Sometimes I surprise myself.

I'm sitting here, at home, in my damp-for-hours running clothes (including mismatched socks) and the dirty-looking from use bathrobe that I gave B before we were married (which I subsequently stole for myself because it was soft and he didn't wear it enough to satisfy me). I've had five cookies and just finished a soul-gratifying cleaning sweep around the downstairs---which included unloading the dishwasher, reloading the dishwasher, spritzing of counter cleaner, and putting back together TM's playground (aka, our couch)---during which time I daydreamed about what kinds of fresh flowers I could put in MeMe's room tomorrow and is she allergic to any flowers?

None of this is surprising.

About an hour ago I got a call from B, who is out on a pub crawl with our neighbor (who turns 40 tonight) and his wife and friends. There is pretty much no way I am going to be convinced to go on a pub crawl with anyone ever, first. I'm fairly certain there was no discussion about this when the invitation arrived. It was assumed that B would take one for the team (ha) and represent the family in the best way possible. There was a shuttle bus involved. I don't do shuttle buses or anything, really, that requires I give up my right to leave a location as soon as I feel it fit (that's just the truth). When he left tonight, I told him to be careful and please call me if you need me, PLEASE.

In other news, tonight is fabulous. I've gotten work done for the next two days, I'm listening to my iPod while I clean, and I'm obsessively adding images to my Home blog. I get to take a hot shower and crawl in bed early to finish Jane Eyre. I am the anti-sexpot.

Anyway, when he called I could hear all of these people in the background, laughing and shouting and---dare I say---having a good time. I pictured a bunch of hungry cougars breathing lasciviously into the thick hair that he's trying to grow back into a ponytail, whispering and cackling about things that maybe I should be whispering and cackling about (if I wore that much perfume and was a total, uh, nevermind). They don't even know that he can't hear in one ear or that he needs to read every night or else he can't fall asleep. And he doesn't even know what they're up to!

Anyway, that makes my stomach turn a little because, well, maybe I should be the kind of wife who leaves her three year old in bed at home and hits up the bars until the wee hours, sleeping in the next morning and shouting at her kid in secondhand smoker's hack.

***I could have turned out this way. In DC, I left work early to drink beer and throw darts with him, but doesn't everyone there do that? Who can drink beer in the afternoon when you have to be responsible for PEOPLE and DOGS and HOUSES? The only way to drink these days, obviously, is to only have one glass of wine or drink a ginormous glass of water in between, before, and after glass(es).

(sneer)

This feeling is interesting.

Sometimes I surprise myself.

Anyone for a cup of crazy tea? I have plenty.

Finding the place of common interest.

Something I'm good at: Finding my unique place of common interest in a conversation.

Lately, my unique common place tends to revolve around babies, having babies, growing babies, adopting babies, child welfare, raising an only child, age spacing, infertility, abnormal bleeding (of any kind), cycles, temperatures, prenatal vitamins, postpartum issues, pregnancy cravings, etc.

I'm flexible. We don't have to talk about my infertility issues. We can talk about how 20 months is your favorite age or how seeing your 3-yr-old swim by himself brings tears to your eyes. You can tell me about how you secretly want a baby but that your husband isn't quite there yet (you know who you are). We can talk about your fertility history or mine, your mother's issues getting pregnant and how that has affected your journey. We can talk about what we like and dislike about our OBs and how hard that first year is. Or how I am a twin and how I'd rather not have three children. Or how when I see a baby, I instantly fall in love and need to smell it's head. Whatever.

Really, I'm looking for someone who can relate to what I'm going through, which isn't all bad. I've made some great connections with people on this journey and discovered that more people than I had previously thought have dealt with the similar issues of wanting and planning, of disappointment and healing.

Last night, I sat beside a woman at one of TM's activities who had conceived both of her children through multiple IVF cycles after having zero success in getting pregnant (for some time). I discovered this when she asked if TM was my "only," which, for some reason, I am not able to answer with a simple yes. I find myself justifying. We've been trying for over a year, yada yada yada.

Oh, she said. We went through that, too. God. That's hard.

Yeah, sure is! And my ectopic sure sucked. But she's pretty super. So there's that. And when she's a bit older, she can help me change poopy diapers.

Sure she can, she said. Can I ask you something?

Sure.

How long did you nurse her?

Two years, I replied.

REALLY? I always feel like I have to lie when people ask me if I am still nursing my 1.5 year old.

Oh, no. Not to me! I held onto that time as long as I could.

That's so good to know.

And, thus, a friendship was born.

Yay.

This is my friend.

He currently resides in the park by my house and I love him a whole darned ton.

More Than I Can Take

My days are sometimes fractured, divided into one hour segments of specific activities that have no correlation to one another. It can be exhausting. Wednesdays are pretty painful and they start on Tuesday nights, when I realize I have to go to bed extra early to wake up in time to get ready for my morning class (which is 30 minutes from home).

I don't even snuggle TM on Wednesday mornings---I'm up at 6, showered, and out the door before 7 am. Today, I heard her little pitter pattering feet on the way over to my side of the bed, where she usually climbs in with her assortment of stuffed animals and we, together (and warmly), begin our day. This morning, I walked out the door as I heard her cry for me, off to my job which requires I sit (off and on, but mostly on) for 7 hours.

(And I like my job, just so you know. It feels better to get the demons out.)

Class starts at 8 and last for 2.5 hours. Mornings are not my best time anyway and I prefer to spend them in the comfort of my super-comfy bed with my family and dog. It's hard for me to sit for that period of time without lapsing into sleepy mode. That being said, my classes are interesting. The conversation is good and we all have similar interests in our helping profession.

The problem starts, though, when we do not get an on-time break and (then) it is cut to 5 minutes from 10. This drives me crazy. I am a break-taker. Period. There are two kinds of people, no? I like breaks. I'll participate, I'll be engaged, I'll remember things. But I need a bathroom break and I need more coffee. And when the time comes for class to be over and we're held 10 minutes too long? I have 5 minutes to do all of the things I need to do (check email, cell phone, get to bathroom again, STAND UP) before my next meeting at 10:30.

It makes me feel like:

At 10:20, I sit and listen to colleagues (different each week) present cases they are working on. It's often the case that, in a period of 1.25 hours, they do all of the talking and the audience (usually me and about 20 others) listens. Since every presenter is equally important and everyone needs to be heard, we always run over about 10 minutes. Again, I have 5 minutes to do all of the things I need to do (check email, cell phone, get to bathroom again, STAND UP) before my next meeting at 12:00.

At 12:00, we have a micro-meeting about clients with which we require feedback. A lot of listening, some presenting, eating lunch (a major highlight). More sitting, though, and the building since of anxiety as I realize I have been sitting, focused and listening, for 4.5 hours. We always run over here, so much so, in fact, that there is no time at all to do the things I need to do before MY NEXT MEETING at 1:00.

At 1:00 I have group supervision, where someone in my group presents another case with which they require feedback. See above. And above. And above. At this point, I am fidgety and nervous and just so danged tired of sitting and listening that I find it hard to be patient. There's a woman who rambles on and on every week more than just a bit and we always, always, always run over in our group supervision.

When I finish there, I race downstairs to my office, where I finish my other work before picking up TM at preschool by 3:30 PM. When I pick her up on Wednesdays, she's pitiful because I don't have her yogurt tube for snack and I curse myself every week for not having planned ahead to make that possible.

Egad.

Am stumped.

1. How can one argue effectively with a person who claims that climate change is a lie? I seriously don't get it.

2. When you schedule a counseling appointment for your angry, rebellious 14-yr-old and you don't bother to bring her to the appt., what's up with you?

3. There's a lone coyote in our the park with whom I have fallen in love. I've almost wrecked the car five times to catch a glimpse of him. What's going to happen to him?

4. These were left at my house by Ladd, who has returned to Ecuador. Clearly recyclables.

It worked.

The Provera?

To induce the Big P?

Good LORD.

I am a giant water balloon with sore legs.

It's like I'm having my first period ever after having a 20 year long cycle.

I wanted a milkshake and it is 20 degrees out.

This is no joke. I am wearing my slippers and having safe guests over for Thai takeout.

Sorry for the TMI, folks, but this is the reality.

When I went to pick up TM from preschool, I had a momentary freakout of the seventh grade variety, when you were convinced there was blood on your pants just because? I tied my jacket around my waist and looked freaking hilarious.

If I hadn't had my new long peacoat, I wouldn't even have gone to the Science Center this afternoon.

It hurts to brush my hair.

I'm drinking a beer just to help ease the pain.

Positive reframe:

Day one of the next cycle.

I'll have to tell B when he gets home from our new town that he's 'bout to be real darn tired again (in a few days, when I've lost 15 el beez).

Yay.

In the meantime, Righton sent me this link. Go forth and comment on this beauty.

In which I showcase my mad origami skillz.

First things first: Last night I had a dream in which I was friends with Angelina Jolie. Let me tell you: She's much funner in person than you'd think! And who knew she was once married to my uncle?

Is it the Provera?

This morning, 9:30 AM, I took my mad origami skillz to TM's preschool, where I juggled 20 bouncing, babbling 3-yr-olds (one little boy whose p*nis kept making surprise cameo appearances, dearlord).

Armed with 30 copies of the instructions for the Simple Penguin (anything but), 200 sheets of brightly colored paper, and my origami books, I soldiered into the little building and into my own tiny corner of the room, where I was immediately accosted by 15 little people with IDEAS! and PLANS! and FAVORITE COLORS!

CAN I MAKE A DOG? CAN I MAKE A RAINBOW DOG? CAN I MAKE A CAT AND DOG? I WANT A BLACK AND WHITE CAT! WHAT ABOUT A GIRAFFE? YEAH! I WANT A RAINBOW. I WANT A PIG! I WANT A PINK PIG!

Tears were shed.

Originally, I had set out to do a presentation of sorts. I'd laminate some pictures of wicked cool origami like this, then I'd hold it up, talk about how awesome it was, and do something much simpler (and within my skillz set). I thought I'd incorporate a bit of history, something like, I bet you thought origami comes from Japan, right? Well, guess what!? It may have come from China. Can you believe it?

I worried a bit about how I would incorporate the kids into the presentation, knowing full well they have shorter attention spans and a need to be involved. I decided not to have them make their own origami when I googled origami for preschoolers and one of the first things I found was how that was only for the insane parent.

B and Ladd, who's here from Quito, were all Why are you so worried about visiting a preschool?

Ahem. Guess those boys have never faced the WRATH, the utter directness, of a disappointed preschooler. I can't do this! This is too hard! Why can't you make a dog? I don't wanna make a duck! This is my daughter's school we're talking about. Her (my?) pride is at stake here!

Anyway, I didn't want to let her (me) down.

As is often the case, my plans were thwarted and, together, the kids and I set about restructuring the morning to better fit our needs. Attempting to have them sit still and back a bit, please, was akin to training lions to think patient thoughts while I dangle, immediately in front of their faces, giant, bloody pieces of steak.

After I had spent the morning at Starbucks putting together a rainbow family of penguins, I watched two of the baby penguins be destroyed and refurbished as early-model airplanes.

When your mom comes to school, you are in charge. As such, TM was also my boss, and she set about telling the other kids to be quiet, that My mom isn't going to make that, and, of course, directing me to answer the questions of those whose valentines had best suited her highly developed aesthetic (bigger really is better).

At some point, I realized my boss was gone, nowhere to be found. She'd lost interest in my interest in helping the other children and my repeated attempts at asking her to not stand on my lap and moved onto another activity. Her friends stayed, though, and I helped no fewer than 14 of them make their very own origami sparrows. Results varied. When it was time for me to leave, all of the children insisted upon giving me hugs (wonderful!) and said, THANK YOU, TM'S MOM! I thought she would have been so proud, but she was nowhere close---off with another teacher working on her music. When I went to say goodbye and see you this afternoon, I think she was a bit annoyed I had interrupted her.

WHATEVER, SISTER.

It went well. I was exhausted. I came home and quieted my nerves with a giant piece of chocolate-y marshmallow heart. Yum.

Wordless Wednesday: Olympics 2022, The Future

Grateful

Today, I'm really grateful for my doctor's office because when I call (and press the #2), I am instantly connected to a nurse. I love that.

I'm also grateful for the softness and warmth of TM. Sometimes I think I can actually be persuaded to let her stay home from preschool just so we can snuggle. Is there really anything better than a little person who---like a pillow---molds themselves to your body and allows you an hour more of sleep? I love it. When does that stop? I remember my friend Erin snuggled with her mom into high school. I think if I had tried that with my mom we would have ended up in therapy.

I'm grateful, too, for the Heavenly Hash B got for me for Valentine's Day. If you hold out your hand and fan your fingers, you can still add two inches in every direction to gauge the size of the chocolate heart. I am three pounds heavier.

Might As Well Jump!

Might as well jump. Jump!

Go ahead, jump.

Get it and jump. Jump!

Go ahead, jump

Jump! Jump! Jump! Jump!

Also, thanks Van Halen.

Made my appointment with a Reproductive Endocrinologist.

And could not be happier, unless the appointment was three weeks sooner. There's a lot to do in the meantime---I've got to have my charts sent from my OB's office, fill out questionnaires, make an appointment with her secretary to discuss some of my particulars, consult with Dr. Google, etc.

This woman is amazing. When the receptionist asked me if I had a preference for whom I meet with, she mentioned that Dr. Moley is worth the wait.

I am thrilled! I have so many questions about what has been happening and, to be honest, have been really down in the dumps about my unpredictable cycles and the fact that I even had an ectopic pregnancy. Why? My mind does that wandering thing where I end up freaking out over whether or not I could have undiagnosed PCOS or Pelvic Inflammatory Disease.

And if I didn't ovulate, why not? Maybe it's nothing, but maybe it's something. And that I have made this decision to pursue a higher level of care makes me want to take myself out to ice cream.

You do the same.

Provera and the Big P

*Sigh*

I told B last night that I better hurry up and get pregnant or else I'ma kick this puppy into high gear. He was not particularly amused, seeing as how that somehow means that my current state of anxiety is not what I call high gear and that taking a pregnancy test every morning is not, in fact, excessive.

Two days ago I left a message with my doctor's nurse (again!) about the fact that I was on day 43 of my (normally) 37-day cycle. I also told her that I had positive OPKs a week apart and that this has never happened before.

Today, day 45, she called me back with the news that, actually, I probably hadn't ovulated----and it's curious that your OPKs were positive---and that, after a week, we're going to start me on Provera.

What's Provera?, I asked, thinking that after this amount of time spent spooning Dr. Google at night that there just couldn't be something that hadn't already occurred to me as a means of getting pregnant.

It will induce your period. You take it once a day for ten days, then you have a period. Hopefully, it will kick start you back into your regular cycles, she said.

My first thought was, Dang. I thought it would help me get pregnant. And I guess it will, in the long run, seeing as how you can't get pregnant when you aren't ovulating. But there's also this piece of me that craves some answers, and I've more than once considered making an appointment with a fertility specialist. The whole *10 days* approach does nothing for my anxiety and you can see why the nurse told me she'd promise to keep my file within arm's reach. Like I'm waiting 10 days to call back? There'll be another mini-emergency come Thursday, trust me.

I got to thinking about the whole idea of inducing a period and it made me think about a presentation I attended today that was given by a clinical psychologist who happily reported that her four-year-old was successfully on stimulant medication for what she feels is early dyslexia (he's now eight and still on meds).

She said, Do I care if he would have been dyslexic? No! He no longer shows any symptoms and is almost finished reading the second chapter of Harry Potter.

As she was speaking, my hair caught fire because my brain had exploded and I knew right then and there that I would *probably* never, under any circumstances, put my four-year-old on Adderall. And how when that's what you do, that's the kind of work that gives your life richness and meaning, the idea of it takes on an entirely different shape. And, really, it's not so much a criticism of this particular person or her experiences that I have, but more a fundamental belief system I hold that appreciates that what is wrong with many of us (again, my opinion) has to do with the structures and expectations of our society.

This is going somewhere. Promise.

So, I don't feel that way---anti-medication---about getting pregnant, notatall, though the idea of medically-inducing a period has a similar effect of frightening this otherwise-Agnostic heart. I mean, of all people, you think I'd be reasonably comfortable with the idea of doing what it takes to get pregnant. And I am. But my poor body has never felt so worn out from everything it's been through in the last six months and I just can't fathom normalcy in these medically-induced side effects:

Side effects may include:

Acne, anaphylaxis (life-threatening allergic reaction), blood clot in a vein, lungs, or brain, breakthrough bleeding (between menstrual periods), breast tenderness or sudden or excessive flow of milk, cervical erosion or changes in secretions, depression, excessive growth of hair, fever, fluid retention, hair loss, headache, hives, insomnia, itching, lack of menstruation, menstrual flow changes, spotting, nausea, rash, skin discoloration, sleepiness, weight gain or loss, yellowed eyes and skin

You feel me? A freaking blood clot? So over this.

Wordless Wednesday: My New Brick Street

We got the house!

Get down to the Maldives and make up for some lost time.

Or, WELCOME HOME, MISTER NICK!

We missed you.

Your lady friend

has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.

The things that were said about you while you were away:

Nick has a 'stache. It's something they do.

---and---

Where is he, Linds?

Uh....

You can't tell me, right?

Nope.

You think your phone is tapped?

Anyway, I got to thinking how probably CTU was totally listening to Lindsay's conversations about poop in cars and unemployment and how most likely Chloe and Jack Bauer are next in line for welcoming you home, seeing as how they are definitely getting all emails and Nick-related correspondence.

I am so glad you are home and safe. Rest, eat up, live a little. Get on down to the Maldives and make a baby, or, uh, sheesh.

(On that note, did you know pilots of your persuasion are more likely to have girls?)

Whatever---look at this view?

Kisses!

Heart Melted: First Year Series (One of Three)

Or, How I torture myself while TTC.

No word yet!

No word yet on the house.

SURPRISE!

This guy's playing it cool---

two days in on our

counter counter.

The fact remains.

It is in his best interest

to accept our

very generous

offer.

I've considered

calling him on the phone---

I found his number

easily

on Whitepages.com.

Hello, sir,

I'd say.

Let's talk.

What's it going to take

within reason,

'cuz I'm thinking of

moving into that house.

Let's talk.

By the way, sir,

your parents had impeccable taste.

You must love that house a lot.

And why not?

We're just so pleased

something like it is

on the market.

On the advice of others,

I may even bring daughters

into the picture.

He has three of them,

so they say.

Oh, daughters, sir.

How delightful they are!

And they grow up so fast,

don't they.

Like they say, sir,

sugar, spice, and everything nice!

Anyway,

if you know B

you know how he

bristled at this idea.

Frankly, NO!,

he said.

I was instantly transported back

to the beginning of our r'ship,

circa 2002,

when I had a very similar feeling about

playing the love game.

Shiver me timbers,

that was hard.

I just wanted him, you know?

Screw all of the pretend stuff.

There were so many rules

and, well, I've never been good at rules.

The urge then was to call, call, call.

Connect, connect, connect.

Breathe in the fresh scent of laundry

on his neck.

Thank GOD I had friends and family members

in such a time as that.

I usually didn't call,

thankyouverymuch.

I was pretty cool(ish).

And so I remain,

no calls yet logged

to this game player

slash

homeowner

slash (in my realtor's words)

"businessman."

Fingers crossed.

And day 43.

Saturday, what a nice day.

So, we put an offer in on the house. You know, the one with this tree?

Safe to say we want it.

It's been hard to separate emotion from business, here, as it always is when you've already consulted with a contractor about all of the changes you're planning to make.

He countered the offer---came down 6.5% from the asking price. Our original offer was a bit lower than that---low(er) enough so that I am having a hard time picturing this guy as anything more than an asshole with legs.

So, what do we do? I mean, other than consult Dr. Google about what to do with a counter offer when you're buying a home?

We set our price, in between the two, and said that's it.

Then what? What if, GULP!, he rejects the counter counter and we're left looking for something else that isn't nearly as cool. We may spend the next 30 years driving by that house, having the same kinds of thoughts that older couple had when Dr. Leo Marvin bought their dream home on Lake Winnepesaukee.

Finger crossed and lots of good energy and stuff directed to this man.

And the 39-day cycle? Now 41 days (and counting).

39-day cycles deserve a donkey kick in the teeth.

Let me tell you: There's nothing particularly funny about 39(ish) day cycles when you're trying to get pregnant.

And that's why 39-day cycles deserve a donkey kick in the teeth. Especially when you've also suffered through an ectopic pregnancy. Endless, people.

First, there's the extremely long wait (and subsequent neuroses) for the next cycle. You spend the first 18(ish) days twiddling your thumbs, cutting back on all things not fetus friendly, and planning for the impending sexual extravaganza of sorts (when you plan to spend a lot of time just trying to take in sperm and hope that it doesn't end up like that scene in Election, you know the one). Then, you're working and waiting. Then you're just waiting, especially if you have the flu and your spouse is kissing you goodnight on the cheek. At about day 34, your therapist tells you you aren't allowed to buy a pregnancy test for a week, OKAY? and you do anyway and feel only the slightest bit of guilt---it's negative. By the time day 38 rolls around, you're certifiably insane.

When your cycles are 39 days, your friends think you are either really, really stressed or a freak of nature because, ohmygod, who does that happen to? You spend a lot of time explaining to people that they just need to jump on board the Taking Charge of Your Fertility train, wherein the author explains that there really is not such thing as the normal cycle (thanks for the recommendation, Magpie). There's still a part of you that wonders, Is it really normal, though? I mean, if it isn't average? And if it provokes that kind of response?

There's also the monitoring and the expenses. The basal temperatures when your daughter wants nothing more than for you to get up RIGHTNOW! and get her yogurt. The ovulation predictor, when you try your hardest to test at exactly the same time every day but your crazy schedule just doesn't permit it---and this goes on for more than 3 weeks! The pregnancy test, when you hide it from your spouse because you don't want to tell him that you have spent at least (no lie, and an underestimate!) $500 in the last year on them.

Then there are the What should I NOT be doings? Which follow the Obviously I am doing something wrong here if I am not getting pregnant. Should he be eating cashews (Thanks, LC)? Should I not be drinking even one teeny tiny cup of coffee? If I run, will I hurt my chances? Should I cold-turkey my antidepressant again? And what about Sudafed for nasal congestion? And unpasteurized cheeses. Are those okay? And hot baths? And what happens when TM wants to warm her feet on my tummy? Can she not do that?

I just got off the phone with my doctor, who called in reference to a call I had made in reference to medications I should or should not be taking if (or if not) I am pregnant. I hadn't talked to her in a while because she was gone last fall when I was treated for my ectopic pregnancy. I thought she was in Ghana doing research, BUT OH NO!, she was home having her third baby in the same amount of time I've raised my little TM.

And long cycles make the wait to catch up to your OB so much harder, you know?

Anyway, here I am. Lost in my thoughts.

*Sigh*