Adoption Vs. IVF: Part 2

IVF

So what about IVF? What are the pros about IVF? Well, first of all, it’s cheaper than adoption. (Who knew?) And I hope that the first part of tome makes you realize that it’s not like there are dozens of adoptable children just hanging around waiting to be picked up. It’s a lot harder, expensive, time oppressive than it looks.

But IVF has very big risks, especially that it can fail. Adoption ALWAYS has a child at the end of the path. IVF does not. But with a successful IVF, I’d get to be pregnant again, and I’d be able to easily breastfeed. (Well, as easy as breastfeeding ever is. But still, it would be objectively be easier than adoption)

One big problem is that we don’t know where I fall in the IVF success risk. I get pregnant a lot more than the typical early 40ish woman. Am I more like a 35 year old? Will IVF be as successful for me as it would be for a 35 year old? And I’d like to point out that the rates are not all that encouraging, even for a 35 year old. But I honestly and truly do not think I’m a typical early 40’s woman.

That said, there is another option that we had originally thrown out: donor eggs. I originally felt that it was a very vain option: if I wanted donor eggs, then I must believe that I have to be pregnant to add to our family even if this child is not genetically related to me. On the other hand, if it is not important for me to have a genetic connection to my child, why wouldn’t I go ahead and adopt? That was my reasoning until we saw all this crap about how expensive adoption is and how fraught it is with failure.

And this IVF route is not as expensive as you’d think: $23,000 and the possibility of 6 fertilized eggs which could yield 2 or maybe 3 children! We could have a really big family! On a per child basis, it could be pretty cheap. Of course, daycare would set us back a bazillion dollars and we’d be 80 before everyone graduated from high school. (I’m kidding, folks!)

Of course, I’m being very positive in those statistics: It’s possible to only get 2 fertilized eggs and to have them not implant and then you are left with nothing for $23,000. That's a bad, bad thing. The current success rate is 60% at our clinic, but it all depends on how many fertilizable eggs the donor produces.

And then there’s the “issue” with donor eggs. I’m not supposed to let anyone know that we have even heard of it, much less considered it. It’s supposed to be a taboo subject that parents might want to (should?) keep this information away from their donor-egg children and even more so from the community around them. It might affect the children’s identity in the future, because they are not technically genetically related to their birth mother.

I would like to pause here for a moment and direct you to reread the beginning of this essay. I will even point to yesterday. A child who has gestated in his/her mother’s belly for 9 months is more susceptible to identity issues as a teenager and adult than the only black person in the family? More?!?!? Is that how “bad” IVF advocates think adoption is!?

I don’t get it. And I don’t get why women are so unwilling to talk about it. Women like Jane Seymour, Elizabeth Edwards, Joan Lunden, Holly Hunter and Geena Davis who appear to most likely have used egg donors to have their children. (In fact, pay the $2.95 and read the recent NY Times article yourself). How can IVF with egg donor be more identity shaking for the child than adoption? I think the real issue is the very high probability of being able to lie to child about his/her origins and get away with it. How can that sort of untruth ever be helpful? (For the 50% of you who have used donor eggs and are not going to tell, I do not judge you. I simply cannot keep my mouth shut for that long.)

The analogy I’ve heard about egg donation is that it’s sort of like a kidney donation or even bone marrow donation. Somebody had a need. Some other healthier person had extra. Once “it” leaves the donator for the donated, the donator has no claim on it again. This whole process has even spawned a new word: biogenetic child to distinguish that some children are both biologically and genetically related to their mother.

So there we are, people. You now know a lot of what I have learned in the past two months. (I should have entitled this “What I did on my summer vacation.”) That’s a boatload of information and I should get an A on this project. Nonetheless,

WE DON’T KNOW WHAT WE’RE GOING TO DO.

Ok? We don’t know if we’re going to adopt, if we’re going to choose IVF, or if we decide to choose IVF whether we’ll use donor eggs. WE DON’T KNOW. I hope that all of a sudden I just get pregnant “naturally” with a healthy child and save us about $20,000 in the cost of finishing up our family.

I also don’t know that if we decide to use donor eggs that we’ll tell you. As Dave and I have discussed, you can’t unring that bell. And if we, upon further discussion, see why we should keep this a big secret, we really don’t want the internets knowing about it.

We’ve had to wrestle with putting this out here (for the three of you who are still reading the end of this loooong essay) because if we do decide to do IVF regularly, that idea that they are donor eggs is now planted in your head.

But it bugs me to think that there’s some myth that egg donor children are more fragile than adoptees in their self image and identity issues. I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to put my (in my head) egg donor child’s ego over my (in my head) African-American adopted child’s ego because I see a boatload of advantages for identity/adjustment/ultimate self-concept for the (in my head) egg donor child. The weird thing is how feisty I get in thinking about defending that in-my-head adopted child. The adopted child could have real issues of abandonment and difference that the egg donor child will never, ever have.

So there. That is where we are in the process. We have a great deal of information spread in front of us and we’re going to have to make some decisions soon. This essay is probably more for us to help sort out our decisions than for you to follow. And it really does help for us to get it out.

We have some time to make all these decisions and hopefully be surprised with a healthy pregnancy. Until then, we’re going to keep plodding along until we find that next child who is supposed to be in our family, whoever he or she is.

Adoption Vs. IVF: Part 1

Adoption

Ok. Grab a cup of coffee because you might be here a while.

Last year, after the second miscarriage we started looking into international adoption as the way we’d build our family. Dave and I had often talked about adoption even when we were just dating thinking that we might be too old to get pregnant. That’s why when we got pregnant with Conor so quickly, it was a surprise.

So it was even more of a surprise was how much resistance I felt within myself when we started looking into international adoption. I know that international adoption is the preferred way for most American couples these days, but it, at least at that point, was not the path that was right for us to take.

Why? Breastfeeding. A very big part of my conception of myself as a mother involves breastfeeding and the bond that Conor and I have developed through my being able to feed him with my body. It would bother me tremendously if our second child did not get a chance to bond with me in that way.

Also, I know I’m not a developmental psychologist. Nonetheless, it concerns me what could happen (or not) in the first year (or two!) or so of a child’s life before we adopted him or her. Children are incredibly resilient. But our understanding is that many international adoptions occur with children at least a year old and often, you’ll be assigned your child and then still have to wait 6 months until you can go get him/her. With the likelihood high of me causing an international incident trying to hurry the process along, It just doesn’t feel like that’s the right path for us.

So, we put adoption on hold misguidedly thinking that we were too old for domestic adoption. Then we found out we were not too old and were thrilled to hear that people “our age” could domestically adopt infants.

Yes, most domestic adoptions are with infants, and the adoptive parents often take the child home with them from the hospital and sometimes are even in the birthing room with the biological mother. WOW! An infant that would come home with us within a few days of his/her birth! And we could breastfeed!! It’s not easy, but it’s certainly possible.

Also, it was crystal clear to us early in considering a domestic adoption that the child’s ethnicity did not matter to us at all. In fact, we were quite open to what is known as “transracial” adoption as well as biracial adoption. We don’t need for our adopted child to look like us. This helps the adoption process a lot. For one thing, it also makes the process much more likely to go quickly. By saying we’re open to all healthy children, we have many more opportunities to find our child.

However, there are still issues.

First, mothers change their minds. The process for domestic adoptions is that biological mothers look through the profiles (i.e., photograph albums) of a range of prospective parents working with an agency. Then she picks the family who could be the parents of her child. The adoptive parents and the bio mom most often meet and decide to proceed with the adoption. However, the bio mom has every right in the world to change her mind. And after birth, 20 to 50% of them do. (As a statistician, it bugs me that the agencies can’t give us exact numbers. It’s an objective data point: either the adoption placement did or did not occur. How many did not occur out of the total number of adoption processes that started? Easy peasy, folks.)

Second, it takes a long time. Catholic Social Services has quoted us at least a year for a healthy non-Caucasian child and well over 2 years for a healthy Caucasian child. A Child’s Hope in NC has suggested that it’s 6-12 months for an African American or an African American biracial child and well over a year for a Caucasian, Latino, or Asian American child. Adoption consultants, charging $2500 to represent you to up to 30 or 40 agencies around the country, can shorten the time for placement with some guaranteeing placement in less than a year. But we discovered that they tend to work for the most expensive agencies, and we just don’t have that kind of money. (We’ll talk about why we have ruled out foster care adoption at this point in our search in another blog)

So that takes us to drawback number 3: Money. Before I quote numbers, remember that in the US, you can take $10000 off your taxes the year you adopt. And this is right off your taxes, so it’s essentially a refund from the government for the adoption. Catholic Social Services (CSS) charges $12,500 for any and all adoptions. That is an appealing option. A Child’s Hope charges (I think) about $13,000 for an African American adoption, $15,000 for an African-American Biracial adoption and $23,000 for everyone else. (Does that information bother you? It should.) The agencies the consultants work with start at $23,000 for African-American adoptions and go on up to at least $35K to $50K for Caucasian adoptions. There can be additional charges for the mother’s living expenses and searching for the father to give up his rights for all of the agencies except CSS.

So CSS seems like a good option, no? It certainly does to us. They are also one of the few agencies that do not make you pay half the money up front and then the other half when/if you get the baby. CSS only has you pay upon placement of the baby. The problem is that it’s just no way of knowing how long it will be until we have a child placed with us. (6 months? 2 years??)

And I haven’t even started to address that adoption causes for the children of same ethnicity adoptions (e.g., abandonment) much less transracial adoptions (e.g., identity, feelings of difference) reported by adult transracial adoptees . There are no insurmountable issues involved here. It is clear to us that we would not back away from adoption because of these issues. In fact, we want to arm ourselves and protect our child from having to deal with this.

But in any case the adoptive family needs to take many extra, important steps to make sure they don’t screw it up. I’d argue this is even more an issue when there is already a biological child in the family. (A strike against us, btw, in having a bio mom choose us)

There is humor in this, as always. The funniest thing I’ve heard is that an advantage for transracial adoptees occurs when they are teenagers and their parents start acting like parents of teenagers do all the time: embarrassing their poor children. Transracial adoptees can act like they have no idea who those old embarrassing farts are and can generally get away with it! I think that’s a hoot!

So now you know what we know about adoption and what we perceive are the big pros and cons for us.

Tomorrow, we’ll present the IVF issues.

Anita Talks

Charlotteans: If you are in the local area today, I'm going to be on WFAE's Charlotte Talks discussing cocooning--how people use technology to stay at home and its effect on the community.

I'm a wee bit nervous. I think you'll also be able to listen on the archives later. But if I sound like a doof, I'm going to remove that link!

UPDATED: I only sounded like an idiot part of the time. The rest, I think I sounded only doofy. I now understand, in some small way, why actors never want to see themselves on screen.

Show Off

On Friday, at daycare, Conor's teachers told us that they lined up the children, who still range in their skills, to go potty.

Conor was the last one in line. He sat a little longer than the others and pooped. Still being very, very proud of himself, he hopped off and announced to his classmates:

"That's how you do it, Warren*!"

*Name changed to protect the poopless.

Well, Isn't That a Kick in the Head

We've got to teach our son some bed sharing manners. Although we do have many nights when he stays in his own bed all night long, if he has a bad dream, it's a hop, skip, and a jump to the big bed where he can sleep in the middle.

And we really don't mind. How could you possibly mind when dawn rolls around and he sighs "I want Mommy" and tucks his head under my neck, puts his arm over my ribs and gives me a little kiss.

That is awfully cute, no?

It's the bad dreams ("No, Wyatt! No!!" was last night's talking in his sleep) and the general rusting that is irritating. He wiggles, he twirls, and he kicks. Usually right in the ol' kidney.

I don't like waking up to being kicked in my kidney. It is not something I enjoy. In fact, I think the kidney kicking ended up in some dream of mine while I was in a HUMONGOUS condo in Manhatten (like several thousand square feet) that needed just a little work but was a bargain pricewise. I figured out why it was so cheap when I had to fight off the vampires who were going after Conor and me. (I've had a fantasy lately of being a Vampire Slayer. Think about it: don't you think Buffy and Willow could have helped out in the fight against Voldemort and the Death Eaters?)

Anyhoo, a vampire was kicking me in the back at some point when in reality is was only my favorite cling-on Conor.

We've taken to mumbling in our sleep "Stop kicking! Stop twirling! Don't hit me in the head!"

Eventually he won't sleep with us nor kiss us when we make him "pay the troll" when he leaves the dinner table. It will all end and then we'll be left with just memories of his toddler snuggles at dawn in the big bed. And damaged kidneys.

One Thing Leads to Another

So we've been busy over here at the Mother Thing household recently, doing "things" behind the scenes. You may recall that last year, Dave and I did a small remodel on the "master" bathroom. Basically, we painted, bought some new shower curtains and hung a lovely over the toilet medicine cabinet. It was very pretty, as I have to say is evident in this picture.

However, we still had the ugly cheap vanity from one or two owners ago. But we figured we could live with that.

More importantly, though, we did NOT replace the bathtub determining that it would be too expensive. Why replace the bathtub? Well, just take a look.

And that picture only hints at the lovely green seafoam tiles that were also beginning to lose their white expoxy coating. Yes, the bathroom looked nice until one opened the shower curtain and saw the hideous green and pink colors the original owners put there. Because they were 1) cheap and 2) color blind. The screams from our guests who used this bathroom were deafening. And somewhat amusing because the bathroom looked so nice from the outside.

Hating this tub with a passion and knowing that if we ever sold it, buyers would demand a boatload of money off the asking price, we did a full bathroom remodel last month.

Yes, I do mean full. We hired contractors to gut the room and take away that hideous tub and tile wall. Then we installed a new tub, subway tiling on the walls, and a transparent door on the bathtub, a trick we learned from This Old House to make a small bathroom look bigger. (There is no longer a curtain to stop the line-of-sight, dontcha know).

We also got a new toilet and vanity with enough storage that I have moved out of the Bathroom formerly known as BUB (Butt Ugly Bathroom) and into our new Grown Up Bathroom.

Oh. My. Lord.

There is space. And light. And storage. I have a drawer to put my make up in for the first time since my last undergraduate apartment. I am so thrilled! And really, I feel like a grown up! I never realized how much influence my bathroom had on my self-image, but clearly, there's a relationship!

Of course, as part of remodeling the bathroom, we moved the futon out of the den to the office, moved my old sofa from the living room to the den and then had to buy a new sofa for the living room that just arrived yesterday. We also completely reorganized our kitchen cabinets as a convoluted outcome of the bathroom remodel.

So I guess chaos theory in our case means "If a butterfly flaps its wings in our bathroom, I will get a new sofa."

Oh, and IVF is back on the table. More about that later.

Harry Potter

I have no spoilers and I will blog no spoilers.

Nonetheless, I am VERY EXCITED to receive our Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows book on Saturday. I'm honestly thinking about Harry et al a great deal lately. I just finished book 6 again, and have redigested the shock that that books ending.

One, I think that Snape is not nearly as bad as we think he is (although he does suck loudly right now). I also think we are going to find a previously unknown relationship of Snape to Lilly Potter that will explain a great deal.

Two, I don't think Harry is going to die. That's just too mean for what is still essentially a children's book. Remember, Harry ain't Tony Soprano.

Three, I anticipate rereading the whole series of books at least one more time in the next few years. Rereading them does highlight some of the flaws. But then it also shows JK Rowling's genius on occasion, too.

And I'm sure few of you out there were watching Dr. Who last Friday night and got all the references to the Harry Potter series. You just cannot possibly be as geeky as we are. Nonetheless, the witches looked like dementors. And Expeliarmus was the final word that sent the witches back to their own universe. Dave and I thought that was hysterical.

After I finish the book, I'll post it on the blog so that others who want to discuss it but don't want to be a spoiler can email and we can rant and rave about everything that happened.

I can't wait!

Meditation Fatigue

Yesterday, during my morning meditation, I tried a new practice focusing on mindfulness, that is, becoming aware of the state of oneself. During this practice, one starts first by focusing in one's sensations and perceptions from the 5 senses: what sitting feels like, what you hear, what you taste, etc. Then after mastering that practice, you move to focusing on what one feels emotionally.

It's a good practice for just becoming aware. And I did have a mini-revelation when I realized that I hadn't noticed "hearing" the air conditioner, despite it being the loudest sound in the room, until it turned off.

But the more revealing part of the meditation came when I focused on what I was "feeling." The book suggests naming the emotions one encounters: joy, fear, anxiety, resentment, anger. (I suppose negative ones hang around more than positive ones)

So I sat there feeling inward and waiting to name my emotions.

"I feel tired."

Is that really an emotion? Stop talking! Listen to your breathing again.

"I feel tired. Really, really tired."

Stop it!

"Feeling tired."

"Tired"

Breathe. Listen to your breath.

"Still really tired."

So, I went to bed early last night.

Conor's Birthday Party

Yesterday was Conor's birthday party. I don't know how to narrate this blog except 1) the child is growing up way too fast and 2) I had a blast at it.

We were supposed to be outside and have a "wading pool" party, but a thunderstorm blew up and blew apart that plan. Fortunately, at this age, all (we think) the kids need for fun is someone else's toys. Of course, we may be entirely lame parents, but they seemed to have fun and they seemed to enjoy The Cake.

Yes, The Cake. I am most proud of The Cake I made. Indeed, see the picture below.

I made that! And I'm not crafty at all!! It's supposed to be a Curious George cake, if you must ask. But nonetheless, it's at least a good monkey! I used a Wilton Animal Crackers Cake Pan and moved the bear's ears to make a monkey. (Cake evolution theory at its finest)

Have I told you of Conor's love of Curious George? That every night we have to tell him stories about Conor and Curious George? And they have to begin with "Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Conor who had pretty curly hair" and then quickly move on to how he and Curious George went golfing, played at the beach or built a tree house? Conor's cousin speaks daily about how he and Conor had fun when they visited over Thanksgiving. And our poor son is obsessed with a cartoon creatue.

In any case, it helped us figure out this year's birthday theme.

Not everyone in the house is a fan o' CG. I love how Patches is trying to tattletale on this toy (Curious George on a firetruck).

Oh, Just Lots of Things

We had another "event" this month. I will probably refer to this as the Month Where I Used A Gazillion HPTs. I took a test on Monday afternoon and got the faintest of faintest lines on my First Response Early Response (FRER) test. In case you were wondering, that was 9 dpo, so it was very early and certainly reasonable to have a faint line.

However the next morning, 10 dpo, it was still way too faint and I knew it wasn't going to stick. Nonetheless, I took another test Tuesday afternoon with an Accu-clear (which I've later found out was panned on Peeonastick.com) and still had that faint line. By this point, I'd broken down and let Dave inspect the sticks, too, instead of saving the test for a big "You're Going to Be a Daddy" surprise, which one might admit is pretty foolish at this point. In any case, he saw a line, too.

And BECAUSE I AM PATHETICALLY OPTIMISTIC, I took another Accu-clear test on Weds morning, 11 dpo, and finally got a faint but clearly visible positive test line. It was gone by Thursday morning (12 dpo) when I peed again on a FRER. I won't even mention the three tests I took Weds afternoon with one positive (FRER) and two negative (Answer, New Choice/Dollar Store).

I am my own HPT testing lab. And I'm sticking with FRER because I think they are still the most sensitive. However, if I was really pregnant, then all of them would be flaming with two hot pink lines right now and it wouldn't really matter which test I used.

So there. Bleah and crap. I continue on my quest to be the oldest miscarrying freak of a woman in these United States this year.

In other news, we have an evil bunny indulging him/herself in a fresh vegetable garden buffet every night. It's amazing how this rabbit can eat the insides of a tomato clean out and leaving a soon-to-be rotting hull on the vine. Oh, what a talented bunny haunts our garden. At least it's not a rat. (And I just realized that I didn't blog about our rat problem from the spring. Hmmmm. Go figure)

I like not this bunny. And I like not our dog who lets this bunny run free in our garden. It is shocking that Patches lets the bunny roam, much less live, considering the incident with the bird and the other bunny. I know he's an older dog now but he still chases squirrels around the yard, and God(dess) forbid that Scarlett should do anything out of the ordinary because he'll rat her out in tail wag. Speaking of rats, I should have realized his hunting days were over when he did nothing as a rat ran across his paws and under the deck earlier this spring (see Rat Problem, above). Yes, nothing more than a quizzical look from our bird killing dog should have been my first clue that He Has Changed.

We try and try to explain to him: Scarlett, good! Don't bite or bark at. Birds, good! Let live!! Rats, bad. Attack! Bunnies in garden, bad, Bad, BAD! KILL BUNNY, KILL!

And on a big change of subjects but more on my mind that evil bunnies, I believe we are going with Catholic Social Services for our domestic adoption. I promise you that soon I will devote an entire blog on how FREAKIN' confusing adoption is, the range of prices that are out there and why, and why we are making the decisions that we are making. I keep making these offhanded comments about what we are doing on this adoption journey, but each decision point we get to is really, really hard.

But enough for this Friday post. I wonder why I always blog my longest on Fridays because no one comes around to read it. If you are here on Friday, well, thank you for stopping by!! I do miss having your company on Fridays.

Have a good weekend, y'all!

Oh, one last thing: it is one of my biggest pet peeves when people misspell y'all. It is the contraction of You All. You All: Y'all. It is NOT the contraction of Ya All. What the hell is that?? Ya All? Ya'll?!?!?

The only time the "ll" goes by itself is when you are contracting: You All Will. That becomes Y'all'll. Yes, that is a word. We use it all the time down here when we are inquiring about others' plans in the future. "Y'all'll be at the park on Sunday? We will, too! See you there!"

Trees

Here is a picture (from the Charlotte Observer) of one of the trees from the VanLandingham estate that went down in the storm last week. It was truly as impressive in person as it appears in this picture.

Things are almost back to normal now, except for all the squashed houses, porches and roofs still left in the 'hood.

Big A$$ Storm

I've tried to think of some clever way of titling this entry: Stormy Weather (which only sounds clever if you're singing it. Well, at least in my head, it sounds clever) or Third World Neighborhood (a reference which may become clear later). But I'm clearly not clever enough for a good title, so I'll just cuss.

We had a bad storm this weekend. Now, I know you're thinking, "Yeah....summer....thunderstorms????" But this was a wee bit more. When I looked outside and saw the wall of water and the limbs (!) and leaves flying across the yard, I thought something must be up. And when I say "Limbs (!) and leaves flying" I mean small trees were sailing around our house like the Wicked Witch of the West.

By the time this 30 minute (!) storm ended, we had between 1 1/2 and 2 inches of rain, and the neighbor a few doors down on my left's car? Crushed by a humongo tree. The neighbor a few doors down on the right? Well, that was a two-fer: a giant tree crushed the addition of one house and knocked in the roof of another. Our friends, who had just had their house remodeled and moved back into it only in December, had their car and front porch crushed by an uprooted, HEALTHY tree. Thas the weird part: in many storms, you can expect the rotted trees to fall. in this storm, healthy trees fell. And it's not like the ground was saturated with water; we've had nothing for at least a week.

Apparently, it was a microburst: A short, very strong storm with winds, they estimate in our case, at between 60 and 70 mph.

Of course we lost our power for about 12 hours. (Hence the third world reference). Although 12 hours is short for us. We've lost power for over 7 days in the winter. I'd like to confirm for you that yes, indeedy, that sucked.

On a better note, after the storm, our neighborhood was packed. Everyone was lining the streets and the sidewalks to compare damage and shock over the storm as well as check in on each other. As the article says above, I really do love my neighborhood, even if I did have a tree on my house.

Milestones

Conor turns 3 next week.

We are about completely out of pullups. Last night was the easiest poopie on the potty yet. And the cheers continue with the "I DID it!!!" raising of the arms in victory after the big poop. And that's just Dave.

I've been waiting to make that joke for a while now.

We had our first overnight underwear and we were surprised with wet sheets this morning, but I think that is going to be the rare event. He's been dry most nights for the last month. We just see the end in sight.

Speaking of endings, have you been wondering what's up with the boobs lately? You must be because I have not spoken of them. Well, we are thisclose from total wean. We're down to about 10-20 seconds per boob at night followed by half a mini-bagel and water while I rock him. Mini-bagels have indeed turned into his comfort food: yesterday he fell and hit his lip and wanted a bagel to soothe him.

I know we've been bfing for a long time for Americans, but it has worked for us. It was the right thing for our family. I'd say that pretty soon we'll just be at the bagel and not at boobie. I don't think I will be sad about it. I know of Moms who are very sad when they stop bfing. I think we've gone past that point and we/I are just ready for snuggles and cuddles without bosomies involved.

Oh, and on a somewhat different note, did you see the article yesterday in the NY Times about how children cause parents to cut back on their exercise? One look at my butt could have told you that. It was hardest when Conor was really young and I couldn't leave the house for any distance of a run because he was solely breastfeeding. Some running women would get up, pump, and then go for their run. I was too damn lazy to do all that work, so I got out of my running habit for his first year or so and I've never really gotten back into it. (Hence why my booty is the size of Rhode Island). Dave is still in shape although like the article says, he doesn't exercise nearly as much. Still, he's thin and I'm huge. And even when I'm running more than he is, he can beat me on our regular route.

Since I'm not convinced I'm going to have another biological child, I've decided to just go ahead and get back into shape even if I am "running" my old routes slower and with more walking than I'd like. If I don't start doing it, I'll never get back to the place I'm supposed to be. And my butt will continue to grow until I have to go buy another closet full of bigger Mom jeans. And who wants that?

This and That

I slept for 11 hours last night. You'd think that I'd awaken bright eyed and busytailed and ready to take on the world. You'd think wrong. I don't know why I am so tired, but I am.

Nonetheless, check out this surprise in the local paper. We thought the story would run on Father's Day, but it didn't. Also, the online version does not have the ADORABLE picture of Conor giving Dave a huge smooch. It's truly a precious picture!!! Still, Conor has been in the press more than the average 3 year old, I have to say. And it's high time Dave gets public credit for being the amazing father that he is!

We're still working on the potty training. Conor is doing really, really well, but still doesn't want to poopie on the potty. I have to say, though, that I can tell when he really needs to go, especially when he runs towards the bathroom cupping his hands over his front and back end private parts. He can say he doesn't want to/need to go poopie on the pottie, but I can tell he does. (It's awfully cute, in a potty training sort of way)

Ok. I'm off to make a stew. Yes, it's too hot, but the meat was on sale.

I'm behind on starting that, like I'm behind on everything. Ptooey.

Greetings From Michigan

Yes, only 4 days after we returned home from vacation, I hopped on a plane and headed to a work conference in Michigan.

And for the worst landing of an airplane I can ever remember. It was a horrible thunder storm in Detroit (indeed, many of my colleague also flying Northwest still cannot make it to the conference because of the cancelled flights!). And let me tell you, except for the happy ending of not crashing, that was the scariest landing in a storm, or even ever, that I've had! Roll to the right, shake, shake, shake; roll to the left, shake, shake, shake, roll to the right, shake, shake, shake. Tuck head between seatmate's shoulder and seat, whimper, whimper, whimper.

Some dude out there is still thinking who was that curly haired wimp busting in on my seat territory right when we all thought we were about to die?!

Notwithstanding, the conference is excellent and by far one of the best ones I've been to in a while. I am a very interdisciplinary researcher and I'm finally surrounded by all the other folks doing my sort of research. (that's not as common as you'd think it would be)

And I do miss my boys. Though, I admit, sleeping single in a king size bed....diagonally....has its positive points!

And leisurely going for a run, having breakfast, getting dressed and blogging instead of chasing a little one around the house to get dressed, again, has its appeal.

Still can't wait to get back. I do miss my snickerdoodle and my snuggle muffin. (Now go retch; it's appropriate!)

More on Mom Jeans

I was grocery shopping today, when a Mom approached me.

"I want to ask you a strange question," she said, her teenage daughter stayed in the background, mortified that her mother was speaking, much less to a stranger.

"Ok," I replied.

"Where did you get those jean shorts? I bought some 4 years ago, and I just can't find any to replace them! I love them!"

Her daughter is now wishing she could melt into the floor because not only is her Mom a) talking, b) to a stranger, but also c) asking where she can buy some Mom jeans.

"Kohls," I smiled and answered wondering if I should tell her just what type of jeans these are and that she really, really shouldn't buy any if she wants to maintain any credibility with her daughter.

How do I know these are Mom jeans? I raised my shirt and asked Dave to spot my belly button. It was not visible. That's the sign of Mom jeans.

Also, if you think I'm going to post a picture of my ginourmous boo-tay in a pair of Mom jeans on the internets for the world to see, you need to cut back on the amount of vodka you're drinking before noon! :-)

My Momness

Yes, I do realize that we are still within spitting distance of Father's Day and on this vacation, we have officially declared this as Father's Week, which unfortunately does NOT mean Dave does everything, but instead, we dance around him singing his praises as the best Daddy in our little family. Although I'd like to point out that we might do this on a regular occassion more than other families, this is still Father's Week, and there you go.

However, this is my blog. And now we shall discuss some recent Mom-moments in my own life. Actually, I should call them Mama-moments because 1) I'm southern and that's what we call the maternal ones in our families and 2) I've just graduates from Mommy to Mama around here and I'm pretty excited.

So what are my Mama-moments? First, Conor is going poopie in the pottie and I am So Proud. We've made great strides in pottie training-dom of late. Something just "clicked" in Conor's head and he decided he was ready for underwear at school and has focused very hard on only peeing on the potty. Yes, we've had a few accidents, but for the most part, he's, ahem, hit the target. Yes! Standing pee-pees! Making bubbles! And yes, even further, trees in our back yard have been involved and thank God, the neighbors do not appear to mind. Or at least, they have not verbalized their minding. To us. Although that one time I ran out of the house with a naked Conor at 7:30 pm so he could pee on a tree because he was refusing to pee in the potty might have been a wee bit too much.

Anyhoo, poopie in the potty has been a lot harder. Literally. So we bought some magical medicine (prune) juice when we got to the beach and have had some fantastic success down here. We've also learned that there has to be privacy involved with poopie on the potty, which was a bit of a surprise since we have had no privacy on the potty since Conor learned to walk. Potty is a bit of a spectator sport around here what with the cat, the dog, the 2 year old and bathrooms doors that don't lock much close well enough for a cat not to be able to push them open. So finding out that the door Must Be Closed for our little man to poop was shocking. Of course, as soon as the event is accomplished, we hear a tiny "I DID it!!!!" and we must enter in, clap our hands, and do the poopie dance of joy.

Of course, poopie on the potty is more of a life changing event for Conor not for me. What makes this a Mama-moment for me is how proud I am of him. Actually, how I beamed at my little guy's major accomplishment. The self-pride on his face just floors me. It becomes to my own pride in the pride of himself. It doesn't matter if he had just learned to tie his own shoe and showed that much pride over what he did: I would be just as over the moon in seeing him be happy in himself.

My other recent Mama-moment is much less glamorous. We were walking along some shops here and I saw some cute girl walking by in her fashionable low cut short-shorts. And then it hit me why I have looked for so long and have fallen in massive love with my new clothes from Kohls that I bought last week. They are mom-jeans. Actually, mom-shorts. But the essential feature is the same: the waist is at the waist. They are loose in the belly and the booty. Not only do I wear Mom-jeans. I like them. They feel more comfortable. I am old. I am old and I wear Mom-jeans.

Mama-moments for me.

Hey Y'All

Conversation while driving 5 hours* to the beach:

"I can't wait until the kids** are older and I can stay in my wood working shop for a couple of hours."

"With them?"

"Without them!"

Happy Father's Day, indeed.

*This is normally a 3 1/2 to 4 hour trip sans children. But considering it took us 3 hours to go 90 miles, we actually did make good time.

**Yes, we are seriously moving quickly down the adoption path, at least mentally. For the first time in 2 years, we know we're going to have another child.

Well, howdy from Myrtle Beach. I thought I'd have more time to blog dozens of witty entries, but we've been too busy having fun. Of course, that doesn't stop my panic attacks at 4 am of all the work I have to do, but I grasp onto that tiny sliver of meditation zen I still have left and believe it will all work out.

So, apart from being "on board" with adoption at this stage---as in, chickens are on board with breakfast, pigs are committed---we have other baby news. The OB called about 30 minutes before we left on Friday. Knowing that Friday is his surgery day, I was happy he worked in this call for me.

There is/was nothing wrong. There is nothing wrong with me as far as the bloodclotting and auto-immune issues they checked for. (There's plenty wrong in other aspects!) And there was nothing wrong with the baby, chromosonally. And I would like to officially point out that I TOLD YOU SO. (Imagine how much fun it is to be married to me!!!)

I have to repeat that: I knew it. I told everybody that this was supposed to be my perfectly normal baby. Yet there is still nothing in my belly right now. On the one hand, I am validated. On the other, I am so sad that I will not have my baby girl and there's no way to keep this from happening again. (Yes, girl. I said that before, too.) There was one abnormality: the too-fast heartrate. But we'll never know what that means.

And in all honesty, I may never get pg again. We're going down this adoption path. Do you have any idea how relieving it is to KNOW we're going to have another child? Pregnancy, at best, is: maybe. Pregnancy when dealing with infertility and multiple miscarriages is without a doubt: maybe, maybe not. Adoption is a sure thing. Even if the first adoption match falls through and the mother or father changes his/her mind. Eventually, there is still a baby in your arms.

Do you have any idea what that means to me right now?

Time to get back to vacation.

Adoption Support Meeting

We went to our first adoption support group meeting last night.

And we learned a very important fact from the pediatrian giving the talk:

Apparently, Benardyl and Dramamine are the same thing. And Benadryl is much cheaper.

Who knew?

Exhibit A in the Miscarriage Freak Show

So, ummm, yeah.

I probably need to explain the motivation behind yesterday's first post. I have no doubt that folks out there might think I'm a big fat freak for taking multiple pregnancy tests after receiving a positive one. And, I suppose, if you wait until you are actually "late" to take one and you end up with two screaming pink or blue lines, then there really is no reason to take more than one. You just call up the doc and get that confirmation visit.

But if you are like other people, (*ahem*, me), and use the First Response Early Result (FRER) tests that can pick up even the faintest of pregnancy hormones revealing a line that you have to verify with a partner that it (the line, not the partner) even exists and isn't in your imagination, then yes, you might take another test the next day, hoping to see another, darker line. And when you take that test and see only a slightly darker line which is still not clearly obvious then you might take ANOTHER test the next day hoping to see that clear positive line. And you might not go to the doctor for verification because 1) it's the weekend and 2) the FRERs are much more sensitive pee sticks than what the doctor has so the test at the doctor's office might still show up negative and you're not evne using first morning urine (FMU) and you don't want the doctor to say "You're an idiot; you're not pregnant. You're not even late yet!! How do you know you're pregnant when you are only 11 days past ovulation?" and then you have to fight him/her for a blood test.

So.

We weren't supposed to get pregnant this month so soon after the D&E. We didn't try to get pregnant this month. However, call us as stupid as teenagers in highschool, we forgot to use birthcontrol this month.

That's not true. We didn't even think of using birth control this month. But after two years of TTC, I don't even think about birth control anymore. But I know my body pretty well and afterwards I could tell I was in the very fertile stage around ovulation. I tried to tell the doctor, but the nurse was not amused and said "DON'T GET PREGNANT THIS MONTH!" I tried to explain that we weren't trying to get pg this month, but, ummm, you know.

Nonetheless, guess what?

Yeah.

And then guess what?

I could tell by the second day's test results that the news was not ultimately going to be good. By day 4 of testing (Monday), we were back down to almost negative. I say "almost" because there was still a light of thousand suns line there. But after 4 days of testing, we should have been able to spot that line in the twilight.

So. Apparently, we do not have a problem getting pregnant. I did not waste all that birthcontrol in my 20's. But I am miscarrying freak. My eggs suck.

We have now been pregnant at least 5 times in the last two years. (There are possibly two more chem pgs, but they were only positive for one day, not multiple days; so it's possible those were evaporation lines. But I don't think so). We've only had 3 clinically recognized pregnancies, but really, we've had 5 (or 7!) chances in the last 23 months, not counting the of 4 months we weren't trying because we were already pregnant.

When I look at it that way, things certainly do not look promising for us to have another bio child.

The Sorpanos

I thought it was brilliant.

Yes, both Dave and I stared at the screen thinking out loud "Did the cable just go out? You have GOT to be kidding me!" Dave was the first to figure out it was actually over.

I think the ending means one of two things:

1) Tony died and was whacked by the guy going to the bathroom.

2) Life just goes on. Tony is always going to be paranoid, looking at everyone as possible assassigns. The kids are going to stay in the family business (they both sold out). And Carmella is never going to leave.

But it doesn't matter does it? Aren't the best books you've ever read the ones where you have several ending options to choose from and you really don't know which one is "true?" None are true. All are true.

I thought the ending of that series was brilliant.

Who else thought their cable went out?

Joyous Naïvete

A friend of mine just found out she is pregnant.

Hooray for her!

She took the first test Saturday morning, with a glorious BFP. This morning, I asked her if she had taken the second one.

She responded that she hadn't and she didn't really know why she should.

Why, indeed.

I really don't think she was saying that to be cruel. I honestly think that with her first pregnancy she has no idea what perils are out there. And most likely, she never will.

Paris Hilton

*Should go back to jail and serve out her sentence

*Should be allowed to serve out her sentence at home due to her mental health issues

*Is a waste of this earth's oxygen and thus, with her every exhale contributes to excessive carbon dioxide and increased global warming.

Discuss.

Getting Paranoid

In the weeks after our m/c and our trip to the infertility clinic, we heard more than enough stories on NPR on the ills of society when older women give birth.

Today's Diane Rehm's show is on the evil's of adoption.

Either someone is following my life WAAAAAAY too closely or I'm on the "cutting" edge of what is wrong with this world.

So Where Are We Now?

Apparently, "we" (in the royal sense) are getting it back together. As in we are finally getting back in gear. I really didn't realize how out of gear I was until I started trying to move forward again. I'm finally meeting my work commitments. I'm finally starting to exercise again. I'm finally not drinking nearly as much wine as I was.

Oh, yes. The wine. Well, I'm not worried about that. My therapist said.... Hmmmm. I guess I had better explain that one. About the middle of the last pregnancy (only 6 weeks in!), I started freaking out that things were not going to work out well. So I called a friend who has also had multiple miscarriages and got the name of her therapist, a woman who specializes in infertility. (If you live in the area, email me and I'll share her name) We have been getting along well, and really, after that one freak out, I have "graduated" to seeing her when I feel I need to as opposed to every week or every other hour.

IRONICALLY, the session three days before before the baby died focused on "letting it go" and trusting the pregnancy would be ok and putting it on the back burner while I got on with the rest of my life. Even more ironically is the acupuncture session before the baby died again focused on "letting it go" and believing it would all be ok. I should have pointed out to everyone that the "it" in that phrase referred to my worries and not my baby, eh?

Ironical indeed.

So, anyhoo, at my last session, when my therapist asked how I was doing ("Great! How are you?"), I said that I was enjoying my wine of late. She pointed out that it was ok and that I could consider the wine as medicine and not to worry too much about it. And if I did, we could switch to Xanax. Ironically (again!), after she said that, I stopped drinking as much wine. I'm not sure whether it was simply the permission to drink wine and not feel guilty about it or whether I simply don't need that medicine as much any more. But I'm not drinking wine as medicine any more.

You do know the phrase: "W(h)ine: noun or a verb, you choose" don't you?

Well, now you do.

So I'm doing better. That doesn't mean I don't still miss my baby-to-be. On my drive in to work this morning, I was patting my belly and telling my baby how much I missed her. (No, I don't know it was a girl. I just think so)

But we're moving forward. And part of that move forward is a pretty serious start down the path towards domestic adoption. We had considered international adoption before, but I'm not sure that's the right path for us. So we are now seriously looking at domestic adoption. We're going to a support group meeting next week and we've contacted a consultant and are considering her services.

We feel very lucky about some other events that have happened in our lives recently that I don't want to share here because I don't want to break confidences. (Others don't always want to share intimate details of their lives on this blog, oddly enough) But we have just found some unexpected support in this process that I am so grateful for and shocked by that I stop, drop my jaw, and thank God(dess).

I feel really good that we are on the right path, wherever this path takes us. I am sure it's going to lead to a baby and I'm very excited about that.

Oh! And the skin problem? Excema. It doesn't have anything to do with miscarriages, as far as I can tell. But it does have to do with crappy skin and stress. So it has to do with me. At some point, I have to tell you about this dermatologist I see. I have never met anyone in my life who is so painfully awkward in interpersonal interactions. He is the definition of geek when geek wasn't good. Every time I see him, I want to say "Dude! It's ok. Relax. I'm not going to hurt you." Really. If we could video tape our awkward doctors and compare them, he would win as the more self-concious, uncomfortable doctor in the world.

More Beauty

I forgot to add in my earlier post that this morning we had to take the Subaru in to figure out why the check engine light was flashing. (A bad thing, BTW) Dave had already fixed it, actually, but we were having our mechanic give it a once over, anyway.

As we were leaving the parking lot, one of the creeping crud spots on my face started to itch. So I scratched it, just as the mechanic said a cheery Good M0rning! to me.

So I waved back to him and saw, leaving my fingertips and drifting in the morning sun across the parking lot, a rather large flake of my skin. I inadvertently flung my own skin at our mechanic.

Lovely.

And Your Little Dog, Too

In addition to the recent miscarriage, I've developed a creeping crud on my head and neck. It's lovely, I can assure you. It started with an itchy, dry, largely flaking scalp about 2 months into the pregnancy, moved on to a big red itchy patch on my neck and now I have three dime size incursions from my scalp onto my face. Again, beautiful. And I'm calling my dermatologist right now.

Then, last week, I noticed a slight limp from Patches when he got up from watching me meditate. (It's a spectator sport for the animals around here) Then, over the weekend, when playing with Dave, Patches couldn't even put his weight on one leg. We felt his legs and paws and found a golf ball size swelling on what we thought was his knee (it turned out to be his ankle; dogs legs are not as straightforward as ours).

We raised our fists to the sky and said, Duncan? The Baby? And now the DOG!? This is CRUEL! You are not playing very nicely right now and we're going to start complaining. To a higher authority. The INTERNET will NOT BE AMUSED if our dog has cancer. You'll be in big trouble then!!

So on Tuesday, right after we took Conor to the pediatrician for meds for his second bout of croup this year, we took Patches to the vet. And thank God, it's simply a doggie version of a strained Achilles tendon. No running for Patches for a whole week. Yes! Stop a collie from running just like you stop the tide from coming in.

He's doing better now, and I think the swelling has gone down a little bit.

Truly, that would have been the last straw.

Good News? Bad News? Still Not Sure...

We went in for our follow-up for the D&E last week. Nothing big to report there. I talked with the doc a while and both of us tried to figure out what the heck happened. Actually, I think the exact phrase the doc used was "can't wrap my head around..." and I'm really not sure what he said next, but what I filled in the blank was "why I lost that baby."

The next day was our consultation with the local infertility clinic (Reproductive Endocrinologists). But before I talk about that, I have to speak of my amazement about what my regular OB did: I told him I was going for the consultation. And he made sure that instead of the regular 10 to 14 day wait to transfer the files over, they were faxed over the next day with a two page summary of my case for the infertility doc.

Wow. Really. Wow. He wants to help us get pregnant.

Cuz the news from the RE was not so uplifting. First, we're not keen on IVF what with the 9% success rate for women my age. I'm not a gambling woman with the $15k it would take for one IVF cycle. I was honestly hoping the doctor would say: oh, but YOU! YOU! You! Are the exception! We think YOU will have a greater than 50% chance of getting pregnant! Alas, he said, I'm glad you're not that keen on IVF because I don't think it will improve your chances over what you're currently doing. (Oh! One tiny glimmer of good news: my ob and the RE both agreed I get pg faster than most other old hags my age. Yippee!)

The RE then said that he thought that the last m/c was a trisomy problem, which maybe it was. (However, I really don't think so) and the RE maybe misinterpretting my attempts at humor as being carefree instead of carefully-timed-to-keep-me-from-crying went on to say he thought that maybe I was one of those women who have sticky eggs so the divisions likely lead to trisomy and that I'm like to continue having trisomy miscarriages and pretty much I will likely keep miscarrying until I can't get pg any more. (or that's what I heard at least)

Can I repeat ONCE AGAIN that we have ABSOLUTELY NO EVIDENCE at this time that there is a trisomy problem!??!?!? The nuchal translucency was BETTER THAN AVERAGE. The growth rate was BETTER THAN AVERAGE. The heart rate was FASTER THAN AVERAGE (bad, but not a sign of trisomy problem). SO EFF YOU, RE, because there is no evidence of a trisomy problem. Yet. Yes, we'll know for sure in 3-4 more weeks. And yes, if you hear hoofbeats in North Carolina then it's more likely to be a horse than a zebra (a phrase he used!), but might I point out that so far, we ain't heard no hoofbeats.

So our current options right now at the infertility clinic are....nothing. Nada. No hyperovulation stimulation because I don't have a problem with ovulating. No IVF (fine by me). No any other thing. Unless the genetic exam for the baby comes back normal. (And even then, if it's a girl, the RE suggested that it could be MY DNA and not the baby's)

Well, he did give some advice: a baby aspirin a day and 2 mg of folic acid per day. That's a boatload of folic acid, folks. Prenates contain 400 micrograms. I'm taking four (4!) additional 400 microgram pills of folic acid to get up to his suggested level. The baby aspirin helps with implantation and the folic acid is supposed to help with egg development and separation. So that, I'm doing.

However, I'm also going to go back to my regular OB and start the bloodwork to try to detect if I have a clotting disorder. I'd also like to test for some auto-immune problems. There is some possibility that women can develop clotting disorders even after having a healthy live birth. Some people think that miscarriages can even cause them. It's a bit controversial, and if you've heard anything about Dr. Alan Beer, let me know.

That's it.

I'm doing better emotionally and ready for life to get on. We're even thinking of when we're going to start trying again.

And also of seriously pursuing domestic adoption.

There could be a lot going on around here sooner rather than later.

Everything Conceivably Annoying

No, I have not read the book yet, but if I hear one more story on NPR about Everything Conceivable and how horrible it is for older women to try to get pregnant and how multiples by older women are a threat to our society, I'm going to have to stage my own infertility clinic sit in.

Although the vast majority of stories this author has been on have been sensational, particularly for NPR standards (OLD!! INFERTILE!! WOMEN! BAD! TWINS! EVIL!!!!), the author on the Diane Rehm show was much more subtle in her criticisms and supportive of older women. (BTW, did you catch the show with Newt Gingrich last week....when he LEFT 40 minutes into the program?? Diane was LIVID!! I was stunned. What an a$$ he is/was.)

Anywho, it seems like since the miscarriage, there has been at least one story on the radio or in the paper about how older mothers are wrong and bad and shouldn't be supported. Well, folks, this is my life. This is the path I'm on. I didn't meet Dave 20 years ago, I met him 6 1/2 years ago. We got married 4 1/2 years ago and we had Conor just 3 years ago. And we want to have another baby. We're healthy, responsible, and just running into some bad luck. So another show on the evils of infertility and the older woman is going to get a earful from me.

Phhhht.

(Oh, and I LOVED the comment from the beeyatch who said older women in infertility treatments are selfish and they should just adopt. Yeah, because those 14,000 infants available for domestic adoption are just growing on trees waiting for us to snap them up! And those 18 month to 2 year waits for international adoptions at over $20k are easy as pie, too.)

Phhhht again.

I'm So Not Kidding About that Bucket Thing

This is a semi-action photo from our vacation. Conor was running around the room in those camaflouge jammie bottoms and his bucket and not much else.

This is walking up the steps from the outrageously expensive spa. Really. Can you stand those curls? It's about all I can do not to lick the screen right now they are so delicious.

Why It's All Worth It

Ahhh. Our little buckethead. The child loves to run around with a bucket on his head. This was a particularly adorable moment, what with the bucket, flag, Easter basket full of puzzle pieces and the stickers all over his dinosaur camouflage pajamas. And if you don't think I'm getting this one out at the prom, you really don't know me.

Though, he may prefer this video, in all his golf-y wonderous. Dave just mowed him his own one-hole golf course yesterday which is already a big hit. I'll have to get a video of it. We have to admit, we've been quite surprised at our little toddler who will golf around the back yard for nearly an hour, breaking out in a big sized sweat as he announces "I'm gonna whack that ball real hard!" I told Dave that Mozart, upon seeing a piano for the first time at 2 1/2 years old, sat down and actually played a song. At just that moment, Conor chose to whack, whack, whack, whack that ball back and forth (as seen in the video) with less Mozart than "chopsticks" coming to mind.



Nonetheless, we're impressed.

I'm Still Here

Yes, I've taken a bit of time off.

The surgery went.....fine?.......Well? How about let's just say, it's done. The main positive thing is that the psycho anaesthesiologist was not there. Thus, I did not have to contend with some over-involved doctor slipping me a Valium mickey before the surgery and baby feet afterwards. Indeed, I told everyone that I was concerned about the effects of the drugs, and this surgery's anaesthesiologist and his nurse gave me much less. Apparently, I am very sensitive to sedatives and it only takes one step beyond waving the drug over my head and I pass out. Also, I now know I have miniscule veins and they have to turn the IV to the lowest setting or my veins will have incredibly painful spasms.

I could honestly live without knowing either of those bits of information.

I would much rather have the baby who was supposed to turn 1 year old this July. OR the baby who should be about 6 weeks old right now. OR the baby who was still supposed to be growing in my belly right now and due right around Thanksgiving.

Any one of those babies would have been just fine. All three of them would have been a challenge, and darn near physically impossible, but happily welcomed.

As it is, I am not doing well.

Despite the sensitivity to sedatives and small veins, I am generally considered a strong woman. Nonetheless, right now, I am weepy and angry and short of temper. I can cry at any point without any obvious external provocation. (Although if you heard my internal thoughts, it would make perfect sense) I know I'm going to be fine; I always am. However, I'm not enjoying the process right now.

I'm just really pissed off that everything was supposed to be going well, and I do not have a baby any more.

Fine. I'll stop being pissed off at some point. I hope this summer I can heal a bit and I hope even more that I get pregnant with an incredibly healthy, normal, kicking and screaming baby as soon as we can try again.

Conor and I are actually with Dave right now at a conference in Asheville at the Grove Park Inn. It's a wonderful place and I'm glad we're here. The amenities are entirely too expensive, so although I'd love a day of pampering so I don't entirely hate my body as much as I do right now, we can't afford it. (It's $55 just to walk into the spa and not even have any treatments done) Nonetheless, it's beautiful here and I'm enjoying a bit of an escape.

I just really wish I didn't have anything I felt like I had to escape from.

Bleah

Tomorrow is the D&E.

I'm not really looking forward to it (who would?!). It's also freaking me out how big the baby is. I cannot imagine what it must be like for women further along to miscarry or have a still birth. This sucks, but there is always more suck for someone else.

I got the results of the first trimester screen yesterday (I did not return their bright-and-early message on Monday morning). However, they called again yesterday and I really just wanted to get it over with. The results were relatively good. The Down's probability went from 1:34 due to my age alone to 1:170--it's still considered "at risk" but I would not have pursued it. Additionally, my Trisomy 18 probability went down to 1:6900. (No, that's not a typo) I'm going to go out on a limb and say that the baby didn't die due to a Trisomy 18 problem.

I think there was a heart defect. Maybe it came from the fever I had early in this pregnancy. Maybe it was just some sort of bad luck in the baby's genes. Maybe it just sucks.

Conor has been incredible during this time. He has been very excited about the baby in Mommy's belly and liked to talk to it and kiss my belly. I told him that the baby was sick and going to go live with Duncan (and Baby Jesus.....don't judge me! That's how we had to explain why Simba went to live with Grandma and Grandaddy, but Duncan went to live somewhere else). Anyhoo, Conor got what that meant (the baby wasn't going to live with us) and said a long "Ohhhhhhh." I told him I was sad too and he assured me that he wasn't sad. But since then, he often comes up to me to hug me and say "I make you feel better." And of course, he does.

I'm still angry, but less so and less often. A friend from my local TTC group describes the feeling as a stranger coming up to you and slapping you. It's the absolute truth. The shock, the indignation, the anger at being singled out to be hurt, it's all there in a stranger slapping me.

Now if I could find that b*tch and slap her back, I'd feel a lot better. ;-)

You Have Got to Be Effing Kidding Me

I planned to start out this week blogging about how we FINALLY cleaned our house and describing the dust, dog fur and adorable incident of our son shuffling around the kitchen with towels on his feet as we relented and promised to mop the floors.

I even thought I'd add in a few anectdotes about how great the perennial garden looks and although late, how I'm getting in the rest of the vegetables.

Then, on Tuesday, I'd wow you with the results of our first trimester screen, which started last Monday and for which we've been waiting the results. The initial verdict was good as the nuchal translucency was below average (!). However, the baby's heart rate was a bit high---200 when the average is 175 at this point. However, because I have the doppler fetal monitor at home, I could report that the heartbeat went down to 170.

Then it went back to 200.

And I called the doctor on Friday who 1) wasn't initially amused with my possession of the doppler but then 2) said it was fine because I could monitor the heartbeat.

But overall, things were going well.

Were. Going well.

Were. Past tense.

11 1/2 weeks. With an amazingly strong fetal growth, great nuchal screen and a strong, albeit fast heartbeat.

Shit. Fuck. Damn.

I am so angry right now. Everything has been going great!!!! All the signs and tests have been fantastic. How COULD THE BABY'S HEART STOP ON SATURDAY??????? WHY???? WHY ME?!?!?!?!?!?!??!!

I tried to find the baby's heartbeat Sunday night, but couldn't. I skipped checking on Saturday because I assured myself I was being too cautious and all was well.

This morning, I still couldn't find it. We called the doctor and they had us come in immediately. There was no good news. I honestly about lost it during the ultrasound and I thought I was going to scream. I may have moaned out loud. I do know that I was so mad.

Of course, I cannot stay this mad and sad forever. And the one memory that brings me comfort is pantomining to the doctor using tiny defibriliation paddles on the baby to jump start his/her heart again. I can't stay upset forever. And an easy transition for me involves morbid humor. It cuts the tension. I laugh.

But can you f*cking believe this? I cannot. I honestly think this has to be some sick joke the world is playing on me. I feel like someone has lied to me and I can't figure out who.

The Garden

I changed my mind: this is the time I like the garden the best. Maybe it has something to do with the fresh strawberries and asparagus we're harvesting right now.

And the fact that the weeds are still at bay.

And that the garden peas are thriving better than I've ever had before.

And that we have lettuce, beets, turnips and an amazing bed of onions growing heartily right now.

And that the herbs I planted as seeds are actually growing! Who knew!?

And that I just put in the tomato, pepper, and eggplant plants and they appear to be happy.

I still have the rest of the seeds to get in: the late freeze and my busy weekends mean that I'm behind on other important plantings, but I think it's not too, too late.

And the perenial garden is finally taking shape. There is greenery! There are flowers! There is a newly planted peony.

How do you say "Peony?" Big discussion in the house this weekend:

Northern way: Pee-ah-NEE
Southern way: Pee-OH-nee (sounds like pee-ON-me without that hard N in the middle. Figures, eh?!)

It's really pretty in our yard now. Yes, I do need to take pictures. And load them up. School will be out soon......

I am Full of Potato Salad

After weeks (and weeks and weeks) of some serious morning sickness, nausea and generally crappy feelings, my appetite is back. And hearing the heart beat, I'm not worried that it's due to some really bad reasons. Instead, I think I have turned a corner. And come smack dab into the middle of a food laden kitchen.

I just had lunch with colleagues as an end of the year celebration, and I hate three, count 'em *3*, helpings of highly mustard-y potato salad.

I am now full.

I'm also wearing maternity clothes for the first time today. I don't really need them because I'm not so stuffed in my clothing that I need that sort of expansion. But my belly is poking out and these clothes actually hide it a bit with the high-waisted could-be-in- style-but-she-looks-fat versus I-think-that's-a-maternity-top. Trust me, I'm looking fat, not pg right now.

Hmmmm. I wonder if the potato salad had anything to do with it?

I don't really care. I'm just glad not to be repulsed by every single morsel of food I see right now. Let that belly fill with tater salad!

Skip to the Loo, My Darling

Today's NY Times has an article today listing supposed reasons why Prince William broke up with his "commoner" girlfriend. The main reason hypothesized is that his girlfriend's mother asked "where the toilet was" instead of "where the bathroom was." Apparently, "toilet" is such an offensive word to the upper class that the queen was very offended and William and Kate broke up.

It's bad enough to go through a public breakup, but to have international papers talking about the manners and class of one's family is one of the stupidist things I've ever heard.

Besides, I woudn't have said "Where's the toilet?" No way. One could never be sure if that might offend someone.

I definitely would have said "Where's the fucking toilet?"

What a Difference a Day Makes

Actually, two days.

This morning, before I started working, I hopped on the bed with the Doppler Monitor (which sounds a lot kinkier than it really is) to see if I could find the baby's heartbeat again. Within minutes, I heard it strong, clear and fast. I couldn't count it because I didn't have a watch. But I could tell it was a lot faster than mine.

Tonight, when Dave came home, I was able to find it again, pretty easily. And together we counted up that the heartbeat was between 168 and 180.

Do you have any idea how relieved I am and how reassurng that heartbeat is? I didn't have any idea how anxious I was until I could let myself feel relieved by that sound. I don't plan on using it every night to check the baby's heartbeat. But after two miscarriages, the sound of that clicky-clicky-clicky-clicky is one of most relaxing quick paced sounds I've ever heard.

On to the Anita School of Parenting

Daddy: Conor, put on your clothes. You can't go to school in your pajamas.
Conor: Nooooooooooooooooooooo.
Mommy (opting per usual for the easy way out): Let him wear his pajamas.
Daddy: He needs to at least wear his jeans. He can wear his pajama top.
Mommy: He should wear his pajamas to school. If all the other kids laugh at him, he won't want to wear his pajamas to school again. (I have no doubt I picked up that advice from John Rosemond, and I'm sure you know I'm not his biggest fan)
Daddy (looking at Mommy and counting up the dollars spent on counseling for their poor son later): He's going to wear his jeans.

Yeah. Thank God(dess) Conor has Dave in his life. Otherwise, it's possible he'd how up at school buck naked if that's the fight we were having.

Weeds and Beats

I agree with Barbie2B's comment yesterday that weeding can be so addictive. As both my neighbor and I headed out of the house last weekend, we agreed that mindless work with instant gratification is a very fun chore indeed.

As for the asparagus, yes, an asparagus bed lasts for about 20 years. You plant it one year. Let it grow untouched the next. And then starting the 3rd year, you have fresh, young, tender asparagus shooting out the ground out at you. I never knew asparagus was this sweet. Also, once the crop has ended, you get pretty asparagus ferns for the rest of the summer which make a nice border around a house or some such thing.

And in more baby relevant news, the fetal heart monitor arrived a day early and OF COURSE, I ripped open the box and lay down flat to hear what I could hear. Which first scared me. I could easily pick up a heartbeat, but it was very slow---only 100 bpm. This is not a good heartbeat of a fetus at this age.

Then I realized it was my own fool heart beat in my stomach. (This was verified by the sample sounds on one of the fetal monitor sites I found).

Still, I couldn't find the baby's. Yes, Ema wrote at exactly the moment that I was starting to search that it is still early to hear a heart beat at 9 weeks 5 days. And even more so, with my tilted uterus, it's going to take longer than it ought to anyway.

HOWEVER, after dinner and with a full bladder and about 20 minutes of searching, I did hear something. I only heard it for a few seconds and I lost it when I shouted to Dave that I had found it. But it wasn't my heartbeat and it wasn't my tummy gurgling. It was a very fast but soft clapping. And I really do believe it was the little peanut inside waving.

I couldn't find it again, but I think it's still too early. But I did hear something and it's hard to make up a sound like that.

((((((sigh)))))))))

Smelly Belly Full of Jelly

Actually, I am planning on talking about my belly and not the nickname I give my son's belly right before I start kissing, snorting, and eating on it.

I am 9 weeks 5 days today, and I have a belly. Honestly, I've had a belly for a while with the extra weight I've been carrying around, but since the stomach flu/sinus infection debacle I'd actually lost about 10 lbs and only gained back 3 or 4. So this belly is not the usually belly I've been trying to camouflage in my clothes. I know it's way too early, but I've had this same belly before particularly during the first miscarriage, which I could link to, but it's too depressing.

For the most part, I'm not freaking out over this pregnancy. I have my moments, but then I meditate and honestly believe that everything is going to be an A-OK, normal, healthy pregnancy. Of course, I cannot help but add, I really do hope so.

Folks, I know I have been letting you down on the ol' blog front. I've been wanting to talk about our adorable son and our (quite literal) hand signals for communicating while he's nursing. (Raise your hand if you had a good nights sleep. Raise your hand if you had dreams. Raise your hand if you want a bagel. Raise your hand if Daddy can eat your toe sausages!!!!!) Yes, a small toddler hand goes up at nearly every one of those commands.

I've wanted to talk about our 250 year old willow oak that was eaten bald by canker worms and we're really concerned if it's going to make it. We just hired a tree guy to fertilize it and we really hope it will live. (We didn't put enough goop on the tree band to stop the worms....an easy mistake when an army of worms were going after it).

I want to talk about the amazing asparagus that we're harvesting this year after planting it two years ago and to encourage every single one of you to start your own asparagus bed this year.

I want to talk about my old lady self and how after weeding this weekend, I can still stand up on my sore legs and waddle around the hall. It's PATHETIC how much pain I'm in from weeding.

I've wanted to make every one of those stories witty and clever and highly entertaining. But I am TOO DAMN BUSY. School is out in a few weeks and GOOD LORD it is not soon enough. I am being slapped silly by papers and research and meetings and just every freakin' thing.

So, there. Now you know. And tomorrow my fetal heart rate monitor that I've rented should arrive in the mail and I can have a little bit of relief my hearing this little one's heart when I go to bed at night.

I hope not to take another week before I blog again.

Virginia Tech

We are all stunned here to hear what has happened to VA Tech, a university not too far from here. Last night, students in the club I co-advise were all shocked and upset, some of whom had seriously considered attending VA Tech instead of here. We professors read about what happened and put ourselves in our colleague's shoes there, wondering how we would have reacted and wether we would have survived. I know people there and so far, they are all physically safe if not emotionally and spiritually abused.

The common view around here is "There, but for the grace of God, go we."

(Although I'm not sure I have that sentence grammatically correct.)

I'm Pregnant

I'm sure you're thinking...."Wait....didn't she already talk about this a couple of weeks ago? Did I miss something in the last few weeks of the measly posting she's been doing??"

Well, for the first time since I got a positive HPT, I am finally convinced that I am pregnant.

Yesterday was my first meeting with the OB nurse, the promotion from Gyn to OB as it were. And the whole time during our meeting when she was talking about this or that, I kept thinking "Well, I could be pregnant, but based on my history, we don't really know for sure."

So when she set up the meeting for my first trimester screening, I mentioned that I thought it would be a good idea if I had another ultrasound to check that there was any reason for me to go to the screening. I know that all the news has been very good thus far, but I had been lead to believe that the news was positive before, too, and it wasn't.

So she scheduled another ultrasound for the afternoon.

And 1 week and 1 day after my last ultrasound, the baby has grown exactly one week and one day. And the heart rate? 170! I was measuring 8 weeks 0 days with a 170 heart rate. At this point, the research I've seen shows that a heart rate over 146 has a 3% miscarriage rate. At 170, I just feel like that's a really good number. I believe, finally, that I am pregnant.

And yes, I did start crying on the table when she told me the heart rate. I was so relieved that everything looks normal. Of course, there could be some abnormalities in the screening, but I don't think so. I think everything is fine and normal. I could be wrong, but I don't think so.

3% is a magic number for me. I use it all the time in teaching about statistics to tell my students that it's the same probability as getting pregnant using birthcontrol pills. So it could happen, but it's unlikely. So having a 3% chance of miscarriage right now is very reassuring to me.

I'm pregnant. And I finally believe it.

In other news, we are slowly adjusting to life without Duncan. Surprisingly, the household member who is taking this the worst is Scarlett, aka Psycho Kitty. She and Duncan spent a lot of time napping together and Duncan was always licking her head (and her butt, but that's another story). When we come home from work now, she's like a little tribble flying across the room to latch on to our heads. Nights are filled with plaintive mews for us to pet her and snuggle with her. I try, but it's a bit annoying. (She has a whiny meow). I gave up long ago the right to any privacy when I go to the bathroom. But now she views me as a captive audience when I go a toilette and fairly assaults me with headbutts, meows and purrs while I'm trying to go about my business.

In all honesty, this is the first time in Scarlett's 14 1/2 years that she has not had a cat companion. And since Patches regards her beyond all cats as an indoor squirrel, he's not going to fill that void in her life. She always wanted to be #1 Kitty, but I don't think she ever meant to be the only cat in the house.

Worm Poop

Spring has sprung around here. The trees are turning green. The dogwoods are busting out in white and the azaelas are countering with their gorgeous pink. Tulips are giving their last hurrah and a whole variety of hostas, spring flowers and ground covers are echoing their own versions of green, pink and white.

And then we have the worm poop.

The canker worms are HORRIBLE this year despite all the tree banding we did last fall. I've found some on my newspaper, in my hair, on the washing machine and even making webs out the front door. I don't know if it's the warm weather or our mini-drought, but walking outside is crunchy. Shoes are not optional. We could actually hear the worm poop dropping out of the trees on Monday as the canker worms (inch worms really) chewed through all the new spring foliage. So far, our trees are not looking too damaged, but they have got to be everywhere. Hopefully, tonights cold weather will freeze those evil green bugs and show them who is really the boss of tree life. (I have no idea what that means: mother nature? Late spring frosts? Me as I climb the trees and pinch every last one of them to death with my woolen gloves???)

If you don't live in an area infested with canker worms, you have have no idea just how much worm poop can be a natural and substantial part of your life. Really. Worm poop. That is just bizarre.

Good News

We were at a wedding over the weekend and the theme/icon for the wedding was a big, full tree. Since 1) it looked like the tree in my meditations and 2) we were going to have the ultrasound when we came back, I took it as a good sign. I now even have a pretty nice tote bag with this tree on it.

So, the ultrasound was yesterday and the results were good. There is only one in there, which I have to say suprises me (!), but I think that will make life a lot easier! Second, they could see the fetus/embryo through a regular ultrasound and the heartrate was 136. We did end up going up the coochie to get a more accurate measure, but pretty much I was excited we could see the baby and hear the heartbeat from a regular ultrasound. The heart beat at this stage puts us at a 9% miscarriage rate.

I'm not sure exactly when I ovulated--I know the positive OPK but I'm not sure if I ovulated the next day or the next. So based on those estimates, my measurements should either be 7w0d or 6w6d. I ended up measuring 6w6d which I hope is ok. If it is measuring accurately and the heartbeat goes up the average 8 beats per day, then very soon, I should be in a 5% miscarriage rate.

Things look good! I know that and I'm glad and not overly worried in that punch-to-the-gut feeling. However....

Have you had your heart broken before? In that next relationships, aren't you a little bit more cautious even if things are going fantastic? Don't you really want the proof of time before you start daydreaming about a future together? Before you start counting on having a date to the company picnic or even thinking that you can count on someone being there to watch the Sci Fi Marathons with you on Friday nights? (Maybe that was just Dave and me.....)

In any case, I'm glad the news is good and I'm relieved. But I'm not esctatic nor am I 100% positive that everything is going to be ok. (Can I get an amen from any other women who've had a miscarriage before?) I know intellectually that this is really good news. I do, folks! I'm not being a spoil sport. But a 9% miscarriage rate is still not a 0% miscarriage rate, even though it's much, MUCH better than the 75% or the 100% miscarriage rates we had on the last 2 pregnancies. (OK, if I look at it like that, I feel that we are definitely in a much better place)

It's just hard to be naive and gushy with this new relationship when your heart has been broken before. That's all I'm saying. This is a good start to a long term person in my life, but I have to wait just a little bit more and get a few more data points before my heart is completely open to loving this little peanut with everything I've got.

Little Duncan

We had a very sad cat-tragedy last night.

It started about a week ago when Duncan started rolling around on the floor and pushing his legs out. It was clear something was wrong and he couldn't stand up. First we thought it was a seizure, but it didn't fit the google criteria for a seizure. Then we thought it was a little stroke cuz we just did. But within 15 minutes he was all better and we didn't think much more about it.

Then last night I saw him trying to crawl into our hutch and it was obvious his back legs weren't working. Since we'd also found a pee spot in our bedroom and the dining room rug also had a leak, my immediate suspicion was renal failure. By the time we saw him lying in the litter box, Dave had fixed up the cat carrier and whisked him to the emergency vet.

I thought for sure we would spend a bit of money and they would flush him with fluids and everything would be OK.

But instead, it wasn't renal failure. It was a very large bloodclot in his leg that had cut off his blood supply and his feeling. And apparently, he was throwing another clot in his other leg and was beginning to suffer. (Can I point out this this all occurred within about 2 hours!?) The choices were a $1000 treatment in which the vet had never known to be successful or put him to sleep. (Again...THOSE are the options!?!? Wasn't there a middle ground somewhere?? A few days of not really a lot of suffering and a chance to say a proper goodbye?????)

But the clots were not moving, his limbs were getting cold and he was apparently coming into a lot of pain. I understand that he was getting very sick and that losing circulation in one's limbs is never good and that they can't run a catheter into a 16 year old crippled cat and expect everything to come out hunky dory.

But nonetheless, I am very sad. Because Conor was in bed and I was at home, I didn't get to give him one last head scratch before he went to sleep. Dave was there and said it was very peaceful and Duncan apparently seemed ready for it.

But I feel a little robbed of a few more days with Duncan and a chance to say a proper goodbye. Quick partings are very difficult, even if they are with a sweet, if somewhat slow, little cat.