last year. I know I had packed on a few pounds during Ectoporama '08--what a festive time!--but damn. I mean, my clothes all fit until about two weeks ago. Except my brief dalliance with bacon, I haven't been eating all that many sweets.
The nurse encouraged me to avoid gaining more than about five pounds between now and Week 20. But I'm always, always hungry. She suggested protein, but the cheapest veggie source--beans and lentils--have been inflating me like the Macy's Parade Snoopy balloon. Sigh.
Speaking of which, it's lunch time...
Unless it turns out that I have mysteriously acquired HIV or Hep B, I think this had to be one of the dullest appointments ever. Not that I miss the drama; it's just strange to have it suddenly exit, stage right, end Act I.
First, I asked if there was any way we could confirm that Bruiser was still among us. The nurse-midwife did a Doppler scan of my belly and voila. The swish swish that falls somewhere between crickets on Red Bull and a very aggressive washing machine. Way to live, Bruiser!
Then, the medical history. It was dull. Random relatives with random ailments, most of which were related to lifestyle. Or, in more distant relatives, insanity.
The most gut-clenching part was thinking about testing. Do I do the quad screen or the level II ultrasound? Would we abort a special needs child, if in the off chance we had one? Terror gripped me, and irritation. I'm at that ridiculous point, right on the cusp of 35, but not officially in the Advanced Maternal Age category. That means, no insurance coverage for any of this. The thought of paying out of pocket for something that would merely tell me I might need more testing frustrates me. The good ol' no guarantees, lots of cash bs we IFers know so well.
I think we might just opt out of the whole affair and take whoever we get, be s/he regular or unleaded. We have a wonderful program locally that helps disabled folks create amazing art and find useful, compassionate employment. When I thought of that, of the people I had met there, I realized that it didn't really matter. I only hope my child will have capacity for joy and creativity. The rest will be as it will be.
And now, the next appointment is in a month. When they'll do a pap and feel my uterus and likely give me another chance to hear the Doppler. It's all so easy and low key and stress-free.
I'm just baffled.
The only sour note: I've gained 15 pounds since, oh, some time last year. I know I had packed on a few pounds during Ectoporama '08--what a festive time!--but damn. I mean, my clothes all fit until about two weeks ago. Except my brief dalliance with bacon, I haven't been eating all that many sweets.
The nurse encouraged me to avoid gaining more than about five pounds between now and Week 20. But I'm always, always hungry. She suggested protein, but the cheapest veggie source--beans and lentils--have been inflating me like the Macy's Parade Snoopy balloon. Sigh.
Speaking of which, it's lunch time...
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Oh, I'm still here
...just ridiculously busy. The perils of having three jobs.
I go to see the nurse midwife on Thursday. Of course, this appointment has triggered mild bursts of anxiety that Bruiser has somehow managed to kick the bucket on the sly. Or that I'll have to beg for an ultrasound to keep myself sane. I always get increasingly paranoid before doctor's appointments.
I seem to have misplaced my waist. It happened all of a sudden. If you see it, let me know.
My husband is staying remarkably sane, thanks to the Lex, as we lovingly call it. Not one single bout of dread and cancer terror since he started taking the stuff. Amazing.
We're in the home stretch of completing the Endless Renovation of '08 (and now '09): laying a bamboo floor in our family room. Our second bathroom is much improved--tile floor, new vanity, new paint--and someday soon I look forward to not living in a construction zone.
We've drafted a budget. It's an absolute necessity, now that our income will basically decline by 40% when I stay home. Hubby's got a second job working for the census, and is applying for others. I may teach a half-semester class before giving birth. We'll be living very modestly, but we'll make it.
That's all. Nothing much to report here. I know, it's like watching grass grow.
I go to see the nurse midwife on Thursday. Of course, this appointment has triggered mild bursts of anxiety that Bruiser has somehow managed to kick the bucket on the sly. Or that I'll have to beg for an ultrasound to keep myself sane. I always get increasingly paranoid before doctor's appointments.
I seem to have misplaced my waist. It happened all of a sudden. If you see it, let me know.
My husband is staying remarkably sane, thanks to the Lex, as we lovingly call it. Not one single bout of dread and cancer terror since he started taking the stuff. Amazing.
We're in the home stretch of completing the Endless Renovation of '08 (and now '09): laying a bamboo floor in our family room. Our second bathroom is much improved--tile floor, new vanity, new paint--and someday soon I look forward to not living in a construction zone.
We've drafted a budget. It's an absolute necessity, now that our income will basically decline by 40% when I stay home. Hubby's got a second job working for the census, and is applying for others. I may teach a half-semester class before giving birth. We'll be living very modestly, but we'll make it.
That's all. Nothing much to report here. I know, it's like watching grass grow.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Stupid Things I Have Done, Part IX (Early Childhood Edition)
Too many of my bloggy buddies are suffering through various waits and difficult aftermaths, and I have become incredibly boring. But, friends, I assure you: It was not always so.
The following is a family story about me, something that happened when I was about two or three that I don't remember myself. First, you should know that I'm a third-generation PK (priest's kid), and no, I'm not talking about the Catholic Church. I'm talking a Baptist and two Episcopalians.
When my father was fresh out of seminary and starting his career in the church, he served as an assistant at my granddad's church in a certain city in the Southwest. I remember that church surprisingly well: it looked out across a highway at a drive-in, and you could watch the movies at night from the church parking lot. I also recall being amazed when I saw my first tarantula crawling through the playground.
One year, the church made the unusual decision to schedule a kids Halloween party and a special healing service at the same time. That year, I had departed from my previous Halloween choices (I think I was a pink ghost the year before) and decided to go as the devil. This being my granddad's church, I naturally felt very at home. The party was a bit dull, so I wandered off through the building until I came to the sanctuary.
There, my granddad was blessing the wine and bread for communion, facing the altar, with his back to the congregation. Thus he had no idea that I was striding confidently down the aisle. When I reached the front pew, I turned around, made my hands into little claws, and announced, "I'm the Debil!"
During the most sacred moment of the service, laughing is pretty much out of the question. But the congregants were stifling their guffaws as my granddad stood there, flabbergasted. Then, an older women stepped out, took me gently by the hand, and led me back to the party. She told my family later that she was thrilled to get to throw the devil out of church.
The following is a family story about me, something that happened when I was about two or three that I don't remember myself. First, you should know that I'm a third-generation PK (priest's kid), and no, I'm not talking about the Catholic Church. I'm talking a Baptist and two Episcopalians.
When my father was fresh out of seminary and starting his career in the church, he served as an assistant at my granddad's church in a certain city in the Southwest. I remember that church surprisingly well: it looked out across a highway at a drive-in, and you could watch the movies at night from the church parking lot. I also recall being amazed when I saw my first tarantula crawling through the playground.
One year, the church made the unusual decision to schedule a kids Halloween party and a special healing service at the same time. That year, I had departed from my previous Halloween choices (I think I was a pink ghost the year before) and decided to go as the devil. This being my granddad's church, I naturally felt very at home. The party was a bit dull, so I wandered off through the building until I came to the sanctuary.
There, my granddad was blessing the wine and bread for communion, facing the altar, with his back to the congregation. Thus he had no idea that I was striding confidently down the aisle. When I reached the front pew, I turned around, made my hands into little claws, and announced, "I'm the Debil!"
During the most sacred moment of the service, laughing is pretty much out of the question. But the congregants were stifling their guffaws as my granddad stood there, flabbergasted. Then, an older women stepped out, took me gently by the hand, and led me back to the party. She told my family later that she was thrilled to get to throw the devil out of church.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Giveaway!
I have a 300 IU unopened pack of Fol.listim. I'll send it to anyone in the U.S. for free, if you give me your coordinates (leave an email in the comments or a link to your blog). It's from this last cycle in late January and has been in the fridge this whole time, so it should still be a-okay.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
It wasn't until I got a recommendation for the same OB practice (the one I've mentioned before, with a nurse midwife and two well-liked OBs) that I realized I'd been thinking like an IF. Out of a sense of misplaced loyalty, I'd decided I'd just go see my old gyn doc at the terrible Bump Barn of Despair. Where the staff is stupid and rude and blissfully unaware of their profound suckitude. Where the OBs are a rotating cast of characters, only one of whom I know.
I realized how stupid I myself was being. I was willing to shortchange myself, I felt, but why?
Because I'm a pregoposeur. Someone who got knocked up despite the clear declaration of "Nature" to the contrary. This continued feeling of inadequacy meant that I had decided, in some twisted way, that I didn't deserve the best prenatal and birth care. I would just have to take whatever crap I got. I had already forfeited my rights to anything vaguely resembling my old dreams for myself in the reproduction department. Man, how deep these things go.
When I saw that, I knew what I had to do. I canceled my appointment at the Bump Barn and somehow managed to get an appointment with the nurse midwife, though sadly enough not until April 4. They said that I likely wouldn't get an ultrasound, if I'd already had several scans to check for viability. I was flabbergasted: You mean, you guys have faith that everything's just fine up there? That this little guy will take care of business on his own? It was a whole other world.
On another front, my husband and I have talked about it, and I'm going to stay home with our theoretical child for several years, just keeping my freelance work and wrapping up my dis if necessary. And my sister-in-law, who's awesome, is most likely going to move back to Hippytown and live with us for a while (we have more than enough room). And she'll bring her awesome dog. So it will be quite a lively household, with lots going on. I'm really looking forward to it. Though I'm still skeptical and scared sometimes, I'm starting to let myself just enjoy this.
I realized how stupid I myself was being. I was willing to shortchange myself, I felt, but why?
Because I'm a pregoposeur. Someone who got knocked up despite the clear declaration of "Nature" to the contrary. This continued feeling of inadequacy meant that I had decided, in some twisted way, that I didn't deserve the best prenatal and birth care. I would just have to take whatever crap I got. I had already forfeited my rights to anything vaguely resembling my old dreams for myself in the reproduction department. Man, how deep these things go.
When I saw that, I knew what I had to do. I canceled my appointment at the Bump Barn and somehow managed to get an appointment with the nurse midwife, though sadly enough not until April 4. They said that I likely wouldn't get an ultrasound, if I'd already had several scans to check for viability. I was flabbergasted: You mean, you guys have faith that everything's just fine up there? That this little guy will take care of business on his own? It was a whole other world.
On another front, my husband and I have talked about it, and I'm going to stay home with our theoretical child for several years, just keeping my freelance work and wrapping up my dis if necessary. And my sister-in-law, who's awesome, is most likely going to move back to Hippytown and live with us for a while (we have more than enough room). And she'll bring her awesome dog. So it will be quite a lively household, with lots going on. I'm really looking forward to it. Though I'm still skeptical and scared sometimes, I'm starting to let myself just enjoy this.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Not much to report
- I'm still tired, but nothing like before. I actually asked my husband to go for a walk with me. That hasn't happened in weeks.
- My class is also proving not to be as heinously exhausting as I thought. I think I'm going to make it, and even enjoy myself.
- We had our last RE ultrasound today. Bruiser is growing perfectly, has a great heartbeat and the freakishly large head of a near-fetus.
- Spring weather! Indian food! Good day!
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Bright Side
Though I still feel some lingering sorrow and misgivings--I mean, if you can lose one, you can lose two, right?--my heart feels better today. I realize that I have to be strong for this little living child, and not dwell overmuch on what I can't do or don't have.
In fact, I started to reimagine my life, thinking about being able to carry one child on my back while hiking the hills near our home, of walking without a lot of logistical planning around our little town, of the freedom and closeness I'll be able to have with Bruiser, that might have taken a lot longer to achieve with two babies of the exact same age. It will make our farm dream, which we understood we'd have to delay with twins, into something a year off, not years off.
I always dreamed (literally saw in dreams, not thought wistfully about) of a single child, a large, vibrant little boy who looked eerily like my guy as a child (and this was before I even knew we would hook up and way before I knew what he looked like as a lad). Maybe Bruiser is this child. If so, he will be more than enough.
On a more practical note, I get one more u/s with my RE and Nurse Sweetie next Monday, and then he's passing me on to my old doc. I'm not wild about her practice, though she's great, and not quite sure what to do. But I did discover that our local hospital is super hippy (Labor like you want! Room in with your baby! Bring your favorite aromatherapy and music! Dim the lights!), so I feel better about my options.
Could this all work out in the end? I'm so ready for an anticlimax.
In fact, I started to reimagine my life, thinking about being able to carry one child on my back while hiking the hills near our home, of walking without a lot of logistical planning around our little town, of the freedom and closeness I'll be able to have with Bruiser, that might have taken a lot longer to achieve with two babies of the exact same age. It will make our farm dream, which we understood we'd have to delay with twins, into something a year off, not years off.
I always dreamed (literally saw in dreams, not thought wistfully about) of a single child, a large, vibrant little boy who looked eerily like my guy as a child (and this was before I even knew we would hook up and way before I knew what he looked like as a lad). Maybe Bruiser is this child. If so, he will be more than enough.
On a more practical note, I get one more u/s with my RE and Nurse Sweetie next Monday, and then he's passing me on to my old doc. I'm not wild about her practice, though she's great, and not quite sure what to do. But I did discover that our local hospital is super hippy (Labor like you want! Room in with your baby! Bring your favorite aromatherapy and music! Dim the lights!), so I feel better about my options.
Could this all work out in the end? I'm so ready for an anticlimax.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Bruiser Lives
...but alas, Runty does not. He did double in size, but no heartbeat that we could find today, even with some masterful wanding.
Bruiser is an embryonic bad ass, with a nice rapid heartbeat and a big ol' body. Not surprising, as my husband weighed around 10 pounds at birth, and I was in the 9-pound range.
I'm not sure what I feel at the moment, except tired. Some relief, some sorrow. I didn't want twins, but now I'm sad to lose a little dude. A whole mixed bag of emotions.
Bruiser is an embryonic bad ass, with a nice rapid heartbeat and a big ol' body. Not surprising, as my husband weighed around 10 pounds at birth, and I was in the 9-pound range.
I'm not sure what I feel at the moment, except tired. Some relief, some sorrow. I didn't want twins, but now I'm sad to lose a little dude. A whole mixed bag of emotions.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Well, it's not getting worse
I'm still spotting a touch, but it's still brown, still scant, still painless. I called Nurse Sweetie yesterday and she said she wasn't worried at all,described my discharge perfectly (what an interesting professional skill) and assured me that 30% of women have downright BLEEDING, forget a little brown goop. I've also read online that spotting is much more common with twin pregnancies.
So I'm feeling okay. Actually, ironically, my symptoms intensified right as this nonsense started, so I'm not really feeling okay, but that's okay. And I'm determined to hope for the best.
So I'm feeling okay. Actually, ironically, my symptoms intensified right as this nonsense started, so I'm not really feeling okay, but that's okay. And I'm determined to hope for the best.
Friday, March 6, 2009
Just when I was starting to relax...
I woke up this morning to some brown discharge. Not really spotting. Not red or pink. Not all that much. No cramps. No pain. And for the last two days, I've been even more tired and nauseous than previously.
But it's still enough to make me feel that my life is a load of shit.
Just when I was starting to have faith that my body knew what to do, that I'd get through this well, that maybe, just maybe, I could pretend that I was a more or less normal crazy pregnant lady.
But no. Of course, even Dr. Google says it's likely nothing, and I have an u/s already scheduled for Monday morning. Yet it still feels like a punch to the solar plexus. Can things just go smoothly for a while? Please?
Just FYI: my hair reaches down to my butt.
But it's still enough to make me feel that my life is a load of shit.
Just when I was starting to have faith that my body knew what to do, that I'd get through this well, that maybe, just maybe, I could pretend that I was a more or less normal crazy pregnant lady.
But no. Of course, even Dr. Google says it's likely nothing, and I have an u/s already scheduled for Monday morning. Yet it still feels like a punch to the solar plexus. Can things just go smoothly for a while? Please?
Just FYI: my hair reaches down to my butt.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The weird thing about empowerment
...is that always seems to be framed in crippling fear.
Let me explain. I'm a hippy: I've got long hair, eat organic food, don't wear make up, am often caught in linen. But I'm really, really sick of my fellow leftist treehuggers' obsession with scaring the shit out of themselves and others in the name of "empowerment."
Take child birth options. I picked up "Having Twins" at the library. It's got a positive message--just because you're having multiples doesn't mean you have to have a C-section or an early birth or an underweight baby--but it's so couched in all the terrible, awful, no-good things that the doctors will do to you if you dare venture into an L&D ward that it makes you reel with anguish. There's a self-righteous, preachy tone that grates on the nerves--especially when the author has a three-page diatribe against milk. I mean, come on, peeps. So, women who have complicated pregnancies, just like infertile women, are once again shut out from the nirvana that is "natural" motherhood.
Not every woman has birthing options. I live in a sophisticated but small town. There is one hospital that does births. There are no birth centers. Midwifery is illegal (though practiced on the sly) in my state. There is only one RN who is also a certified midwife in town. She's a busy woman, as you can imagine.
I'd consider a home birth, if it was something like what my MIL had, back in the late 1970s: A doctor came to her house! In a snowstorm, even.
So, it makes me think: How could we actually empower women to trust their bodies, not only in the rarified realm of the birthing pool, but in any and all situations? I think this is especially important for women whose bodies have not made conception and pregnancy easier. They need to be doubly empowered, not estranged because they can't play certain reindeer games.
It's like you only get to be empowered if you had the power of choice to begin with. And that's bullshit.
Let me explain. I'm a hippy: I've got long hair, eat organic food, don't wear make up, am often caught in linen. But I'm really, really sick of my fellow leftist treehuggers' obsession with scaring the shit out of themselves and others in the name of "empowerment."
Take child birth options. I picked up "Having Twins" at the library. It's got a positive message--just because you're having multiples doesn't mean you have to have a C-section or an early birth or an underweight baby--but it's so couched in all the terrible, awful, no-good things that the doctors will do to you if you dare venture into an L&D ward that it makes you reel with anguish. There's a self-righteous, preachy tone that grates on the nerves--especially when the author has a three-page diatribe against milk. I mean, come on, peeps. So, women who have complicated pregnancies, just like infertile women, are once again shut out from the nirvana that is "natural" motherhood.
Not every woman has birthing options. I live in a sophisticated but small town. There is one hospital that does births. There are no birth centers. Midwifery is illegal (though practiced on the sly) in my state. There is only one RN who is also a certified midwife in town. She's a busy woman, as you can imagine.
I'd consider a home birth, if it was something like what my MIL had, back in the late 1970s: A doctor came to her house! In a snowstorm, even.
So, it makes me think: How could we actually empower women to trust their bodies, not only in the rarified realm of the birthing pool, but in any and all situations? I think this is especially important for women whose bodies have not made conception and pregnancy easier. They need to be doubly empowered, not estranged because they can't play certain reindeer games.
It's like you only get to be empowered if you had the power of choice to begin with. And that's bullshit.
Monday, March 2, 2009
The Ultrasound of Destiny
So, all morning, I was strangling the massive butterflies that had taken up residence in my stomach. I just knew something was going to turn out awful. I mean, that's what happens to people like me in this department, right?
Well, no. Wrong.
We have two heartbeats. In two embies, that is. One is a touch big for 6w5d, and one is a bit behind. Dr. Spunk thinks it's still very much a contender, but said he was "slightly concerned." I get a repeat u/s in a week (yeah!) and we'll see if Runty has made appropriate progress.
We celebrated by buying me some more bacon. For those of you in the right place for this, send your positive growing vibes to the Runt. Bruiser I'm not worried about, for some reason.
Well, no. Wrong.
We have two heartbeats. In two embies, that is. One is a touch big for 6w5d, and one is a bit behind. Dr. Spunk thinks it's still very much a contender, but said he was "slightly concerned." I get a repeat u/s in a week (yeah!) and we'll see if Runty has made appropriate progress.
We celebrated by buying me some more bacon. For those of you in the right place for this, send your positive growing vibes to the Runt. Bruiser I'm not worried about, for some reason.
Friday, February 27, 2009
The Worst Way to Pick a Graduate Program Ever
...but one of the coolest things that ever happened to me.
As I'm still on my long cruise down "denial" until the Ultrasound of Truth delivers me from these agonies into new fields of worry, and as I've already waxed poetic about some of the music I like, let me tell you a story from my first trip to the Obscure Corner of the World, the place I've dedicated the lovely years of my grad career to.
The first time I ever went there, I traveled by train. The train to this particular part of the great OCOW takes 5-6 days.
Have you ever ridden on a train that long? Oh, the delights you have missed, if you haven't! You start out excited as the train pulls out of the station, all prepared with days worth of ramen, chocolate, and (you believe) enough booze to get you there. The first day, as the sun dips below the thrumming horizon and the trees whipping by, you toast the journey.
The second day, you're cracking a beer around 2 PM.
The fifth day? Shit, you're doing shots at 11 AM. And you smell as ripe as the smoked fish they're selling on the platform at major stops.
After this exciting experience with three good friends (actually, two of them were complete strangers, but we became good friends by the end), we finally stepped off the train in the Sad City that is the capital of OCOW. Our friends, who were actors we met in NYC and members of a certain indigenous group, were all waiting at the station, overjoyed that their American friends had somehow finally gotten halfway around the world in one, stinky, hungover piece.
This being OCOW, we had to follow custom: We were summarily driven to friends' apartment, where we were stuffed with ridiculous amounts of meat and hard liquor. After hours of gastronomical and liver abuse, we finally begged to be put to bed.
I wound up in the care of a sweet young woman singer who had stayed in the tiny "bedroom" of our NYC apartment for weeks while performing in the East Village. She took me to her relatives' place, in some strange neighborhood of a strange city, and put me to bed in a big, shiny, pink bed.
That night, I had the strangest dream. I was standing on the balcony at Friend Number 1's apartment, looking out across the city, the river, to the bare hills beyond. A finger pointed toward the hill (where, I had been told the night before, there was a Hun burial mound) and a voice said in another language, "You're buried there." Then, suddenly, I was flying off the balcony, into a huge flock of black birds, all chanting a single name, over and over and over, with a thousand low, rough voices.
Then I woke up, freaked out of my mind. And I knew that I was doomed/destined to study OCOW.
Of course, I asked my friends what they thought of my dream. The name I heard? "Oh," my friend said, taking a drag off her cigarette, "that's just our sky spirit. You must have been born here in another life."
As I'm still on my long cruise down "denial" until the Ultrasound of Truth delivers me from these agonies into new fields of worry, and as I've already waxed poetic about some of the music I like, let me tell you a story from my first trip to the Obscure Corner of the World, the place I've dedicated the lovely years of my grad career to.
The first time I ever went there, I traveled by train. The train to this particular part of the great OCOW takes 5-6 days.
Have you ever ridden on a train that long? Oh, the delights you have missed, if you haven't! You start out excited as the train pulls out of the station, all prepared with days worth of ramen, chocolate, and (you believe) enough booze to get you there. The first day, as the sun dips below the thrumming horizon and the trees whipping by, you toast the journey.
The second day, you're cracking a beer around 2 PM.
The fifth day? Shit, you're doing shots at 11 AM. And you smell as ripe as the smoked fish they're selling on the platform at major stops.
After this exciting experience with three good friends (actually, two of them were complete strangers, but we became good friends by the end), we finally stepped off the train in the Sad City that is the capital of OCOW. Our friends, who were actors we met in NYC and members of a certain indigenous group, were all waiting at the station, overjoyed that their American friends had somehow finally gotten halfway around the world in one, stinky, hungover piece.
This being OCOW, we had to follow custom: We were summarily driven to friends' apartment, where we were stuffed with ridiculous amounts of meat and hard liquor. After hours of gastronomical and liver abuse, we finally begged to be put to bed.
I wound up in the care of a sweet young woman singer who had stayed in the tiny "bedroom" of our NYC apartment for weeks while performing in the East Village. She took me to her relatives' place, in some strange neighborhood of a strange city, and put me to bed in a big, shiny, pink bed.
That night, I had the strangest dream. I was standing on the balcony at Friend Number 1's apartment, looking out across the city, the river, to the bare hills beyond. A finger pointed toward the hill (where, I had been told the night before, there was a Hun burial mound) and a voice said in another language, "You're buried there." Then, suddenly, I was flying off the balcony, into a huge flock of black birds, all chanting a single name, over and over and over, with a thousand low, rough voices.
Then I woke up, freaked out of my mind. And I knew that I was doomed/destined to study OCOW.
Of course, I asked my friends what they thought of my dream. The name I heard? "Oh," my friend said, taking a drag off her cigarette, "that's just our sky spirit. You must have been born here in another life."
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
And then again, for something else totally unrelated...
The ever cool, New Wave-lovin' Emily challenged several bloggers to come up with their top 15 albums of all time. That's a really, really tough one. But I'll stick to 15 albums that changed my life (lord--how cheezy does that sound?).
In no particular order:
1. Floodland by The Sisters of Mercy: A much cooler, older friend at my school made me a cassette tape of this record, and I remember slipping it in my walkman, hiding the girl's room (we weren't allowed to have walkmen at my mean school), and being absolutely, totally blown away. Goth at its glossy, dark, soul-searching best, with anthemic massive songs perfect for those moments of adolescent hormone-driven angst. I think this was the first album I was really, truly obsessed with. I longed to live in it.
2. Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division (note the pattern here?): This spare, depressing, yet at moments mysteriously hopeful album... It's the sound of the city I grew up in at night, half-deserted and economically depressed. I still listen to it. But don't mix with alcohol. Very, very bad.
3. Aion by Dead Can Dance: This is their best album, and I will wrestle anyone who claims otherwise to the ground. Based on Catalan and other 13-15th century music, it's their most carefully crafted, least cheesy, more gorgeous record.
4. Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian: Poetry, with amazing production and arrangements. And I love this man's voice.
5. Billy Holiday's Decca Recordings: She just knows how to tell a story, that gal. And I love her dark humor.
6. Passion Sources by Peter Gabriel: This CD, along with Dead Can Dance, got me into so-called "world music," which makes up a huge chunk of my listening today. Has cool tracks by Djivan Gasparian (Armenia), Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Pakistan), and Baaba Maal.
7. Filligree and Shadow by This Mortal Coil: Okay, this is getting all out of order, but I love this album. Dark, lush, sad, and very beautiful, with great vocals.
8. Victorialand by Cocteau Twins: my favorite album of theirs, when Elizabeth Frasier was at her best, imho.
9. Speaking in Tongues by The Talking Heads: This is a family favorite, one my dad and I would listen to and sing along to and dance around to.
10. The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter by the Incredible String Band: I am a huge fan of the British roots scene, actually, the English roots scene (Celtic stuff doesn't do much for me, actually). This album is by a bunch of wigged out Scottish hippies who made absolutely, bizarrely beautiful songs with rambling yet touching lyrics dedicated to things like water, the waltzing new moon, ice skating, and bats. But it works, I swear.
11. No More to the Dance by the Silly Sisters: June Tabor, another fixture of the British roots scene, has the best voice ever, and for this album teams up Matty Prior of Steeleye Span for amazing vocal work. The kind of tight harmonies and soulful phrasing that sends shivers down my spine.
12. Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy: This album made me finally get hip hop, oddly enough while on a trip to the (soon to be defunct) Soviet Union. Don't ask me why; it's not the best, though it has its moments, most certainly. But thanks to PE, I eventually got into everything from Lyrics Born to Wutang to Missy E. Love me some Missy E on a bad day.
13. Club da Esquina by Milton Nauscimento, Lo Borges and company: If you like Brazilian music, you have to hear this album. It's basically what happened when a bunch of kids from Belo Horizonte heard the Beatles. Kind of a more restrained Os Mutantes (another band I highly recommend from the psychedelic era in Brazil). Beautiful vocals, lovely guitar work, cool percussion.
14. Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris: I know, I know. I listen to NPR. I'm a woman from the Midwest. Ergo, I love Emmylou. But I do. She's awesome, and this album, produced by Daniel Lanois, puts her in a whole new light. Got me through a lot of breakups. This one mixes pretty well with alcohol, preferably in a space where you can sing at the top of your lungs to the sad songs. I like classic country, too, thanks to my man, who turned me on to Ernest Tubb. Hell, I even like George Jones now. Just not that shit on the radio nowadays.
15. Transnadezhnost' by Zvuki Mu: Glasnost in Russia was a very wierd time. People were brewing their own booze out of processed cheese and cologne (I kid you not). Record stores were private apartments where you could go and dub rock tape imported from abroad. Wierdos like Zvuki Mu ("The Sound of Moo") played school gyms and clubs. They wrote eerie, disjoined songs about sinister tourists, seances, and polar exploration. There are lots of other great rock/pop/whatever underground bands from this era, but these guys are my personal favorites. Alisa, Akvarium, and Auktyon are some others worth checking out.
Of course, I love Bach and Arvo Part, and ridiculous amounts of other stuff, but these were what came to mind. I'll shut up now. What are your life-changing albums?
In no particular order:
1. Floodland by The Sisters of Mercy: A much cooler, older friend at my school made me a cassette tape of this record, and I remember slipping it in my walkman, hiding the girl's room (we weren't allowed to have walkmen at my mean school), and being absolutely, totally blown away. Goth at its glossy, dark, soul-searching best, with anthemic massive songs perfect for those moments of adolescent hormone-driven angst. I think this was the first album I was really, truly obsessed with. I longed to live in it.
2. Unknown Pleasures by Joy Division (note the pattern here?): This spare, depressing, yet at moments mysteriously hopeful album... It's the sound of the city I grew up in at night, half-deserted and economically depressed. I still listen to it. But don't mix with alcohol. Very, very bad.
3. Aion by Dead Can Dance: This is their best album, and I will wrestle anyone who claims otherwise to the ground. Based on Catalan and other 13-15th century music, it's their most carefully crafted, least cheesy, more gorgeous record.
4. Secrets of the Beehive by David Sylvian: Poetry, with amazing production and arrangements. And I love this man's voice.
5. Billy Holiday's Decca Recordings: She just knows how to tell a story, that gal. And I love her dark humor.
6. Passion Sources by Peter Gabriel: This CD, along with Dead Can Dance, got me into so-called "world music," which makes up a huge chunk of my listening today. Has cool tracks by Djivan Gasparian (Armenia), Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan (Pakistan), and Baaba Maal.
7. Filligree and Shadow by This Mortal Coil: Okay, this is getting all out of order, but I love this album. Dark, lush, sad, and very beautiful, with great vocals.
8. Victorialand by Cocteau Twins: my favorite album of theirs, when Elizabeth Frasier was at her best, imho.
9. Speaking in Tongues by The Talking Heads: This is a family favorite, one my dad and I would listen to and sing along to and dance around to.
10. The Hangman's Beautiful Daughter by the Incredible String Band: I am a huge fan of the British roots scene, actually, the English roots scene (Celtic stuff doesn't do much for me, actually). This album is by a bunch of wigged out Scottish hippies who made absolutely, bizarrely beautiful songs with rambling yet touching lyrics dedicated to things like water, the waltzing new moon, ice skating, and bats. But it works, I swear.
11. No More to the Dance by the Silly Sisters: June Tabor, another fixture of the British roots scene, has the best voice ever, and for this album teams up Matty Prior of Steeleye Span for amazing vocal work. The kind of tight harmonies and soulful phrasing that sends shivers down my spine.
12. Fear of a Black Planet by Public Enemy: This album made me finally get hip hop, oddly enough while on a trip to the (soon to be defunct) Soviet Union. Don't ask me why; it's not the best, though it has its moments, most certainly. But thanks to PE, I eventually got into everything from Lyrics Born to Wutang to Missy E. Love me some Missy E on a bad day.
13. Club da Esquina by Milton Nauscimento, Lo Borges and company: If you like Brazilian music, you have to hear this album. It's basically what happened when a bunch of kids from Belo Horizonte heard the Beatles. Kind of a more restrained Os Mutantes (another band I highly recommend from the psychedelic era in Brazil). Beautiful vocals, lovely guitar work, cool percussion.
14. Wrecking Ball by Emmylou Harris: I know, I know. I listen to NPR. I'm a woman from the Midwest. Ergo, I love Emmylou. But I do. She's awesome, and this album, produced by Daniel Lanois, puts her in a whole new light. Got me through a lot of breakups. This one mixes pretty well with alcohol, preferably in a space where you can sing at the top of your lungs to the sad songs. I like classic country, too, thanks to my man, who turned me on to Ernest Tubb. Hell, I even like George Jones now. Just not that shit on the radio nowadays.
15. Transnadezhnost' by Zvuki Mu: Glasnost in Russia was a very wierd time. People were brewing their own booze out of processed cheese and cologne (I kid you not). Record stores were private apartments where you could go and dub rock tape imported from abroad. Wierdos like Zvuki Mu ("The Sound of Moo") played school gyms and clubs. They wrote eerie, disjoined songs about sinister tourists, seances, and polar exploration. There are lots of other great rock/pop/whatever underground bands from this era, but these guys are my personal favorites. Alisa, Akvarium, and Auktyon are some others worth checking out.
Of course, I love Bach and Arvo Part, and ridiculous amounts of other stuff, but these were what came to mind. I'll shut up now. What are your life-changing albums?
And now for something completely different...
So, we actually went to look at Short Sale Farm. Our agent talked to the listing agent a bit, and it seems the problem is NOT that the bank refuses to sell for some cryptic reason (apparently some bank is now the owner), it's that the offers on the table really suck, and the bank is rejecting them out of hand. And banks apparently will often simply say "Nope" and that's it. No counter.
The land is gorgeous, just what we're looking for in just the right amount. It has a very cool old barn, set up at the moment for horses, but with electricity, water, and enough structural integrity to perhaps shelter a walk-in cooler (a veggie farm must) and other important work spaces. The house is funky: nice kitchen that needs little more than a new light fixture and a touch of paint, decent bathrooms (totally not my style, but in good shape and tolerable for now), and a crazy-ass old-house floor plan that tells tales of years of random additions and such.
One bedroom was just gorgeous and huge and bright, looking out over acres of farmland, rolling hills, and an old barn. Just nix the carpet and you're good to go. The other had a weird old fireplace and a bizarre walk-in closet-like space that made you scratch your head. The third "bedroom" was a windowless room down a couple steps next to the mudroom/laundry area. Very odd.
Fortunately, we're in/subfertile, so whatever.
Unfortunately, we'll have to have a strong pending offer on our house to make an offer the bank won't refuse. No so good.
Did I mention the toilet from the second bathroom is currently sitting in the middle of the family room, which still lacks its bamboo floor? You get the picture.
But perhaps, the real estate gods will be kind. Perhaps the timing will somehow pan out. Or not. Maybe there's someplace even cooler just about to go on the market once the daffodils appear.
By the way, I saw the first crocus and snowdrops this morning!
The land is gorgeous, just what we're looking for in just the right amount. It has a very cool old barn, set up at the moment for horses, but with electricity, water, and enough structural integrity to perhaps shelter a walk-in cooler (a veggie farm must) and other important work spaces. The house is funky: nice kitchen that needs little more than a new light fixture and a touch of paint, decent bathrooms (totally not my style, but in good shape and tolerable for now), and a crazy-ass old-house floor plan that tells tales of years of random additions and such.
One bedroom was just gorgeous and huge and bright, looking out over acres of farmland, rolling hills, and an old barn. Just nix the carpet and you're good to go. The other had a weird old fireplace and a bizarre walk-in closet-like space that made you scratch your head. The third "bedroom" was a windowless room down a couple steps next to the mudroom/laundry area. Very odd.
Fortunately, we're in/subfertile, so whatever.
Unfortunately, we'll have to have a strong pending offer on our house to make an offer the bank won't refuse. No so good.
Did I mention the toilet from the second bathroom is currently sitting in the middle of the family room, which still lacks its bamboo floor? You get the picture.
But perhaps, the real estate gods will be kind. Perhaps the timing will somehow pan out. Or not. Maybe there's someplace even cooler just about to go on the market once the daffodils appear.
By the way, I saw the first crocus and snowdrops this morning!
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