Amy Said It

Shut Up, Helen Mirren

2011-12-22T11:56:00.002-07:00

Seriously, Helen? A female Doctor Who? You know what you've got a point. Feminism and all that.

If feminism means that young men have ABSOLUTELY NOBODY to look up to, even in pretty much the only genre of television made for them!

Doctor Who is a man. He can't just suddenly be a woman. That's a retarded surgical option humans have created, but I'm going to continue believing that Time Lords can get over any gender-confusion issues with counseling and not by mutilating/replacing their genitalia. Mmkay?

Can't we let it be OKAY to be a guy anymore? And why shouldn't a woman be "just" a sidekick? Is that so wrong? Women are overtaking men in employment rates, higher education, all kinds of stuff. So why can't we let one be a sidekick to a male hero? Can we seriously not get over this?

What's the problem with a woman subordinate to a man when the man treats her with respect? Geez, people. Since when is it uncool for a person to be in charge and also have a penis?

Unfatifying

2011-12-06T22:35:00.001-07:00

LW, this is for you!

I've been working off the baby weight lately. I've tried a few different programs, and I'm still jumping around from thing to thing, but I've found a few favorite ways to burn calories using technology!

1. Wii Fit

You need a Wii and the Wii Fit program for this one. The only thing I use this for lately is tracking my weight and setting goals. The Wii Fit comes with a board that acts as a scale and balance sensor. It graphs my weight and BMI for each time I get on, and I can easily set goals. My first goal? Get that annoying thing to stop saying "That's overweight!" every time it measured me. Check. Next goal? 130.7 lbs. by February 15. That might be a little ambitious. Honestly, the value of the Wii Fit is knowing I have a good scale, setting goals, and having accountability for my gains and losses, even if it is to this guy:

Yeah. He has the audacity to question me, even though I am standing on his face. The workouts focus more on balance than calorie burning, so I don't see them being hugely effective as far as actually making you lose the weight. For that, I turn to my favorite household appliance . . .

2. Xbox Kinect

I think people thought that once Wii came out with motion controls, people would be more active while playing video games. Those people didn't know my friend's little brother, who would do all kinds of crazy dances while playing Sega games during the nineties. But since not everyone can do gymnastics while holding a controller and guiding a tiny man through a 2D sidescroller, the Xbox invented the Kinect, where you guide a 3D character through all kindsa' crap BY doing gymnastics WITHOUT a controller. Essentially. Besides the games listed below, there are plenty of others that get your body moving, but I haven't tried them, because they cost like $50-60 each.

A. Dance Central

Dance video games used to involve stomping on a mat like an idiot. Now they involve actually dancing like an idiot. Honestly though, Dance Central is one of my favorite games, and is great for getting a cardio workout. I have the first game, and it's awesome and fun, but hard to get a good burn on since songs only last a few minutes and then you have to stop and use the menu again. I've heard the sequel, Dance Central 2, has a workout mode that keeps you dancing non stop. It's on my Christmas wish list, since the dances are actually a fun whole-body workout, and if I can go non-stop for 30 minutes to an hour, I'll be set for the day!

B. EA Sports Active 2 (Also available for Wii)

This guy is not kidding. EA Sports Active 2 will really give you a workout. It tracks calories and heart rate, and has a boatload of different activities that will make you sweat. You'll be sore like you went to the gym, with none of the embarrassment of actually doing so. The reviewer says it's pricey, but we got it at a discount for the price of about 2 months at the gym. You may not be getting a bunch of equipment, but you get what is essentially an electronic personal trainer. I'm going to warn you, though: wear a sports bra. There is jumping and bouncing galore.

3. Hulu

The internet, with all of its horrors, actually has some perks now and then. If you haven't discovered Hulu for catching up on TV shows, you should at least take a look for the exercise videos. I have seen a ton of them, but recently I started working out with Kathy Smith. It's like buying a workout DVD, but it's FREE.

You can either hook up your computer to your TV or get a program like PlayOn running on your Xbox, which allows Hulu videos to be played on your TV through your computer and Xbox via network connection. Hulu Plus won't work, since a lot of videos can't be played on a TV (only a computer) because Hulu is run by the Internet Television Nazi Party. Anyway, this is the workout I did this afternoon. It was awesome, got me sweating, and involved my whole body. Besides a few 1:30 commercial breaks, it kept the burn going so I'm fairly sure I spent some calories as well.

DOOOO ITTTTTT!

2011-11-01T22:53:00.000-06:00

I hate to brag about my kids to other moms, especially for things they will almost surely do (like roll over or walk), unless it's Finley and we're waiting months and months and working hard on physical therapy for him to do it. I mean really, if your kid had a big bad brain hemorrhage at birth and the neurologist told you that you just get to find out if he'll develop when he does it, all of that rolling over crap would be one hundred times more exciting.

Kella is right on track with her developmental milestones. She aces those cursed ASQ-3 questionnaires as if she knew what was on them and had been studying for months. Most babies do that. No big deal. It actually drives me a little crazy when moms post on Facebook that their kid scooted or something. It's one thing to treasure the special moment and share it with friends, but sometimes it feels like a big "haha! My kid is developing normally!" which is both unnecessary and a little unnerving to those of us with developmental concerns.

But I have to tell you all about Kella's rolling skills. Of course she rolls over, and it will always be miraculous. It is miraculous to me that she is alive and here with us and healthy and so, so beautiful. And she rolls from her front to her back, like most babies her age. But she is SO CLOSE to rolling onto her tummy from her back it drives me flippin' crazy. She gets her entire body except her shoulders and head onto the floor face down, reaches over with her top arm, but never gets past that 90 degree angle with her shoulders! She looks like she's just about to do it, and then FAKE OUT.

When she does do it, I'll say yay, remember the date, and squee to Tim and probably my mom. And then it will be no big deal to anyone but me, because I'm her mom. But you know what's way more talkaboutable? Her almost doing it.

Cheap Things

2011-10-31T16:24:00.000-06:00

I generally don't participate in the Facebook birthday wall thing, but today I had three friends with the same birthday, and FB conveniently let me write on all of their walls right there from my homepage, so I figured it couldn't hurt. I wrote nice birthday wishes. They probably won't even read them. So what I could and maybe should have written was this:

Man, every year you do such a fantastic job of aging. It's almost like time goes by without any help from you. Give yourself a pat on the back. Go you.

I mean, if I'm not going to buy them anything, what's the difference?

I love getting mail, but sometimes when someone makes the effort to send me a card, they just sign it. No words. No money (not that it's necessary). It's just a piece of paper they bought, put their name on, wrapped in another piece of paper they bought, and put a sticky piece of paper they bought on top so someone would deliver it to my house. At best, it's a sentiment someone else wrote, or a trite message and a picture of a cat. At worst, it's actually a thank you card I sent to someone which then got returned because my address book is out of date. So if I neglected to send you a card for something at some point, don't be offended. I was mostly just avoiding disappointing you with my lack of both money and clever things to say. I'll send you a picture of the kids when Christmas comes around.

I Don't Think That Means What You Think It Means

2011-08-23T21:46:00.001-06:00

When I tell people Kella's been staying up all night screaming, they often respond with a sympathetic head tilt and something like, "Oh, so she's got her nights and days mixed up? That happens a lot with newborns."

But the appropriate response would have been, "Oh, so you're losing your mind a little more with each passing hour of the day or night? That happens a lot with newborns."

That is all.

One

2011-08-03T00:28:00.000-06:00

I slept last night better than I have in weeks. Has it been weeks? Four exactly in another 11 hours or so. And she's finally sleeping between feedings instead of fussing. So on my first night in a long time that included much sleeping at all, I dreamed.

I dreamed that when I looked at Kella, I saw two babies. When she wiggled around on her tummy, another baby wiggled beside her, just as beautiful and touchable and perfect as she is. Grown just as much from that tiny baby I delivered. And suddenly I would remember that Kella had no twin, and the phantom baby would simply disappear like a broken spell. The second time the phantom baby appeared, I called for Tim. I asked him to call the doctor, or someone, because I was delusional. My sub-un-conscious mind was thinking of postpartum psychosis, but couldn't say it. But instead of calling the doctor, dream Tim just sat fiddling with his hands.

When I woke up, I expected to be sad. Sad for twins that didn't happen, by death or by design. But I was relieved. There is only one baby, I thought to myself, and let out a breath. It was all I could do to keep this one baby, and there was no other baby to lose. No child I let down. No overfilled uterus that couldn't hold twice the joy. No overfilled heart with the sorrow of loss. Not this part of my heart. Not the part that belongs to her.

I hold Finley each night before laying him down to sleep, and squeeze him tight with gratitude and a sting of sorrow that where he is, there would have been another, too. The joy of each moment with him casts a shadow, negative space where Oliver would be. Some days the shadow is so short it can hide beneath the happiness. Some days the shadow is long, and the gratitude I have for a living son is overwhelmed with grief. It's like my love for my twin sons was twinned as well, and now my happiness and my pain grow together, communicating in the secret language twins sometimes have.

And then there is Kella. I love her as desperately as I do Finley, but it's a solitary love. She will grow up without a shadow that would have been growing up too, but isn't. And that part of my love for her that is about me—I would be lying if I said there weren't some part of my love for my children that is about me—is whole, and full of joy. One child's worth of joy, and no child's worth of sadness.

I would not go back and make Finley a singleton. Not if it meant never having Oliver. His momentary life was worth everything. But today, I woke up happy to have been blessed with just one.

Questions We Should Be Asking

2011-07-31T01:35:00.000-06:00

Does anyone NOT get devil farts after having more than one Fiber One product? Those bars are so flipping delicious, but I just won't keep them in the house for fear of eating them too often and turning my guts into the land of poopy nightmares.

Does anyone like saxophone music anymore? It's like it died with Seinfeld. Am I the only one who just can't stand it these days?

Is summer TV hiatus just a terrible joke? Or some kind of betting opportunity where producers compete to see who can get the most people to watch the most terrible show?

Does MTV see no irony in the commercials that come on during 16 & Pregnant and Teen Mom (2)? Every commercial break is basically several minutes of twentysomethings pretending to be teenagers who are about to be/in the middle of/talking about having sex, and then MTV suddenly gets all contrite and says, "Teen pregnancy is 100% preventable!" and gives a website that does its best to give teens info about getting tested for STDs and hides the "100% preventable" portion through a link below the fold. At least they actually mention that abstinence is pretty common (not "unrealistic" as many would have you believe), and wishing you had been abstinent is common too. But honestly, what can we expect of teens whose parents aren't doing the most important part of raising them: not letting them watch MTV, where (judging by the commercials) EVERYONE over the age of 15 is DOING IT?

Why does Apple keep making devices that could be awesome, but then crippling them into expensive status symbols? Like a $500 Angry Birds playing machine that also lets you read Cracked online—do you really need that?

Just how much can I dye my hair before I start to look high maintenance or crazy?

Why, when there are such good cartoons out there like "Avatar: The Last Airbender," are so many kids shows these days so terrible? Any time I somehow get stuck in front of children's TV, I feel like the show was written not only for 8-year-olds, but also by them. Not even talented or creative ones. Thank goodness the old X-men cartoons are on Netflix. Hopefully TMNT from when I was a kid will be available for when Finley is the right age!

Why is nursing clothing so DANGED expensive and/or ugly and/or ill fitting? It's normal to be large-chested while breast feeding, right?

And back to the Fiber One thing: Is all of the fiber in those things really worth the sugar and fat in them as well? I mean, shouldn't I just be getting my veggies and roughage?

Due

2011-07-10T23:08:00.000-06:00

Today was Baby Girl's estimated due date, but she came due early in the morning four days ago. After my Tuesday appointment we made the rest of our preparations: installing another car seat, hanging the curtains, doing the things I figured would keep me from going into labor if left undone. My body has interesting timing that way, but unfortunately the last thing I needed, a good night's sleep, was not on the list of labor-preventingly important to-do items (curtains, yes, but not sleep).

So I woke up at 1 am with what I assumed was just even more painful false labor. The contractions seemed to close together to be real labor, because I certainly wouldn't have missed the 8-10 minute apart contractions that were supposed to signal my call to the OB and trip to the hospital. Ha! So an hour later when they were so painful that I woke up Tim and started timing them, two things that will almost always put an end to false labor, I saw that they were 4-5 minutes apart and figured they MUST be false. But then at 2:30 AM (ish) I called the OB's office, because if I was going to have false labor that painful, I was going to do it with some pain meds.

It wasn't until I actually got in the car with the admit paperwork and had the second contraction of the trip (slowest tollway drive ever, by the way), that I became sure that Baby Girl was actually coming. That thought and a good grip on the "oh crap" handle in the car got me through the rest of the drive, and most of what tied for the worst hour of labor. The rest of that worst hour was mostly me begging every hospital employee from the ER entrance to my OB nurse for that epidural. Dr. Bradley can shove all of his pain management techniques up his butt.

Fortunately by about 3:30 AM I had that tube in my back, GBS antibiotics going, and all those lovely external monitors hooked up. I got 5 nice drowsy hours before I was almost fully dilated and getting nervous about the pushing part. We waited a while past full dilation for that urge to push, which is where the other tied-for-worst hour of labor hit. I grabbed my knees and strained for a good hour without much progress, because I pretty much had no idea what I was doing. As it turns out, I have a lot of different muscles in my abdomen, and it took a pretty specific combination to really get baby moving, and until then I basically wanted to hop off the table, take this terrible constipated poo I was feeling, and be rolled into the OR for that repeat Cesarean section.

I didn't want to deliver on my back, but as it turned out baby was a bit particular about wanting me reclined and back down before she would budge past that +2 position. Once we got there, the nurse called anesthesia in to welly up my epidural. They often try to let them wear off so moms can feel the urge to push, but I was feeling too much urge to push to even focus on pushing. Or breathing. Or anything but GAAAAAHHHHH. Once that extra dose of spine narcotics hit (that nurse gets super bonus points for knowing what I needed), I was good to go. Dr. G showed up to ask if I wanted vacuum help, but I actually felt like I was ready to push for another hour. I could finally feel the just right time, push for long enough, and focus on which muscles I was using. Suddenly the nurse was calling Dr. G back in for delivery! Tim broke the "above the equator" rule when the head started to show up, and that's when it got really exciting. The head exited, the umbilical cord was eased off of the neck, and after barely any more effort I heard, "Look down!" And there she was!

I don't think it was 12 milliseconds before she was in my arms. I think the first thing I did was yelp for joy and say, "Hi! We did it!" I kissed that little head (which wasn't really coney at all) and told her I loved her and held her oxygen mask until they absolutely had to take her to the warming bed to get her turning pink (thanks, Colorado's thin air). I watched her blink and squirm while my tiny tears got stitched up (OW). The tears weren't really bad enough to need repair, but the bleeding was enough to call for it.

Minutes later I had her back, and she nursed like an old pro and cuddled like only a newborn can for over an hour, and then it was time for all of the weighing and measuring and shots and eye goop. She weighed 6 pounds, 5.6 ounces, and was 19 inches long. She has SKINNY feet. Her hair looked dark and wavy, and her coloring was a lot like mine when I was born—a lot more ethnic than I look now.

We named her Kella Rose. It's a Gaelic name that means warrior, much like Finley. And after meeting her, I'm sure about the name. I actually picked it out months ago. I mean the end of January. I fell in love with it, told Tim about it, and no other name has really caught my eye since.

She is beautiful and perfect and has a tiny kink in one ear that I hope stays forever. She has my crazy fingernails and Tim's big toes and grandma's nose, with grandpa's unfortunate hairline. That weird M shape with fuzzy corners must be severely genetically dominant, because so far no child in my dad's line has avoided it. She looks a lot like baby me, the same way Finley looked so much like baby Tim.

She spends her spare time staring at me and Tim, squirming, and apparently getting jaundiced, because she's needed a bilirubin light since yesterday. The little light strip gets stuck in a blanket with her and makes her look like a cuter version of one of those glow worm toys Hasbro used to make. We're hoping she won't need it after her test tomorrow morning, mostly because we don't want her to be jaundiced, but also because having your newborn tethered by a very short cable to a heavy machine that plugs into the wall makes things a bit more difficult than they otherwise would be. She seems happy with it, though!

I love her so much. There wasn't a doubt in my mind that I would, but she isn't my first second child, and so many second timers seem to wonder if they'll love the second as much as the first. They are so easy to love—whether they've just come home from the hospital with you or they're 16 months old and having a bit of a challenge not being the only center of Mom and Dad's universe anymore. We're in elliptical orbit around these two, and I'm so proud of the ways my boy has grown up. Having another 6 pound baby (Finley was about a pound heavier when he came home) around has made me realize that the last year has turned Finley into a big, sturdy boy. He's not a baby anymore, and he certainly isn't fragile like he once was. He gives toddler hugs and cuddles, has a child's soft skin, and smells like exactly as many days as it's been since his last bath, and now I have to recognize how much he's grown.

We've been so blessed with another miracle. It may not have taken extraordinary medical interventions to bring Kella home, but it took so many things going just perfectly for her to be born healthy via the normal route and come home after only two days. She tolerated the entire labor like a champion, and never made the doctor worry about needing to surgically remove her. I went into labor at just the right time, 39 weeks and 3 days, and she had every day she needed in the womb.

So now we're home and enjoying the little things, like witch hazel (me) and breast milk (her) and not having hemorrhoids (both of us). Finley loves to see his baby sister and is learning to be gentle, and Tim is being the hero of the house and making sure I get sleep and meds and food and all of the important things. He even let me sleep in Saturday and took both kids with him to the doctor's office alone! I don't know how he does it all, but he does it without complaining, and I know no other men who do so much for their families. He even slept in that horrible hospital chair so he didn't have to leave me alone after the baby came. He wakes up in the night to comfort the baby after she eats. He loves us, and he knows how to show love better than anyone. I have always been in awe of him, and I know our Baby Girl will never have to wonder how a man should treat his family.

I'm exhausted, and in a bit of pain, and I'm quite tired of needing Rx meds to be able to walk at better than a snail's pace, but overall I have too much to be grateful for to complain. If you really needed something, though, I will say that I can't quite forgive my doctor for showing me the placenta. Honestly, I just lost a good amount of blood, my iron is low, and you expect me to eat meat after seeing that?

Little Shoes

2011-07-05T02:08:00.000-06:00

Saturday we bought Finley's first pairs of real shoes. Not the little newborn ones you stick on their helpless little feet for show, but the kind babies wear when they're learning to walk. He is learning to walk. He holds on with one little hand and wobbles around like an itty bitty drunk. He got small, puffy feet from my side of the family, and we had to buy special baby shoes because they're the only ones that would fit. I don't think my last three or four pairs of shoes cost as much as the two pair we bought.

But sitting in the shoe store, debating the costs of teeny tennies and soft-sole dress shoes made for 6-9-month-old babies, I suddenly wanted to cry. Not because my boy is growing up, because that's what we always wanted him to do, but because my other boy is not. I found myself thinking we should be buying twice as many little shoes, and wondering if Oliver's feet would have been round and stumpy, too. I started to think of what our life should have been like, when I realize that I can only guess what it would have been like. What should be is certainly only God's area of expertise. I only have selfish shoulds—to keep a baby in this world that so valiantly went to the next. Who is in God's own hands instead of mine. Who will have the blessings of eternity and our forever family as much having gone when he did as if he lived a lifetime in this world. I can say it would have been different. But it isn't. And who am I to say it should have been?

Later that day at the cemetery I see the tiny footprints we had placed on his gravestone. They aren't much smaller than his footprints when we was born—or were his feet that small? One was turned in from the small space he had in the womb, and both were swollen from their station blocking Finley's exit and saving his life, even though he had never before been first in line to be born.

I looked down at my belly (and it's hard to look down and see anything other than belly these days) and almost gasped at the realization that there was no teeny tiny baby in my womb anymore. The feet that will come out in the next week or two will be much, much larger than the tiny footprints on the gravestone. And they might even be average, thin baby feet instead of the roly poly feet I managed to pass to my little almost-walker. I wonder if we'll buy her expensive shoes to learn to walk in, too. Probably, at least for that stage, but maybe not because nothing else will fit. She'll probably learn to walk at the average age and have average feet. She might be what people consider totally normal, or maybe even bright and developmentally ahead. I don't know what to expect from a term baby—not even "early term," because we're so close to her due date now that she'll have every gestational advantage a baby could want.

I'm seeing a pattern now. Will I gestate my next baby for a year? I suppose that child will come out a superhero, possibly with long, gangly feet. My children so far are shaping up to be unexpected and unlikely people with unpredictable fates. To die, to thrive in the face of difficulties, to come despite heavily stacked odds and be uniquely safe and healthy. I wonder who they will be in ten years, or twenty, or when we meet in the next life. I wonder if, in Heaven, there will be a pair of very tiny feet that I can buy expensive shoes for and watch learn to toddle, so many years from now.

The Man I Married, Who Married Me Back

2011-06-19T10:05:00.000-06:00

It didn't take long after meeting Tim to realize he would be an ideal mate. He is careful and kind with his words, respectful, smart, and hard-working. He is humble enough not to recognize these things as his special skills and talents, so he works to improve them every day. He is unselfish, and meets even the least pleasant obligations without complaining, procrastinating, or just waiting around until someone else does it.

I knew some of those things about Tim before I married him, and have discovered the rest over the last (almost) five years. He anchors our family in the goodness of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, and keeps us praying and seeking help from scripture, doctrine, and revelation. He loves and cares for me and his children the way only the best fathers do. He reads to our son, plays games with him, and helps him learn new things each day. He cares for the health of our daughter and does his best to keep her safe. He shares with me the grief that only parents share at an absent child.

He pays attention to our boy's smallest needs and milestones and cheers him on as he makes progress. He worries about the little challenges and illnesses and health scares, and takes good care to treat them. There is no question that Finley loves his father. On days when Tim is home, there's nobody else Finley really wants to be with. Tim, your infant son thinks you are the very best thing in the world—is there any praise I can give you better than that?

Probably not. I'll just tell you that I love you, and the father you've become, and the man you have always been. Your commitment to provide for us and protect us and lead us toward good things and happiness has brought us the things we most need in this life.

And besides all of the things you dutifully do because you know that's what a great father would do, there are the things that only you can do, like your special talent for bringing us laughter. Like writing amazing stories that have meaning and have the charm of your unique voice. Like your spectacular dancing skills. Like your 99th percentile ability to forgive. Like your desire to be a husband and father as the most important jobs in your life, and how you make us feel like important people because of it.

There is no other father quite like you in the world, Tim, and I couldn't be happier than to have you as the father of my family. We need your special skills and your love and everything you are, because we simply couldn't live without you and only you.

You have put in the years and the emotion and the exhausting efforts that a true father does, and you've done so much more. You've earned the title, the love, and the reverence we should have for your position: father.

Happy Fathers' Day

Permission to Pop

2011-06-07T23:08:00.000-06:00

I had my 35 week OB appointment today! It really wasn't exciting enough to merit an exclamation point, except that I graduated from 17P! No more expensive Makena for me! That's not to say I'm done trying to find a way for Colorado women to get the compounded generic (because even though the FDA changed its ruling, a CO law is still preventing compounding here), but it does mean that in about a week when this last shot wears off, there's nothing but my own body to stop me from going into labor! WAH!

And Dr. S. kept telling me how happy she is that I made it to term. "Not for two more weeks!" I kept reminding her, but she seemed to think 35 was close enough! Babies born at that age do very well, they wouldn't need to stop labor, blah, blah, blah. Certainly it is close compared to 25 weeks, but I really want to hit that 37 week mark for the sake of not having another preemie by technicality, even if it's just by a few days. 12 days would get me to term, and 13 would get me to a business day when one of my two OBs would actually be performing the delivery, so I'm hoping for at least that much longer!

She kept telling me that I'm basically fine to start laboring whenever, and while I see the logic, I'm definitely not ready to go! I have curtains to sew and cleaning to do! I'm looking forward to seeing this baby, and hoping she'll come out ready to fit the collection of adorable newborn-size clothes we have for her, but geez, gimme a minute to meet with the hospital birth plan people (a week from tomorrow) and pack my bag. And maybe get that growth ultrasound I've been wanting to make sure I'm not carrying a Hummer instead of a baby before I decide to forgo that repeat C-section.

I'm hoping she's a procrastinator like me. It would probably not be nice to also wish her a tiny, pointy head.

Feelings You Shouldn't Have

2011-06-03T19:18:00.000-06:00

I'll be the first to admit that I have inappropriate feelings. I get pissed off at girls who went to cosmetology school, married rich, and have no guilt for not making any intellectual pursuits whatsoever. Why? Because I totally should have done that. Let's face it: my liberal arts degree is almost worthless now, but people still want haircuts and highlights. I want a haircut and highlights. And I get frustrated with this fetus on occasion for break dancing in my womb while I'd like to be sleeping.

But you know what? Getting frustrated at a fetus is ridiculous. It's not a valuable feeling, and feeling it is really a waste of time and energy and has a negative impact on my mood, outlook, and brain chemistry. It is not healthy to be frustrated with a fetus. Expressing that feeling, as I did for example here, isn't really healthy either. And certainly wishing I'd gone to cosmetology school because I think it might make me as cute as this girl I know who did is a waste of my time, and hating her is a waste of even more than that. So I try not to.

But I keep seeing all this BS in pop culture about how our feelings are (a) out of our own control, (b) all equally worthy of feeling and expressing, and (c) unhealthy to try to control.

For example: "The heart wants what the heart wants." Every time I hear that phrase my heart wants to stab out the eyeballs of the speaker. Can we accept that certain desires and feelings are actually wrong, and act accordingly? So you no longer love your wife and your heart wants to bone the secretary—how about you admit that your heart is a total douchebag, get some marriage counseling, and maybe spend less time at reception?

"I can't help the way I feel." This one's true sometimes in the short run, especially during a personal rage spiral or when your hormones have taken over. But when you get some sleep and your period is over, it's time for some feeling accountability. Just like I'm over my irrational irritation toward my beloved baby girl now that I've actually had a nap, there comes a time to sort out our feelings by which are legitimate and which are illogical or useless or unhealthy, and throw out the latter group.

Therapists call on this kind of sorting in Cognitive Therapy. Usually it's applied to negative feelings, but sometimes it needs to be applied to what seem like neutral or positive feelings, like when Charlie Sheen thinks he's winning, or when I think I'm better than other people because I close the toilet lid before flushing. In reality, Charlie Sheen is in a manic state, and I am just wrong (nobody escapes the patina of fecal bacteria that covers our world).

I think to some extent, over time, we all sort out these feelings. Sometimes not before we do something stupid, and occasionally (and more often with all of this BS about all feelings being important) we just never sort them out, and instead every time we feel irritated at our spouse, we tell him all about it until his heart starts wanting to get the heck away from us. More likely, however, before we sort anything, we put our feelings on Facebook, and then complain when they're not validated, when in reality, we shouldn't be considering them valid ourselves, let alone expecting others to find them valid.

So here's to feelings, and admitting that some of them are dumb. Sometimes your feelings don't matter. Sometimes they're wrong, stupid, harmful, and/or useless. And instead of feeling them for the sake of feelings, you should throw them out and try to feel the way you want to feel (which I hope means feeling like a nice person, a good mom, and, say, someone capable of cleaning the living room now and then). I'm talking to you, self. But I'm also talking to the "feelings" crowd out there who always defends others for feeling the way they feel, even if it's wrong. You wouldn't defend me for feeling hate toward a specific race of people, and you shouldn't defend me (or anyone else) for our other douchey feelings. Because when we're stupid enough to post them on Facebook, we deserve the everlasting flames of the internet to burn the idiot feelings out of us.

3 Hilarious Products Nobody Should Buy—Except Maybe Me

2011-06-02T19:05:00.000-06:00

EasyFeet: For those no longer willing or able to bend down and reach their own feet.

The best part is at about 1:15 when she talks about the high arch for "pudgy" feet, though I suppose that is a more common condition among those who can't be bothered to wash their feet unless there's a product that will do it for them with little to no effort. Seriously HSN ladies, is it that hard to either lift your feet up to the side of the shower or bend down and give a little scrub? Why not buy one of those little shower foot rests that makes it easier?

I am like 8 months pregnant, and I am still capable of washing my own feet. That is not to say I haven't been tempted to outsource my foot washing to a sad little scrubber with "9 suction cups!" but I certainly am not spending $25.00 on such a thing until the day I get my free Rascal.

The Slobstopper: For adult babies.

I saw this on Hulu and didn't think it was real, but if you go to the website, it's totally there. Can you imagine a level of shamelessness where you're willing to put this thing on, even if you're just in your car? And by the time you get to that point, are the clothes you'll be wearing really worth saving from a coffee stain? I get the feeling you might be wearing a Stadium Pal underneath them anyway (also shockingly real).

And while such accessories are abandoned in childhood because the very definition of adulthood denotes the ability to eat and drink without soaking your clothing in leftovers, I have become acutely aware of the difficulty adulthood poses in this particular area. Pregnant women are notoriously clumsy, and I'm no exception. I drop everything. Since I, like most pregnant women, also have a large protruding belly, my shirts have recently become repositories for all kinds of food and drink particles that miss my mouth.

A stranger actually pointed and laughed at me when Tim had to tell me I'd decorated myself with frozen yogurt. I've been going through Spray'n'Wash at ten times normal speed. "Rewear," that invaluable part of any limited maternity wardrobe/lexicon, is disappearing, and I am feeling the pain. Still, at $15 a pop, I think I'll stick to the public embarrassment of a yogurt stain instead of switching to the humiliation of wearing a giant bib.

Pajama Jeans: For those sitting on the last ledge before rock bottom.

I think people have already said what needs to be said about these things. But as horrifying as it is to think of wearing sweats with a stretch waist and "mock fly," I can't help but think, "Yes, it IS hard to fit into regular jeans . . . and I HATE when they leave marks in my belly pooch!" I fantasize about slipping into stretchy pajama jeans, tucking my postpartum jellybelly into the waistband, and hiding the entire mess under that sexy gray T-shirt (a whole outfit!). Forget losing the weight, toning my tummy, working down the sizes until I'm back to my ideal weight—I could just live in pajama jeans. I wouldn't even have to change clothes when I get in and out of bed.

I'm starting to see a whole new lifestyle forming for me.

Hate This/Love That: Bacteria Edition

2011-05-28T00:20:00.001-06:00

Hate This:

Bacteria and I are not friends. Well, some bacteria. I have had a few nasty run-ins with some BAMF strains (Mom, don't Google BAMF), like Clostridium difficile, and Whatevertheheck causesUTIs. I highly recommend hand washing, food safety techniques, and using alcohol and/or bleach to sanitize stuff. Of course, I'll also tell you to skip antibacterial soaps containing triclosan, since that stuff will mess you up (and by you I mean your hormones).

So when I had two nasty colds in a row, and my sinuses were reaching critical mass after 3 solid weeks of abuse, I finally was diagnosed with a sinus infection and got those cool antibiotics that work in 5 days and are equivalent to 30 doses of regular antibiotics. Yay!

And naturally, since these things come in threes (note: most things don't come in threes), I was also recently diagnosed (today) with a UTI (yes, this is a third thing, because each of those colds counted as one thing). And I picked up even more antibiotics! A three-day course, this time.

As the infection slowly dies within me and those tiny, dead bacterial bodies are expelled from my vessel, all I can think of are the casualties of war on my side. You know, that other bacteria. The ones that are my friends. The ones in my colon. All they're trying to do is protect me from baddies like C. difficile and other nasty gut bugs, but they take it in the rear when antibiotics enter the scene (ya see what I did there?). That's why "diarrhea" (I am so, so sorry for using that word in this safe place) is almost always on the side effects list for antibiotics. Those good guys in your colon are keepin' you regular . . . and occasionally giving you gas, but you can't be too picky here.

With every one of those tiny deaths in my colon, I am more sensitive to evils that might attack, you know, my colon. Which brings me to the second half of this entry:

Love That:

Probiotics. I don't know why doctors don't prescribe them every time anyone has gut issues or takes antibiotics. I'm not sure how much they help during antibiotic treatment, but at least afterward they essentially repopulate your desolate colon after Hurricane Poopsalot or the Antibiotic Tsunami wreak death and destruction. Acidophilus and Bifidus are probably the most popular ones, but you can get all kinds of blends, and they are the good bacteria Red Cross. My favorites are (1) these chewables that taste like powdered yogurt, and (2) actual yogurt. A nurse once recommended Florastor, so sure, I'll plug that too. Just not with a link, because it's expensive. If you need me to help you click to it, you probably can't afford it.

Anyway, if you love your guts—and trust me, you LOVE your guts—you'll keep some of these around to keep them populated with a massive army of tiny protectors.

Oh, and today I also love my AZO at home UTI test strips. I'm not a huge fan of nonessential doctor's office visits, and I am a huge fan of knowing what I need to do and taking care of myself. It's an independence that comes once you get over giving yourself shots and start to think, "What do they even do at these checkups, anyway?" (Okay, they do plenty, but I can at least avoid anything unnecessary with a few tricks and a 24/7 nurse hotline.)

Anyway, I had some flipping awful back pain the other day. With no other symptoms for the pain, I decided to use a strip. Peeing on strips in a clinically appropriate situation is a hobby of mine. I got the high score for white blood cells! That's exactly what Charlie Sheen means by winning, I think. But at my OB appointment, my doctor said the pain sounded more pregnancy related, and my test there came back normal. They sent it off for a culture, and thank goodness, because apparently I am an infection machine. I wouldn't have questioned it if they said it came back with nothing (the back pain went away), but thanks to a penchant for pee sticks, I'm not letting an asymptomatic UTI turn into pyelophrenitis or pyelonephritis or whatever. Boo yah. Take that, UTI bacteria, I WIN!

Hate This/Love That: Name Brand Diaper Edition

2011-05-20T19:29:00.000-06:00

Hate This:

I pretty much can't stand Huggies. I mean, their diapers aren't all that bad. We actually use Huggies wipes because they were the first wipes we used that didn't irritate Finley's adorable and sensitive behind. But the diapers tend to chafe, and I find them to be exactly the same quality as generic diapers, but more expensive.

But by far the worst thing they offer is their "Enjoy the Ride" "rewards" program. Trust me, they worked hard to earn those scare quotes around "rewards"; in spite of using these wipes for a year now, I have yet to get ANYTHING from it. Besides that, I am NOT enjoying the ride, if by ride they are referring to their ugly, badly designed website and their nonexistent rewards.Not only does logging every code require (a) three screens' worth of BS, (b) two modes of verification—where I bought the dang wipes and one of those illegible text filters—and (c) clicking a RIDICULOUS number of times, but redeeming the points is somehow even more annoying. I have options: sweepstakes, instant win, donate, and catalog. Since there's never anything under donate (seriously, these A-holes won't let me just get rid of these things to help March of Dimes in some tiny way), and the catalog only ever allows you to purchase coupons for more Huggies products, I choose "Instant Win." Translation: "Lose, but Not Before Watching Annoying Animation." I click several buttons to verify that yes, I want to spend my idiotic points on this. I watch the moronic animation. I lose. I click to confirm my loss. I have disposed of 2 points. There is no way for me to just dump in all of my points to just get rid of them. Even though the program they use to dole out "rewards" would hand out the same instant win/loss result, they get some kind of sick pleasure out of me watching a cartoon mom watch her ugly cartoon baby fart in a bathtub.

Thanks, Huggies. My "reward" for using your product is apparently the desire to smash my computer monitor. If anyone wants my Huggies points, I will email you the codes, and where I bought them. The anti-robot code and Huggies BS is up to you.

Love That:

I can't get enough of Pampers. I love the diapers, and how they're super soft on my baby's super soft skin. They're the only diaper that never leaves nasty crinkle marks. The newborn ones have mesh that catches meconium nicely, plus a wetness indicator so I can keep baby dry. The sizes above are (like the newborn ones) super absorbent, soft, and of the utmost quality. We switched to cheaper Luvs for a while, but when I realized that through Amazon Mom I could switch back to Pampers for only a few bucks a month, I did it in a second. Admittedly, it was mostly because the Luvs have a perfume that was driving me nuts, and Pampers smell fine to me.

The rewards program, "Gifts to Grow," is fantastic. The website is easy to navigate, the points are SUPER easy to enter (I can even enter multiple codes at once), and the rewards are fantastic. They have donation options, toys, shutterfly packages—that's how I'm getting baby girl's announcements printed!—everything actual moms actually want. And you actually get things when you spend your points. You can even choose to buy multiples of most things if you want to use more points. It's like shopping, instead of like a torturous trip to a gas station in the middle of Hell where you have to scratch that nasty silver crap off of hundreds of little cards to find out you've won NOTHING—oh sorry, I stopped talking about Huggies "rewards" earlier. Anyway, Pampers rewards can be used to actually purchase things you want.

And they're not stingy with them, either. I have plenty of points to get those baby announcements, and by the time I buy them I will have enough more for maybe some cute thank-yous or at least a small donation to a charity that helps kids. They give away points through their Facebook page, through extras when you purchase, and as freebies in registry packages. They're not kidding; there are actual rewards to buying Pampers besides putting something soft on your kid's butt.

While no diaper, no matter how hard it tries, can stop the most horrible of inevitable blowouts, and in that respect all diapers may be equal, I choose Pampers for superiority in every other way. Well, except price. They're the most expensive mass-market diapers you can put on your baby that you have to throw away afterward. Still, to me the few bucks a month is totally worth it.

Oh, and as an aside about Pampers wipes: I love them. The boy may be allergic to them, but I used what was left in the pack to remove makeup or refresh my face. They're fantastic as far as wipes go, with an actual weave to them instead of being like thick, wet, quilted TP. So if you see me in Target buying some, it's because (a) I'm hoping baby girl isn't allergic to them, or (b) I ran out of face wash and they're just so . . . nice.

Makena Drama: I Will Never Escape

2011-05-09T18:18:00.000-06:00

It almost makes me sick to be dealing with this yet again. I confirmed with my doctor's office that the FDA was allowing compounders to create 17P (hydroxyprogesterone caproate), and asked my CVS/Caremark pharmacy not to send me another $100 (copay) refill for the last 5 shots of Makena. After all, why spend $100 (and let my insurance pay KV Pharmaceutical) when my compounding pharmacy could produce the same drug and make a profit with just me paying them about $35 for the same amount?

I have had a bit of a cold, so I put off calling my local specialty pharmacy until Friday, thinking they could get the drug to me by Tuesday, when my 32-week shot is due. Last time they filled the scrip it was the same day I brought in the order. The pharmacy rep told me that they could no longer compound 17P. "Aha!" I said, "but the FDA reversed that decision, and now compounding pharmacies can make 17P!" Seriously, am I the only person in Colorado on this drug? And then the other government issue shoe fell.

She told me that the Colorado Board of Pharmacy would not allow them to compound it. I looked up the board—it's the state pharmacy licensing agency, responsible for (a) licensing, and (b) enforcing laws through licensing, not licensing, revoking licenses, etc. They're not a legislative agency, so I was confused as to how they'd have anything to do with me and my 17P. Naturally, since I have nothing better to do, I called the state professional licensing organization and they connected me to a very nice man at the Pharmacy Board.

He directed me to the Colorado Revised Statutes (i.e. Colorado legislation), namely CRS 12-22-121(18)(c):

(I) A prescription drug outlet shall not compound drugs that are commercially available except as provided in subparagraph (II) of this paragraph (c).
(II) A pharmacist may compound a commercially available drug if the compounded drug is significantly different from the commercially available drug or if use of the compounded drug is in the best medical interest of the patient, based upon the practitioner's drug order, including, without limitation, the removal of a dye that causes an allergic reaction. If a drug is compounded in lieu of a commercially available product, the patient shall be notified of the fact.

Translation: unless I'm allergic to the commercially available form, I HAVE to buy it.

It's really not a bad law. It's made to protect manufacturers from compounding pharmacies simply stealing away business by making whatever drugs they want. When you look at the way most drugs go through the processes of creation, approval, patenting, going generic, etc., it makes total sense. This whole Makena thing is just so F'd up that the only way for the commercial drug to have competition was through compounders, since no other commercial options are available. The drug is over 50 years old!

The problem stems from KV Pharmaceutical "developing" a drug that already existed, and from the FDA's promise of orphan drug status that would give them a monopoly. Orphan drug status, of course, only goes to drugs that affect a small number of people. Thanks, FDA, for screwing those of us in the minority with the "rare" problem of preterm labor. At least they shaped up in the end, but unfortunately I am still screwed into getting another rush order of the expensive stuff.

I'm going to say that if KV couldn't make the drug at a competitive price, they shouldn't have made it in the first place.

I continue to be baffled by the high price of Makena. I get the difference between the compounded version of hydroxyprogesterone and the commercial version: KV Pharmaceutical is mass producing the drug, ensuring that dosing standards are met exactly, and regulating the quality of the drug. Mass production is usually a cost-saving measure. It's because of mass production that factory-made items are less expensive than hand-made items. Efficiency cuts costs.

But what if mass production isn't efficient and doesn't cut costs? The high price of Makena is a result of one or both of two things: price gouging because Makena had the "orphan drug" monopoly that eliminated competition, or high production costs, meaning Makena is produced less efficiently than at compounding pharmacies. If it's so expensive solely because of inefficiency of production, then we need to look at whether the dosing and quality regulation they do is really worth the added expense over the dosing and quality control individual compounders do. Certainly compounders are held accountable for any mistakes, as was made clear when the FDA began to allow compounding pharmacies to compete with Makena again so that women could get this important drug. Essentially they said that though they'd allow pharmacies to compound the "orphan drug" without punishment, these individual pharmacies would still be held accountable for the safety, quality, and sterility of their products. I don't know about you, but I trust a smaller local firm with a lot to lose over a giant pharmaceutical company that has a lot more resources and power to fight or hide anything substandard in their product.

So the benefits offered by Makena, in all its commercial glory, have debatable value. No, since the FDA seems to think the commercial production is valuable, I'll say they have definite value. But shouldn't the consumer be able to decide how much value? Can't I say how much mass production and standardization is worth to me? It's not worth as much as Makena costs, that's for sure. And now laws that were made to protect both consumers and drug companies from knockoff drugs are keeping me, yet again, from getting the meds I need at a fair price.

My Mom

2011-05-08T16:03:00.000-06:00

There are lots of moms out there, of lots of different types. There are moms who can cook anything, and my mom can do that, though by the time I could appreciate an excellent meal without flopping down at the kitchen table and saying "EW!" my father had taken over much of the cooking so my mom could get her business degree.

There are moms who are smart, and my mom has always been one of those. Shockingly so. She has the ability to think critically, analyze situations, and make plans of action like nobody else I've met. I used to help her study for classes by drilling her with her own notecards as we drove around town, and as a result my understanding of economics was quite well established by the time I hit college. And that's not the only thing my mom taught me. She is singlehandedly responsible for my knowledge of algebra (though that was more of an endurance/persistence/patience effort than intelligence on her part), and actually got me liking math. I mean to the point that I would do it in my spare time, and wound up actually enjoying multivariable calculus at 16. Enjoying it. And I'll lay that squarely on my mother's shoulders.

My mom was ahead of her time in mothering skills. She practiced attachment parenting before it was cool, and fostered our intellectual growth at home both before we entered formal schooling and after. She read my brother and me books and helped us participate in sports and learn musical instruments. She put us to work around the house and showed us how to clean, cook, gather kindling, prepare firewood, and start fires (in a totally safe, non-arson type way). She took us outdoors and showed us birds and animals and crazy awesome dangerous nature things. She taught us to stand up for ourselves and others, and to keep values that were difficult or unpopular growing up.

You'd think a mom with outdoors skills and brains and patience wouldn't be one a girly-girl either, but my mom was. She taught me about makeup and skincare and proper nail painting techniques. We still sometimes get to shop together for clothes or makeup.

And that's the part of my mom I discovered as an adult. She is a fantastic friend. We watch reality TV together, shop together, eat together. We discuss books and news. She is always, always there to help me when I need it. She is interesting and thoughtful, so we never run out of things to talk about. She is a good advice giver, but knows when not to advise. She is generous with everything she has.

Her mother could have named her Prudence or Hope or Charity or any of those other somewhat terrible "value" names, but instead she named her Rose. Roses are beautiful and strong, with thorns to protect themselves and solid roots to grow tall. They climb toward light, and bloom so fantastically that no other flower quite compares. Of all of the good things my grandmother could have called my mom, I think she picked the most fitting name, because my mom truly is a Rose.

Destruction!

2011-05-06T01:03:00.001-06:00

Sometimes it feels like my life is falling apart. Other times, it just feels like the stuff I need to live my life is falling apart.

Like Saturday, when I had a lovely trip to the zoo with my family and friends, and came out to find my windshield broken by a stray golf ball. And by "stray," I mean it was irresponsibly driven across two lanes of traffic, a superwide ramp down to a parking garage, and the fences/nets put up by the golf course—oh wait! there weren't any!—into the car we traded down to to get rid of our car payment. You know, because we need that money for the baby we're expecting in about two months.

I would've loved a "golf course nearby" sign. Or maybe even three feet of fence over the parking lot wall that would have saved me from this whole problem. Instead I got a nasty windshield replacement bill, and a lesson to purchase a lower deductible plan for my auto glass, because I have zero control over what happens to it.

And Sunday I got Finley's cold. It took him a solid 3-4 days of fever to start showing symptoms, but it hit me like an unwelcome golf ball when in the morning I woke up with a massive headache, sore throat, crapped out sinuses, and a really tough time speaking. I figured a couple of days would see me through the worst of it, and by Tuesday I really felt awesome for my 30-week check up (all is well, baby is good, and even a very on-time delivery is starting to loom close enough to make detailed plans for).

Naturally after the doctor's appointment high, my cold fell right back into place. Super. So that second thing I need to live my life, that is a face I can breathe through, is totally broken too.

Then, at 11:30 PM tonight, when my very average sized husband threw himself exhausted onto the bed, the bed riser broke. And it scraped the crap out of our bed leg. AND it somehow pulled a screw out of the bed and discombobulated the entire corner support. Unfortunately since most of the storage in our house is under that bed, and it's not exactly bed-riser season at Wal-mart, I had to use my superhuman pregnancy strength to recombobulate the bed corner and find the exact right old textbooks to prop up the bed leg so we could at least sleep for the night.

Here's my crossed fingers and toes hoping it doesn't collapse again before we can get it more permanently fixed.

My windshield, my face, my bed—this is starting to seem like either a really weird dream or a set of nasty omens. Or on the other (and more likely) hand, it probably seems that way because of the congestion-interrupted sleep I've been getting (and not getting).

But fortunately, the thing that isn't falling apart is my happy little fetus and her well-sealed home. My stretch marks are definitely growing, but the fantasy of an eventual tummy tuck is enough to comfort me (who knows if that will actually happen). By biggest pregnancy worry is VBAC or repeat CS (yes, they do both suck), and that's simply fantastic. Also fantastic is having the strength and ability to walk around for hours, play with my son, and occasionally have a night out with the hubs. Some things might be falling apart, but I, for once, am not.

Stretch

2011-04-15T23:40:00.000-06:00

I think my favorite part of pregnancy ever is the cute belly. Maybe it's because when I struggled with infertility I was so jealous of that rich, round sign of impending baby. And maybe it's partly because I felt cheated out of showing off my belly when at 17 weeks I was bedbound for the remainder of my last pregnancy, and because I didn't get nearly as big as I would have liked to.

In any event, I love having a belly, and watching my bellybutton shallow out to a faint star in the middle of a heavy mass of mama, and trying to walk like a normal person when there is another person hanging out the front of my abdomen.

So now, finally, I am starting to get that nice, big, third-trimester belly. I'm carrying round. The rest of me is roughly proportional to my pre-pregnancy self (you know, from the two weeks I got back into those size 8 jeans before having to surrender them to the "clothes that won't fit for another year" trunk). Oh, and my second chin has even retreated a bit! But my belly has stretched the front of me from boobs to C-section scar with shocking evenness. And while I'm lucky not to look too chubby from the front, the belly definitely takes up the width of my abdomen too. I am by no means carrying small.

And I thought I'd paid my genetic dues last time, when I stretched from upper thighs to belly button in big, red streaks the cocoa butter was just barely starting to fade into shiny lines. I supposed that the postpartum shrinking had effectively nail polished the ends of the giant runs in my skin, so I could continue wearing it without worry that my runny-stocking skin would tear through the rest of me.

Naturally, I was super, super wrong about that. Now that I'm passing the limits of my prior belly stretch, I'm starting to get growing pains once again, and to top it off last night after my bath I found a new, tiny tear sprouting from the top of one of my old ones. It hit me instantly: I am going to have giant stretch marks from head to toe. By the time I carry this baby to term (and I WILL carry her to term), I will be that old stocking you thought you could wear one more time, but by the end of the night it was only a scrap of barely-held-together nylon gossamer, embarrassing you with its complete decrepitude.

Which brings me to a strange realization. Before that tiny rip appeared in my otherwise good-enough-after-delivering-twins belly, the technology that had most inspired my gratitude for living in this particular time was indoor plumbing. Screw the internet. But now, another holy blessing of invention shares that spot: cosmetic surgery.

Say what you will. Before this decade is over, I am going to see about having these shiny marks tattooed back to my normal skin color, and then having some of them just completely removed. I'm talking tummy tuck. I don't need a bikini body, but hey, I know when it's time to buy new stockings.

Dear Pepsi,

2011-04-13T22:35:00.000-06:00

I am a fan of many caramel-colored, caffeinated, cold, carbonated beverages. Colas have been a tradition in my family for as long as I can remember. And though I had my youthful flings with orange soda and cherry syrup, the classics remain my favorite: Coca-Cola, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper still top my list.

Dr. Pepper wins for unique flavor. Pepsi takes second because everyone carries it and it's better than Coke (sorry Coke). But Coca-Cola gets the nod because (a) Mexican Coke has cane sugar instead of higher GI corn syrup, and (b) Mexican Coke is somehow way tastier than Mexican Pepsi.

But along with my fancy new unsweet tooth, I've gotten a heightened sensitivity to caffeine, so I've been struggling without my Mormony equivalent of booze the way some women suffer for red wine when they're pregnant. It's not a bad sacrifice, but I still want the good stuff if I can get it. Pregnancy exhaustion/stress plus wrangling a one-year-old who is not as mobile as he really, really wants to be leaves me extra needy for the little joys in life.

So today, Pepsi, you have won my affections. Pepsi is the only caffeine-free version of my favorite drinks easily located at stores outside of Utah, and there it was, on the shelf at King Sooper's, for only a dollar per two-liter bottle. And it was SOOOOOOO good. Without the caffeine heightening the sugar taste, the flavor was beyond perfect, at a time when everything else I eat tastes just a little wrong.

Knowing that I won't be up all night made it even better. I have another bottle and a half left to enjoy, preferably before my glucose tolerance test results come back. The next few days should be totally awesome.

Breaking the Trail

2011-04-10T16:18:00.000-06:00

I haven't been to this part of a pregnancy before. Baby girl is due in 3 months, or 13 weeks from today. She's got enough uterus time for some serious advantages in life, including a better than 90% survival rate outside the womb if she were born this week. The even better news: she probably won't be born this week.

Which brings me to my point: Suddenly this pregnancy seems to be going on forever, and I'm in the part of it I've never technically experienced. Of course, every pregnancy is different, and this one is doing some strange things. I can't complain about a long pregnancy, but if history has taught us anything, we should know that I can find something to complain about.

It's my sweet tooth. It's been injured. I tend to love sugar. I crave it, I eat it, and I thoroughly enjoy it. Hormones have taken away the two most important parts of that equation. I don't crave sugar. It's the best candy season of the year, and while some of my favorites catch my eye when I walk through Wal-Mart, I just don't have the same desire I once did. On the other hand, I still occasionally buy and eat it. Robin Eggs, Pay Day bars, Cadbury Creme Eggs, chocolate covered marshmallows - and that's just in the last few weeks. It may not be a complete accounting of my indulgences, either.

Full disclosure of my sugar binges is not important; the problem is that though I continue to eat sugar, it has become rather awful. I never wanted to know why some people don't like Hostess products and cheap candy, and I do, and it's terrible. This must be what drug addicts feel like when their regular dose stops delivering a high. And that thought is even more depressing, because I realize how much I use sugar to change my mood. It is my drug of choice.

Now that I'm seeking out snacks and easy foods that don't have tons of sugar, I'm finding out how sugar-infused American non-perishable grocery items are. Even beef jerky, that pinnacle of easy protein, is coated in sickly sugar. Do not want. So snack foods are limited, and since I am awful at keeping veggies good long enough to remember to cook them, and since I am far too lazy to actually cook up a piece of meat when I need to eat lunch, I am seriously struggling with meals.

Yesterday and today: tacos for lunch. Easy because Tim made the meat and everything else is pretty simple. During the week: I find things around the house. Cheese. Crackers. Nothing. And half the time I'm too tired, busy, and braindead to even remember to eat, and then I end up having a nearly-passing-out episode in the middle of relief society. Because I ate a cupcake for breakfast after only a few hours of decent sleep. Depending on the calendar you use this is about the first day of my first third trimester, and I already suck at it.

Okay, One More

2011-03-30T19:50:00.000-06:00

Update about the 17P situation that is. After I finally heard from my insurance, I was satisfied with a price for me of about $200 for the rest of my shots. That doesn't seem too bad until you compare it to the $100 I paid for Finley's whole 13-week NICU stay. Yes, it would be cheaper for me to just have this baby out now. That screwed-upness lies somewhere between the insurance company and Ther-Rx/KV Pharmaceutical, but I do not let the makers of Makena off the hook for their ridiculous pricing.

Fortunately, neither does the FDA. Just a couple days after my order for 1 $100 refill of 5 Makena shots went in (rushed), today I found that the FDA will be allowing compounding pharmacies to continue making the inexpensive 17P I've been enjoying for the last 10 weeks. That still leaves me and my insurance with paying those criminals at Ther-Rx for 5 shots, but I had to do what was necessary to keep this pregnancy safe.

But of course, life is never so simple. My last precious milliliter of 17P wound up being only .5 mL. That doesn't mean the pharmacy shorted me (of a $3.50 value! Oh no!), it just means that somewhere in the last 10 shots, .5 mL got lost in mixing needles or stuck to the sides of the vials. It's normal. And at $7/shot, I can afford little losses like that.

So even though I moved as fast as I could to make sure I'd get my shots, I'm still anxiously awaiting the rush shipment from my CVS/Caremark specialty pharmacy so I can make up for the lost dose amount. And hopefully not need a progesterone suppository, which my OB's office has threatened if I don't get my shipment before Friday. I'm just hoping that if I do need the suppository, it goes in the shipping and receiving door and not the, uh, emergency exit (for evacuation only). Are you as sick of my metaphor as I am?

So that's the story. The hope is that in another month, I will get my last 5 mL from the compounders at a totally reasonable price. I haven't called the compounding pharmacy to check up on it, but I can't imagine the hassle they've been going though between the angry pregnant ladies and the greedy pharmaceutical reps. In fact, I'm pretty sure that's a worse place to be than between rock/hard place, frying pan/fire, mama bear/cubs, bull elk/harem.

I'm not stressing about the situation much now, mostly because I'm wondering if I'm the only little girl who got the "don't get between a bull elk and his harem" speech.

For the record, after 2:34 AM tomorrow morning, I will be the most pregnant I have ever been: a full 25 weeks and 4 days!

Ha! Malfunctioning Body, Take That!

2011-03-25T08:01:00.000-06:00

I've had a problem with early morning waking (my OB's words) for a bit over a week, and I thought I was going to lose it from lack of sleep. I mean, if you don't consider it already losing it to (a) burst into tears at no provocation, (b) lose further sleep because of stress dreams about being too tired to care for my child, and (c) only have a few hours during the day when I can track or carry a meaningful conversation.

I told my doctor about the sleeping troubles at my last cervix check. I mean LAST cervix check. No more ultrasounds or internal exams until delivery time, and I get to stop going in every two weeks for a while. Anyway, Dr. G prescribed Ambien. I took the stuff a couple times when I was on hospital bed rest. If you didn't know, when they dispense meds in the hospital, you don't get a bottle with a bunch of literature about how you might die from taking it. You just get a pill and a nurse to watch you swallow it.

Being an avid reader of boring things and especially packaging, I discovered some of the somnambulant activities Ambien may cause. Sleep driving. Sleep eating. Sleep conversing: like sleep talking but you can have a seemingly lucid conversation in which the other person may not know you're sleeping. Amnesia of all of your nighttime activities. And these aren't the worst.

And while I didn't have any issues in the hospital (at least I don't remember having any), I fear that my uncontrolled, Jekyll-ish, sleepwalking self might get me in trouble in some of the following ways:

Waking up Finley and feeding or diapering him in the middle of the night, and messing up either of these activities in a dangerous way.
Calling, emailing, or facebooking friends, family, and acquaintances.
Eating dairy and getting sick from it the following day.
Promising to help Tim with something important and then not doing it because of the memory loss thing. (Actually, I sometimes do this when I'm half asleep anyway.)
Driving myself to Target to look at baby clothes in my pajamas (underwear).

And there's always the possibility that my unconscious self will visit several all-night diners each night and eat all of their bacon. On the other hand, the idea of eating, drinking, and visiting the ladies' room while simultaneously sleeping sounds very convenient. At least I'd stop waking up starving and dehydrated (and therefore nauseated).

None of these exciting possibilities could be overshadowed by the possibility of not losing my mind from sleep deprivation, so short of having the hubs watch me for strange activity all night, I had to settle for a whole Unisom and a prayer that it wouldn't make me groggy until lunchtime the next day. It helped that I took it at 7 PM. While I still woke up every 4 hours to pee, I actually got back to sleep and had a full 12 hours. And didn't burst into tears the next day over having to leave the house.

It doesn't exactly fit my family's schedule or my preferred lifestyle to go to sleep at dinnertime and wake up before Tim leaves for work, but it does fit enough of my brain's idea of when I should be awake that we seem to have compromised in a healthy way. Also, it means I might avoid the possibility of accidentally videotaping my naked, pregnant T-rex impression and posting it to YouTube.

Excuses and Why I Don't Need to Make Them

2011-03-20T05:40:00.000-06:00

My son is one year old. His "adjusted age" for prematurity is 9 months. He weighs about as much as your average 6-month-old, and is probably as tall as a 9-month-old. He's starting to say a few words, wave to people when he's not feeling too shy, and instigate games with me and his dad—all skills closer to his actual age. He struggles with crawling, and that's a skill most babies learn around 6 or 6-9 months. He continues to be a lean baby (like the Baby Spanx baby!), and people say he looks like the Gerber Baby all the time.

And I love all of those things about my son. I cry a little every time he gains a new skill. I am not worried about his development; we work on his physical skills every day, talk and read, feed him plenty, and give him what he needs to learn and grow. I'm not worried about his size. He isn't stunted, just behind—is your kid ten times his birth weight at one year? I didn't think so. He's doing excellently, especially for someone born among the very earliest and tiniest preemies. But I don't think I need to say that all the time.

Strangers in public places like to comment about babies. It's not always their business, and it's often uncalled for, but they do it anyway. So many of these people say things about Finley's head scar, where he had two brain surgeries but, against the odds, needed no permanent drainage shunt and has healed rather beautifully. They comment on his size, asking if he's just a few months old. They ask me his age all the time, as if they needed to know. People without infants of their own really don't know what "12 months old" even means. They certainly don't ask my age (judging by the under-eye circles, 112 years).

And every time they ask the age, I say, "But he was three months premature. That's why he is so tiny!" I'm afraid people will think I'm starving him or something, and certainly people have assumed he came across his head scar violently rather than surgically (curse you, Harry Potter). I'm scared to death of all of these people judging me and my baby.

Then, a few weeks ago, I ran into a mother around my age pushing her son in a stroller through Costco. We stopped to talk, and I found out her son is about Finley's adjusted age. He was also much, much bigger and had eight little teeth, where Finley had not quite cut his first. And I made my excuses. Prematurity! I yelled, before anyone could blame my terrible parenting skills.

And then this mom said the nicest thing to me. "You don't need to tell people he is premature. He is perfect!" Another stay-at-home mom, attentive to her child's needs and what is normal development, called me out of my dumb excuses. Because my son is just perfect. He is a fine size, and he is strong, smart, and active. He is learning and growing. He is not average, and he is not the same as other kids his age. But all of these excuses I make for him are not for him at all. They're because I'm so insecure as a mom I have to explain away everything people might see as wrong.

What do I do now? I still make excuses probably half of the time. But the other half of the time, I finally do what I should do all the time, and should have done all along: I tell people my son's age when they ask, try to get him to say, "Hi!" like he does when he's in a good mood, and I let them think what they will. I don't need to make excuses. My son is perfect.

Makena Update: Action Taken, Waiting on Results

2011-03-19T16:17:00.002-06:00

Since my last post, I've learned a few important things about the Makena and 17P debate, and there are a few things that I wanted to mention.

First, another reason this drug price is ridiculous: low-income women are the most at risk for preterm labor, and will probably be most in need of the drug. According to American Pregnancy, risk factors for preterm labor include "low income . . . little or no prenatal care . . . lack of social support," and the list goes on, including being underweight or overweight. All of those conditions speak to preterm labor targeting poorer classes, meaning that first, the target market of the drug is probably the least able to pay such ludicrous prices, and second, that much of the payment will come out of Medicaid funding. And while I support Medicaid funds being used to help pregnant women, it feels like KV Pharmaceutical is grabbing for an unfair share of that taxpayer money.

Second, two US Senators are seeking an investigation into pricing and anti-competitive conduct by KV Pharmaceutical! This is the best news yet, since so far our only course of action has been to complain, and an FTC investigation could mean required change—I'm hoping that compounding pharmacies will be allowed to compound the same 17P that has been helping women for years.

March of Dimes declared success on Facebook when Ther-Rx came out with a statement on their website. The release didn't seem to even hint at a price drop. Here's their action plan:

We are scheduling meetings with key audiences – including payors and national organizations that are committed to the advancement of obstetric care and infant health. We hope to meet with them at the earliest possible dates to discuss and address all of their concerns. We are committed to working closely with all parties to develop and implement plans that will ensure that this important, FDA-approved product will be covered by the payor community and available to all women who are prescribed Makena at an affordable cost.

Specifically the part that says, " . . . ensure that this . . . product will be covered by the payor community," makes me think that Ther-Rx is going to "address concerns" by continuing to hold fetal safety hostage, but not to make mothers pay, rather to make insurance companies and government organizations pay their exorbitant price. Of course, that money doesn't come out of nowhere. It shows up in our premiums, in our tax rates, and in less funding for other important or necessary things in the Medicaid budget. That's not what we asked for.

So again, I'm calling for KV Pharmaceutical, or Ther-Rx, or whatever brand name they want to go by today, to LOWER THE PRICE of Makena. I was getting it for $7 per shot, and 20 weekly shots are usually prescribed. Sure, some people, organizations, or companies might be able to afford up to $30,000 per pregnancy for this drug to save babies, but nobody should have to, whether we're doing it as individuals or as a community!

*On a personal note, I was on Denver's ABC 7 last night for a spot highlighting this problem. If you are a pregnant woman affected by this, contact your local news and ask them to do a story. We need local and national awareness that this is a problem, to support the investigation those senators are requesting, and to hold KV Pharmaceutical responsible for their actions.

Makena & Ther-Rx: Where Saving Babies Meets Price Gouging

2011-03-16T12:41:00.000-06:00

I am now over 23 weeks pregnant. In a couple of weeks and a couple of days, I will be the most pregnant I have ever been before. No freak water breaks, excellent prenatal monitoring, and a special drug called 17-alpha Hydroxyprogesterone Caproate, or 17P, have made heroic contributions. I want to talk about 17P.

The drug is meant to help prevent preterm labor. There are a handful of drugs that can stop preterm labor, called tocolytics, but these drugs can only reliably put off labor for a couple of days. A couple of days is long enough for a dose of life-saving corticosteroids to prepare a preemie's lungs for birth, but not long enough to save a baby for a woman who goes into labor before 23 or 24 weeks, or to give a baby a better chance at life by being born later.

Besides reducing risk factors, progesterone therapy with 17P is the only preventive measure against preterm labor for women with a history of preterm births. For someone like me, who has had preterm labor and delivery, and is currently carrying a single fetus, this drug is the only thing that might keep preterm labor from even happening. If I were to suddenly discontinue my weekly injections of 17P, minus the support of the drug my body might begin preterm labor again. And because of Ther-Rx and their new patent on Makena, that's exactly the possibility I'm facing in three weeks when my 17P prescription needs to be refilled.

Yesterday my pharmacy notified me that they would no longer be able to compound 17P for me, and my doctor's office confirmed that the same drug would now cost around $1,200 per weekly dose. When I bought my first ten doses of the drug at 16 weeks pregnant, without submitting the cost to insurance, I paid $7 per weekly dose.

A couple of weeks ago everyone was singing the praises of FDA approval for Makena, which is exactly the same chemical compound as 17P, which has been around for years, originally under another brand name, and then available generically. The only difference with Makena is that Ther-Rx will have it mass produced, while 17P has, in the past, been compounded by specialty pharmacies. Mine was compounded in the same town as my OB's office. With smaller batches made local to patients, 17P inevitably has variances in quality and efficacy. The claim with mass production is that everyone will get the same drug. Of course, we all know that mass production is no guarantee of quality, since we've all heard of drug contamination or efficacy issues with other mass produced drugs. Of course, if there's a problem in mass production, these companies are much more likely than local compounders to have deep pockets for a lawsuit, and they will have already distributed the product to women far and wide.

Anyway, I'm just not sure if there are real benefits to mass production, except that mass production should make the drug cheaper and more available. And yet, with the cost of Makena, the opposite is true. At $1,200 per dose (or more), only those with generous insurance or plenty of cash on hand will be able to afford Makena for the 20 weekly doses required to maintain a pregnancy to term.

Of course, if Makena is so expensive, can't people still get the $7 per dose generic? Somehow, no! Usually, drug companies are required to change the chemical composition of their drug in some way to re-patent it and make a new, more expensive competition for generics of their old drug. It's such minor changes that have turned birth control pill Yasmin into Yaz and then Beyaz (now with folate!), each with a new patent so the company has some time to exclusively produce the unique drug and recoup the costs of researching, developing, testing, and gaining FDA approval for the new chemical compound. Creating a new drug for public use is an expensive and long process.

But Makena, even though it is the same chemical compound as the 17P that has been around for years, received a patent that legally prevents the generic compounding of any other 17P. All women prescribed the only drug available to prevent preterm labor are now fully dependent on Ther-Rx for Makena, now the only form of the drug. I can't imagine how this deal was done, but I don't understand how a company can gain a patent on a generic already in use. Even if it were a new drug with a new patent, the generics should still be allowed, just like generic Yasmin and Yaz are available in spite of the recently patented Beyaz. In other words, this sudden monopoly reeks.

So though I have two or three doses of 17P left in my prescription vial, once those are gone I have no choice for the second half of my course of 17P but to buy Makena from Ther-Rx at more than 171 times the price, an astronomical increase from $7 to $1,200 per week, or at least $12,000 to maintain my pregnancy to term. Discontinuing 17P puts me back at heightened risk for preterm labor, and considering my complex history, that might be fine, or it might mean I go into labor shortly after my last dose wears off. Both my peace of mind and the safety of my baby are being held hostage at a steep price for any woman, let alone one with a young family and a bread-winner only two years out of college.

I am lucky to have excellent insurance. It comes at a high premium, but the coverage is generally great. Still, I'm waiting for the results of a benefits investigation that will decide whether my insurance will pay for Makena's ridiculous price. If it doesn't, we simply can't afford the price, and we won't qualify for low-income programs that have been proposed to make the drug more available. Even the half of the prescription course that's left costs more than 20% of our annual gross income.

But if my insurance does cover it, and I will have to take it because the safety of the baby I'm carrying is more important than even my own morals, I will have severe objections to my insurance company or anyone else paying such an exorbitant price. Ther-Rx's work was already done with the research and development of the drug when 17P was invented years ago—so the high price is for what, the new cheaper manufacturing practices? Someone's pockets are being thickly lined with the dollars of pregnant women at risk for preterm labor, who are often young, poor, sickly, or otherwise at a disadvantage. Preterm labor is an affliction of the lower classes—not exclusively, but largely.

We don't have much recourse when a patent has already been approved, but what can we do against a company so corrupt as to price gouge poor pregnant women by holding the safety of their babies at ransom? First, we can write to Ther-Rx (as March of Dimes did, though I'd use stronger language) at this address:

Greg Divis, President
Ther-Rx Corporation
One Corporate Woods
Bridgeton, Missouri 63044

But since I doubt this guy will listen to letters from people who actually care about the health and safety of babies, I say we make a giant PR problem for them. ABC, NPR, and other networks have covered the story (KV and Ther-Rx are just corporation/branding differences, same people), but if we can get this problem on TV and on every news site and public health forum, we might make enough of a dent in their image to make it worth Ther-Rx's while to lower to price to a reasonable level. Let's do it.

Well That's New

2011-03-03T01:58:00.000-07:00

I accidentally took a bit of a shower in the car wash today. We traded down to an older SUV so we could use what once was car payment money for baby preparations (and the crib I want is on sale this week!), and when securing the car for a wash today, nobody thought the sun roof might be open. That fantasy I used to have of bathing in a car wash with all of the soap sprayers and automatic rinsers almost came true, and now I have a rash on my arms from the detergent. Figures that a high-quality shower would have skin-irritating soap.

Birthday

2011-03-02T03:45:00.000-07:00

It is Finley's first birthday today. In fact, we just passed the very time he was born one year ago. I remember the days leading up - lots of labor through the weekend that was repeatedly stopped with multiple tocolytics including mag sulfate, which worked for a couple of nights until it didn't.

I had a dream the night before I went into labor that my regular OB saw me and told me it was a good day to have a baby. Of course, 25 weeks and 4 days pregnant is never a good day to have a baby, but it is better than the 25 weeks and 3 days that come before it, many of which had been narrow misses for me. I dreamed my little boy growing up in all of the ways a mother could hope for: walking, talking, going to school, even getting ready to leave home.

I had a normal day with normal bacon sandwiches and Nintendo DS and a fan on my hot, bloated face. I was prepared in the evening when the contractions started again, since they'd been coming nightly for a while, and in spite of medical technology's best efforts to keep my baby in (heck, my cerclage was more like 3 cerclages) the contractions didn't stop, got supremely painful, and eventually made my uterus uninhabitable. I was days away from the 26 week mark when the survival stats go up to 80%, but it might have been years away, because my body and that baby were insisting on a delivery ASAP.

So after I forget how many tries to keep me awake during the surgery, they put me to sleep, my baby was born, and neonatologists and nurses applied the fantastic advances of American medicine to let my baby breathe, and to make his heart beat. And it did beat. And with help, he did breathe. 12 hours later, when I finally met him, I was in love. Forget having the right hormones or being undrugged or immediate breastfeeding or everything going wrong. This baby was perfect.

And he is perfect today. Through my experiences I've met many other mothers of preemies, and mothers who lost babies. Some of those babies were born at Finley's same gestational age. The survival rate for babies born at 25 weeks gestation is 50%. Sometimes 50% is a lot. When I consider the odds of carrying Finley as long as I did, it seems huge.

But on days like this, and days completely unlike this, when I think with gratitude of the survival of my son, I think of the other mothers of babies born when Finley was. I think of J, who had a story so similar to mine. We had both lost one of IVF twins, and both, weeks later, delivered the next just days apart at identical gestational ages. Our babies often shared nurses in the hospital. When her sweet daughter passed away, I suddenly felt how unfair life was. How unfair 50% is. How earth is neither just nor merciful. After months (years?) of wondering why me - infertility, pregnancy complications, loss - I started to wonder why her?

Even when things are at their most terrible, someone is suffering or has suffered worse. We get to know the awful and the sad and the horrifying and the heartbreaking, but we never know the worst. The only being ever to know the worst was an innocent Jesus Christ, who suffered as guilty. A God who suffered as a mortal, and worse than any mortal could suffer. Being guilty, being mortal, I can neither suffer the way he did, nor expect to pass through life without suffering. Justice and mercy are here, and by them I both suffer and am saved - not from everything, but from the worst. When the time comes, there will be both justice and mercy in full. For me and for the mothers who lost their babies. For everyone, life will be truly fair.

Until then, on days like today, I wonder, "Why me?" To raise a son, and see him alive and developing and healthy at one year old is a miracle that no obedience or faith could have earned me. It is a gift no mortal can truly deserve. It's given to so many, and so many cry for the lack of it. God has his plans, and I do not understand them. So today, I weep with gratitude that I have a son, and that he survived and is alive. To be a mother is the undeserved gift God has given me (somehow me), and I can only marvel and thank and rejoice for the miracles that brought me motherhood, and for the miracles that have kept my son with me, alive, and growing.

Uh, Thanks?

2011-02-22T20:47:00.000-07:00

Am I the only one weirded out by these ultrasound technicians and their universal desire to give me a keepsake photo of my fetus's genitalia?

It's a girl, by the way. I've been waiting for the anatomy scan to say for sure, but the magic 8 ball has been coming up "lady" for the past month's worth of cervix scans. Speaking of my cervix (which I never do), I lost like 1.25 cm in the last 12 days. I'm still within normal range, but I'm hoping this is just a fluke, because continuing at that rate of effacement, I'd have to get that dang cerclage at my next appointment in two weeks. And if I ever again hear the words "pelvic rest" from a medical professional, I may build myself a maternity Iron Man suit and start blasting the buttholes off of anyone else who posts that "teachers are underpaid babysitters" meme.

Those of you who know me know that cranky isn't a new emotion for this particular fat-n-happy, but this pregnancy is taking it to a whole new level. So far I haven't yelled at anybody in public or kicked any puppies, but if this lack of bacon sandwiches continues, it's only a matter of time.

And really, I am giving myself license to eat whatever the frig I want. At halfway through this pregnancy, I still haven't been able to budge the scale. I usually come in at 1*8.6, and today, it was 1*8.4. Even though I hadn't peed yet. That dang digital scale is laughing at me. I'm relieved that baby is growing right on track, but I'm still stressed that uneven weight gain will mean something terrible for the future of my metabolism. On the plus side, my face is not all fat this time around, and my gross loss has erased the bit I retained from my last pregnancy. Meager gratitude for this post, I know.

Anyway, I just cringe a little every time another tech hands me a crotch shot of my baby that says in a very awkward way what they'd already told me during the scan. If I'd waited to find out until the baby was born, I wouldn't then take a picture of baby's junk for the scrapbook. Would you? Anyway, I'm just not sure what to do with these things. I would feel bad throwing away a picture of my unborn child, so I'm now forced into storing medical-grade pictures of vaginas indefinitely. Sigh.

Unfamiliar

2011-02-21T03:20:00.000-07:00

I am 20 weeks and one day pregnant. Nothing is wrong. Dr. A is ready to do backflips over my top-of-range cervical length as of 11 days ago. Baby's anatomy scan is Tuesday, and we'll probably find growth still on track and most other things looking very normal. So here I am, still walking around like a healthy person unfollowed by clouds of impending doom just waiting to burst.

This time last year I was sitting around in the hospital. I think it was about this time that I went home for an hour before having to be readmitted to the hospital. It's the in-between time again of my sons' births, where I ate bacon sandwiches every day to fill the parts of me not already overstuffed with hope and despair.

This time last pregnancy I was lying in pretty much the same place I am now, with at least five pillows, trying not to sneeze. I'd been told by pretty much every doctor ever to wait for doom. Dr. P. told me to hope for something a little better. People were praying, and it was working. My pregnancy was getting unlikelier every day. By the end of things, the unlikely was overshadowed by the unheard of, the nearly impossible, the record-breaking, and what was probably actually impossible before it happened.

So it's strange and unknown to me to have a normal pregnancy. Well, mostly normal, if you forget the extra medical attention. And instead of praying for another day of pregnancy, I'm praying with good hopes for 20 more weeks. I bought a pink baby book that I promise myself I won't wind up hiding in a drawer somewhere. I worry about delivery positioning and whether my lady parts will turn into Upton Sinclair's The Jungle (don't overthink the reference). I plan on delivering a BIG baby, and holding her right away. I even wonder if I'll deliver late.

And while I remember this nausea, and most of these aches, and how my belly should expand, I know I never had these particular imaginings of my future before. There were early morning blood draws, more bacon than a hospital should allow any patient to eat, massaging leg cuffs, and wheelchair trips. Now there are outings that don't end in an ultrasound room, shopping trips on a whim, dinners with family, and plenty of swishes and kicks from a safe baby. No blood. No doom. Time to think about how painful this whole process is, and still be so glad.

Oh, and no bacon! Or at least not nearly as much. I think this whole limited-bacon situation may be contributing to the migraines. Today, that is my biggest worry.

Post 200: Things I Want to Do . . . At Some Point

2011-02-05T19:26:00.001-07:00

I (hopefully) have a lot of years left to do things. I have done a lot, but I don't have an official "bucket list" per say. So this isn't necessarily "things I want to do before I die," but rather, "things I'd like to do sooner rather than later."

See Cirque du Soleil.
Sign up for one of those milk delivery services and get dairy foods at my door. Do they have Lactaid delivery as well?
Make a pie. I'm talking strawberry rhubarb with a thin, flaky, delicious crust. My great grandmother used to make the most fantastic blackberry pie, and though I have my own filling preferences, I want it to taste that good.
Play an actual song on the guitar. I've gotten a bunch of chords down, but no real songs yet (unless you count repeated strumming while singing "Swing Low").
Go back to The Captain's Inn at Moss Landing, where we honeymooned. We had planned to go back for our 5th anniversary, but as it turns out I'm going to be set to pop around then, and doctor's orders include no travel so close to the due date.
Finish Little Women. It's a delightful book, but I feel like I've been slogging through it for a lifetime. The end will be a welcome sight.
Eat more French food. We love Bistro Vendome in Denver, but we also recently found The Creperie Cafe much closer to home (and their food is much better than their spazzy website). I would like to eat there more, especially once the restrictions on soft cheeses and such are lifted.
Complete Finley's baby book and first year scrapbook. I really need to print some dang pictures.
On another food-related note, I would also like to eat fondue. I had some fantastic fondue in high school French Club, and I would die for some gruyere to dip in.
Go to New York City. I've never been, and I enjoy a big city well enough. I will
1. Eat at a deli.
2. See a Broadway show.
3. Shop for clothes at one of the places they send ladies on "What Not to Wear."
Take a long trip by train.
Live near London. I'm hoping Tim's work is amenable to the idea of a secondment. I don't want to leave here permanently, but I just haven't quite gotten my fill of England, and a couple of years there would be perfect for time to explore the whole UK and maybe even some of the rest of Europe.
Own a smartphone. I have to see what the big fuss is about.
Redecorate my house. I am craving carpet swatches, paint samples, and new decor. And shelves in my bathroom.

I think all of that will probably take my next five years or so. I'll let you know how it goes.

Health Care Reform? I Have a Better Idea

2011-01-29T01:20:00.000-07:00

So with the whole "Obamacare" health care reform bill, a lot of us are finding that our insurance premiums have gone up. Ours went up so much that even after a raise, after insurance premiums our take-home is even less than it was last year. Of course, the government and media tools that "estimated" how our costs would change with the new plan told us that we should expect no difference.

As soon as the bill came out, insurance companies, as they are legally required to do, revealed the expectation of large financial losses. Not as some sort of retaliation, but because the effect of the bill on their finances made the losses inevitable, and the government insists on such expected losses being made public.

So our costs have gone up, our care has stayed the same, and the whole bill has done jack for me except make me wonder where the heck all of the deficit money that's paying for this BS is going. So I have a better plan that won't cost us anything, and requires the insurance companies to change the way they do things.

The government should, instead of becoming an actor in anyone's personal medical care (beyond what they already do with medicare/aid), make a simple legislation:

"Group plans" as provided through employers and "individual plans" that unemployed or self-employed people purchase can no longer provide differing levels of coverage or differing costs simply because of whether they are part of a "group" or "individual" plan. Employers may offer a monetary health care allowance (tax free) to employees as a benefit, but may not determine which insurance company or medical providers the allowance is applied to. Every US citizen will be able to choose any level of coverage from any insurance company, and will be treated as if they are on a group plan, and not discriminated against based on health, age, or on any other criteria currently protected from discrimination by the federal government for other situations, such as employment or financial services.

So that's my plan. I have a big problem with how where you work affects your costs of care, or even what care you can get. At IL, we had United Health Care. It sucked. We only had the option of using the one plan the company chose. The company was small, and couldn't afford much, so the plan was bad, and our premiums fluctuated a lot based on the health issues of people we worked with. They had no coverage for the only Rx heartburn medication that worked for me, and only covered $10 of my visits to a therapist.

On the other hand, with Tim working for GT, we had several options for plans, and knowing my needs and our plans to reproduce, we got the one with the most coverage. It's expensive, but it covers IVF to some extent, makes hospital stays cheap (which is good because our family had a total of four months in the hospital), and gives us a good knowledge of what our annual costs will be no matter what happens. None of this "80/20 split for that test your doctor says you need but we don't want to pay for" BS. It's lovely. And if we wanted less coverage, we could get that too, for cheaper.

Honestly, I think everyone should have access to whatever health care they want. The scaling up of prices works, because it's based on how much care you expect to receive, and how much protection you want from paying for big things (or small things!). I believe in government systems that subsidize or pay for plans for those who can't afford them. I also believe that completely "free" care will crowd our medical establishments and overburden doctors. Some monetary disincentive to go to a doctor's office needs to be there so that people reach a reasonable level of concern before they go asking for antibiotics or a hospital bed. Finding a balance between allowing the poor the care they need and keeping those with "free" care from overcrowding hospitals and clinics is not what I'm getting at here.

I'm just saying that if everyone had access to the same insurance options, no matter who they worked for or if they worked at all, we'd have a lot more equality of care than we do now. It's not completely solving the problem of those without care, but it will reduce costs for those not on "group" plans, and it helps people who work for small companies, don't get benefits, or do freelance work. And talk about a boon to the currently unemployed! Again, just a little government legislation, and the rest just means changing the way you buy medical insurance to more like the way you buy car insurance - you shop for the best deal on the coverage you want!

***A note on the "group plan": Insurance companies make "groups" to even out medical costs between people who use a lot of care and people who only use a little. They're all paying the same premiums, and the money for the care theoretically comes from that pool, but certain people draw on it more than others. That's how insurance companies decide on premiums for certain groups - how much the group as a whole is actually using, plus the part they skim off the top to make money. Individual plans cost more and cover less because the insurance company expects the insured to cover all of their own costs through premiums (plus pay the insurer's cut), which kinda' defeats the purpose. So I say insurance companies should make all of their customers one "group" and charge the same premium to everyone. And none of that BS about waiting for coverage even if you had prior insurance.

And with no restrictions as far as who you can buy your plan from, if your company is charging too much, you just go somewhere else. That'll keep prices competitive, rather than your insurance company having you by the balls if you feel like you're paying too much, as is the case when you can only get a group plan from your employer's chosen company.

Assault Allowance

2011-01-25T00:53:00.002-07:00

I think there should be an assault allowance. For special times when people say things that are insensitive or very hurtful. Like that scene in Parenthood when the dad of the autistic boy punches a man in the face in the middle of the grocery store checkout because the man called his son a "retard." That guy totally deserved it, because even if the child didn't have developmental difficulties, it's still never okay to say something like that about a child. If anyone ever said something like that about any of my kids, I would have trouble stopping at one punch in the face.

And I'd probably get away with it, because I'm a woman.

But so often I am too paralyzed by shock or pain to respond the way I find myself hours later wishing I had done. And it's one thing when strangers say something inappropriate made even worse by the personal history they don't know, but I keep finding myself in situations with people who, with two seconds worth of thought, could save me salt in the wound by keeping their mouths shut. Before they say things like, "Are you sure it's not twins? Did you want twins?"

So instead of saying, "Yes, I wanted twins. You remember the last time I was pregnant and did everything possible to try and keep my twin sons alive, but I only came home with a singleton? Yeah, that was when I wanted them. Now wanting twins would mean wanting to put two more babies in that same risky situation—a thought I find both terrifying and incredibly irresponsible." And instead of saying, in an inevitably sob-infused and probably incoherent voice, "What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you ask me that?" I come back with some polite answer and a smile, like "Nope, just one! Twins, ha!" and I sit there with that asinine laugh hanging in the air as if there were never anything a person could say to me that would make me sad.

And I kind of hate myself for that. Not for the not being bitter all the time, but when did I suddenly learn not to slap back? Self control is not my strongest personality trait; I'm not sure it makes the official list of my personality traits. I suppose it's a nod to my parents that they raised me not to slap people, even when they deserve it.

I wish I would at least give back that verbal slap people sometimes so deserve. At least to say, "Really? Do you really think that's an okay thing to say right now?" Gentle reminders as to why the question or comment is inappropriate might help too. Maybe people would stop asking infertile people if they're pregnant, or inviting someone on a diet to join them for dessert (okay, I'm really bad at that one), or telling someone whose dog just died all about their new puppy. I can tell you I appreciate it when people open my eyes to how to not bring them extra pain—I'm an accidental A-hole all the time. But I can't bring myself to do the same for others.

I guess I can ask you all now not to flippantly mention twins to me. If you are reading this, you probably know better than that anyway. Don't ask my if my son is doing things that your younger child is already doing months early. If you are not a pediatrician or therapist, you don't need to know if he is crawling yet or not, and I'm a bit sensitive about it. Cut your bragging teeth on someone else. I suppose those are my unique areas of sensitivity at the moment.

But if you're needing more help, here's a few more tips: Don't ever complain about being a single-digit pants size; you are only allowed to be happy. Never ask someone if they are pregnant or when they are due, even if they look huge, unless they mention being pregnant. Never comment on a woman's size, regardless of pregnancy status, unless you have something positive to say ("You look fantastic!") that isn't followed by a qualifier (". . . for a fat old broad!"). Don't complain about money, health, etc. in public places or to people you don't know to be in a better situation than you are in. Someone else always has it worse. Always. If you're feeling really poopy about yourself, maybe go find that person.

And as for me? I have it pretty good in the end. Wanting to slap people or not. I'm just hoping that a little slap now and then will keep all of us from offending that person we forget about that has it worse than we do.

TTC and NSAIDs

2011-01-21T08:21:00.001-07:00

You know those non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drugs? They include Advil, Motrin, Aleve, Naproxen, etc., and you should probably skip them and just stick to Tylenol when you're trying to make a baby. My friend April's post sums it up pretty well, so I'll just quote it in full here:

Sorry, I don’t have any pretty pictures for this post, it’s a little break from my regular programming.

My public service announcement is about the little-known issue of NSAIDS and infertility. NSAIDS when taken on a regular basis can inhibit ovulation BUT it’s more than that. All tests will appear normal. Hormones will still fluctuate, rise, fall etc as they are supposed to. Fertility charts will look good and indicate ovulation. The follicle, however is unruptured. Meaning no little egg actually goes anywhere. And that’s not all (insert tv infomercial voice)…if it DOES go somewhere by chance, the NSAIDS may even contribute to failed implantation.

How many women know this? How many doctors know this? I can tell you that in the past 6 months, I have listed my medications on 5 different doctor’s information sheets(rheumetologist, OBGYN, GI doc, sleep doc and Naturopath) and told all FIVE that I was trying to conceive and NONE commented on the 2X daily prescription NSAID I was taking. Most likely none of them knew anything about it. Which is why I will be sending them copies of these studies.

OXFORD JOURNALS – RHEUMATOLOGY
CLin-Alert – Google Books
1996!!! Rheumatology Journal
MORE REFERENCES

I’m thinking this is a seious enough side effect that ALL NSAIDs should have this warning ON THE LABEL (which was NOT on anything I received with the prescription):

(found on Drugs.com)

Impaired female fertility:

The use of Diclofenac Potassium tablets may impair female fertility and is not recommended in women attempting to conceive. In women who may have difficulties conceiving or who are undergoing investigation of infertility, withdrawal of Diclofenac Potassium tablets should be considered.

So, now here’s my personal case study. After 4 weeks off of Diclofenac, I have positive pregnancy tests. Plural. Lots of them. Because of my previous failed implantations (aka chemical pregnancy) I tested for 8 days straight. No disappearing lines. I am definitely pregnant. ONE CYCLE OFF OF THIS STUFF. Coincidence? No way.

So, I am putting this out there for anyone who may not know: If you are trying to conceive…lay off the NSAIDs. Including creams, patches, pills, syrups. Tylenol and Excedrin Tension Headache have no NSAIDs. And in the spirit of helping people through social media….share! Pass it on!

Confession of a Preemie Mom

2011-01-13T18:11:00.003-07:00

Being premature isn't a disability. It's a disadvantage, for sure, but it's not something that will stop my son from doing the same things as other kids. In these early stages, it just takes longer. I hope.

In fact, when I talked to Finley's neurosurgeon about his brain hemorrhage (a not-uncommon occurrence among micro-preemies), she said that he may get straight A's in school, go to college, and play football. Or he may never walk or talk. And we can't know until he gets there. Or doesn't.

The pediatrician said at our last visit that he doesn't think Finley will face any big developmental delays or disabilities, and that we can just keep an eye out for some of the subtler stuff when he's in school. But really, what does this guy know?

Most of the time it is easy to live with knowing that my son might be different from other kids. I already know that he struggles with things like pushing himself up with his arms and crawling, where other kids do these things with little effort and no tears. And I know that he's not expected to be caught up to his chronological age, and those early months he spent with tubes all in and out of him he was struggling to survive when babies his age were practicing tummy time and learning to grab toys. He has worked so hard to catch up in the ways he has caught up.

But sometimes it's not okay. Like today, when we went to a playdate with a little girl Finley's age. She was so fat next to him, and strong. She could move wherever she wanted and sit and crawl and roll without a struggle at all, and without help. And the moment she got up on her fours and moved across the carpet, I had to hold back tears.

It's not anybody's fault, and I can believe these problems will be rectified with time, but it still isn't easy to watch your child drop sobbing in exhaustion from trying something that you see a baby his age doing effortlessly the next day. I wouldn't trade my baby for any super-coordinated, strong, genius baby. But I would trade my left and right legs for things to be easier for him.

I Remember

2011-01-05T21:05:00.004-07:00

I didn't spend as much time on the infertility road as most people do. It still felt like forever. And honestly, I don't think it's a road anyone gets off of, children or not. And it's different, having a son. Being pregnant somehow unexpectedly. Because I remember vividly.

I remember the day one of my closest friends had a baby, and I got to cuddle that sweet, tiny newborn on the day of her birth. The next weekend I made Tim take me to the PetSmart and we adopted my cat, Coco.

I remember hiding from Relief Society for months so I wouldn't have to hear the inevitable pregnancy announcements. And sometimes avoiding church altogether so I wouldn't have to see so many "fat'n'happies" and hear them complain about how huge they are, because, you know, the have a frickin' BABY in them.

I remember pretty much having a breakdown the morning I got an email announcing a co-worker's pregnancy (as much as I love her), spending half an hour crying in my bathroom, and calling in sick from work. And then seriously spending the day in bed.

I remember hating women with babies, and learning not to hate the women with babies I wanted to stay friends with. I remember one of those friends letting me sit and hold her new son and stroke his fuzzy baby head for an hour without saying a word of complaint. I remember tears of gratitude for that.

And I remember feeling alone among all of the mothers, and despising the way whenever I tried to join a conversation about babies from what little I could gather from the internet and personal experience, they looked at me like I was an idiot, or pointed out how I was wrong and wouldn't know anything anyway, or just ignored me and my useless non-mom comments.

More recently I remember feeling sad as my belly grew big enough to show, because I knew others would see it and mourn not having one of their own, like I so often did. And I hated that my presence could bring someone so much pain, and how intimately I knew that pain.

And now, there is a baby. He's here. I am a mom in every sense. I was a mom the moment I began to carry those babies. I was a mom when each of them was born. I was a mom when I took home my survivor. And I am a mom again, to someone totally new.

But I'm still as infertile as ever, some days. It's hard to stop being mad at women who get pregnant in a snap and have all the babies they want, when I, at 22, was told that I had only a few (sorta) fertile years left. Even when that means being mad at me for how easy I have it with my living son and living fetus. I remember being angry and sad and jealous and confused and depressed.

I remember how unfair it felt, and from this side, I'd say it feels just as unfair. But that's easy for me to say now, isn't it? Some days I hate myself for how easy unfairness is when it's in my favor.

And They Say Motherhood is Thankless!

2011-01-04T20:51:00.002-07:00

I let Finley play independently for a few minutes so I could get in a little internet time-wasting, and when I joined him on the floor he looked up at me and clapped. Just for being mom, I got a personal round of applause.

I keep hearing motherhood is a thankless job. Obviously not! Well, not until your kids are old enough to realize how totally uncool you are. I get a cheery smile with almost every diaper change, and sleepy gazes during feedings. Finley is getting old enough to copy my nods and dance when he sees Daddy dancing. He giggles at my dumb jokes and squeals when I pretend to eat his feet when we're out shopping.

I've never had a job where I was so appreciated. Maybe if my bosses hadn't had teeth their smiles would have been more meaningful. But seriously, this baby costs money and produces poop and is still the best job I've ever had. Getting pregnant = my best ever career choice.

Since November

2011-01-03T21:47:00.003-07:00

I technically have a pregnancy start date of October 3. That being the day I would have had a period had I even had one before the extremely unlikely occurrence of unassisted conception. If you want to know how unlikely, let's do the math:

Out of 42 eggs (that's 3.5 years' worth for a regularly ovulating woman), I have one baby, and 4 surviving embryos. Let's say those embies statistically equal about 1 live baby. So that's 2 out of 42 eggs. And I have been pretty fantastically anovulatory (I don't spring eggs every month like you fertile hens). A doctor once estimated that I might ovulate 2-3 times in a year. That sounds about right. So that makes it like 20 years worth of eggs for me to make 2 babies, right? And then I was breastfeeding the baby at least 5 times a day, which adds up to maybe 90% protection from pregnancy. And then I didn't have a period. Who knows what that means. Oh, and my uterus got cut open and wrung out this year. That doesn't help anything.

I'm no statistician, but I'm thinking that if I stayed under the same conditions I wouldn't conceive another baby for like 500 years.

So when I was late and nauseated in late October I figured I'd send Tim out for my favorite hobby since I stopped gluing glitter to crap: pee sticks! Safe thing, since they always come out negative, right? But then on the first flipping Wednesday in November, my FMU came out differently. That second blue line didn't take its time to show up at all. There was no squinting or guessing or hoping. There was just my fate on a little strip of paper soaked with my urine.

So here are all of the would-have-been blog posts you've missed out on since then:

"Wait, What?"
"WHO IS EFFING WITH MY LIFE?!"
"Wait, I'm 4 weeks pregnant instead of 8? GIMME THOSE DANG NAUSEA PILLS NOW!"
"Everything is Miserable" - Come to think of it, I did write this one.
"I Have a Headache"
And
"OMG I am Going to Die"

But here's the summary: I apparently get morning sickness VERY early. Missed periods make getting a due date difficult. The moodiness goes away right before the misery sets in. It is okay to have two babies under two years old. This both is and is not going to be like having twins (my OB said it would be just like having twins, and I wanted to slap him). Being pregnant this time hurts more.

I am craving egg drop soup and salt like nobody's business. My nemesis during my first labor, Dr. Jones, wants me to get a cerclage, but the doctor I trust thinks I can go without. I am getting a third opinion from someone I neither particularly love nor hate. It's stressing me out a bit. I am planning a VBAC. I'm getting all kinds of concerned care to prevent preterm labor.

So that's what I haven't told you since November.

The Fantasy

2010-12-25T18:31:00.003-07:00

Ever since I was pregnant with Finley and Oliver I've had a fantasy of learning how to play the acoustic guitar. Seriously. The other day I even saw one out by my neighbor's trash and thought of picking it up. It had no back, though, and I thought it might be more trouble than picking through trash in my own neighborhood was worth.

But this afternoon, when we went to my parents' for the second half of Christmas, I unwrapped a beautiful little guitar with my name on it. Actually, it says Fender, but same difference.

I am going to be a totally different person now.

There are actually some pretty decent lessons out there on the internet. For free! And I know it's cheap, but hey, I'm not going pro or anything. This is strictly for the purpose of being the coolest mom ever. I've already learned three chords, which is further than I ever got with guys who were trying to hit on me by teaching me guitar.

. . .

Okay, so I'm not going to be the coolest mom ever. Probably. But I need this. A hobby I can do at home that kids will put up with. That might sometimes put them to sleep. My cello (did you know I played the cello for like 10 years?) is pretty much dead, and considering that it is a whole-body stationary affair, it's not the most motherhood-compatible instrument out there. This thing? It straps on!

But I suddenly had a waking nightmare about the little one swallowing picks. I might have to keep those in a lockbox.

Let's Get Real about Breast Feeding

2010-12-14T03:25:00.003-07:00

Okay, so I try not to soapbox about important things on this blog, but I just have to get on this one.

First, I'm going to say the most important thing about breast feeding: It will probably be hard, but YOU CAN DO IT.

I'm not sure how many of you know what I had to go through to breastfeed Finley, but (in short) it took six full months of pumping and bottle feeding, three different types of bottles/nipples, nipple shields, lactation consultants, and TONS of work, practice, and persistence to get it to happen. It sucked. And I know a lot of women aren't willing to do that and can get away without doing it because their babies don't need it like mine did. I wouldn't have done it if I didn't have to.

But after seeing so many NICU babies and knowing the complications and illnesses that can be prevented by using breast milk, I just can't imagine that anyone would choose not to try before their baby is even born. I mean, there are a handful of REAL things that stop women from breastfeeding, and I think most of those women are sad that they and their babies miss out, but it's not like they have a choice.

But then there are women who just don't bother. They don't even try because of fear of failure or of saggy boobs or who knows what. These tend to be the people who get all pissy about "breast is best" articles and try to deny the fact that they've essentially given their child a disadvantage in one of the major parts of the newborn stage: feeding. It's not fun to think you've done that to your kid, but if you didn't even bother to try, well, you have. Don't deny the stats on breastfeeding because of it!

Then there's the group that tries to breastfeed and fails. My heart goes out to these women. It's NOT easy. It certainly doesn't come naturally for most women the way you'd expect. And the education in hospitals is PATHETIC. The consultants I saw even in the NICU were unhelpful. And for most women, unless they can somehow shell out hundreds to see an independent consultant (and it takes that much, especially if you're going more than once as you'll probably need to do), that's all the educated help they get. Two days maybe of help.

This is the real problem. It's such a small percentage of women who actually can't breastfeed because of uncorrectable low milk supply, and yet many women stop for just this reason. There's nobody there to help them through the tough parts, and workplaces are often stuck in the dark ages when it comes to lactating women. Nobody should have to pump in the bathroom (would they ask a man to make his kid a sandwich in a toilet stall?), and adequate break time is essential to a mother-friendly workplace. People need to get over pumping. It's not that weird, and women who do it for their kids are dedicated and working VERY hard.

But back to lactation education. It just needs to be more available. I got lucky because Finley's pediatrician has an IBCLC on staff, and she really got me and Finley breastfeeding and gave me the help and confidence to actually do it—and do it right!

I imagine if this kind of help were available to every woman, we'd have much higher breastfeeding rates and happier moms. So many of us are left to struggle on our own and it's super frustrating. And there are plenty of people out there who say, "Just give up!"

But I'll tell you, if you stick with it, you CAN do it. Statistically, you're not incapable. You WILL make enough milk. It CAN happen. But I think we need some social change. Insurance should pay for lactation counseling—period. Most don't even help with pump rental. We have awesome insurance and still had to pay out of pocket even though Finley was in the NICU and his survival counted on getting breast milk.

I think when you look at the long-term health benefits for children who are breast fed—lowered obesity rates, less likelihood of smoking, fewer episodes of illness during the breastfeeding period—it's clear that any initiative for public health should make helping women breastfeed a number one priority.

In the meantime, if you're struggling, try not to give up yet. If your supply is low, and you can't get baby to help you bring it up by BFing more often, try renting a pump—Medela's are the most comfortable to use. If you can't get a good latch, try a La Leche League meeting. Keeping a lactation consultant on staff at a pediatrician's office isn't uncommon. Ask your pediatrician if they have one. They may be able to bill your insurance for a regular appointment and then you just pay a co-pay.

I don't want to make anyone feel bad about getting frustrated and giving up. You know when enough is enough. But if you've still got energy left in you for breastfeeding, there are resources. And most importantly, you CAN do it.

The Terrible Mother

2010-12-09T11:39:00.002-07:00

I've been a bit sick lately. In fact, there is a support forum for people as nauseated as I am. And today, I am having an incident.

Finley pooped some time during his morning nap. It is a most disgusting poo, which can be smelled rather disgustingly from about 8 feet away from his bedroom door. If I penetrate the poo-stank barrier for longer than a few seconds, I gag. Any longer, and I'm sure I will barf. Who knows what will happen if I actually open the diaper.

Anyway, since I simply cannot stand the thought of turning my day into a vomit- and poo-cleaning party, I am leaving that poo there until Tim can come home. I'd rather keep my stomach acids off of both baby and nursery floor.

And apparently this makes me a terrible mom. My "support" forum, where I posted my problem thinking maybe someone else would understand, has deemed me unfit because I'd risk my baby's bottom skin for an hour waiting to change that poo. Because, as a mother, I should be willing to vomit like crazy AND clean up poo to save my baby from diaper rash.

But you know what? I'm not. So if you're sitting there thinking how much better of a mom you are than me, enjoy it! You win! I am a selfish whore! If you think you could handle my life so much better than I am, you can have it.

My Lame Gift to You

2010-12-02T19:37:00.002-07:00

"Each of us will experience over our lifetime physical pain, emotional anguish, heartache, grief, even betrayal in one form or another. If we attempt to deny the problem or to cover it with a façade of forced sweetness and light, we imperil both ourselves and each other—ourselves because we deny the healing that can result from the love, strength, and insights of true friends, and each other because people then assume we are our façades and feel even more isolated with their problems"
-Mary Stovall

I found this quote last night in a book someone gave me when I was on bed rest. I felt like it summarized why I keep this blog. So I hope you don't feel isolated. And I pray that when you feel like I do, at least you don't feel alone.

And I get the gift of you guys. So many of you have given me your love, strength, and insights, and I can't thank you enough.

Wishing Home Smelled Like Christmas Instead of Dirt

2010-12-02T19:19:00.003-07:00

I think I'm going to heat up some apple cider. Not out of any desire to drink apple cider, but because I hope if I do so my house will smell a little more Christmas-y. We put up our tree yesterday, but since it's fake, there's no exciting smell or pine needles to vacuum. And it's not old enough to have built up that musty garage smell that meant Christmas when I was growing up.

Of course, we've already had Christmas Miracles galore this year. We've had Santa come in pieces as many gifts from loving friends, prayers and kindness, and enough fat on my belly to jiggle like a bowl full of jelly. Also, somehow our gas fireplace is non-functional. So what more could we ask for?

I mean, besides everyone's Christmas wish this year: money! Mostly in the form of jobs for our family members. And maybe in the form of a car that will fit our growing clan comfortably. I am shocked at how fast a sedan becomes way too small.

So here's the deal Old Man. If you bring us that stuff, I will keep your belly for another year. Sound good?

And For the Odd but Related Juxtapositions Trifecta:

2010-11-28T02:40:00.002-07:00

Seriously, that Fabi was right. This IS me. Vastly different cup sizes and all ;).

Believing

2010-11-28T02:17:00.002-07:00

I don't know if everyone gets to this point in their lives, but for me, there are times when I have a hard time believing. Not that I don't believe, or that I find my faith unbelievable, but that believing can make life hard.

Believing in God's plan and that we are eternal individuals who exist before birth, on earth, and then in Heaven, means I can't believe whatever I want to about where my son is now. I can't think he'll come back to me in some other body, or that he is now a bird in my backyard.

Believing in an eternal atonement that can cleanse me from my sins means that I have to repent and turn my life around and not be a bum when sometimes I want to. Really badly.

Believing that there is a Heaven above where my son waits for me means that there is joy to be had in a family that is whole and together, but I have to wait for it. Maybe a really long time. Maybe not too long, but it feels like a long time, the duration of which I cannot control. And that's very hard.

Believing in the Comfort of the Holy Ghost means that I can be happy and comforted. I have to ask. And sometimes I don't want to ask. Because that feeling you get the first moment you see your child is one you want to keep with you, even when it is the tearing of your heart. But God did not make me for constant sorrow. And sometimes that is hard.

And believing in an eternal family is hard. Because it means I have to build a worthy family on Earth to have a whole one in Heaven. Because I have many days I wonder how I could ever be worthy of that blessing. Because I forget that Heavenly Father once lost a son, too, and that sacrifice is mine to call upon for cleanness and comfort and closeness to Him.

But I do believe all of those things. And I believe them enough to make my life have purpose and a plan. Maybe a vague one, but a plan in the basic sense anyway. I believe them even when they hurt, and sometimes enough to let the hurt pass.

Debbie Downer

2010-11-27T16:56:00.002-07:00

So I just got this comment on my whiny blog a few posts ago:

"You are a Debbie Downer. Your cynical observations aren't even insightful. I can't read anymore."

LOL!

So I'm taking this opportunity to sing "It's my blog and I can cry if I want to!" I mean really, what do you guys expect from a pretty severely depressed mama who finds herself a little unready for her challenges in life? My son died! So yeah, sometimes I'm going to cry about life sucking.

Plus, Debbie Downer is hilarious. So yeah, I'm not here to be insightful or smart or optimistic. I am writing this blog to be ME, and right now I'm a short-sighted cynic with nasty mood swings.

But this is the problem, too. I am still getting through (and not getting through) a lot of crap. I suck at coping and can't afford therapy. So I blog. And I'm sorry this blog has become less than what it was. So have I. And my friends are supportive and everything, but people just don't want to be with depressed people. So when you go through a loss like this, you lose friends, too. And when you need someone to talk to the most, there's nobody there. There's nobody who still wants to hear your grief.

As much as you all want me to stop being sad, I want it too! I don't want to be depressed and depressing. But life is still too much some days, and of all of the things that haven't been fair, the thing that pisses me off the most is that I can't turn to my own blog to complain without being called a downer.

This is why depressed people have fewer and fewer friends and worse and worse depression. If you want to serve your fellow man, sometimes you need to spend time with people who aren't easy to be around. It'll probably help them be easier to be around in the future. And not kill themselves in the meantime. One of the natural cures for depression is having friends. So BE one. Not to me if you don't want to, but to your friends who struggle. It's not easy, but it saves lives.

Because the last thing someone who can't handle everything needs (or at least the last thing this mourning mama needs) is a slap in the face. And to you, Fabi, F off.

Women Have Been Doing It for Millenia

2010-11-24T23:41:00.002-07:00

Do you ever hear women saying, "Oh, women were having babies long before we knew XYZ about baby care, and they were fine!" or "Women used to deliver naturally before hospitals, and their babies turned out okay!"

Well you know what? They didn't. They had insanely high death rates. So be whatever kind of parent you want, but if your logic is that historically babies survived without their vaccines and without a hospital to be born in, it's seriously flawed. We have modern medicine for a reason. Partake of it wisely, but don't give it up because you're afraid of something terrible happening. Most likely, the terrible things will happen without it, and more often than with.

So if you're pregnant, and you decide that a glass of wine can't hurt because plenty of women drank during their pregnancies before we knew about fetal alcohol syndrome and their kids are fine, or you don't really have to be careful what you eat because it's too paranoid to go and look up what is and isn't okay for your baby, well, all those condom ads are for you.

Cheaters

2010-11-18T21:42:00.005-07:00

So a friend from BYU classes recently posted a couple of links about cheating in higher education. You can find them here and here (thanks, Nathan).

Now, this is a sensitive topic, right? Cheating is bad! We all know it. But who is at fault? And who are the victims?

You can blame the grading- and degree-oriented university system. Or the students. Or the students' parents. Or the people (like the writer of the first article) who facilitate cheating in all of its sneaky incarnations. Frankly, they're all at fault. Well, I'm less inclined to blame the university system. I loved my college experience and found what most people do: you get out of it what you put in.

And really, I'm okay with other people getting degrees they didn't really earn. I don't care if someone I'm competing with for a job is secretly a total moron. The employer will realize it at some point, pay for their hiring mistake, and ta-dah, one more job opening for me. It evens out. And I honestly don't mind if some jerk cheats his way to a master's and gets to wear the hood and I didn't. What I pay for with work, some people pay for with money.

It's a life choice, like being a stay-at-home mom vs. daycare. You pay for daycare, and you miss out on a lot of things. I'm not saying it's cheating at motherhood or anything, I'm just saying that paying someone else to do it will never be the same as doing it yourself.

But there are losers in this cycle:

Universities lose credibility in the world when they unknowingly graduate incompetents. Students applying to prestigious programs, scholarships, etc. lose when a cheater with a better record takes a spot that might have been theirs. Society loses by rewarding the unethical. Oh, and if these people reproduce, their offspring lose.

Oh right, and the patients of doctors and nurses who cheated through their training—their patients lose, and sometimes it's everything.

So who can stop it?

It starts with parents teaching kids the importance of honesty. Students, of course, can stop cheating. But there will always be dishonorable people. Honor codes and honor systems help, but again, there will always be some amount of scumbaggery no matter what. So we come to the system, which (IMHO) in no way creates the cheaters or the cheating.

Technology has made a lot of things easier for Universities. Thanks to scantrons and other auto-grading technology, testing centers, plus computer evaluation and communications, cheating is easier to commit, not just practically, but guilt-wise, too. Cheating to a computer screen or bubble sheet has got to be way easier than cheating to a face. So when it really counts, why not take the time to interview your students? Take five minutes and see if they can talk the talk. And for Pete's sake, don't make your students jump through so many hoops they feel like they have to cheat just to finish the game. I am talking to YOU, BYU language programs.

But really, that's expecting a little much out of the university system to cure all of our ills and talk face to face with every student. Tuition would skyrocket if that amount of time and effort had to go into every education.

So we can put some pressure on parents to teach honor, students to stop being a-holes, and universities to be face-to-face with more of their students (come on, couldn't the educational system use more of that?), but I opine that the single most massive impact comes from the facilitators. Guy-who-found-the-test-key-and-is-selling-it and egotistical-Ghost-essay-writer-man are spreading the plague. These guys make it possible for money to turn into good grades. They facilitate cheating for those who just wouldn't bother if it were harder. Just like if you make MJ legal, more people will smoke it, if you make cheating easy, more people will do it.

The problem is that the people in charge of regulating these people are themselves, and they are already chief majors in the scumbag hierarchy. We have no control over these guys, because they pretty much have no souls. You can't teach them, guilt them, commit them, or litigate them into quitting their douchebag ways. Right?

So what do we do? Do you care if people cheat? I had more to say about it than would fit in a facebook comment box, so if you do, link me to your blog on the topic. I want to know what you think, especially my friends in academia.

<selfrighteousness>For the record, I never cheated during my academic career. *takes a bow*</selfrighteousness>

Unintended Consequences

2010-11-12T17:55:00.002-07:00

I feel like the title of every post I write, or want to but don't write, could be titled "Things That Suck." I'm going to blame the hormones.

Because seriously, I wouldn't normally complain about everything. But lately, I just feel like it. So here goes:

My clothes don't fit right.

I am tired of nursing and will not feel better about it until I get myself some nice nursing bras and clothes and settle in for the long haul.

It's so flipping cold in here but I don't want to spend money on heating OR wear fuzzy socks that make my feet sweaty.

My tummy hurts all the time and I have two choices to fix it: take meds and be medicated, or eat and get REALLY fat.

I am tired of doctors and doctors bills and remembering to pay them when sometimes it's online, sometimes you have to call, and most of the time they'd rather you sent it in the mail and I never have stamps.

I am extra tired of relief society activities because it seems like you ALWAYS have to pay for them, and the money deadline is like two weeks or more in advance, and I never remember the money on the right day, or I'm home sick, or something, so when the time comes I can't go because I didn't give someone a check or cash two weeks ago, as if those were things I should be carrying around. I'm not effing 50, okay?

There is drool everywhere. I want to cuddle my baby, but he wants to slime me. It makes things uncomfortable.

My house is a disaster, but I'm too tired to clean it and baby won't be left to play independently for more than 30 seconds at a time.

My mom seems to be the only person on earth who can make my baby take a nap.

Parks & Recreation isn't premiering until mid-season, so I have to wait SO LONG to see the next season of a show I finally started to like. On a side note, The Office sucks more than I had ever imagined it would.

There is an ICKY DEAD BUG on my desk. I don't dare touch it, so I'm stuck looking at it.

Our laptop is broken so my computer use is limited to when I can sit myself in what must be the coldest corner of the house in a super uncomfortable chair.

I decided to eat healthier the last time I went shopping and now I regret it because every time I want to eat something all I have is fruit and nuts, and all I want is junk that is easy and not messy, like granola bars or anything with high fructose corn syrup.

Also, eating healthy is like the most expensive thing ever. I could pretty much either (a) eat healthy this year or (b) fill out my new fat-body wardrobe, (c) take a vacation, or (d) buy everyone nice Christmas presents. Considering how much eating healthy sucks, I will take b, c, or d. And the eight chins that come with them.

. . .

I think that's all I have in me for now. Besides a budding headache.

You Suck at Friendship

2010-11-11T21:48:00.002-07:00

We're all busy. Sometimes we forget to get back to one another. And it's terrible.

But we were friends.

And I tried to keep in touch with you. I sent emails. I even visited your family when I was back in our home town. They remembered who I was.

And after the third "hey, still alive?" email, I expected something. It would be rude to go further. Even that guy I went on a few dates with before moving on and later wanted to reconnect with emailed me back after only two emails to tell me he was married. It was awkward, but at least he responded.

But you? No. Nothing. It's like I don't exist. We're friends on facebook, but again, it's like you accepted me and have been hiding ever since. I've tried. And I've given up. Because the one thing that has become clear to me is that we can't be friends. Not because you're not nice and wonderful and all that. Not because we're both busy with life.

Because you suck at friendship. That is all.

BTW, if you're reading this, I'm SURE it's not you, so no guilt. Just complaining.

Grumpgrumpgrump

2010-11-05T20:09:00.002-06:00

The mascara in the most recent Clinique Bonus gift comes off way to easily when I hormone-cry. Also, the sunscreen smells too sunscreeny. What I really want out of life is to have free things be awesome all the time. And to not get sun damage. Ever.

Tim is telling me this blog post is over, and I'm thinking he's right. After I have three more grumblecakes and a whinesicle.

I Wish I Had Thrown Pudding in Her Face

2010-11-02T22:32:00.002-06:00

Life is full of regrets. Mine is anyway. Like regretting not saying in clearer words, "Take out the trash, girl, he's worthless," when a friend asked me what her S.O. had been like when I'd dated him, or if she had somehow turned him into a monster. I regret punching Clé in the stomach in high school. It was not a very nice thing to do.

I wish I had never been engaged to Glenn, and I wish I had succeeded in breaking up with him before the number of attempts reached five. I regret believing things I found out later were lies, and I wish I had eaten fewer saturated fats in my early twenties.

But more than anything, I wish I had thrown pudding in her face. There was pudding nearby, there would have been no permanent harm, and she totally deserved it. Sometimes what passes for self control is just a lame excuse not to do something you'll always remember with pride.

So if there is a nasty witch in your life that you have an excuse never* to see again, please, for my sake, throw some pudding in her face. You'll regret not doing it.

*ZOMG not if they're going to die or something!

The Mommy Addiction

2010-10-26T22:15:00.002-06:00

Add this to my list of guilty pleasures: Finley just can't get enough of me. Sometimes when Tim is holding him and he's all upset, I'll come and get him and he calms right down and cuddles in. Considering that during the day he's sometimes crabby even when I do pick him up (during the designated crabby hour of the day, between 4 and 5 PM), I think I can enjoy that at least sometimes, he just wants the Momma.

I feel guilty because I worry it makes Tim feel like he's not as good at comforting the boy, but that's just not true. He's just got a mommy addiction, and I am the fix.

Happy HallowEHehNEEEEEHHHHHHghehpleh

2010-10-23T19:53:00.002-06:00

I suck at Halloween. When we tried to go as Rogue and Ice man, I ended up being "girl in gloves with Stacy London hair" and Tim was "Mr. Sparkleface." He actually got laughed at at the Albertson's. And no kids showed up to our house that year. It was super lame.

Last Halloween I had morning sickness. 'Nuf said.

And we never get invited to Halloween parties, so we have no excuse but to stay home trapped by all the stupid kids who might come for candy, but never actually show up, and watch our jack-o-lanterns begin to rot on the porch.

I had all but given up celebrating this year. I was thinking if Tim's work had a party we'd just put on some fake mustaches and call it good. And then, lo and behold, I was invited to a Halloween party. I was so excited. And when I got sick (again) earlier in the week, I went right to the doctor for antibiotics hoping I'd be clean in a few days. And so with the hope of someone who is desperate to feel better, I spent yesterday pretending not to be sick anymore and finding THE PERFECT COSTUMES for our little family. For once, I'd had a good idea.

So we purchased the gear, grabbed the makings of some Halloween mini-cupcakes, and went to bed. Of course, I wake up today feeling like total garbage and sounding like my larynx had been run over by one of those dang Christmas truck parades that honk "jingle bells" until the spectators are deaf. Still hoping to fake it, I went to about an hour of Super Saturday with my mom, after which we had to drive home so I could take a five hour nap. And Tim and Finley are sick too.

Worse yet, we bought all the costume stuff at Target, so if Tim's work doesn't have a party, we can only return it for a gift card. They have the worst return policy. They wouldn't even let me return the effing prenatal yoga video I was doing when my water broke at 17 weeks. Brigands.

So as of now, we're all dressed up with someplace to go but no energy to do it and too much contagion guilt to risk getting anyone else sick by going anyway. And I can't even sleep it off because I'm too busy hacking up my lungs and several other organs. F my life.

Coping

2010-09-27T12:25:00.002-06:00

I'm not. Coping, that is. When Finley was still in the NICU, a nurse asked Tim how he keeps going every day, but everyone knows the answer to that question. You just do. You get up in the morning, breathe in and out, etc. It doesn't matter how little you want to or how much it hurts. You do it. There isn't a choice.

A woman in the ward I grew up in lost her son, who wasn't much older than my brother. A few weeks later, she died too. The obituary said it was from a broken heart, and I keep wondering if that's a real thing, or if it's a euphemism. I think it's a real thing. Her surviving son and husband somehow still live, though. No matter how much or how little they want to, here they are, on Earth, breathing in and out.

Life and death just don't belong to us mortals.

How do we live with that? How can I find hope among the mourning and fear? How do I know the world won't collapse around me tomorrow when one day, not so very long ago, it did just that? How do I hang on for the future I believe in when I don't believe I'm good enough to get there?

And how do I hang on today when I am literally falling apart? I've had more than seven infections in the past eight months, and my doc says my immune system may not be working properly. My sensitive-lunged baby and I got a cold around the same time, and while he's doing just fine now, I'm still a mess of snot and tissues and aching.

So I find myself here, with the best of all reasons to live and the one thing that makes living so miserable I am sometimes ready to crumble beneath all of the breathing in and out.

And though there are many days where I can inhale without tasting hell on my lips in the air here on Earth, today, past the time anyone would ask how I am coping, I would answer, "Not well. Not well at all."

Anxiety

2010-09-06T21:22:00.003-06:00

Do you ever get that feeling like you've forgotten something really important? Like you've left the stove on and you're a six hour drive from home and your stomach bottoms out because you're sure your house is going to burn down and there's nothing you can do about it? I mean, in that case I'm sure you could call the fire department and have them break in and turn it off or something.

But does it ever happen in a dream? Like you realize at the end of the semester that you signed up for a class and NEVER WENT ONCE? And you go running like crazy around campus trying to figure out how you're ever going to graduate, and you can't wake up until you realize that in reality, you got your BA like two years ago.

Or how about in your waking hours—do you ever get that terrible stress feeling like you're about to fail a test or something: your palms are sweating, your stomach hurts, and you think you might pass out? Well, I've been getting that. But there's no test. There's no class I didn't sign up for. There is no emergency, and I'm at home and no imminent danger approaches. There's always the chance I'm afraid I could die at any moment and I'll go to Hell, but though I may not be a saint, I'm thinking it's a little crazy to spend my days in a state of panic over that.

And really, that's what I've been doing. My body has gone stress-mad over nothing. As I type this my family is sleeping, clothes are running through the laundry, the house is relatively clean, and in the end, everything is okay. But my hands are clammy and I kinda want to puke. I'm lightheaded. I'm having that acute stress reaction I'd get for five minutes over a tense meeting or a bad report card.

But my life is fine. Right? Isn't it? Is there a bill I forgot to pay? Are parts of my brain rotting in my skull and the panic is the only way my body can tell me? Or am I just mentally ill? And in case you haven't guessed, asking myself these questions is not helping the stress situation.

*pant* *pant* *pant*

Thank goodness every day isn't like this.

Stupid Things

2010-08-16T12:15:00.002-06:00

I saw an ad recently bragging that seven out of ten people who switch to Geico save money. I can't help but wonder what is up with those other three idiots.

Or the iPad. We can talk about the name all we want, but the fact is that Apple made a device that does the same things the iPhone does—minus making calls—with the "advantage" being that it's bigger. Because that's what we all want in our portable devices. Now, people like big screens, but what kills me is the incredibly inefficient use of space. There's room in that tablet to do just about as much as a regular netbook, but instead they've crippled the thing into only running apps and crap. It's backward innovation.

How about yoga classes? I've been looking for a place to get away for an hour or two a week and exercise, or maybe take a mommy and me class and get the kiddo some gym time too. And they're ridiculously expensive. Like $17 for one class, or $15 if you buy a bunch at once. What new mom can afford that on top of the cost of a new sports bra for her giant nursing boobs?

When I Grow Up

2010-07-31T01:03:00.002-06:00

When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a ballerina or a stand up comedian. Then I wanted to be a writer. Then I wanted to be a forensic pathologist. Then I wanted to write again. And then I wanted to do math. And then I wanted to edit. And then I wanted to do linguistics. I never particularly wanted to be a mom.

And one day I woke up and realized that being a mom was the most important thing to me in the world. It happened before that day a couple of years ago when a doctor first told me I was probably infertile. It must have been some time after I finally met a man whose children I'd be willing to bear. I could say my biological clock just went "ding" or the pressures of living in a breeding culture finally got to me, but I don't think that's it.

There are moments in life when you find your place and everything seems to work out. Like choosing a major I adored, or marrying a man worth marrying. And whatever compelled me to take what has been a rather perilous journey to motherhood, I say I have found my niche. Of all of the lives I have wished for myself, this is the one I still want the most.

I dance day and night to keep baby calm, and tell ridiculous jokes to a rapt crowd of one. I have seen more medical equipment than I care to talk about. I am writing two life stories and teaching a baby to speak. I am changing diapers. I am changing everything (which is also sometimes poopy).

There will never be anywhere else I am so much wanted or needed. This is what I wanted and needed. So I'll just admit it:

When I grow up, I want to be a mom.

Guilt

2010-07-14T00:49:00.002-06:00

My first mommy guilt trip is here. This is the reason my MIL says I will hate all future Mother's Days. This is one of those days I will look back on when having a pity party and thinking of reason after reason I'm not good enough. And the thing is, I'm generally really good at giving myself a break. I just can't seem to let this one go.

There's a Farnsworth family reunion in town this week. I love me some Farnsworths. And I knew we'd have to go easy on the activities because of our bitty baby (now like ten pounds). So I had some reservations about going to tonight's dinner activity. But when tempted with free pizza, I gave in. And . . .

*cringe*

. . . took my baby to a bowling alley. With loud music. And people. And germs. And now I'm blaming myself for his not-unheard-of pre-bedtime fussies. His totally normal feeling temperature. His typical schedule of sneezes.

Just when I was starting to get into the rhythm of this mom thing, the self-hate is here. Sigh.

Absentminded

2010-06-15T17:18:00.003-06:00

I wore my new jeans today, and it wasn't until I was at the doctor's office strippin' down that I heard the telltale clatter of tags still hanging from the inside of my pants. It wouldn't have been such a stupid mistake except that this was the second time I've worn the things. Oops.

But apparently I'm not the only one suffering from a brain fog—this morning I found a bottle of Finley's milk in the cabinet where we keep his bottles, just sitting there going bad. I swear it wasn't me. Then again, I suppose it's entirely possible that it was, but I think I'll let Tim take the fall.

And speaking of brain degeneration, I bought a trashy celeb-stalking mag today. I was just so disappointed that the most interesting thing in my doc's waiting room was Ladies' Home Journal—whose readers are apparently very interested in failing/rekindled marriages—that I picked up a Star at the King Sooper's when I went to grab more kid supplies.

So I may not remember to take all of the tags off of my new clothes, or properly put things away, but I can sure as heck remember what Miley Cyrus wore in Paris on the first! I'm so glad I don't have any little girls ready to be lead into slutdom by another post-Disney musical whore in the making. Have we learned nothing from Lindsay Lohan?

Seriously?

2010-05-27T02:38:00.002-06:00

Sometimes so many bad things happen in a row it starts being kind of funny. And then you get rear ended just days before you finally get to bring your first baby home. Let's just think about the latter part.

I mean, I suppose I've been a mom since I got pregnant. And then more officially at special moments like childbirth, the first diaper change, the first time I got to hold Finley . . . blah blah blah. But I've always felt like I'm not quite a mom until I actually bring my baby home and lose weeks of sleep feeding him in the middle of the night. At the very least I feel like I don't know if I'm going to be even a halfway decent mom until I know I can do this impossibly hard part.

So I'm flipping out a little bit since I have no idea what car I'm bringing Finley home in, and the doctor says that'll be probably Saturday, which I'm hearing as sometime between Saturday and Tuesday. We'll sleep over with him at the hospital tomorrow night, and then pray like mad we all make it through this thing.

Suburbia

2010-05-04T10:10:00.003-06:00

I need a book.

It was around 10:00 a.m. when I got the urge to do the dishes. Instead of giving in, I decided to walk to the mailbox. I wasn't shocked by the very suburban rows of trash cans lined up in front of houses (each painted one of four painstakingly bland color combinations). We pay monthly HOA dues to make absolutely sure that (a) the trash is picked up each Tuesday, and (b) nobody paints their house an interesting color.

I was surprised that on my block there were two men at home in the middle of the day and two motorcycles (not lawnmowers) with rumbling motors pulling into separate garages. That the men and the motorcycles should go together is no odd thing—what unemployed man wouldn't have a death wish best fulfilled by a long and bloody skid down the asphalt? Irresponsible vehicle choices aside, I'll hope for the best and assume these people are making mortgage payments by clicking ads online, which I have heard through my television friends to be quite lucrative. And which, I'd imagine, could give someone the same kind of death wish.

And that's the sum of the entertainment happening outside. My stay-at-home motherhood clearly will not be like Rear Window or Desperate Housewives. I've only seen three spiders, so no Arachnophobia here, either. The lawns aren't nice enough for this to be Stepford, and I'm not sure anyone here steps out in their robe and slippers to pick up the paper.

It's after noon and now the trash cans have all been blown onto their backs by the breeze. I tried washing dishes with the window open, but the neighbor's dog wanted a loud cross-fence chat, and I didn't. If I weren't going to leave for the hospital in another hour, I'd bake someone cookies and go introduce myself.

And I know better than to expect some drama from the NICU—it isn't the coma ward after all—unless a set of twins has been separated at birth, or there's a case of mistaken paternity. Or mistaken maternity, which, thanks to IVF, is a thing now, and has provided us with several movie and TV plot twists over the past few years.

You can plainly see that having no book has forced me spend hours honing my mental acuity with BrainAge, which in turn has given me way too much brain power to spend looking out my window for fun.

As a result, I need a book.

The Mom Club

2010-04-09T10:47:00.002-06:00

So when I was dealing with infertility (and really, to some extent you never stop dealing with infertility), I always felt like there was an exclusive Mom Club just for women with kids, most of whom did the whole pregnancy thing as well. These people went through the whole L&D process, got their stretchmarks, did the whole no-sleep newborn thing, and are somewhere in the middle of raising their little ones.

I hated not being a part of the club.

You know how in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding" the main chick as a kid feels all bad about not sitting with the cute blonde girls at lunch? That was me. Relief Society meetings, social gatherings, work gatherings—all of these things were a nightmare at some point because I was not welcome in the Mom Club, and therefore knew nothing about the whole momming process, and could not complain about fat'n'happies at all. And while realizing that "feeling left out" is the stupidest part of infertility, it stung.

But now I have officially inducted myself into the Mom Club, and by authority of doubling my pants size and finding angry stripes all over my expanded and somewhat jellyish body, I'm going to say the following:

Sure, we all look at old pictures of ourselves and think life might be better if we were still that skinny. If we still fit into our jeans from high school. If sexy in our bedrooms meant the same thing it means on TV. Heck, I've done it since my metabolism started slowing down (which is how I describe the year I learned how to bake).

But I was right about making the trade. It was a great trade. I say we give ourselves a collective break, and call stretch marks and baby weight a thing of beauty because they are proof we did something awesome, and made the necessary sacrifices. We can realistically say that the physical sacrifices are the easy ones. We can love our bodies because they gave life and bodies to our children. The price was cheap, and we no longer need to complain about paying it.

Here's to C-section scars, jelly bellies, stretch marks in various states of lumpiness, and letting go of things that aren't coming back. And to allowing husbands to redefine what is "hot" to equal what is "you." And when people excluded from the Mom Club tell us to shut it about how sad it is to have a mom bod because we look awesome anyway, let's finally start listening.

Things to Say Again

2010-04-09T00:56:00.003-06:00

I'm starting to have things to say again. Things besides all of the day-to-day of being a NICU mom, which I put on Finley's blog at finley.crazycutekids.com. In fact, that's not about me at all. It's all about him. Pictures, video, weight updates, and gushing about kangaroo time. Which is awesome.

I've decided to keep this blog about me. That sounds super selfish, doesn't it? I just figured I need to occasionally think about other things (yes, all things not my children are now "other") for the sake of my long term mental health. And the other day, while looking at a bread bag, I had a thought I wanted to blog about that wasn't about my time in the NICU with the munchkin.

I have no idea what it was, but I do know that for a moment, my brain had exited the hospital and gone somewhere entertaining. Somewhere that wasn't Desperate Housewives' Wisteria Lane. And lately I've even stopped having dreams that take place in real or imagined lands within the World of Warcraft (yeah, I dream in low-quality graphics about killing dragonkin every now and then). Suddenly this entry has turned into a rehashing of my most shameful recreational activities. Where was I?

I'm not saying this blog won't mention Finley or Oliver. But it'll probably be more about how I feel about life with and without them than about them specifically. And Finley's journaling will stay on his blog, and Oliver's will stay in my heart.

For instance, where I talked about how much like Tim Finley looks on Finley's blog, here I might mention how happy I am that we avoided one of my irrational IVF nightmares—that the clinic would take an "any sperm will do" (sing that along with Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat) attitude toward gamete combining and I'd end up having a kid with, like, George Costanza or something.

Anyway, for a moment I had something to say that escaped even the realm of "gosh I miss my B-cups," and "when will these lumps around my C-section scar go away?" but it left as fast as it came. Oh well, it can't be much to feel sorry about. How interesting could a blog inspired by a bread bag be?

Oliver

2010-03-10T00:46:00.002-07:00

I'm a mess. It's been a month and I'm a huge sobbing mess. And if I don't write this I may never blog again, because this post simply has to come first.

On February 10, 2010, at around 2:15 in the afternoon, my firstborn son came into the world. He lived a few moments, and then his special spirit left his tiny body—just under a pound and just over ten inches. And because he lived, Tim gave him a name and a blessing. We named him Oliver Michael Gordon. Oliver is after the Green Arrow, and Michael is after his uncle and his grandfather on my side.

But before he entered the world, he was in the world in my womb with his brother. I know he was there in both spirit and body because in his tiny life's end he became our family's little hero, and he saved his brother's life.

Weeks after my water broke, after I'd met Dr. P, the high-risk obstetrician, I started bleeding. It was the third or fourth time doctors looked at me hopelessly and sent me home to wait for whatever happened next. My babies were still alive and well, but my body would not contain them much longer. I had kept them longer than anyone expected past a membrane rupture (water breaking), but at any moment I could go into labor and lose my sons, whom I had loved and waited for my whole life so far.

As the barrier between my babies and the world they couldn't yet survive grew shorter and shorter, my doctor told me our only chance at survival for even one of our sons would be to deliver our poor waterless baby and try to keep the remaining baby in for as much longer as possible (called a Delayed Interval Delivery, or DID). But Baby B, our little PPROM boy with no water left around him, was way at the top of my uterus, and Baby A, with his full bag of water, had his head blocking the exit. He had been protecting his brother with the support of his own water bag and his larger body sitting over my diminishing cervix.

I was torn between the horrible hope that Baby B would move down so his brother would have a shot at life if I went into labor, and the thread of possibility that I could somehow hold them both in. Part of me understood that even if I could, Baby B moving down would give A a better shot at life if he could stay in even a little longer than his brother if they were both born after viability. But there were weeks left to cross.

I cried and cried over the horrible thought of losing one son to save the other, comforted only by the thought that it wasn't my choice. It was out of my hands and in God's. And in Baby B's. And over the next week, where I had felt only tiny movements before from my struggling son, I had the sensation of him wiggling in his tiny smooshed spot, and over the next days he moved more than ever. And at some point I remember knowing that Baby B would leave us, but Baby A would stay. Facing that thought hurt like Hell, but not as badly as saying goodbye when the time came.

February 8 was a Monday, and I went to see Dr. P for another ultrasound. My sweet little Baby B had somehow fought his way down, and with his little feet he had pushed past his brother's head and taken his place as the first to go. And though I knew it was God's will that this baby should come first, I also knew it was Baby B's choice.

I was scared to death when I left that the baby might just fall out, but Dr. P convinced me I'd have time to get to the hospital. That night I started contracting, and Tuesday morning I was in labor and headed to the hospital.

The doctors did an amniocentesis to make sure A was not infected, since he couldn't stay in if he was. The markers were borderline, but Dr. P was willing to try the procedure. I asked him if he would push Baby A back in if he started coming out too, and Dr. P said yes. And after that, a labor that hadn't been progressing much for about a day took less than an hour to go from "Let's see what happens after my meeting," to "Time to deliver!"

It hurt. There must have been six pairs of hands between my legs, but there had also been a skilled anesthesiologist at my side since the wee hours of the morning. Once little Baby B was born, they sedated me until the procedure was complete. Dr. P worked a complete miracle. He managed to get Baby B out and keep Baby A in while stitching me closed from being almost fully dilated. At one point, under the influence of all those drugs, I apparently told Dr. P he was like God. In truth, I'm sure God was guiding his hands to save my baby and keep me pregnant.

But there was Oliver, as we had finally agreed to call him. By the time everything was over, I knew he was gone. I had felt his precious body leave me, and Tim had seen him wiggle in those small moments of freedom he had before he died. When I got into recovery, they brought us his miniature body to see and hold. It is one of the two most perfect and beautiful things I have ever seen.

His feet were swollen from the brave steps he took to save his brother. His hand sat over his heart with five perfect little fingers. He had Tim's nose and my mouth. His hair was bleach white and too young for color. In many ways, he took after his father. And in my eyes, he was the most wonderful thing to ever enter the world. And he was gone before I ever met him face to face.

I will always mourn that he isn't with us. That I don't get to raise him right now. The life he won't live. That his brother will not meet him until we are reunited in Heaven. But I rejoice that he waits for us there. And he has family with him. And I am honored and blessed beyond imagination that he came to us. That I am his mother, and Tim is his father. That my baby boy has a little savior who will one day smile and laugh when they meet, remembering a distant past where they shared a too-small room and did their darnedest to keep each other alive.

I will always cry over that last moment I held him and the pictures a charitable organization took of our little family when it was finally the three of us. I will always miss him. I will love him forever and ever. And maybe someday, I won't be in so much pain every time I think of my firstborn son. But today it has been only a month.

And I am a mess.

Things, Etc.

2010-02-08T21:12:00.002-07:00

I'm going to be brief.

I have 6mm of cervix left—maybe a week's worth at the rate I've been progressing. Baby B has managed to get a foot down below Baby A, so my doctor is fairly sure that when I go into labor, we will have a shot at a delayed-interval delivery, meaning our boys would have different birthdays, and Baby A would likely be a lot healthier than if we delivered them both early. The complication is that labor could begin basically whenever. We need it to hold off for at least 11 more days for Baby B to be viable. Any way to stop labor is contraindicated in my situation, so we basically need another miracle. And that's totally possible.

Now on to more exciting things!

We're in the middle of buying a house. Once all of our loan paperwork is processed, we're basically ready to close on March 5 or so. I'm falling more and more in love with this house. It's a cute 3-bedroom, 2-bath ranch with vaulted ceilings throughout. The third bedroom/office is in the front of the house off of the living room, and will make a great computer/playroom area since the boys will be sharing a room.

The kitchen is enormous. We'll buy all new appliances and basically never want for cabinet/eating/hangout space. I'm excited to change out the hardware on the cabinets and find a way to comfortably fill all that space.

Of course, the biggest deal to me is that we'll finally have a master bathroom! It's lovely and has a vanity space where I can sit and do my makeup. We'll tile the whole thing and put in radiant heat so our toes don't freeze off in winter, and it'll be ready for us to move in in no time at all.

While I won't get to go home there until both babies are safely delivered, once I can move in, I'll be able to enjoy a nice bath in the soaking tub, pick out my preferred decor, arrange the furniture the way I want it (or at least ask Tim to do it), and do something other than lie in bed playing idiotic Facebook games for hours on end and falling asleep anytime I out a show on.

I hope decorating, organizing, and watching spring bloom in our cute backyard will keep me distracted during the babies' inevitable NICU stay . . . which may start as soon as 11 days from now.

The Long Scary Version

2010-01-25T20:51:00.002-07:00

So after a short walk and a long wheelchair ride through St. Luke's, and then back through St. Luke's the other way, I made it to the ultrasound area and started an hour-long—and very gloopy—series of pokes and prods and measurements, during which a dollop of ultrasound gel found its way onto the bottom of my sock, even though my feet were both hidden beneath a sheet and a small table during the whole procedure. I would not be shocked if an entire bottle of the stuff followed me home one day, only to spread its stickiness and stink onto every article of clothing I own.

There's bad news. Baby B doesn't appear to have much fluid at all. He's squished good and a bit crumpled, and his odds aren't fabulous for making it, even if I can keep these brothers in. But that's not the point.

There's good news. Because we've got twins in there, Baby A's fluid acts as a bit of leeway for Baby B to stretch his lungs. Baby B's odds are better than if he were alone. And happy news, we can decorate the nursery a little differently now that we've found that second set of man parts. As it turns out, Baby B is a boy.

I still hold great hopes for Baby B. If he's as strong as his father and as stubborn as his mother, his odds are better than expected. We can hope that with his brother's protection and the prayers of friends and family across the nation, he will live. We have faith for his safety, whatever the will of God is.

And we do have excellent care. Dr. P up at St. Luke's will see me in a week to keep an eye on my cervix (if you're cringing at the word, just stop reading now), to make sure it doesn't thin out. If it does, they'll do a cerclage. I looked up what that is, and frankly, the least disturbing way to say it is that they will sew my uterus shut. The whole thing sounds completely unpleasant. At least I'd be under anesthesia when they did it. But that's for next week, if I need it.

And if I make it a full four weeks, they'll measure the babies again and I'll talk with a neonatologist about what may be next. We'll have a lot more difficult questions to answer along with our difficult realities to face and difficult odds to swallow.

There is hope for our little struggling baby, and for his slightly larger brother. They'll both need strength and miracles to survive. We already know that's possible. What's left to us is the work of prayer—and the acceptance, on my part, of wheelchair rides and continued room service. And patience with the waiting and seeing that has already gone by faster than we can turn our heads.

Hands of God

2010-01-23T02:00:00.002-07:00

But I'm forgetting something important. Maybe there is some mystical point at which children become ours. And maybe it is simply God's providence that decides whether we get there or not. Or with everything in God's power, especially his precious babies, I imagine it wouldn't be a stretch to imagine he treats these things on a case-by-case basis.

In any event, it is up to me to trust that God will grant motherhood in his own time, in his own way. And however it happens, fairness and justice beyond my understanding will be perfect anyway.

When?

2010-01-23T00:52:00.003-07:00

In a high risk situation like mine, it's hard not to contemplate all of the options. And when you're a believer in a special kind of afterlife, like I am, it's easy for what seemed like a simple eternity to turn into a place full of questions—the type nobody claims to know the answers to. And the answers are suddenly the most important thing in the world.

When am I a mom? And I mean that in a literal sense: when do I have my daughter and son? It's a crucial part of my belief system that children born to my husband and I will be our children even after our deaths and into the eternities. And any child who dies young is innocent and goes to heaven. If I go there, that's where I can meet them. But what counts as born?

Am I just growing little bodies who will get spirits when they come out hearts beating? Or breathing? Or at what point do they get spirits to whom I am the earthly mother? They could come out of me alive but doomed to die at any point. Would they never have tiny spirits in those bodies? Or would they come just for those brief moments, even if they can't take a breath and won't receive medical attention? If they live only seconds?

And what if they die before they make the exit? Is that what decides if they were ever alive at all? And does it make a difference whether it happens at 20 weeks or 35? Or 12?

Or does it have more to do with what I do? Do I earn my motherhood badge? Or do I only get it if I somehow carry these babies to viability and deliver them alive? At what point do I earn the privilege of meeting them in heaven?

If I can't have children now, there will be opportunities for children in the next life, when God makes everything perfect and my body will conceive and bear children as easily as anyone else's. But it is these two whom I have loved. In all my vomiting spells and late nights up with the queasies and moments I have waited quietly for them to kick me and desperate times I have prayed for their safety, I have loved these children.

If they die before they're born, is it in the afterlife as if they never existed? Is it just the potential for souls that I have loved?

But then, what about the tiny bundles of cells that never stick, or die before they can? What happens when a new creature comes into being at the successful fertilization of an egg, but isn't even noticed before it leaves? Or the ones that do stick, but stay for only a few days before they die? So many of these go unnoticed—could they all be our children that we don't know we have? What sense does that make? And if they aren't our children when they're a hopeless bundle of cells, when do they become our children? It seems like it should be at the moment of conception (whenever you consider that to be) or at the moment baby takes a breath.

If I beg hard enough can it be sometime in between? Can heaven be neither full of children we never knew we had nor empty of those we tried so hard to deliver alive into the world? And if it can, when is that miracle moment when these bodies I carry become children I will love throughout eternity? And does it make any sense for a child to be or not be based on whether they will be mourned?

None of it makes sense to me. I trust that everything will be just and fair in heaven. And I suppose now I can know for sure that my understanding of just and fair falls as short of enough as Earth falls short of heaven. And where some women will always call their miscarried children their angels in heaven, I will walk feeling like that tiny bird in P.D. Eastman's iconic book, but asking a far stranger question: Am I your mother?

Carbs

2010-01-19T15:28:00.002-07:00

They make my mouth taste like a tide pool at low tide on an unfortunately hot and sunny day. Except not quite as good. In fact, I imagine between the salt and the minerals in the rocks and the little creatures living in there, it probably has a decent sushi-ish taste that would be quite an improvement on the post-graham-cracker funk I've got going on in here.

It is Colorado's fundamental problem that there are no nearby tide pools for me to lick.

But I do appreciate the delightful concentrations of Adventists and Presbyterians who run hospitals here. All my doctors seem religious in a very friendly way, and I've really never enjoyed hospitals so much. The Adventist hospitals in Parker and Littleton have been unmatched in their medical services. I had to spend only five or so minutes at a Littleton Adventist shot clinic to get my H1N1 vaccine, and Parker Adventist has been fabulous through several ER visits.

And Monday, I get to go up to Presbyterian St. Luke's in Denver to see a high-risk pregnancy specialist who works at the best NICU at which you can deliver in the western US. So GO PROTESTANTS! My hat is off to you and the fabulous services you offer.

And what I'm hoping your finest can tell me is how my kiddos are faring in that regularly ultrasounded belly of mine. Seriously, I don't know that I'll ever get the residue of ultrasound gel off of me. The stuff dries on my skin while the ultrasound is still in progress, and by the time it's over all the napkins in the world can't scrub the stuff off. It peels itchily off of the parts of my abdomen I can no longer see without a flashlight and a mirror, and I just have to hope it's coming off in the reduced-soap showers I'm required to take. Apparently soap, like so many other things, is an infection risk.

Typical.

But with Dr. G's office equipment, the visual has been tentatively encouraging. Goofuth is still low on juice, but it doesn't look too terrible. And while Gallant regularly flashes any interested doctor with his mini-man parts, Goofuth appears to be man-part free. Nothing is certain, especially in some of those grainy pictures, but all bets are on Gallant having a sister. Judging by their earlier ultrasound behavior (from when they had equal fluid surrounding them), they're essentially miniatures of Tim and me: one restless girl with a severe case of the wiggles, and one patient boy with a tendency toward quiet. Or so I'd assume based on Gallant's having stuck his head firmly in the placenta at the furthest end from his sister, and Goofuth's enthusiastic squishing of my guts.

We're two days away from three weeks past membrane rupture, and three days away from the 20-week mark at which doctors will administer labor-postponing drugs if I start contracting. It is very much a miracle that we've made it this far, and I can't thank you enough for your prayers and thoughts on our behalf. I really believe that it's because of your efforts that God has preserved our precious little babies so far. It has taken lots of power to keep the kids safe this long, and that's the power called down from heaven by prayer. So thank you, and thank God for the countless blessings that add up to two live fetuses still in the womb.

Video Games are Good

2010-01-14T10:28:00.002-07:00

So I guess there is a portion of society that thinks video games are evil. And I'd also guess that they think so because of the way some people die from video game addictions, or how some kids have no real social lives and instead play VGs all the time, or it could be the school shootings that get blamed on VG violence. Okay, so these people might have a point.

But saying VGs is evil for these reasons is like saying food is evil because people get fat and die eating it. My giant, bacony Five Guys burger (I couldn't type that without salivating) could be compared to, say, World of Warcraft. I really enjoy it, but I don't have it all the time. If I had Five Guys or WOW all the time, I'd die from it eventually. And like WOW is designed by psychologists to be addictive, many fast food chains employ chemical flavorings designed to make you crave their food. The thing is, eating fast food every now and then can be a part of a healthy diet. I argue that video games of all types can be part of a healthy recreational diet.

Violence? Social lives? Yeah, we all know those kids were screwed up before their N64 showed up under the Christmas tree. People blame video games for being a drug-like "escape from reality." I doubt anyone has had a drug trip that pushed them into a fantasy that they were the muscle for a fascist-style dictator in a socialist community where their penultimate authority allows them to not only fully allocate all resources, but also destroy anything and salvage its every component for use in whatever other structure they see fit. Or that they can wield ancient weapons and ride exotic creatures as they hunt down the enemies that threaten whichever community hires them as mercenary.

In fact, those fantasies sound a lot more like those brought on by another media substance occasionally considered evil: books. For readers, who often sequester themselves to finish entire series they find exciting, the interactions they have with words on a page penetrate to affect the psyche as much as any video game, and for most readers, more. Of course there are massive differences between VG and book interactions, but none of those makes video games evil.

So if I've finally assuaged those of you with some religious anti-VG feelings, maybe I can get a little relief from those of you who look at me funny when I mention my xbox games or WOW toons. I'm going to go kick some more Keflings on my 360.

Drowing in Boredom (Also, Water)

2010-01-05T19:22:00.002-07:00

There's nothing like lying in bed all day to get my mind off of how much danger my unborn children are in. It's a total distraction from how massively worried I am that (a) I will go into labor any second or (b) Baby B is being so squished his tiny body is failing under the pressure.

And if any of you can drink 120 ounces of water a day (during a day you spend almost constantly partially or fully reclined) without getting massive reflux, you're a better woman than me.

So to distract me from each day's 24 hours of possible insanity, I've decided to pick up a few new skills. First, I want to learn to crochet or knit. I want to make a couple of tiny baby hats to illustrate head sizes for each month I'm pregnant until they come out. Then, no matter when it happens, they will have hats.

I've always had a come-and-go fancy to learn the acoustic guitar. Heaven knows I'm a sucker for acoustic music, and how cool would it be if babies' first lullabies could reverberate right off my belly? So cool! Does anyone have an extra? Maybe send me your husband's from back when he was using it to try and pick up chicks.

I would use the time to write, but frankly my brain is on the fritz. And I mean the severe fritz. This must be what people just above the mental retardation IQ border feel like. I can still enjoy a good read and make sense of the same things—it just takes a lot longer. And my attention span is short. Ask anyone who's tried to converse with me in the last few months. Don't ask me. I won't be paying attention by the time we get to the question mark. I've put this blog entry down no less than five times already.

My current time-suck is losing game after game of spider solitaire on medium difficulty. I could really use a new sudoku book, but that stuff has melted my brain plenty already. So what I want from you is a mindless hobby you love. The busier it keeps my hands, the better. I have to be able to do it in bed, put it down at a moment's notice when I need to, and keep pressure or strain off of my stomach. Wacky arm movements are probably a bad idea, too.

In fact, this question might be better posed to the residents of a convalescence home. We share a few important traits: slow brains, an inability to exercise, and bodies that can't take a lot of pressure. Then again, they, like me, might have difficulty focusing long enough to give a coherent answer.

Still, I can't complain. Even a pregnancy with severe complications has turned out to be more fun than gainful employment!

Babygate Update

2010-01-04T12:44:00.002-07:00

I just got back from seeing Dr. G (and eating soup and a sandwich), and the news is, uh, okay. It's pretty clear that Baby B (the upper baby) had the rupture. The bag is still pretty low on fluids, but there is at least a little in there, and we saw the little one lick his or her lips. What we have to worry about is lung development. Babies need to breathe amniotic fluid for their lungs to develop, so little Goofuth's sac needs to refill and stay full, at least enough for his lungs to mature. If the fluid is insufficient, he'll have Potter's Syndrome and won't survive the outside.

So the prayer is that the fluid can build up and stay in, at least as much as is necessary. They'll probably give me steroids at around 24 weeks to help his lungs, but they won't do any good without enough fluid—and there's nothing anyone can do about that. Dr. G says we just need to wait to see what happens and have faith.

Gallant is doing great in there. He's got plenty of fluid—enough to squish his twin so much we couldn't tell the gender. But we did see little boy parts on Baby A! He's wiggling away in there and looking very healthy. In other news, his placenta appears to be right on top of the exit, so it looks like a definite Cesarean (which will likely be bloody bloody bloody since the placenta is right where they make the emergency exit, too).

While preterm labor is still a concern, I've made it over four days since the rupture without going into labor. Dr. G says the reason it's so uncommon for women to break their water so early and still deliver at term is because it's extremely rare for a woman to break her water without contractions causing it or following right after (or for the cause to be an infection that makes it necessary to deliver immediately).

I guess our first miracle of 2010 is me not going into labor. Let's hope the second is for Goofuth to get enough fluid to have big strong lungs. Come May or so I want to hear two sets of tiny lungs screaming. Until then, I'll do my best to keep baby boy and mystery sibling in my big swelly belly.

What's Going On

2010-01-01T21:28:00.002-07:00

Okay, so at midnight two nights ago my water broke. I thought I'd just completely lost urinary continence, threw my pants in the sink to rinse, and took another several minutes to realize I was not peeing. The insurance's nurse line told me to get to the ER, and call an ambulance if I couldn't get a ride. Naturally, I panicked a little before throwing on some fresh bottoms, grabbing Tim's wallet and keys, and screaming for him to take me to the hospital.

I read online that over 20% of women who go to the hospital thinking they're leaking amniotic fluid get sent home because they've actually just peed their pants. I was pretty sure that wasn't the case, but hey, a girl can dream!

I got wheeled into triage, and then up to the OB floor, where they could run a few tests to see exactly what it was I was leaking. The look on my nurse's face gave me sweaty palms when the second test showed positive for amniotic fluid where amniotic fluid should NOT be when you're 17 weeks pregnant.

A quick exam proved it—baby A's water bag had sprung a leak. Everyone knows that water breaking leads to labor, but the OB deck doc had to explain it to me very carefully. I was most likely to begin labor in the next 48 hours, and there was nothing the hospital would do to stop it this early, and nothing they could do to save the babies if they delivered before 23 weeks.

Then my OB called to tell me that since hospital intervention wouldn't happen (even to delay labor) until at least 20 weeks, I'd be best off sitting at home and hoping I don't go into labor. If they kept me at the hospital, I'd be on the GYN floor, since the pregnancy doesn't graduate to OB status until 20ish weeks.

Frankly, the chances of survival for the babies are not good at all. Everyone in the room decided to hang on to the slim chance that I wouldn't go into labor, and the fluid leak would seal. Both babies are healthy and big and have nice strong heartbeats, but my ability to keep them in is suddenly extremely questionable.

I went from about a 97% chance of carrying to term to odds so slim they won't tell me what they are—only that they know a woman who broke her water at 18 weeks and lasted to deliver at term. They gave me antibiotics and sent me home in the very early morning with instructions to stay on very strict bedrest and only get up to use the restroom. For the rest of the pregnancy.

I've done without a hitch almost 46 of the 48 hours during which I'm most likely to go into labor. There's no sign of infection. I still feel the babies move, and I'm not leaking a huge amount. There is still a chance I get to keep them. If I make it about three more weeks, they'll hospitalize me for the remainder of the pregnancy, likely at St. Luke's. Then they can give me medicine to put off labor if anything goes wrong. After 24 weeks, the hospital will perform lifesaving measures if I deliver the babies. Best case scenario is I end up in the hospital in three weeks and stay there for another four or five months before I deliver the babies. Worst case scenario is obvious.

I'm almost to the 48-hour milestone. Then 12 more days until the two-week milestone. Then another week before I see my doctor and he decides on hospitalization. If all goes well, I have a long stretch of sitting in bed all the time in front of me. It is already boring, but I hope to everything that's good I have to stay in bed until at least May.

So that's what happened. I skyrocketed to a super high-risk pregnancy overnight, and now all I can do is stay in bed and wait for something to not happen.

Trade

2009-12-30T23:06:00.002-07:00

Things I bought for myself with Christmas money:

Bigger bras. Yep.
An extremely simple makeup routine.
A prenatal yoga DVD.
And yeah, a double-electric breast pump on clearance.

It's like I'm 13 again—obsessed with my boobs, discovering makeup—but in a very new and somewhat disturbing way.

I used to buy scented lotions. Now I buy giant tanks of whatever has cocoa butter in it. At one time or other, I owned thong underwear. Now everything I own has a ridiculously huge "stretch panel" across my midsection. My one desire was to be a bridesmaid. In November I had to skip out on my good friend's wedding so I could lay around a lot and puke.

They say your life changes forever when you have kids. But it changes when mom stops doing your laundry, you move in with roommates, or you get your first period. There are always trades to make, and I've sure as heck started this round.

It's not so bad to trade in what I'll call "digestive freedom" for a couple of kicks where my intestines once were every so often. And I'll tell you right now that while the "cute girl" discount/way of getting away with anything was on the worse end of a severe fade, the "I have a giant belly" discount got me both a free soda and an unhindered entrance to the movie theater with my giant bag of outside food.

Constant back pain vs. workplace backstab? Yeah, I'm loving this phase of life, as sick as I am. Also, my cat loves the extra cuddle time. I will probably never get a master's degree, but I chose which nevers I could live with, and "never be pregnant" was not on the list. So I did it, and I'm happy I'm making the trade.

An Introduction

2009-11-29T01:07:00.005-07:00

Here are the babies, from 3 days after conception to Saturday morning! Captions came out pooey for some reason, but if you click the pics they'll come out clear.

The Truth About Pregnancy and Infertility

2009-11-25T23:20:00.003-07:00

I didn't post this back when I wrote it last fall, but it still applies.

Yes, it is miserable. I'm nauseated for most of my waking hours and many of the ones I'd rather spend sleeping. I'm SO dizzy. My digestive system will mutiny unless I walk on eggshells to please it. But even when I'm in the bathroom for the twelfth time of the day, or when I have to lie down in the middle of the hallway to avoid passing out, I couldn't be happier. I'm puking and potbellied and pitiful and it's AWESOME. Pregnancy is a misery better than (a) any other misery and (b) most of the dates I went on when I was single. Even if I could relive ice skating and chocolate with Mike what's-his-name, I'd still rather be puking my guts out. And let's face it, puking a few times for every ultrasound I see of those two little wiggling twins is SO much better than the movies I might go out to see if I didn't have such a heinous headache.

In other words, I made the right choice. It may just be the low flow of blood to my brain right now, but I'm pretty sure I'm thinking clearly when I say there's nothing I'd rather suffer for. When I wanted this so badly, I wasn't chasing some stupid dream that would make me miserable. I was chasing something that would make a life, though sometimes miserable, so worth every pain.

A lot of people try to comfort infertile women and men by making them feel better about not having kids. How great it is to travel and sleep in, or how much freer they are to do what they want. We all know none of those folks would trade their kids for a lifelong vacation in the south of France, so why the BS? My favorite words of comfort came from the husband of an old friend, who had a sweet toddler daughter: "It is so worth it."

If you're wondering what to say to your infertile friend, those are the words. I am most grateful for the people who supported my desperate desire, rather than those who tried to minimize what I wanted most. So many of my friends were so supportive, and I can't thank them enough. But I think a lot of people just have a hard time knowing what to say.

I think I posted an infertility etiquette article a while back, and those can be very useful, but I think it can be summarized into a few simple rules:

Be supportive of whatever they decide to do - and don't bring up the cons of the situation, because your friend almost certainly knows.
Don't talk about your friend's infertility success or failure story. Those can be super depressing either way, and everyone has their own situation.
Don't diagnose. "I have the same thing!" and, "You have the exact thing my cousin did!" are two of the least helpful phrases you can utter. Not only do most women have real doctors to diagnose them, but even when the condition name is the same, every woman is different, has different symptoms, thinks differently about solutions, and responds differently to treatment.
If you know your friend is at a dead end with her current doctor, or doesn't like him, be prudent about recommending one you know to be good. A friend recommended me to Dr. Young, who ended up being the perfect fit and sending us to the ICRM, where we did IVF. I'm forever grateful for the recommendation. Similarly, another woman recommended a specialist when I was fine staying with my doctor, and it was just a tiny bit annoying.
Support support support. Infertility can easily cause depression, and what your friend needs is people who will be her friend when she's having a hard time doing happy people things like throwing parties and going out with friends. Make lunch dates. Show up at her house, announced or unannounced (be prudent, again). Call or send an email. Social interaction is a natural treatment for depression, so this is the one case where you can be your friend's doctor. But maybe skip the baby shower and do something where you can talk (about infertility or not).

Those are the things my friends did for me that really helped get me through it. Also, not complaining about pregnancy, because every symptom is a blessing. Remember, you're not fat, you're carrying another human being in a life support system made out of your body.

And now that I'm there, I think I can say from experience that your pregnancy can't be worse than no pregnancy at all. Unless maybe you're teen pregnant (that is so an adjective now). But that's besides the point. Even if you are, there are hordes of women so jealous of your miracle.

And for the Record

2009-11-17T13:43:00.002-07:00

My dad has a large movie collection that entertained me for hours during my youth. Not watching the films, but arranging the cases alphabetically, by genre, by how much I liked them, by how often I watched them, by color, and by age.

I was both psychologically and physically a very anal retentive child. Unfortunately it manifested in strange quirks like hording toiletries under my bed and using scissors to shred anything I could get my hands on. At least it saved my parents money on diapers.

In other news, after a brief trip to Kohl's, I am now both unreasonably tired and somewhat nauseated. And I have some clothes that fit over the basketball I'm digesting. And some that will eventually fit said basketball.

The Honeymoon Starts Early

2009-11-17T10:54:00.002-07:00

Nausea mostly abated. Normal digestion. The ability to stay awake for almost 12 hours. It's too good to be true. Something must be terribly wrong.

Either that or my new nausea meds and exercise routine are doing too much good, but when has that ever happened?

Of course, I am completely powerless to do anything at this point and will have to wait until my next ultrasound in a week to know anything. And worrying in the meantime will simply make stress for me, which makes stress for the babies. And if the babies are too stress-prone, they'll probably both grow up to be accountants, managing their stress by organizing their movie collections alphabetically by genre while eating only the brown m&m's.

What I need right now is a good nap and for my Chick-fil-A breakfast to give me indigestion.

You Must Be at Least This Tall

2009-11-10T21:22:00.003-07:00

I had an ultrasound yesterday and met my OB for the first time. We'll call him Dr. G. He is, of course, everything you can ask for in a doctor on the first visit. He even offered me both better nausea meds and an Rx for the acne I hadn't complained about. I suppose that's what I get for skipping the makeup.

The one thing that threw me was his shock that at my age, I had come from a fertility clinic having undergone IVF. I could attribute his shock to the fact that not many people my age could hope to pay for in-vitro, but then when he saw my twofer for himself, he said again, "Wow, twins at 23!"

And yes, of course I'm thinking, crap, how am I supposed to raise one baby, let alone two! And I'm fully happy with my decision to do IVF, even at my age, and even with twins. It's time for me to do the mommy thing, so I went for it. Adoption agencies wouldn't have a problem with me adopting. And I'm not even young to have kids. What am I saying, I don't need to excuse myself to you guys!

Anyway, I realize not many women my age get in-vitro, but that's because most women my age are WAY more fertile that I am, and respond better to weaker treatments. And, you know, don't have dangerous reactions to Clomid. And want to have careers.

Let's face it, I hated all the BSing required for a desk job. I'd rather be puked on regularly for several years than have a CEO who hates me hanging my job over my head every few months for no good reason. Not that I did this just because I didn't like working, but it certainly made me think about who and what I want to be.

And I figure if I'm going to kiss up to a-holes, I'd rather give birth to them first. I suppose I'm giving up the desk job grind for the rewards of screaming toddlers and messes made of poo (or for now, constant nausea, fatigue, and a pot belly). I suppose I might think differently in June, but even at 23, I'm happier than a very icky-feeling clam to be unemployed and expecting twins.

Blogcation Over

2009-11-05T20:27:00.002-07:00

Okay, so I took a month off. I've been avoiding answering the question. Also, I've been increasingly sick and tired. The last month has been an everythingcation. Really. I mean, I probably should have showered more. So at this time I've decided to step back into the real world. Tonight, I blog. Tomorrow, I may change out of my pajamas into whichever of my clothes still fit (which may just be different pajamas).

Timmy J

2009-10-04T18:41:00.002-06:00

You may have noticed that last month had an especial lack of posts. I'll be honest. I'm not telling you people anything (or I'm trying not to) until Thanksgiving. And the only way for me to keep a secret is to not say anything. So while I may be a terrible friend for the next couple of months, the least I can do is update my blog.

Thus, I present Tim, my awesome husband.

My mom, when we were visiting my parents a few weeks ago, joked with me about an old teacher of mine she had run into. She told me how when she went in for a Parent-Teacher conference that this teacher insisted on calling me Timothy. “That’s what he prefers,” she said. This was news to my mom, and certainly never took up my full name. To her, I was her Timmy J in those days, her tiny Tim. She laughed about the experience, then the conversation switched to a different subject.

While my mom just saw this little encounter as some funny thing that kids say, to me it was something that has always stuck with me. Growing up I always wanted to be great at everything that I did. I wouldn’t say I was an overachiever, although many probably would, my idea of achieving was to be at least as good as the best person in the class. However, in my young mind, the best was certainly not seen as I see it today, and this early experience made me extremely frustrated because I was unable to achieve what I saw as the best.

In my first grade class, one day my teacher Mrs. Cooper thought it would be fun to compare the lengths of names in the class. As we went around the class, I saw very quickly that with a name of “Tim” I would be at the bottom of the list of lengths. Being on the top of that chart would obviously be better than being on the bottom, so when it came to my turn, I said that my name was “Timmy J.” The teacher would not accept that and proceeded to write down “Tim” instead. I cried out that my name must be longer! My teacher, who now I am sure was used to hearing children complain about strange subjects, ignored me and put my name at the bottom of the chart, right below a Laotian boy named “Cow.”

To this day I remember the name of the girl who won: Elizabeth. Nine letters. It was always the girls who beat me in school. We probably even called her Liz, but that teacher probably preferred those perfect little girls who didn’t complain about stupid things like their names being too short.

That night, I went home and complained to my mom that my teacher wouldn’t let me use Timmy J as my name. My mom laughed, and asked why I didn’t use Timothy. Timothy. Seven Letters. Hmm. It was certainly less than nine, but twice as long as three.
I knew we wouldn’t do the same activity in that class, so I was resigned to be “Tim” for the rest of the year. But next year I was ready. Roll call came, and when the teacher called out my common nickname, I quickly corrected her. “Timothy,” I said. So Timothy I was for the entire second grade.

We never did do the name length comparison. We had moved on to counting money and bingo, perhaps two of the most important skills of our time. In third grade I had learned enough to know how silly I was for insisting the teacher call me Timothy. But if we did, I knew there was always a “Liz” in the class I could pull down with me.

Soothsayer

2009-09-27T21:50:00.002-06:00

You've all heard of reading tea leaves, gazing into crystal balls, and calculating astronomical alignments to tell the future. We'll ignore the fact that the only reason you know these things is Harry Potter. What you probably didn't know is that the most popular movement in fortune telling is the pee-stick reading.

It's an entire culture. These thousands of women buy a variety of pee-reading supplies, usually in the form of plastic sticks with absorbent tips, and occasionally in bulk as flexible absorbent sticks. With the use of these sticks in combination with a woman's own urine, many are able to foretell the coming of a child.

The world tends to look at this underground culture as a group of hormonal women over-analyzing one of the simplest medical test you can use in your home. They wouldn't be wrong. But within the culture, there are strong controversies about the most sensitive brands, the correct time in the month to test, or the difference between first morning urine and second morning urine. There are millions of web entries where women share their results, post pictures of pee sticks, and obsess over barely visible/totally invisible lines.

It's often more of an obsession than a hobby. Within the art of pee stick reading, there are the sub-arts of nipple tenderness assessment, real and imagined nausea and other GI symptoms, and the ephemeral study of psychological alteration.

I've become more than a novice in the art of pee stick soothsaying. I use the good equipment, am a staunch FMUer, and can't pass up a good opportunity to POAS. This obsession almost equals my involvement with WOW and related terminology. Thus I derive a complex question: POAS 10dpo or DPS naxx25 with DH?

Timothy Gordon, CPA

2009-09-25T22:27:00.002-06:00

That's right folks, my husband officially has a comma and letters after his name. He passed ALL of the CPA exam tests on the first go, putting him in the top 10% of test takers. My man is in the top tenth of the smartest, hardest working, most anal people in the public sector. He cooks, he cleans, he treats me like a princess, and he acts like I'm not a psychotic hormonal B—all this and he puts on his superhero suit each morning and saves American businesses from improperly filing their taxes.

If you know how hard the CPA exam is, you're already impressed that he did all four tests over the summer. Preparing for these exams takes months of 40-plus-hour study weeks. He spent hours listening to somewhat douchebaggy guys on DVD lecturing him on GAAP, SOX, and about 400 other acronyms that make even less sense. He made thousands of notecards. He took four-hour tests at inconvenient times.

And he did it all while I essentially derailed our life, dragged us all around the western US, and spent all of his future earnings trying to get myself knocked up. He scheduled these tests often unsure of what state we'd be in when he took them. He dealt with extremely complicated personal decisions, financial stress, and household upheaval while he was studying for and taking these tests. He never treated me like I was making it harder for him, even though I was.

And he passed.

I always feel like I married a superhero, but on days like today, I get that extra $20-in-your-coat-pocket-from-last-winter feeling. Except more like winning the lottery minus the gambling. It's no surprise to me that Tim is an amazing man, but on a regular basis he does one more thing that's so awesome, I think it's impossible that one man is so fantastic, and even more impossible that he married me.

Specks of Dust

2009-09-23T22:33:00.004-06:00

I'm taking daily injections of progesterone (which is the hormone that makes you crazy during PMS), and they've started to take their toll. Sunday I was needy. Monday I was whiny. Tuesday I was grumpy. Yesterday, I slept through the afternoon, sent my dad and husband to the pharmacy for my various needs, and then yelled at them when they brought back the generic version of the prenatal vitamins I wanted.

But let me speak my peace: I specifically asked for the expensive Rx prenatals (Duet DHA) because they're small. If you've ever tried to take prenatals, you know that they're uniformly gigantic. The somewhat swallowable ones I've been using are simply becoming too much of a burden for my hormonal and nauseated self. You can imagine my frustration and disappointment when my Rx arrives in a box called "Renate DHA," which I open to find pills about the size of my pinky finger—not the tip, the whole freaking thing.

Still, that's not something I would usually fly off the handle about. By the time my hormones level out, my cat will be the only person who will talk to me.

On Monday, Dr. F inserted three little embryos into my uterus (we'd originally planned on two). They were the size of specks of dust, and I can't help but panic a little over how fragile they are. The little guys could divide themselves unevenly into oblivion, they could simply stop mitosis, they could fail to find a grip on my uterine walls—it seems like anything could happen (or not happen).

I'm rooting for my little specks of dust hardcore. Those finger-sized pills are going down because these little guys deserve every shot at survival. On Thursday (one week from today), I find out if I'm officially chemically pregnant. They'll have a good idea whether zero, one, two, or three survived the ride, and then they'll ultrasound in another month to see if I'm still really pregnant.

Remember Kitty Surprise? Those plush cats that had velcro openings in their bellies that would produce 2, 3, or 4 kittens? Well, I'm starting to feel like one of those. I'm also starting to feel like my younger self when I first received that coveted reproducing kitty. As far as I'm concerned, I want all my little speck babies to survive. Three please! Not because I want a huge family, or because I really want the struggle of triplets in my life, but because I just don't want anyone to die. Not in my uterus.

I'd vote for just one, or maybe two, but that would mean I'm hoping that little number three meets his barely multicellular end quite soon. Death is an inevitable part of the human procreative process, but that doesn't make it any easier to accept.

Vaguely . . .

2009-09-18T14:51:00.002-06:00

So they put me out this morning with all kind of nice medicines that eliminated pain, nausea, consciousness, memory, and apparently all sense of decency.

For instance, I remember asking Dr. Foulk, "Is the sperm here?" as I was just about losing it, and him saying, "Well, I hope so, or you'll have to find some other guy's baby to have." I definitely remember not laughing. It's okay, Dr. Foulk is very funny and charming when I'm lucid.

Then, when they were moving me to the recovery room (I honestly don't know how they kept me standing all the way there), the very nice anesthesiologist said, "Here, I'll help you wrap up a little bit so you're not mooning the whole office." I responded in my barely awake state, "Oh, it's okay, I have a nice butt."

Yes. I told a man quite old enough to be my father or grandfather that I have a nice butt. And then he set me on a recliner, tucked me in with blankets and a hot pad, and brought in my mother-in-law. Or someone did all of those things. The whole incident is very fuzzy. In fact, most of today has been. Forgive me if I end up repeating myself to you. Or mooning you.

Holding Back

2009-09-17T00:56:00.003-06:00

Okay, so there are a lot of things I'm not doing right now. I'm not looking at Babies 'R' Us online to choose baby bedding. I'm not assuming this will work. I'm not thinking seriously about baby names. I'm not entertaining an irrational fear that they'll mix up my embryos with somebody else's and I'll deliver a baby from some poor Guatemalan couple's genes. I'm also not sleeping.

And it's taking lots of effort not to spend hours on ticker websites making cute little pregnancy tickers (which would, by the way, say that I am 1 week and 6 days pregnant). I'm holding back hardcore from wandering the maternity section at Walmart (which is very small and has only one flattering top anyway). I'm only guessing at what my due date would be (June 11, if you were wondering). And I am very much not fantasizing about having twins (are you kidding? Of course I am!).

There is a very fine line between hope that makes this exciting and hope that would make a failure devastating. And tickers, maternity clothes, and due dates will always be there. But I won't dream about hearing that heartbeat or seeing tiny feet pushing out next to my screwy-looking belly button. I'm just looking for little Embryos Gordon. Also, I may have a strong desire to get pictures of all of my embryos to put into an artsy wall hanging like in the exam room I've had the past couple of days. That's probably weird.

Oh, and I promised Mom I'd take NO home pregnancy tests. They'll do blood tests twice in the next several weeks, and I'll have to wait for those. If they come back all positive, then maybe I'll pee on a stick just for fun.

Lives

2009-09-16T17:26:00.002-06:00

Sitting in a hotel room for days on end—well, except those trips to the clinic and Walmart—leaves me with lots of time to think about what's going on. For once in my life, the extra thinking isn't resulting in extra stressing. I'm just excited. And humbled.

Considering the diminishing numbers of eggs/embryos that survive each stage of the growth process, I'm likely to end up with about 10 embryos. 10 embryos is enough for five pregnancy attempts. Statistically, I'm likely to end up with three pregnancies. I could lose one or more to miscarriage. Considering the increased chance of twins, I think I could get a solid two to four kids out of this. Just right.

So now you have to actually go to my blog—that's right you Google Reader users—and take the poll. How many babies this time? Will they stick at all? Will one survive and grow, or both? Will one somehow split and create identical twins? Will those twins end up with another sibling sharing the womb? These scenarios are increasingly unlikely, but I'll let you decide. Click your pick on the right.

Times Two

2009-09-15T15:32:00.003-06:00

Remember a couple of months ago when I had 14 follicles swelling my belly? Well, now I have a full 28. Each is about 1.5 cm in diameter (as of this morning), and each most likely contains a single egg. Either Friday or Saturday morning, they'll suck out the little bubbles and their contents, spend some time finding the important parts, and then mix us up some baby soup.

In case you were concerned, I won't be posting that Arrested Development clip again. Firstly because twice is enough, and secondly because they're taking Arrested Development seasons two and three off of Hulu. I am very depressed about it. That and the cancellation of Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles.

How am I supposed to get my Summer Glau fix now? And where will I learn mommy tips when that baby comes along if not from Sarah Connor herself (just kidding Mom and Sheri)? At least Dollhouse is still on. They could totally work Summer Glau into that show. I mean, she has two acting modes: creepy and uncomfortably creepy. She'd make the perfect crazy doll (comme Whiskey, but better). Plus, she worked with Joss in Firefly (another awesome show that was prematurely canceled).

Mostly, my insides are stuffy and achy. I would say it's like having the flu, but it's more like having two very swollen and tender ovaries rubbing and pushing on all my other organs. Do I want to puke? Mostly. Do I need to puke? Not really. Will I puke? No. So things are pretty much fabulous. I get the excitement of giving myself injections, now with the added pleasure of getting a good look at my insides each morning. And I'll tell you what: they're looking really good. I've never seen such an attractive uterus or such productive ovaries. Go my insides!

By early next week, they'll put two little embryos in my very cushy-looking uterus, and I'll be all set to wait 8 days and take my first bhCG test. That's about when I'll know if it didn't work. In about 38 weeks I'll know if it did.

The Ranks

2009-09-05T00:12:00.003-06:00

Today, I started what I hope will be my last period for some time. It's right on schedule, I suppose, and on Tuesday I have an ultrasound and start drugging my ovaries into mass producing little tiny genetic half-replicas of me. The injections aren't scary: I started on Lupron almost two weeks ago, and giving myself a shot has become easier than brushing my teeth. Well, except when I wake up to do the shot and am still too groggy to draw medicine into the syringe before sticking it into my stomach and wondering why I can't push the plunger down. It's like forgetting to put toothpaste on my toothbrush, but it's been years since I did that, and then I didn't have to re-stab myself because of my mistake.

As I get closer to the exciting parts of the in-vitro procedure, I find myself somehow hesitant in approaching that border into motherhood. I'm less than three weeks away from that fateful moment when the doctor will carefully place two tiny growing bundles of cells in my womb and hope they stick. A month from today, I'll probably know if they worked. I am more than 50% likely to be pregnant, and depending on when you count pregnancy as starting, it could happen the moment they put those little baby soup seeds into my uterus, hoping with all of the waiting we've done and the sacrificing we've yet to do that they find good soil in which to plant. Or it could happen in a month when we know that one has stuck. Or it could happen in three months when I don't miscarry. Or when baby is viable. Or when I've given birth. Maybe when the kid is three.

At one of those points, I'll have to make some kind of announcement. Look at me: I've got one of these baby things on the way. I don't want to. I don't want to tell anyone, ever. Whatever happens, it's not like I somehow earned or deserve a baby. The blessing of a pregnancy is more than I could ever expect, and I will always be less than what it takes to deserve such an amazing thing. But once I say the words "I'm pregnant," it's inevitable that someone's heart will break because somehow it came to me and not them. Where some will be happy to celebrate with me, others won't have the strength.

I want to hide my belly, if it swells, from the whole world. I hate myself when I think that I could, simply by walking in public, sting the open wound that other infertile women have—sure, it's hope to see a woman pregnant, but hope is painful, too. And there will be nothing I can do to comfort these women.

I wonder how I can ever join the ranks of the pregnant knowing that if from this very moment, things take that other turn, and more than 50% likely is not likely enough, I will hurt when I see a pregnant woman or a newborn baby. As wonderful as these things are, they sting like perfume on broken skin. It kills me that I would want to say, "Look, a miracle of my own!" And it kills me that some days, when I have heard those words, it felt like my life was ending.

It will be easy to have gratitude if I am blessed with a pregnancy, but I wonder if it will be hard to rejoice. To be one more wound in another woman's heart. Forgive me if I don't say a thing about how it works out. Forgive me more if I do.

Survived That One

2009-08-26T15:15:00.004-06:00

Okay, so I survived the first wave of medication-induced crappiness. I'm not sure if it was the shot, the antibiotics, or the combination of the two, plus the new baby aspirin regimen and all of the stuff I was already taking. If it was the shot, I should be due for round two in about five hours.

Turns out, stabbing yourself with a 28-gauge needle isn't so bad. If it were, I could switch to the 31-gauges they sent in my big scary box with the douches. A little sting, maybe a drop of blood, and a side of itching? Psh. Cake! Doing all of that stuff kinda' makes me want to go to one of those vocational colleges to become a nurse's assistant so I can stab other people with needles too.

Topic Change

Speaking of needles, we went camping in the redwoods! I even saw a dirty HSU student walking the rim trail at Patrick's Point while playing his guitar. I can't really blame him for being dirty—I mean, an afternoon's hike will turn anyone's socks brown. I stopped by a few of my old favorite places to munch, purchased some bath goodies at Bubbles, and ate Brio bread. The only thing I missed was a trip to Katy's for smoked salmon or shark jerky. Don't let the ugliness of the website fool you—the stuff is world class.

It's places like Bubbles that make me miss Arcata. There are some severely unique things up there. I mean besides the disproportionate amount of middle-aged people who can't go a day without some Mary Jane and the somewhat dwindling population of cardboard sign holders. Arcata is the home of the Mom and Pop Shop. There are like three chain stores there. It makes for some excellent food, some very interesting boutiques (I neglected to photograph the gigantic window display crammed with bongs), and things like the kinetic sculpture race (look it up on YouTube).

At Bubbles in particular, you can buy essentially any type of bath product you could dream of and have it scented with every pleasant smell under the sun—or fog and constant cloud cover. Looking back, I regret only not asking for coconut.

Aside from Bubbles, which has a fabulous scent of its own, many of the older stores in downtown Arcata have a smell. Really. Notes of moist wood and a bit of mildew, hints of patchouli and weed, and a deep spice of something I can always recognize but never identify. It's probably some sort of rot, but it always makes me feel like home.

Purpose

2009-08-25T23:25:00.002-06:00

Okay, deep breaths. Focus on the head pain, not the nausea. This isn't the worst it's ever been. Things will be both better and worse, and this is just one more thing you have to endure in this process. Remember why you're doing this? So you can get pregnant and be even more nauseated for even longer. Then so you can go through L&D and come out the other side with a pooping, screaming, adorable little baby. So it can drain every resource you have until you're barely standing. This isn't the worst you will face, and you were made for much worse.

Things will get better, too. There will be good moments. There will be Zofran here at some point. There will be Tylenol, too. And you'll probably get used to the shots and antibiotics and tons of meds all at the same time. Everything will eventually stop spinning, and you'll wake up feeling like new. Or you can just stay in bed feeling terrible. Either way. Deep breaths. Focus on that baby that will someday be here.

Free Douches

2009-08-20T20:01:00.002-06:00

You've met them—but let's be honest, you haven't—douchebags: the guys who own an Escalade and park across two of the best parking spots in the lot. The people who send spam. Perez Hilton. They're the guys who act like douches because they'll never have to see the people they're torturing with their wanton douchebaggery.

This post isn't about those guys. It's about the gigantic box of meds that came to my door in a very cold box this morning. Injectable hormones, oodles of syringes and needles, alcohol swabs, pills the names of which I won't even try to remember, some baby asprin, a disposal box for the biohazards, more syringes and needles, and yes, douches. They didn't even charge me for them. Nobody told me there would be douches.

And now I sit here, hoping they stay put in their insulated box with the other non-refrigerated meds and don't sneak out and talk at the movie theater. You never know with douches.

Getting Ready

2009-08-17T16:02:00.002-06:00

Today I laid down that first chunk of change for IVF, buying all of my injectables and pills. Lucky for me, because of my "stupid" ovaries, it cost about half of the minimum most women pay for IVF meds, and less than a quarter of the maximum. Those little malfunctioning egg-makers aren't really saving me any money, but at least since they're misbehaving, they're doing it less expensively than they could be.

My meds arrive on Thursday, I start them on Tuesday, and I'm just dying with excitement. I have a good chance at a baby, but I have an excellent chance at collection of solid embryos. So I won't go getting all excited about future Baby (or Babies) Gordon yet, but I will most definitely throw myself a happy little brain party about the soon-to-be Embryos Gordon!

If I get pictures, I'll definitely post them here once the little guys get transferred in around mid-September. Embryos are so flipping cool looking. I'm beyond all of the stresses of choosing IVF and to the part where I'm super jazzed about doing it! Hooray for technology and hyperstimulating ovaries and injecting myself with meds! However and whenever that baby shows up, these are just a few more steps to holding it in my arms. Yay!

Social Blogterfly

2009-08-17T00:14:00.002-06:00

I looked through my subscriptions on Google Reader and the links in the sidebar here, and I realized something somewhat ill about my social life: it takes place almost exclusively through the blog. I suppose it's somewhat like my addiction to reading, where I feel like I have a personal relationship with the characters in the book, but they aren't real, we've never met, and if they were real, that would just be creepy.

But my blog friends are real. Some of them I have conversations with every now and then. But it is creepy that blogging invites and perpetuates both one- and two-way voyeuristic relationships. (Yes, "voyeuristic" makes it sound all dirty, but you try finding an appropriate word that can take an adjectival form so gracefully.)

I read about my friends' lives, get excited for their triumphs, mourn their losses, and feel, in so many ways, like I'm right there next to them, living their lives too. But I'm not. It's normal to feel that way about fictional characters, but I think it might be somewhat sick that I relate to a bunch of actual human beings the same way I relate to the product of some stranger's craft.

The part that worries me is that I can, in public, claim these people as my friends. I like them. I think some of them might like me. Some of them link to my blog, anyway. If I talked about Katniss Everdeen from The Hunger Games as if she were a pal of mine, I'd be committed. But If they're real people, it doesn't matter—even though the relationship hasn't changed much.

Sure, we all know the difference between real people and fake people, but do we know the difference between real relationships and fake ones? And how far does mutual watching go on the friendship scale? And is this line of thought creeping you out as much as it is me?

Expired

2009-08-16T18:18:00.003-06:00

Okay, so I'm making another quiche tonight. This will be the third in a week. But they're just soooo delicious and easy, how could I possibly resist? Today I'll use onions, spinach, broccoli, swiss, and maybe some canadian bacon. Perhaps I'll even toss in a little artichoke. We don't have a ton of egg left, so it'll have to be thick with cheese and veg. My mouth is watering just writing about thinking about it.

The deal is that my parents are moving. In a week we'll be out of here, and I need to get rid of all their food. Being culinarily disadvantaged, the quiche is my only resort for "throw just about anything in there"-type food. I'd do frittatas as well, but they're just slightly too eggy. I'm a big fan of throwing veggies, beans, and pasta together with some italian dressing and calling it "pasta salad," but my dad insists that we first use the enormous jar of four-bean salad they picked up at Costco in the early eighties. It says "sell by" a few months ago, so it's probably fine.

Unfortunately I can't say the same for the twenty swollen cans of tomato paste I rescued us from a couple of weeks ago. Or the three expired bottles of teriyaki sauce. Or the fifteen cans of water chestnuts. Or the much-regretted mesquite barbecue sauce I had to put in the toss pile. Of course, all this is after my mom did her round of expired-food elimination.

But now that that's mostly over with—and I scored a haul of gourmet hot chocolates for myself and my Cocoa-motion—I feel a bit out of my depth in food experiments. This afternoon's bittersweet chocolate and sweetened condensed milk fudge, which now looks like a pecan-encrusted cow pie coagulating in the fridge, may put a stop to these little endeavors. We'll see if it's pie-worthy or better as cow chips for a fire (pardon the obscure old-westerny reference; I've been watching Firefly).

What I'm really saying is this: Here lies my diet. It was a good diet, and we had some magical times together. I'll take a part of it with me for the rest of my life. Right now, however, it's time to start on that next quiche.

This Post May Cause Birth Defects

2009-08-14T20:04:00.007-06:00

Don't read this if you're pregnant. It will only make you more irritable than you already are. Symptoms will include not wanting to talk to me for the rest of your life. That said, this post is for you.

I realize you're huge and miserable. You've likely spent at least some time vomiting over the past few months. You're uncomfortable with your swollen feet and arms and neck and whatever else. I also realize you're full of hormones that make you irrationally angry or sad sometimes. I am more familiar with that condition than I'd like to admit.

And yet, with all of your sufferings, I still can't let go of the fact that some of you constantly whine about your condition. First of all, who decided to get you knocked up? I'd vote for the person who stopped taking your birth control pills. For you "accidental pregnancy" people, just keep reading.

Second-of-ly, what's with all the smugness? Back me up Garfunkel and Oates:

Third, I'd like to remind you that you're carrying a little tiny human being in your abdomen. This is your chance to get massively fat and have the whole world think you're the cutest, most special thing in the entire world. You are all massive a-holes for not believing them and being happy about it. Stop complaining about gaining weight. It happens when you have a miraculous little being growing in your miraculous little uterus.

Think of the alternative. Plenty of us ladies grow to gargantuan proportions from hormones or whatever without the amazingly wonderful excuse of having a baby on the way. We just blow up and get no screaming pooping prize out of it. If you think we're lucky about the no-prize thing, think again.

People pay thousands of dollars to get just as fat, nauseated, bloated, and miserable as you are. When you've been through hell just to get pregnant, then you can complain. Until then, please shut up about how every comment anyone makes about your pregnancy bothers you so.

Get over your swollen feet. Be thankful for such a wondrous source of belly fat. You can get all whiny when you've already given birth and are still all fat. What I'm saying is that you're so freaking lucky I refuse to hear one more complaint out of your prenatal-vitamin-eating mouths. It's like rich people complaining that their duck is slightly overdone.

Just be glad you have a freaking duck.

On a side note, April told me recently that she could tell what week of my cycle I was on by the tone of my posts. Yes April, this is week three. Except I don't get a hormone break in another while, because I just have to add more hormones. This blog may become completely unreadable. In fact, the local authorities may want to preemptively lock me up. And I haven't even started on the injections yet.

Shock Class

2009-08-10T16:47:00.003-06:00

At Doctor Foulk's clinic in Boise, when they're about to give you bad news, they take you into a "shock class." There's no machinery in there, just a table and chairs, lots of pamphlets, and tissue. It's where they brought me to see my positive OPK when I really didn't want one. When I called the clinic today to get some scheduling out of the way, they told me the woman I was trying to contact was in a shock class with a patient. I realized then that if they ever take me into that room again, I'll probably start bawling before I even cross the threshold. It's not a happy place.

I prefer the little ORs and ultrasound rooms where bad news at least comes with the distraction of a visual aid or a good amount of pain/drugs. In fact, in my care plan I think I want to ask them to make sure all bad news is delivered when I'm in a semi-conscious or extremely distracted state.

But at least in shock class, they do things like my old boss Derrin. He was an excellent leader and motivator, especially in how he dealt with criticism. He'd drop the bad news, make sure it's understood and gets fixed, then keep you moving to the next thing. It's like how Cesar Millan, the dog whisperer, deals with fearful dogs: he helps them deal with the things they're afraid of while he keeps them moving to stop their brains from dwelling on the fear.

I think Derrin, Cesar, and the ICRM can teach us all a lesson about delivering bad news, discipline, or criticism. Make sure your patient, dog, employee, child, or whatever gets the message, and then move their mind on to the next thing. When you don't, they just get to spend the next hours or days stressing about the criticism. When you let them do that, you're essentially keeping them from moving forward.

In the same vein, we can all move ourselves forward. We have to. But there's no time when it's wrong to help someone else do the same. It's easy to remember to take the bad with the good, but sometimes harder to take the good with the bad.

I could dwell on what I heard in that shock class and from other doctors for the following weeks: that my delicate hormonal balance (or, more accurately, imbalance) makes me a bad candidate for anything but IVF. Or I could just move forward and do what I've got to do. Sign up. Take the tests. Complete the prep. Take the stupid pills.

Sure, I have nightmares about injecting myself with scary hormones. Yes, I'm terrified of what the future will bring. Of course I hate the fact that this is costing me huge amounts of money when other people do it for free (even by accident) all the flipping time. That's the bad. I understand that and I'm acting accordingly. Next step? The good. I might get pregnant. I have an awesome husband who's supporting every step I take. I'm learning to stand up to the crappy stuff. I have projects to do.

Okay, so I'll face needles on a daily basis for almost two weeks, but that won't stop me from following them with a big hug, some website work, and a classic pat on the back.

Bucket List

2009-08-08T11:07:00.004-06:00

I've been doing some cursory internet research on things pregnant ladies can't do, and I'm starting to think that maybe my list wasn't such a good idea. In fact, if I just picked everything off of the "no" list for preggos, I would probably spend most of the rest of the year with my head in a bucket anyway.

For instance, not being pregnant gives me the distinctive pleasure of getting totally plastered in a field full of ticks, and then having my designated driver take me to Petsmart, where I could then rub my face on all of their reptiles and come into contact with cat feces. I am also now allowed to pour raw seafood down my throat and eat contaminated fish.

But seriously, I am rather concerned about the prospect of going nine months without hotdogs, brie, smoked salmon, and Dr. Pepper. I will indeed be laying on my stomach at every opportunity. I am, at this very moment, trying to devise a way to combine all of these activities at once that doesn't make my stomach turn. Maybe I'll just stick to a schedule of each of these things in turn: Costco hotdogs with Dr. P for lunch, afternoon tummy time with a snack of bread and brie, and smoked salmon sushi for dinner. I'll rub my face on reptiles alternating days. I will leave the cat feces to my loving husband.

By the way, Lisa, your comment reminded me of a very important video:

Thanks for that.

Yams as Birth Control?

2009-08-07T16:29:00.003-06:00

So we're done with all of the preparation for IVF. All of the tests are completed, and with much outpouring of bodily fluids, they're confident we are free of HIV, Hepatitis, and all manner of icky diseases, and we're allowed to procreate. Hurrah!

Also, after a fun adventure involving Doctor Foulk with a flashlight strapped to his forehead, a nurse with what looked like the scariest water gun ever, and me on the ever-more-familiar ultrasound table, we all discovered that my uterus has a septum and, from some angles of ultrasound, looks a bit like an angry koala bear.

Once the scheduling is complete, all that's left is to actually go through some medications likely to swell my belly again and then do the procedures of removing and replacing cells. I saw a picture of an embryo at the doctor's office yesterday, and it's amazing to think that babies come from microscopic bundles of cells like that.

I'm starting to feel like it's a countdown to pregnancy. Frankly, it's terrifying. Of course I want to be a parent, but let's face it, it's not something you can ever change your mind about if you don't like it. It's the toughest job with the hugest impact on society. Who wouldn't be terrified at the prospect?

Probably the type of person who thinks yam pills will be an effective form of birth control. Did you know that was a thing? Yikes. Then again, it's always a comfort to know that complete idiots become parents too, and they seem to survive okay. Some of their kids grow up to be prominent politicians, I think—in fact, yam birth control may be the most prolific source of politicians.

Anyway, with pregnancy impending come September (possibly some months later, since these things are never definite), I feel like this is the time to sow my wild oats. I did the whole Europe thing earlier, and I'm in the hole for money, but this is my chance to live before I face the frighteningly heightened chance of twins that comes with IVF. What do I do?

I suppose I should make a bucket list. You know, of things I want to do before I start having to carry around a bucket to accommodate the regular need to vomit. I just don't know what to put on it. Help, guys. What cheap-as-free things did you wish you'd done before getting all knocked up?

I have a month or so until I start the craziest part of this (where I go to Boise and see my doctor every day for like a week), and probably two months before I get a solid positive on pregnancy. If the procedure is a success, there's about a 50/50 chance of twins. Looking at the pictures on the NCRM walls, I nearly panicked at the proportion of adorable twin photos. Of course, two for one would be a plus in some ways, except that I'd likely lose it entirely and turn this whole thing into some kind of sickening fairy-tale mommy blog.

Anyway, my time is short. Or it has about a 60% chance of being short (for women under 35). The nurses at the ICRM estimate a higher percentage because of my youth. So my time is probably short. I've lost the weight I wanted to, traveled far enough for my tastes, and eaten dangerously raw foods. I've experimented with my hair and settled on a practical style. I've almost got my WOW hunter up to 80. What last adventures should I choose before I have teeny-tiny beginnings of babies inserted into my uterus?