To lift or not to lift? That has been the topic of my informal interview with my pregnant friends (in other words, all but five of my friends. “You have more than five friends?” you might ask. “Har har” I might respond)
I’ve come across several contradictory pieces of advice in my quest to become pregnant. The latest has been about lifting your legs right after sex so the swimmers get a little help from gravity. I wasn’t sold on this technique until one fateful night of insomnia led me to a TVLand rerun of Roseanne where she rolled off Dan (not pretty) and raised her legs over her head. Since then, I’ve asked around and the results have been a pretty even split. Since I’m still not pregnant, I figured it couldn’t hurt to try.
It may not hurt, but it sure is a pain in the ass. I found out early on that it’s tiring to hold your legs up for the required 15 minutes. So I created a sort of spin move where my feet rested on the wall behind the bed while I laid there like an idiot. Alas, it didn’t work.
A few weeks ago B and I were at a friend’s house having dinner when we found out the great news that they are expecting #2! While drinking a beer (HA! Bet all you preggos wish you could drink a nice cold one) I asked her if she lifted her legs after sex. She said she did and strongly encouraged me to keep doing it. Here’s how the rest of the conversation went and why B thinks they’re going to upgrade to smarter friends.
ME: Really? Ugh. Fine, I’ll keep doing it, but it’s a pain in the ass.
HER: It’s not that bad. I just have a pillow next to me so I’m ready.
ME: A pillow? What size pillow. (How many do I stack to get my legs that high?)
HER: Just a small decorative one.
ME: That’s all? How does that work?
HER: It’s fine. You just need to raise your pelvis a little bit.
ME: (furrowed brow)
HER: (laughing) yeah, it’s not like you need to lift your legs up over your head or anything.
ME: (loooong pull on beer)
HER: um. You’re not lifting your legs all the way up, are you?
ME: (another looooong pull on beer)
On the car ride home I recounted the conversation for B who reminded me that when I started with the Cirque de Soleil wall maneuvers he asked if I thought his guys were going to make a wrong turn and head towards my knee. (to which he got The Look that when given to a husband can mean anything from “Hit the couch” to “DO NOT tell that story!” to “we all heard that fart now quickly say YOU did it so everyone stops looking at me!”)
I wonder if there is an IQ requirement for having kids.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
You Want Me To Do WHAT
I know, I know! I haven’t posted something new in awhile. I have to admit, the nagging from my faithful followers made me feel loved! And then the nagging turned annoying so here you go – a new post! It’s been harder to write these last few weeks. I had a wide range of emotions I couldn’t quite get a grasp on. The High Holidays just ended and I didn’t realize how emotional I would be at this time of year. Secretly, I had hoped that I would be pregnant and starting off the new year with a new little member of our family. Of course, while people-watching in synagogue it seemed that every young woman was pregnant. (And wearing heels which I totally don’t get because I bitch about wearing heels now and I always thought being pregnant was a great excuse to wear comfy shoes regardless of the occasion. DAMN!)
My mother-in-law was recently in town which is always nice because she’s the Energizer Bunny doing Stand-Up. You’re never bored when she’s around. I love my mother-in-law and am blessed to have someone so warm and full of love in my life. That being said, sometimes she says things that come out in the absolute worst way. For example, My Little Boyfriend Jack was baptized the weekend MIL was in town and I asked MIL if she wanted to pop next door to the open house and drop off a gift. She declined, saying it was too painful for her to see other people with their grandchildren. OUCH! Not much I could say to that. I know she didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it’s a sensitive subject! I swear we’re trying!
Since the status of the womb is still empty, it’s time to start looking into other advice we’ve been given. This brings me to Taking Charge of Your Fertility. Several friends and friends-of-friends swear by this book. Naturally, I was thrilled when my public library emailed that it was waiting for me. I brought it home, made some tea and sat down to read the secret to getting pregnant. Instead, I found out about a method called Charting. I thought I was already doing that by keeping track of menstruation and ovulation days. Uh-WRONG! Charting is a whole other ballgame and the more I read the more I decided to stay on the bench. Basically, I’m supposed to PLAY with my discharge and describe it. I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP! They even give examples (this may be a good time to put down that snack and prepare to squirm) like: sticky, crumbly (ewww), opaque and slippery, no stretch. ICK! People really do this? Look, I’ll admit to having discharge, but I REFUSE to play with it!
Grossed out, (yes, I realize I’m immature) I skipped a few pages and found a nice, color photo of someone playing with their cervical fluid! The only reason I knew it wasn’t just a slimy booger was because it was labeled in big, bold type CERVICAL FLUID. There’s a reason I didn’t go to medical school. Because inside stuff is gross. Why do you think doctors get paid so much? Because they have to LOOK and TOUCH the nasty gunk we’ve got going on down there. I realize that the Charting Faithful are going to slam me for my obvious misunderstanding of the wonders of this method. I say, if the authors of this book wanted to me read the whole thing and actually follow it, they should have put the “interactive” section at the back and included a shot glass with some tequila because I’m done. No way am I playing Science Lab in my undies.
My mother-in-law was recently in town which is always nice because she’s the Energizer Bunny doing Stand-Up. You’re never bored when she’s around. I love my mother-in-law and am blessed to have someone so warm and full of love in my life. That being said, sometimes she says things that come out in the absolute worst way. For example, My Little Boyfriend Jack was baptized the weekend MIL was in town and I asked MIL if she wanted to pop next door to the open house and drop off a gift. She declined, saying it was too painful for her to see other people with their grandchildren. OUCH! Not much I could say to that. I know she didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it’s a sensitive subject! I swear we’re trying!
Since the status of the womb is still empty, it’s time to start looking into other advice we’ve been given. This brings me to Taking Charge of Your Fertility. Several friends and friends-of-friends swear by this book. Naturally, I was thrilled when my public library emailed that it was waiting for me. I brought it home, made some tea and sat down to read the secret to getting pregnant. Instead, I found out about a method called Charting. I thought I was already doing that by keeping track of menstruation and ovulation days. Uh-WRONG! Charting is a whole other ballgame and the more I read the more I decided to stay on the bench. Basically, I’m supposed to PLAY with my discharge and describe it. I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP! They even give examples (this may be a good time to put down that snack and prepare to squirm) like: sticky, crumbly (ewww), opaque and slippery, no stretch. ICK! People really do this? Look, I’ll admit to having discharge, but I REFUSE to play with it!
Grossed out, (yes, I realize I’m immature) I skipped a few pages and found a nice, color photo of someone playing with their cervical fluid! The only reason I knew it wasn’t just a slimy booger was because it was labeled in big, bold type CERVICAL FLUID. There’s a reason I didn’t go to medical school. Because inside stuff is gross. Why do you think doctors get paid so much? Because they have to LOOK and TOUCH the nasty gunk we’ve got going on down there. I realize that the Charting Faithful are going to slam me for my obvious misunderstanding of the wonders of this method. I say, if the authors of this book wanted to me read the whole thing and actually follow it, they should have put the “interactive” section at the back and included a shot glass with some tequila because I’m done. No way am I playing Science Lab in my undies.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Put Down the Edamame!
Since starting this blog, I have received many emails encouraging me to stay positive throughout this experience and I greatly appreciate it. But I have to admit, it’s the emails full of baby making advice that have me laughing ‘til I pee. B and I figure it can’t hurt to try them all, right? This month we’re focusing on Aunt Leslie’s “Get Drunk on Grasshoppers and Do It in the Kitchen” method. (Sorry, Leslie, I HAD to share that. The stuff you say is too damn funny to keep to myself) Of course, we need to look up how to make a grasshopper…
The other weekend B and I were babysitting for Jack, when our preggo neighbor across the street brought over a book for me to read. She only got through the first section before getting pregnant, so you know I read the entire book in warp speed. It’s called Fertility Facts: Hundreds of Tips for Getting Pregnant by Kim Hahn (you can get a $2 coupon for First Response with purchase!) and I learned some interesting little tidbits. I found out that cinnamon is a possible fertility boost and that iron you get from veggies is better for fertility than iron you get from meat.
However, nothing compares to my surprise when I read the page titled “Say No to Soy.” According to the book, a component of soy “can actually sabotage sperm as they swim in the female reproductive tract trying to fertilize the egg.” Ummm, edamame bad? I should mention that as I was reading this fun fact, I was inhaling a bowl of Mojitomame. (Edamame steamed with fresh mint and limes then sprinkled with kosher salt. Thank you Adam and Elizabeth for discovering this on your honeymoon!) I spit out the soy bean in my mouth and shoved the bowl to the other side of the coffee table. When B got home from work I told him all about what I learned from “The Book That Worked for M-“ as we call it in our house. So it was up to him to finish off the batch of edamame for lunch the following day.
The next day, after walking the dogs, I sat down to read some more Fertility Facts when I arrived at the chapter for men. Why not? I learned why getting it on every day is NOT good for fertilization (sorry, guys. You’ve got to come up with a new ploy). I also learned that men shouldn’t eat soy either when trying to conceive! SHIT! I just sent Bryan off with a whole container of sperm fighters! I quickly dialed his number and was relieved when he answered on the second ring. There was no time for “hellos” instead I shouted, “PUT DOWN THE EDAMAME!”
“What?” he replied?
“DON’T EAT THE EDAMAME! IT’LL MAKE US INFERTILE! THROW AWAY THE EDAMAME!”
Later that day I was talking to my pregnant sister-in-law, the doctah, and proudly told her what I had learned from Fertility Facts. She said not to believe everything I read in pregnancy books because she’s found that a lot of the information in them is not medically accurate. I argued that what I was saying from this book was TRUE, evidenced by my neighbor’s baby belly. She wasn’t having it.
“Really, the book quoted a study that found that soy is not good for fertility so I’m off the soy sauce.”
“Lauren, that’s ridiculous. Don’t believe everything you read in those books. That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Uh-huhuh. A medical study from London proved it.”
“Think about it for a minute. China is the most over-populated country in the world and their diet is based on soy – tofu, soy sauce, etc.”
Touché, Doctor, touché.
The other weekend B and I were babysitting for Jack, when our preggo neighbor across the street brought over a book for me to read. She only got through the first section before getting pregnant, so you know I read the entire book in warp speed. It’s called Fertility Facts: Hundreds of Tips for Getting Pregnant by Kim Hahn (you can get a $2 coupon for First Response with purchase!) and I learned some interesting little tidbits. I found out that cinnamon is a possible fertility boost and that iron you get from veggies is better for fertility than iron you get from meat.
However, nothing compares to my surprise when I read the page titled “Say No to Soy.” According to the book, a component of soy “can actually sabotage sperm as they swim in the female reproductive tract trying to fertilize the egg.” Ummm, edamame bad? I should mention that as I was reading this fun fact, I was inhaling a bowl of Mojitomame. (Edamame steamed with fresh mint and limes then sprinkled with kosher salt. Thank you Adam and Elizabeth for discovering this on your honeymoon!) I spit out the soy bean in my mouth and shoved the bowl to the other side of the coffee table. When B got home from work I told him all about what I learned from “The Book That Worked for M-“ as we call it in our house. So it was up to him to finish off the batch of edamame for lunch the following day.
The next day, after walking the dogs, I sat down to read some more Fertility Facts when I arrived at the chapter for men. Why not? I learned why getting it on every day is NOT good for fertilization (sorry, guys. You’ve got to come up with a new ploy). I also learned that men shouldn’t eat soy either when trying to conceive! SHIT! I just sent Bryan off with a whole container of sperm fighters! I quickly dialed his number and was relieved when he answered on the second ring. There was no time for “hellos” instead I shouted, “PUT DOWN THE EDAMAME!”
“What?” he replied?
“DON’T EAT THE EDAMAME! IT’LL MAKE US INFERTILE! THROW AWAY THE EDAMAME!”
Later that day I was talking to my pregnant sister-in-law, the doctah, and proudly told her what I had learned from Fertility Facts. She said not to believe everything I read in pregnancy books because she’s found that a lot of the information in them is not medically accurate. I argued that what I was saying from this book was TRUE, evidenced by my neighbor’s baby belly. She wasn’t having it.
“Really, the book quoted a study that found that soy is not good for fertility so I’m off the soy sauce.”
“Lauren, that’s ridiculous. Don’t believe everything you read in those books. That doesn’t even make sense.”
“Uh-huhuh. A medical study from London proved it.”
“Think about it for a minute. China is the most over-populated country in the world and their diet is based on soy – tofu, soy sauce, etc.”
Touché, Doctor, touché.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
An Ode to Menstruation
I remember when I was 12 and had just finished a truly embarrassing sex ed unit with 40 other embarrassed prepubescents. All of the menstruation talk left me paranoid about getting my period. Who designed this crazy scheme where I’d basically pee blood for a week every month for the next 40 years? Why couldn’t anyone tell me when this party in my pants was going to start?
Over and over again, I’d review the symptoms in my head like a big checklist: tender breasts? Uh… nope. Headaches? I have two older brothers who will never outgrow leaving turds in the toilet unflushed for me to find as a little reminder of their greatness. Yeah, I’ve got headaches. Cramps? That’s a tricky one because the more you try to think if you have cramps, the more you can create cramps. Also, my grandmother often cooked old style Jewish food which means lots of roughage like cabbage covered in sauce with some meat thrown in somewhere. So on most days while I was convinced I was suffering from cramps, it was usually just explosive gas that would evoke awe from my brothers in the form of “good one!”.
Yet, on most days I was still convinced that I was suffering from THE cramps which I was also convinced would be immediately followed by a gush of blood that would flow down my legs and into my Keds if I didn’t catch it in time with a PAD, which is a nice way of saying “adult diaper.” I’d run to the bathroom, pull down my pants and look hopefully for that precious spot of blood that would mark my entry into womanhood. Of course, it wasn’t there.
It wasn’t that I wanted so badly to be an official woman or feel grown up or create a closer bond with my mom. Really, I just wanted to get the damn thing over with. Screw the “thrill of anticipation.” I wanted to my period to start so I had some sort of proof that I was normal. That I was on the right track. I didn’t have older sisters to learn from and my mom wasn’t really into bonding or having these sort of discussions. I think she figured school was taking care of it and anything else I needed to know I’d learn at a friends house or on an after-school special.
Eventually, I did get my proof, though I still don’t believe I’m all-the-way normal. I came home from school one day in sixth grade and found that my period had finally arrived. And that’s when I FREAKED OUT! I screamed for my housekeeper, yelling that I was hemorrhaging and to call an ambulance. Ok, so I tend to be a little over-dramatic at times. Sue me. She laughed at me and called my mom to tell her the news. My mom then calmly told me to get a pad from her closet and she’d see me when she got home from work. Pretty anticlimatic. I tried tell her that we had a serious problem on our hands. How could one of those pads possibly be enough? At the bottom of her bathroom closet I found a stash of pads in all different lengths and degrees of thickness. The classic signs of a mom who knows how to shop with coupons. What was the method to this madness? Which one do I use? I decided that I didn’t have time to make a real decision. I’d use one of each and figure out a better plan once my mom got home. I grabbed a clean pair of underwear and stuck one on top of the other then proceeded to take a first step as a Woman. Only, I couldn’t really step with all of that crap between my legs. I did manage to waddle, though. I waddled my way to my parent’s bed where I lay, watching TV until my mom got home. She took one look at me, shook her head, and probably wondered how she created such a dumbass, before handing me a pack of the thinnest pads in the bunch and kissing me on the head.
Getting a period is a huge deal in any girl’s life. It’s momentous. And it stays that way all through puberty and coming into adulthood. But somewhere along the line, your period becomes more than a monthly reminder of the wonders of mother nature. It becomes the Most Important Part of Each Month. Yes, they say sex changes everything and your views on menstruation are no exception.
Once you have sex you stop wearily stuffing tampons in your purse each month and revert back to when you were 12 and start running to the bathroom, hoping to see that precious spot of blood that means YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT! B and I have been together for over 7 years and married for two. So we’ve spent many months anxiously waiting for Aunt Flow and then doing Happy Dances to celebrate her arrival because we were in the clear – Game On! Now that we’ve decided to start trying to have a baby, it seems odd and almost illegal to not want Aunt Flow around anymore.
The first month of trying started off a little rocky, but I thought we ended well. I KNEW my increasing exhaustion was from a little baby growing inside me and NOT from my husband’s MacTruck snoring that can’t even be muffled by his sleep apnea mask (that Gasp! Doesn’t work when he rips it off his face in his sleep!) I proudly told B of my nausea at Publix when I smelled fried chicken and the seafood counter in one whiff. So I was startled! Shocked! Flabbergasted when I went to the bathroom and found that Aunt Flow had arrived. And for the first time, my husband and I were... sad. (Until B got excited at all of the "trying" we still had left to do.)
A lot of this whole trying-to-get pregnant business has to do with your mother’s experience when she was pregnant with you. Everyone asks questions about your mother’s pregnancy. How long did it take her to get pregnant with you? Did she have miscarriages? How many? Did she carry you low or high? But if your mom isn’t around to ask, HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?
Over and over again, I’d review the symptoms in my head like a big checklist: tender breasts? Uh… nope. Headaches? I have two older brothers who will never outgrow leaving turds in the toilet unflushed for me to find as a little reminder of their greatness. Yeah, I’ve got headaches. Cramps? That’s a tricky one because the more you try to think if you have cramps, the more you can create cramps. Also, my grandmother often cooked old style Jewish food which means lots of roughage like cabbage covered in sauce with some meat thrown in somewhere. So on most days while I was convinced I was suffering from cramps, it was usually just explosive gas that would evoke awe from my brothers in the form of “good one!”.
Yet, on most days I was still convinced that I was suffering from THE cramps which I was also convinced would be immediately followed by a gush of blood that would flow down my legs and into my Keds if I didn’t catch it in time with a PAD, which is a nice way of saying “adult diaper.” I’d run to the bathroom, pull down my pants and look hopefully for that precious spot of blood that would mark my entry into womanhood. Of course, it wasn’t there.
It wasn’t that I wanted so badly to be an official woman or feel grown up or create a closer bond with my mom. Really, I just wanted to get the damn thing over with. Screw the “thrill of anticipation.” I wanted to my period to start so I had some sort of proof that I was normal. That I was on the right track. I didn’t have older sisters to learn from and my mom wasn’t really into bonding or having these sort of discussions. I think she figured school was taking care of it and anything else I needed to know I’d learn at a friends house or on an after-school special.
Eventually, I did get my proof, though I still don’t believe I’m all-the-way normal. I came home from school one day in sixth grade and found that my period had finally arrived. And that’s when I FREAKED OUT! I screamed for my housekeeper, yelling that I was hemorrhaging and to call an ambulance. Ok, so I tend to be a little over-dramatic at times. Sue me. She laughed at me and called my mom to tell her the news. My mom then calmly told me to get a pad from her closet and she’d see me when she got home from work. Pretty anticlimatic. I tried tell her that we had a serious problem on our hands. How could one of those pads possibly be enough? At the bottom of her bathroom closet I found a stash of pads in all different lengths and degrees of thickness. The classic signs of a mom who knows how to shop with coupons. What was the method to this madness? Which one do I use? I decided that I didn’t have time to make a real decision. I’d use one of each and figure out a better plan once my mom got home. I grabbed a clean pair of underwear and stuck one on top of the other then proceeded to take a first step as a Woman. Only, I couldn’t really step with all of that crap between my legs. I did manage to waddle, though. I waddled my way to my parent’s bed where I lay, watching TV until my mom got home. She took one look at me, shook her head, and probably wondered how she created such a dumbass, before handing me a pack of the thinnest pads in the bunch and kissing me on the head.
Getting a period is a huge deal in any girl’s life. It’s momentous. And it stays that way all through puberty and coming into adulthood. But somewhere along the line, your period becomes more than a monthly reminder of the wonders of mother nature. It becomes the Most Important Part of Each Month. Yes, they say sex changes everything and your views on menstruation are no exception.
Once you have sex you stop wearily stuffing tampons in your purse each month and revert back to when you were 12 and start running to the bathroom, hoping to see that precious spot of blood that means YOU’RE NOT PREGNANT! B and I have been together for over 7 years and married for two. So we’ve spent many months anxiously waiting for Aunt Flow and then doing Happy Dances to celebrate her arrival because we were in the clear – Game On! Now that we’ve decided to start trying to have a baby, it seems odd and almost illegal to not want Aunt Flow around anymore.
The first month of trying started off a little rocky, but I thought we ended well. I KNEW my increasing exhaustion was from a little baby growing inside me and NOT from my husband’s MacTruck snoring that can’t even be muffled by his sleep apnea mask (that Gasp! Doesn’t work when he rips it off his face in his sleep!) I proudly told B of my nausea at Publix when I smelled fried chicken and the seafood counter in one whiff. So I was startled! Shocked! Flabbergasted when I went to the bathroom and found that Aunt Flow had arrived. And for the first time, my husband and I were... sad. (Until B got excited at all of the "trying" we still had left to do.)
A lot of this whole trying-to-get pregnant business has to do with your mother’s experience when she was pregnant with you. Everyone asks questions about your mother’s pregnancy. How long did it take her to get pregnant with you? Did she have miscarriages? How many? Did she carry you low or high? But if your mom isn’t around to ask, HOW THE HELL ARE YOU SUPPOSED TO KNOW?
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Smiley Faces
Today we have a SMILEY FACE! Woohoo! It was the last stick in the box, phew! Time to have some fun! But first we have to brush our teeth (morning breath is NOT as sexy as it seems on TV, folks). And then we have to let the dogs out. And stand in the middle of the lawn in the pouring rain throwing their toys and pretending to run and play so they’ll emerge from the doorway and come out to pee. By the time we get inside we’re both sopping wet and Ovie immediately runs to the pantry door and begins crying because he’s a poor starving dog that must be fed this instant! Right, we know your game, pal. Yet we fall for it yet again and decide to wait a few minutes longer and feed the dogs first. It’s still raining so they won’t go back outside.
We have to figure out what to do with them because as anyone with a dog or cat can tell you – they are DEFINITE MOOD KILLERS! Had my parents known what cockblocks pets really are they would have let us had the Cujo we always wanted. I’m totally serious. Try getting it on with Ovie and Gilby growling and grunting as they fight over a toy. Or with Ovie trying to mount Gilby and her fending him off by body-checking him into the side of the bed frame. Or the piece to resistance: You’re having a GREAT time, you’re feeling great, totally in the moment and with your head turned you happen to open your eyes and see….. Gilby’s head coming over the side of the bed, her nose twitching and eyebrows furrowing as she watches. And watches. And watches. The more we try to yell at her and tell her to go away the more eager she is to be invited onto the bed. (Lemmon, you’re still dead meat for teaching her to get on the bed in the first place!) It doesn’t help to throw something in her direction to scare her away because the last time I tried that she ran to the other side of the bed and it took B a few moments to realize it wasn’t me licking his bald head. DEFINITE MOOD KILLER!
Thus, we decide to simply close the bedroom door and keep them out. Easy solution. To keep them occupied, we bring up armfuls of chewed Nyla bones and assorted stuffed toys minus heads and various limbs. Giggling, we shut the door and begin to make our own smiley faces (wink, wink) when we hear whining at the door. Focus! We can ignore them. We will ignore them, after all we are the Pack Leaders! They’ll be fine if we don’t let them in. We’re having a good time, here! Wait- who’s clawing at the door (you’d better not be scratching the paint!), there’s more whining, and upon investigation, two noses pressed against the crack between the door and carpet.
Needless to say, our dogs got quite an education. They still can’t look us in the eye. But yay! SMILEY FACES ALL AROUND!!!!!!!
We have to figure out what to do with them because as anyone with a dog or cat can tell you – they are DEFINITE MOOD KILLERS! Had my parents known what cockblocks pets really are they would have let us had the Cujo we always wanted. I’m totally serious. Try getting it on with Ovie and Gilby growling and grunting as they fight over a toy. Or with Ovie trying to mount Gilby and her fending him off by body-checking him into the side of the bed frame. Or the piece to resistance: You’re having a GREAT time, you’re feeling great, totally in the moment and with your head turned you happen to open your eyes and see….. Gilby’s head coming over the side of the bed, her nose twitching and eyebrows furrowing as she watches. And watches. And watches. The more we try to yell at her and tell her to go away the more eager she is to be invited onto the bed. (Lemmon, you’re still dead meat for teaching her to get on the bed in the first place!) It doesn’t help to throw something in her direction to scare her away because the last time I tried that she ran to the other side of the bed and it took B a few moments to realize it wasn’t me licking his bald head. DEFINITE MOOD KILLER!
Thus, we decide to simply close the bedroom door and keep them out. Easy solution. To keep them occupied, we bring up armfuls of chewed Nyla bones and assorted stuffed toys minus heads and various limbs. Giggling, we shut the door and begin to make our own smiley faces (wink, wink) when we hear whining at the door. Focus! We can ignore them. We will ignore them, after all we are the Pack Leaders! They’ll be fine if we don’t let them in. We’re having a good time, here! Wait- who’s clawing at the door (you’d better not be scratching the paint!), there’s more whining, and upon investigation, two noses pressed against the crack between the door and carpet.
Needless to say, our dogs got quite an education. They still can’t look us in the eye. But yay! SMILEY FACES ALL AROUND!!!!!!!
Monday, August 10, 2009
The Waiting is the Hard Part
I’m getting used to doing the pee dance. That’s because I’m trying really hard to hold it in long enough to take the Digital Ovulation Test every day. At this point, I’m questioning if I really do ovulate at all. Maybe I really don’t know how menstruation works because every day I get the empty circle. I pee and pray for that smiley face that says, “Get it on!” But alas, nothing yet. Nada. Zip. Zilch. The empty circle is pretty much mocking me at this point. I told B my million dollar idea for the day is to make an ovulation test with a sound chip in it that goes, “Bon Chica Bow Wow” when it’s time for chuggi-chuggi. (This term for sex stems from B’s days working in a wharehouse at night with a bunch of Hispanic jokesters who used to teach him charming phrases like this).
If I don’t get a Smiley soon I’m going to run out of pee sticks and I really don’t want to buy another box. This stuff isn’t cheap! And on top of everything, I feel like I’m failing Ovulation 101. I know there are a lot of medical reasons why some women can’t ovulate, but none of those reasons have an easy solution. They’re all indicators of serious problems and my passionate (even though some might call it “high strung” or “crazy”) responses to less than ideal situations can’t handle a serious problem down there.
B has this bizarre optimistic attitude all the time and while I usually appreciate it as the Ying to my Yang, right now I just want to deck him. Yesterday he told me it was a GOOD thing it wasn’t a Happy Face Day because he had a lot of work to do and had to be up early tomorrow morning. Of course, I took this to mean that he didn’t love me or actually want to have kids. God forbid he be a little tired, right? Clearly, my hormones are ready for me to be knocked up, it’s just my uterus that needs to catch up.
If I don’t get a Smiley soon I’m going to run out of pee sticks and I really don’t want to buy another box. This stuff isn’t cheap! And on top of everything, I feel like I’m failing Ovulation 101. I know there are a lot of medical reasons why some women can’t ovulate, but none of those reasons have an easy solution. They’re all indicators of serious problems and my passionate (even though some might call it “high strung” or “crazy”) responses to less than ideal situations can’t handle a serious problem down there.
B has this bizarre optimistic attitude all the time and while I usually appreciate it as the Ying to my Yang, right now I just want to deck him. Yesterday he told me it was a GOOD thing it wasn’t a Happy Face Day because he had a lot of work to do and had to be up early tomorrow morning. Of course, I took this to mean that he didn’t love me or actually want to have kids. God forbid he be a little tired, right? Clearly, my hormones are ready for me to be knocked up, it’s just my uterus that needs to catch up.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Silbling Rivalry
Tonight B and I were laying on the couch-that-ate-our-family-room (for anyone who hasn’t been to the house since we got the couch, we learned Life Lesson #529: Always measure furniture before you buy it. However, we do love our comfy couch and it fits perfectly – unless you try to open the back door. Or walk into the family room without going sideways). We were laying on the couch trying to watch an episode of Hung (great show) but kept getting distracted by our dogs and their sibling rivalry.
Ovie has a stuffed, squeaky sheep that Gilby could care less about – unless Ovie has it. The two dogs were adorable laying next to each other on the same bed and then Ovie got up, went to another room in the house and brought back his sheep. He then proceeded to prance back in forth in front of Gilby with the sheep in his mouth all the while watching for Gilby’s reaction.
Refusing to be taunted by her little brother, Gilby just laid there. Ovie made a few more passes in front of Gilby and then when he got in front of her face again he paused, squeaked the sheep and kept walking. Still no reaction, although her eyebrows had started to furrow and we knew it was only a matter of time before an ass-kicking would commence. Sure enough on the next taunting pass, just as Ovie had walked past Gilby’s face, she POUNCED! She pushed him to the ground and wrestled the sheep out of his mouth. He valiantly tried to fight back by nipping at her legs and belly and reaching up for her beard. Annoyed that the squirming brat wouldn’t stay down and admit defeat, Gilby applied her finishing move. She sat on him. And squeaked the sheep. Victory!
Our dogs actually get along very well. Gilby loves her fairly new brother. She accepts him and even shares her space and crate. The one thing she will NOT share, however, is attention. This is because she is an Attention Whore and is proud of her title. She’ll be sound asleep in another room and just as we place our hands on Ovie’s tiny little head – BOOM! In a flash she’s body-checked him out of the way and her head is under our hands enjoying some nice petting.
Which leads us to ask: What are the dogs going to do when we bring home a baby? Can they handle it? Our dogs are pretty good with babies. They like to look inside the carriers and Ovie loves to lick baby toes. When babies cry the dogs run to us and nudge our legs as if saying, “Hey, do you hear that? Aren’t you doing to do something?” The problem starts when a baby doesn’t leave right away.
A couple of months ago I was babysitting my next door neighbor/boyfriend Jack who was just a few weeks old at the time. He is the most good-natured, sweet, easy baby in the world (Stacy, all of my sleep-deprived friends want to strangle you right now. Hee hee). Jack was in his carrier on the couch and Ovie and Gilby were fascinated by him. They were sniffing furiously and trying to get their heads closer and closer to him. I pulled him out and held him in my lap while he flirted with me shamelessly. Time flew by as I played with Jack, cooed and fed him his bottle.
My dogs, however, were getting more and more jealous of this tiny, hairless creature. Ovie had parked himself on the floor in front of me and was whining and crying incessantly. Gilby was pacing back and forth with periodic stops to lay at my feet belly up and to bring me toys. I was getting worried. B wasn’t home to entertain the dogs and I surely wasn’t going to put down Little Flirty to pet them, but they were starting to lose it.
Then Jack started to cry. The dogs were stunned into silence looking from me to Jack, and back at me again. The got as close as they could to him, eyebrows furrowed, and Gilby nudged his bottom with her nose. As quickly as the cries came, the went and were soon replaced by little giggle-gurgles. I didn’t know what to make of his sudden mood change when I happened to look down and see Ovie licking Jack’s toes.
So maybe they can handle a little baby in the house?
Ovie has a stuffed, squeaky sheep that Gilby could care less about – unless Ovie has it. The two dogs were adorable laying next to each other on the same bed and then Ovie got up, went to another room in the house and brought back his sheep. He then proceeded to prance back in forth in front of Gilby with the sheep in his mouth all the while watching for Gilby’s reaction.
Refusing to be taunted by her little brother, Gilby just laid there. Ovie made a few more passes in front of Gilby and then when he got in front of her face again he paused, squeaked the sheep and kept walking. Still no reaction, although her eyebrows had started to furrow and we knew it was only a matter of time before an ass-kicking would commence. Sure enough on the next taunting pass, just as Ovie had walked past Gilby’s face, she POUNCED! She pushed him to the ground and wrestled the sheep out of his mouth. He valiantly tried to fight back by nipping at her legs and belly and reaching up for her beard. Annoyed that the squirming brat wouldn’t stay down and admit defeat, Gilby applied her finishing move. She sat on him. And squeaked the sheep. Victory!
Our dogs actually get along very well. Gilby loves her fairly new brother. She accepts him and even shares her space and crate. The one thing she will NOT share, however, is attention. This is because she is an Attention Whore and is proud of her title. She’ll be sound asleep in another room and just as we place our hands on Ovie’s tiny little head – BOOM! In a flash she’s body-checked him out of the way and her head is under our hands enjoying some nice petting.
Which leads us to ask: What are the dogs going to do when we bring home a baby? Can they handle it? Our dogs are pretty good with babies. They like to look inside the carriers and Ovie loves to lick baby toes. When babies cry the dogs run to us and nudge our legs as if saying, “Hey, do you hear that? Aren’t you doing to do something?” The problem starts when a baby doesn’t leave right away.
A couple of months ago I was babysitting my next door neighbor/boyfriend Jack who was just a few weeks old at the time. He is the most good-natured, sweet, easy baby in the world (Stacy, all of my sleep-deprived friends want to strangle you right now. Hee hee). Jack was in his carrier on the couch and Ovie and Gilby were fascinated by him. They were sniffing furiously and trying to get their heads closer and closer to him. I pulled him out and held him in my lap while he flirted with me shamelessly. Time flew by as I played with Jack, cooed and fed him his bottle.
My dogs, however, were getting more and more jealous of this tiny, hairless creature. Ovie had parked himself on the floor in front of me and was whining and crying incessantly. Gilby was pacing back and forth with periodic stops to lay at my feet belly up and to bring me toys. I was getting worried. B wasn’t home to entertain the dogs and I surely wasn’t going to put down Little Flirty to pet them, but they were starting to lose it.
Then Jack started to cry. The dogs were stunned into silence looking from me to Jack, and back at me again. The got as close as they could to him, eyebrows furrowed, and Gilby nudged his bottom with her nose. As quickly as the cries came, the went and were soon replaced by little giggle-gurgles. I didn’t know what to make of his sudden mood change when I happened to look down and see Ovie licking Jack’s toes.
So maybe they can handle a little baby in the house?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
ClearBlue Easy - Kiss My Ass
So apparently, the “livin’-on-the-edge-we’ll-have-fun-sex method isn’t working. Who are these people who get pregnant “by accident?” because now that I’m trying to get pregnant everything I read tells me there are only TWO DAYS a month you can get pregnant. How did I not know this all these years? You mean to tell me that obsessively worrying that there was a minute hole in the condom and waking up at 6am EVEN ON THE WEEKENDS to take my birth control pill at exactly the same time was all for nothing? I think it’s a conspiracy out there and it starts the first awkward day of sex ed. Girls are told that we could get pregnant at any time! Be afraid! Run from cum!!! Then you start trying to get pregnant and start a family and the truth comes out. There are only two days a month for it to count and odds are you were passed out drunk or bloated from the great Mexican place down the street and you missed your chance.
Finally, I succumbed and bought a Digital Ovulation Test at my local Target. My sister-in-law told me to. She is pregnant (I’m actually too excited for her to be jealous. Really. I swear.) and thus she is the expert on all things pregnancy. Of course, her being a doctor means shit at this point. The fact is she’s pregnant so she must know what she’s talking about. She suggested I buy a Digital Ovulation Test to know the most “potent” days to have sex. Her words not mine. (Very doctory, don’t you think?) I have been waiting for weeks to use this thing. My neighbor told me to count ten days from the start of my period and the tenth day will be THE DAY to get it on. Last night I stayed up late reading the instructions, totally captivated like it was People magazine. I got up this morning ready to conduct my first test and… I literally couldn’t hold in the pee long enough to get the Applicator into the fancy Test Holder. Actually, I couldn’t get the Applicator out of the industrial strength wrapping fast enough to take it out and insert it into the Test Holder. Damn! The instructions say “It is important that you have not urinated for at least 4 hours before testing.” WTF? How the hell am I supposed to hold my pee for another four hours? Do they think I’m going to have camel babies? Does anyone know a woman who can hold their pee for four hours? If so, answer me this: If women could hold it that long why are there women’s bathrooms at any stadium or arena? Because I promise you, if we could hold it there, we would!
I’ve run a bunch of errands and by the time I get home the coffee and diet coke have completely settled into my bladder and want out immediately. It’s all I can do to get in the house, turn off the alarm and let the dogs out before racing to the nearest bathroom. I’m about to feel sweet relief when I remember the Digital Ovulation Test upstairs and do a legs-crossed-waddle-run up to the master bathroom. I’m starting to panic and sweat is dripping down the spine of my back. Must hold it a little longer, must hold it a little longer. I tear away the ridiculous packaging, shove the Applicator into the Test Holder pee on the stick for 7 seconds (ahhhh) and check to see that I hit the stick. Instead of the blinking image of the test holder, I see a picture of an open book blinking at me. Shit! I hurriedly check the glossary on the instructions (yes, this is a bad sign. Any instructions involving pee should not require a glossary) and see that it’s an error message. At this point, I’m bouncing up and down on the toilet, shaking from side to side, trying to hold in my precious urine so I can see if Bryan needs to come home for a Nooner and I’m told to refer to Error Message 16. A flashing (Error A) symbol has appeared on the Display. (NO SHIT!) What does this mean? Use Question 17. Question 17 is equally helpful so I look back at the glossary and see the following, “Error symbols will display for approximately 8 minutes. Do not re-test until the error symbols have cleared.” Is this a fucking joke? At this moment the flood gates open and I pee to my heart’s content.
Who in their right mind would make a pee-on-a stick test that makes you hold it for FOUR HOURS and then another 8 minutes for a freakin’ error symbol to disappear? Let me get this straight. This is a test that uses pee-pee to detect if your hormone level has spiked high enough to indicate that you are fertile and ready for some baby makin’ lovin and there is no RESET button? No other way to make the stupid book icon disappear in less than 8 minutes? I can order and eat a burrito in less than 8 minutes. My dogs can eat a shoe in less than 8 minutes. I’m stymied. And the best part is – my husband could be on his way home for a quickie and I literally pissed it away.
Finally, I succumbed and bought a Digital Ovulation Test at my local Target. My sister-in-law told me to. She is pregnant (I’m actually too excited for her to be jealous. Really. I swear.) and thus she is the expert on all things pregnancy. Of course, her being a doctor means shit at this point. The fact is she’s pregnant so she must know what she’s talking about. She suggested I buy a Digital Ovulation Test to know the most “potent” days to have sex. Her words not mine. (Very doctory, don’t you think?) I have been waiting for weeks to use this thing. My neighbor told me to count ten days from the start of my period and the tenth day will be THE DAY to get it on. Last night I stayed up late reading the instructions, totally captivated like it was People magazine. I got up this morning ready to conduct my first test and… I literally couldn’t hold in the pee long enough to get the Applicator into the fancy Test Holder. Actually, I couldn’t get the Applicator out of the industrial strength wrapping fast enough to take it out and insert it into the Test Holder. Damn! The instructions say “It is important that you have not urinated for at least 4 hours before testing.” WTF? How the hell am I supposed to hold my pee for another four hours? Do they think I’m going to have camel babies? Does anyone know a woman who can hold their pee for four hours? If so, answer me this: If women could hold it that long why are there women’s bathrooms at any stadium or arena? Because I promise you, if we could hold it there, we would!
I’ve run a bunch of errands and by the time I get home the coffee and diet coke have completely settled into my bladder and want out immediately. It’s all I can do to get in the house, turn off the alarm and let the dogs out before racing to the nearest bathroom. I’m about to feel sweet relief when I remember the Digital Ovulation Test upstairs and do a legs-crossed-waddle-run up to the master bathroom. I’m starting to panic and sweat is dripping down the spine of my back. Must hold it a little longer, must hold it a little longer. I tear away the ridiculous packaging, shove the Applicator into the Test Holder pee on the stick for 7 seconds (ahhhh) and check to see that I hit the stick. Instead of the blinking image of the test holder, I see a picture of an open book blinking at me. Shit! I hurriedly check the glossary on the instructions (yes, this is a bad sign. Any instructions involving pee should not require a glossary) and see that it’s an error message. At this point, I’m bouncing up and down on the toilet, shaking from side to side, trying to hold in my precious urine so I can see if Bryan needs to come home for a Nooner and I’m told to refer to Error Message 16. A flashing (Error A) symbol has appeared on the Display. (NO SHIT!) What does this mean? Use Question 17. Question 17 is equally helpful so I look back at the glossary and see the following, “Error symbols will display for approximately 8 minutes. Do not re-test until the error symbols have cleared.” Is this a fucking joke? At this moment the flood gates open and I pee to my heart’s content.
Who in their right mind would make a pee-on-a stick test that makes you hold it for FOUR HOURS and then another 8 minutes for a freakin’ error symbol to disappear? Let me get this straight. This is a test that uses pee-pee to detect if your hormone level has spiked high enough to indicate that you are fertile and ready for some baby makin’ lovin and there is no RESET button? No other way to make the stupid book icon disappear in less than 8 minutes? I can order and eat a burrito in less than 8 minutes. My dogs can eat a shoe in less than 8 minutes. I’m stymied. And the best part is – my husband could be on his way home for a quickie and I literally pissed it away.
Hello All,
Welcome to my musings and ramblings as I enter a new and unchartered stage of my life: trying to get a job and trying to get pregnant. I figure, let’s see what happens first!
I’m using this blog as an outlet for all of my fears (rational or not), questions, and frustrations since my mom isn’t around. In the good old days when she was here I would call her with my daily rant and she’d either give me advice or wait for me to take a breath and then send B a little bribe not to leave me with her. Usually these tokens were in the form of a package of socks from Marshalls. Because really? Nothing says “You Da Man” better than a good bargain.
Several friends have encouraged me to start a blog with the hopes that I will leave them alone during their productive days of working/adding to their Netflix cues and watching Bravo reality shows on the computer. (I love you Real Housewives!) So peer pressure has forced me to learn how to blog and I’m excited about the part where people can post responses back to me. Yippee! You should note that I don’t handle criticism well so unless you want to send along a few Prozac with that put-down, shove it.
Here we go….
Welcome to my musings and ramblings as I enter a new and unchartered stage of my life: trying to get a job and trying to get pregnant. I figure, let’s see what happens first!
I’m using this blog as an outlet for all of my fears (rational or not), questions, and frustrations since my mom isn’t around. In the good old days when she was here I would call her with my daily rant and she’d either give me advice or wait for me to take a breath and then send B a little bribe not to leave me with her. Usually these tokens were in the form of a package of socks from Marshalls. Because really? Nothing says “You Da Man” better than a good bargain.
Several friends have encouraged me to start a blog with the hopes that I will leave them alone during their productive days of working/adding to their Netflix cues and watching Bravo reality shows on the computer. (I love you Real Housewives!) So peer pressure has forced me to learn how to blog and I’m excited about the part where people can post responses back to me. Yippee! You should note that I don’t handle criticism well so unless you want to send along a few Prozac with that put-down, shove it.
Here we go….
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