Closing!

Finally! Today. It's happening.

Then the real fun begins.

On a different, odd note, for the first time in a decade, I got my period and was really pleased. The last thing I needed on top of work stress and drama, a historic home with serious needs, and a toddler was another pregnancy ride. Funny how things change, eh?

Reality Check

Note to self: No need to wake up sad in the middle of the night about Lady Grantham's tragic miscarriage. She is a fictional character.

Yes, I have been watching too much Downton Abbey for my own good.

Lessons learned

...from infertility.

Never post your 8 week ultrasound shots on facebook. At least, don't do it publicly. While I pray my friend will be fine, she's in her mid-30s or so. And has talked about trying for a long time (which may be why she's jumped the gun, imho).

I just cringed when I saw them. Not for the old reasons of envy, anger, etc., but for new, protective reasons. Like when you see your attractive friend wearing something really off at an important event. But worse.

An homage

...to the Misfit. I'm stealing a page from her decorating playbook.

So, our kitchen in the Crazy House is a room. With some outlets and a gas line snaking out. Blank slate.

It does have pretty nice wood floors, in need of some simple sanding and sealing. It has a two old exterior doors with transoms and two large windows, one facing south. So it's a high, potentially very bright and pleasant room. As we're planning to have a small farm operation, we're going to need a very utilitarian space, which goes with the simple yet graceful old spirit of the house.

This is a bit precious, but I'm thinking along these lines:
A bit rustic, with free-standing antique cabinets (many of which we already own, plus Mom has an antique store). A huge hardworking old table in the middle for processing fruits and veggies and making baked goods, etc.

We're also planning on a large triple steel sink, commercial grade. It has the same vibe (right down to the open legs) as old enamel sinks, and believe me, the farmers who built our place would have been all about stainless, had it been around. Though I just want plain old white appliances.

However, the sink will need some contextualizing, with some nice cabinetry/open shelves, that have few little touches. A simpler version of this, perhaps:I love the peaked open cabinet doors. This would be simple to do ourselves (and my man is a fine woodworker/instrument builder). I'd like to design something that echoes some of the gingerbread and/or dimensions of the house itself.

This kitchen will be a challenge to clutter. I'm sick of owning all sorts of quasi-useless items that get buried in too-deep cabinets or piled in drawers. I want only things I actually use, just a few of them, all out in the open where they can be found in an instant. With a kitchen as big as ours, it will be essential.

Accepted

Well. Looks like we're going to get it, at a very low price. Closing Oct. 7. Here comes the craziness.

I'm off to research roofers and electricians. Wish me luck!

Updates

Again, thrilling stuff, my friends. We've had some back and forth with the asset manager. The place is a foreclosure. We've put in our final, last, best offer, so we're waiting to see if they'll take it. They already knocked 30% or so off the price, in part because our realtor keeps emphasizing looooong list of repairs needed to even make it habitable (or mortgageable).

We've also been able to get the scuttlebutt locally on the place. It was owned by a couple who did the mural and some of the rehabbing, thanks to a historical preservation loan or grant (which is why it has all its original outside Victorian craziness and wooden siding). They had 6 very stinky dogs and a couple horses. They were a strange mix of artsy and hillbilly you sometimes find in our area. The woman just up and walked out on the dude one fine day, taking all the money. He couldn't pay the bills. The house sat empty for three years.

Recently, a local meth head went into the unsecured cellar and stole all the copper out of the furnace, and perhaps more of the wiring. Fortunately, the box is upstairs, or he might have really had a heyday. He died about a month ago, apparently. Overdose.

So, we've sobered up a bit about the place. If we get it for the right price, it will work well. If not, we'll have to say no. Or wait a few months, during which no one will likely have any decent offers, and then come back to them with the same offer.

I'm pretty much excited either way. If we get the place, we'll basically be buying our dream house, minus 50K in repairs. If we don't, we'll likely have more time for other things--including fixing up our current house more, for when things work out. Either way, it's cool.

This passes for major excitement in my world

We put in an offer. It's cash, but fairly low. We'll see. I think we're going to get this place.

Let me add some things: it's got huge windows, all new and well installed (lots of old houses with unusual window dimensions get absolutely ruined by cheap new windows, but not this one). It's pained pink. It has a clawfoot tub.

Oh, and did I mention? There's a ginormous mural of Athena and Zeus and company cavorting around the Parthenon or something. Done in bright, bold, gloppy acrylic paint.

Anyone recommend a very good primer?

We're supposed to find out any day now what the bank's counter is. Fingers crossed.

The Ultimate Distraction

So, my man and I are trying to buy a house. Yes, Misfit, I'm looking at you with that meaningful glance.

It's a Carpenter Gothic house from the 1890s. It was rehabbed a some point, very well with good solid basics, but has fallen on hard times. It's cheap, but will be an insane amount of work. On two acres, not far from our current home, with a lovely view. Bank owned, so it has no kitchen or HVAC systems (but duct work). There's a huge hole in the ceiling from a plumbing problem in the terrifying powder room that looks like a gimp room upstairs. It has a barn. And a garage. And a summer kitchen. Two porches... it's amazing, in short. And terrifying.

Miscarriage? What miscarriage?

Well, that's over

I'd never recommend a natural miscarriage to someone still in the throes of IF hell. It's grisly business.

But as things go, it wasn't as bad as I expected. Though it exhausted me, I almost instantly felt better, thanks to tanking preggo hormones. It came in the middle of Monday night, when all were fast asleep, and only really sucked for about two hours and ibuprofen took enough of the edge off that I could deal.

Now, I'm chilling on the farm, where my biggest problem is how to keep from downing too many reaaaaly strong g&ts and eating too many peanut butter cups.

Ah, the irony!

I've never been so happy to see spotting in my life. Looks like things are getting started, which is good. I was dreading waiting weeks (or, as my nurse-midwife warned me, possibly months) for this thing to resolve. Now it's happening, slowly but surely.

I'm going to visit my folks for a week with my little guy. It was my man's brilliant idea: they live on a farm in a beautiful place, have a swimming pool, and like to cook and serve sad daughters gin and wine. Not together, of course. So it's going to be a vacation for both of us, and allow me to have some constant company and support.

In general, I'm feeling much better. Thanks for all your kind sympathy. The good news seems to be that we may one day be able to cook up another kid. Likely, just like a natural m/c, that will happen at the most inconvenient time. Though, hopefully, not mid-dive from the high dive. (thanks, Baby Smiling for the belly laugh!)

Nope

Still an empty sac on the u/s. So now I get to wait around until the sucker decides to pass. Which will most likely happen at the most inconvenient possible time--humorous speculations welcome. I can't manage a D&C, as my man has no time off left, his boss is an ass, and my usually extremely helpful and responsive MIL is on a three-week vacation abroad.

At least I can have some beer.

Why even try?

So, this week has been rough. My sitter has been out because she just lost a pregnancy (I know, right?). My man has been working 10-hour days, every day (except Saturday--that's merely 8 hours). It's been hotter than hell. I'm feeling very ill and now emotionally drained and stretched. This makes my little guy crankier than usual, too.

And now, right when I need some support, or at least neutrality, my guy feels all blue and grumpy. I understand: it's his potential child on the line, too. But damn it! He's not nauseous. He's not exhausted. He doesn't spend all night comforting a toddler and going pee. He doesn't have to endure the pain of jaws clamping on very sore nipples a dozen times a day.

I'm so frustrated. All the things I'd like to do--go for a hike in the woods, enjoy a beer, know whether I'm about to miscarry--are currently off the table. And I'm alone in my suffering, because he's in his funk. This really fucking sucks.

I wish I'd never gotten pregnant (I know, that's annoying to some of you. I'm genuinely sorry). Everything was fine before.

It Ain't Over Til It's Over

Yes, this song was on the Muzack at the midwife's office while they did my ultrasound. We've got a gestational sac, measuring around 6 weeks. It's possible we conceived very late, but also likely we're looking at a blighted ovum. Rescan in two weeks.

Sigh. Same old, same old. Maybe things will work out. Probably not.

No relaxing here

Here's what I did this cycle:

1. Didn't relax. Dude, I have a toddler. I don't relax anymore.

2. Drank. Beer and gin and tonics, mostly. (see above)

3. Freaked out about miscarrying in a quiet, low-grade way, when not attending to work or toddler. There goes the "just stop thinking about it and it will happen."

4. Barely took my thyroid medicine. There goes the "just get below a TSH of 2" theory, at least in my particular case.

What this means, really: fertility or infertility is out of our control. It has nothing to do with our merits or actions (beyond certain concrete acts, that is). It usually does what we don't really want. It has little to do with our attitude.

In short, it's not you, sweetie.

He laughs at plans

My guy took over from me this morning, around 5 AM. The little dude was so insane, manically nursing, that I almost lost my mind.

He then went out and bought some pee sticks. He also made coffee and oatmeal and did some laundry.

The results? Positive. Again. Instantly, darkly, indisputably. No mind fuck, at least for now.

So, again, I'm floored. Three years, 5K (a lot for our bohemian earnings, baby. Now, twice in a row, on our own.

Still scared, but less so.

WTF, II

Okay, this month? My cycle is over 40 days so far. And I'm woozy, exhausted, tender in the boobs, etc.

All that's not really that interesting. What I've been finding interesting is the feelings I've been having. They're all over the map, but run something like this. Oh shit. I don't want to do this crazy infant crap again. I can't do it! I just got my life back.

But what if?

No. That's fucking impossible. THREE YEARS, and then twice in a row? Fuck you, little what if.

I'm afraid to take a test. Not like I was for years, knowing in my soul it most likely will not be positive. I'm afraid of a positive--one that will lead to a baby, one that once again won't. How teh hell will I deal with a three-year-old, a newborn, and an increasingly interesting/demanding job?

I'm afraid of a negative, because then, really, wtf, body? This would be the longest cycle on record for me, Little Ms. Regular. It's a bit scary. I keep thinking of this, for some reason.

I guess I'm just afraid. I'm giving myself until Monday not to think about it. Then I'll test. Crazy.

When the bad news is good news

...compared to the worse news. In other words, I don't have an ectopic. And my hCG is <1, so who knows wtf just happened. I feel better, at least, and seem to have bucked the blues pretty much immediately.

Or at least I did until yesterday: my little one had another febrile seizure and we went to the ER again. He's got pneumonia once again. Of course, after a rough couple of nights, he's happy as a clam, running around as if he was in the best of health. Amazing.

I, on the other hand, need a gallon of coffee right about now. My nerves are shot after all this. At least the spinach in the garden is tasty, the sun is out, and we're all alive. Thanks for all your kind support, my dears.

From an unsent email

Dear very excitable client:

Sorry I couldn't address your concerns regarding the document; I was busy miscarrying.

I'm sure I'll try to give a shit about your ideas shortly! Buh-bye!

...

Or so it seems. I go for a blood test tomorrow, but I'm bleeding like nobody's business and absolutely wiped out.

It's been a tough day or so, but we're surviving. My man and I are taking great comfort in our son and in our marriage.

The Thin Blue Line

Am I about to become an urban myth? The proof that all those "just relaxers" are annoyingly right?

Yeah, I got a bfp yesterday. My first positive hpt ever. It was like getting hit by a bus-sized wall of absurdity.

Of course, the line was faint. Sure, I do drink lots of water and it was late afternoon. But still: it was there. Even my man, who had to read the instructions to know that I had gotten a positive, saw it before he knew what it meant.

The funny thing is I could be happy either way now. This is definitely not the same, in any way, shape, or form, as the first torturous years. It's different for every gal, but primary and secondary IF are different beasts.

If I lose this pregnancy, so be it. If we have a kid, so be it. I'm not blase, just willing to accept the future, which will not be doomed to dismal despair, the way it felt it would have been had we never had Bruiser.

Who's doing really well, by the way. He's hilarious.

The sad thing is a few months before my period returned in March (the wonders of breastfeeding, friends), I finally felt like I had my life back. I had found a way not to go crazy, to get enough sleep and exercise, to work at a job I increasingly like, to care for and enjoy the company of my little dude. I'd lost all sort of crazy weight. I felt different than I had before, but like a human being. I had dreams and schemes and wacky plans brewing again.

Now, what?

WOMBAT!

Dude, why can't I just not read the comments when a paper like the NYTimes has an article about infertility? Why? It's downright masochistic.

However, I must say one thing: I find the commenters highly inefficient. They always spout the same thing, only varying the depth of ignorance and acidity of the vitriol. So I'd like to make a modest proposal.

I call it WOMBAT!

Instead of posting, say, "When will these women [it's always the ladies at fault, apparently] stop being so selfish in their desire for a baby who looks just like them and stop overpopulating the world and start realizing that God/nature/Darwin/Karl Marx didn't mean for them to have children. They need to stop being such horrible useless excuses for human beings and go and adopt one of the gazillion homeless orphans lying around on every street corner just waiting to be taken in a family," they should just post one word and one only.

Wombat.

We'll know what they're all about, and they can spend the minutes they now use insulting and misunderestimating a fifth of humanity doing something more useful. Like bleaching their teeth or waxing their hamsters' toenails.