My phone rang at work a few moments ago and the Caller ID showed it was Little B's daycare. My first thought was, "Oh shit, please don't tell me to pick him up!" Turns out it wasn't an emergency (thank goodness), the teacher just had a quick question for me. As I hung up the phone and returned to focusing on my work (aka playing FB scrabble) it occurred to me that possibly a more appropriate reaction upon seeing that Little B's daycare was calling would be "Oh my gosh! I hope he's ok!"
And the best part is, when I called B to tell him that daycare called he asked, "Did you answer the phone?"
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Joys of Parenthood..
Ok, Ok! I'll post this morning's adventure!
All I can say is I didn't need coffee to wake up this morning. It wasn't because Little B slept through the night. B was still in the shower when I finished feeding Little B and we were reading Guess How Much I Love You as we do every morning and he was just so precious and snuggly in my arms when.... HE HAD A BLOWOUT ALL OVER ME! I was covered in diarrhea and B, hearing my screams and gags came running out of the shower with shaving cream all over his head. "Thank god this is not me" was written all over his face, but he's apparently learned something in the past 9 years and didn't voice this out loud. He grabbed Little B to start cleaning him off and I jumped up to take off my clothes and soak them (thank you OxyClean!). I dripped shit everywhere. Upon hearing me scream, the dogs came over to make sure I was alright. Then they smelled the shit. And saw the shit. And promptly high-tailed it to the other end of the house where they sat in the doorway with eyebrows furrowed saying,"It wasn't me this time, I swear." B and I were both gagging and cleaning poop from every possible surface and there was Little B just laying on his changing table smiling, cooing and giggling.
When he was dropped off at daycare this morning Miss Julie commented on what a great mood he was in.
All I can say is I didn't need coffee to wake up this morning. It wasn't because Little B slept through the night. B was still in the shower when I finished feeding Little B and we were reading Guess How Much I Love You as we do every morning and he was just so precious and snuggly in my arms when.... HE HAD A BLOWOUT ALL OVER ME! I was covered in diarrhea and B, hearing my screams and gags came running out of the shower with shaving cream all over his head. "Thank god this is not me" was written all over his face, but he's apparently learned something in the past 9 years and didn't voice this out loud. He grabbed Little B to start cleaning him off and I jumped up to take off my clothes and soak them (thank you OxyClean!). I dripped shit everywhere. Upon hearing me scream, the dogs came over to make sure I was alright. Then they smelled the shit. And saw the shit. And promptly high-tailed it to the other end of the house where they sat in the doorway with eyebrows furrowed saying,"It wasn't me this time, I swear." B and I were both gagging and cleaning poop from every possible surface and there was Little B just laying on his changing table smiling, cooing and giggling.
When he was dropped off at daycare this morning Miss Julie commented on what a great mood he was in.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Ok, Ok, I am way behind on the blog. At first it was intentional. My hope was that IUI would work and I didn't want to spill the beans before the end of the first trimester. But then I got a little lazy. Or rather, exhausted because... drumroll please.... ROUND 2 WORKED! Hooray! That's right, I'm knocked up!
I had my pregnancy test scheduled for a Monday morning and the Saturday morning before I woke up early with terrible pains in my lower abdomen. I figured it was the start of my period and spent the day terribly depressed and whiney. The pains did not ease up later that night as we headed to our friends' new house for dinner. I cried the whole way there and upon entering their house proceeded to drink. A lot. Part of the problem is that Adam makes superb margaritas and since I've never been one to turn down a delicious drink... Four margaritas later, B pulled me aside and suggested that I ease off the tequila because he wasn't in the mood to hold my hair back all night while I puked. So, being the dutiful wife that I am, I followed his instructions and switched to champagne for the remainder of the evening. I was still feeling the horrible period pains and was so depressed at failing insemination yet again, I figured I at least deserved to get bombed.
Sunday morning I woke up with not only a horrible hangover, but the pains were still there. I shuffled over to the bathroom, grabbed a tampon, pulled down my pants and.. nothing. Where was the blood? Every half hour I repeated this routine until a nagging thought crossed my mind and I decided to take a pregnancy test. 3 minutes later, seeing PREGNANT on the stick rendered me utterly speechless. Those who know me will not believe it, but I swear it's true!
I wanted B to see, to verify that I wasn't halucinating, but I couldn't find my voice to call out his name. For a year and a half I had been imagining this moment. All of the cute ways I would tell him that he was going to be a dad. I couldn't move. B was yelling something to me from the other room and when I didn't respond he came into the bathroom and said, "Aren't you listening to me?" I couldn't form words. So with my pants still around my ankles and my butt on the pot, I looked up at him and handed him the stick. He looked from the stick to me, back to the stick and again to me. Then he calmly put the stick down and said, "Ew, you peed on that!" And those were the first words out of my future Baby Daddy's mouth. The sentiment was overwhelming. As he washed his hands he instructed me not to say anything about it because it didn't count until the doctor confirmed it the next day.
Umm yeah right. Did he forget who he married? I told 3 people by the time we ordered Chinese for dinner.
The next day while the nurse was taking my blood I confessed that I had been heavily intoxicated two nights before. She told me not to worry about it. Seeing that she didn't understand the amount of tequila I chugged, I began to go into detail about all the drinks I had over the weekend. Nurse Donna looked at me and said, "Honey, 9 out of 10 women who come in for their pregnancy tests have been wasted in the previous 48 hours. Just don't do it anymore." Am I the only one surprised by this completely unscientific stastistic? I wonder if this is regional or pretty standard across the board. Women in the south can not only tailgate all day in heels in 95 degree heat and humidity without sweating off a streak of makeup, they can also hold their liquor better than any frat boy I've ever met.
That afternoon, Nurse Donna called and confirmed that I pregnant. I think the first couple of times I asked, "For real?" she thought it was cute. She quickly got over it. For the next few weeks I went in every 3 days for bloodwork and ultrasounds to make sure the baby was ok. It took 14 weeks of friends telling my that the baby was fine and reassuring me that I wasn't going to miscarry. While I've relaxed a bit, I don't think that fear ever goes away.
Lots of people keep asking me if I will continue blogging and the answer is, "of course!" Pregnancy is a crazy world!
I had my pregnancy test scheduled for a Monday morning and the Saturday morning before I woke up early with terrible pains in my lower abdomen. I figured it was the start of my period and spent the day terribly depressed and whiney. The pains did not ease up later that night as we headed to our friends' new house for dinner. I cried the whole way there and upon entering their house proceeded to drink. A lot. Part of the problem is that Adam makes superb margaritas and since I've never been one to turn down a delicious drink... Four margaritas later, B pulled me aside and suggested that I ease off the tequila because he wasn't in the mood to hold my hair back all night while I puked. So, being the dutiful wife that I am, I followed his instructions and switched to champagne for the remainder of the evening. I was still feeling the horrible period pains and was so depressed at failing insemination yet again, I figured I at least deserved to get bombed.
Sunday morning I woke up with not only a horrible hangover, but the pains were still there. I shuffled over to the bathroom, grabbed a tampon, pulled down my pants and.. nothing. Where was the blood? Every half hour I repeated this routine until a nagging thought crossed my mind and I decided to take a pregnancy test. 3 minutes later, seeing PREGNANT on the stick rendered me utterly speechless. Those who know me will not believe it, but I swear it's true!
I wanted B to see, to verify that I wasn't halucinating, but I couldn't find my voice to call out his name. For a year and a half I had been imagining this moment. All of the cute ways I would tell him that he was going to be a dad. I couldn't move. B was yelling something to me from the other room and when I didn't respond he came into the bathroom and said, "Aren't you listening to me?" I couldn't form words. So with my pants still around my ankles and my butt on the pot, I looked up at him and handed him the stick. He looked from the stick to me, back to the stick and again to me. Then he calmly put the stick down and said, "Ew, you peed on that!" And those were the first words out of my future Baby Daddy's mouth. The sentiment was overwhelming. As he washed his hands he instructed me not to say anything about it because it didn't count until the doctor confirmed it the next day.
Umm yeah right. Did he forget who he married? I told 3 people by the time we ordered Chinese for dinner.
The next day while the nurse was taking my blood I confessed that I had been heavily intoxicated two nights before. She told me not to worry about it. Seeing that she didn't understand the amount of tequila I chugged, I began to go into detail about all the drinks I had over the weekend. Nurse Donna looked at me and said, "Honey, 9 out of 10 women who come in for their pregnancy tests have been wasted in the previous 48 hours. Just don't do it anymore." Am I the only one surprised by this completely unscientific stastistic? I wonder if this is regional or pretty standard across the board. Women in the south can not only tailgate all day in heels in 95 degree heat and humidity without sweating off a streak of makeup, they can also hold their liquor better than any frat boy I've ever met.
That afternoon, Nurse Donna called and confirmed that I pregnant. I think the first couple of times I asked, "For real?" she thought it was cute. She quickly got over it. For the next few weeks I went in every 3 days for bloodwork and ultrasounds to make sure the baby was ok. It took 14 weeks of friends telling my that the baby was fine and reassuring me that I wasn't going to miscarry. While I've relaxed a bit, I don't think that fear ever goes away.
Lots of people keep asking me if I will continue blogging and the answer is, "of course!" Pregnancy is a crazy world!
Friday, September 24, 2010
No Dice
So... round 1 didn't work. Aunt Flow arrived the day before my scheduled pregnancy test. How did this happen? I prayed, I hoped, I didn't drink a drop of alcohol. After moping and crying for awhile I left a message for my nurse at ACRM telling her I wouldn't be coming in the following morning for my test. I had no idea how emotionally draining this would all be. B was disappointed as well, but seeing as he's Captain SuperSperm, he didn't quite grasp the sense of failure I was feeling.
As I downed a very dirty, very cold, very delicious vodka martini I thanked him for being so wonderful. I also threatened to shave his eyebrows in his sleep if he ever uttered the following words to me again, "Everything happens for a reason. You'll be pregnant when the time is right."
Oh, really? Is that why I've been charting my periods for the last year and a half? I guess having doctors regularly doing vaginal ultrasounds was all for the thrill, right? And money? Who needs it? Let's just keep giving it to ACRM - who needs air conditioning anyway?
The next morning my nurse called to schedule my ultrasound for that week and reminded me that in five days I would need to start my next round of Clomid. Wait a second! Can't I get off this ride for a minute and catch my breath? My ultrasound later that day showed that I hadn't developed any cysts from the Clomid so I was given the all-clear to start my next round on day five. I was in autopilot throughout the appointment. I just wasn't sure I had it in me to do all of this over again. I now have a completely different level of appreciation and understanding for couples who do this for years.
And the best part? In the last few days I've found out that every asshole I know is now pregnant. Fanfuckingtastic.
As I downed a very dirty, very cold, very delicious vodka martini I thanked him for being so wonderful. I also threatened to shave his eyebrows in his sleep if he ever uttered the following words to me again, "Everything happens for a reason. You'll be pregnant when the time is right."
Oh, really? Is that why I've been charting my periods for the last year and a half? I guess having doctors regularly doing vaginal ultrasounds was all for the thrill, right? And money? Who needs it? Let's just keep giving it to ACRM - who needs air conditioning anyway?
The next morning my nurse called to schedule my ultrasound for that week and reminded me that in five days I would need to start my next round of Clomid. Wait a second! Can't I get off this ride for a minute and catch my breath? My ultrasound later that day showed that I hadn't developed any cysts from the Clomid so I was given the all-clear to start my next round on day five. I was in autopilot throughout the appointment. I just wasn't sure I had it in me to do all of this over again. I now have a completely different level of appreciation and understanding for couples who do this for years.
And the best part? In the last few days I've found out that every asshole I know is now pregnant. Fanfuckingtastic.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
The Big Day
I'm ovulating so today is Insemination Day! B left first thing in the morning to go deliver the goods and I'll go in a few hours later. Apparently, it takes a few hours to prepare between drop-off and pick-up. I'm not sure why. Perhaps they greet each individual swimmer? As I got ready for work, I briefly wondered if I should wear something special for the occasion, but who I was I trying to impress? The sperm were going to get an entirely different view and I strongly doubted they were going to comment on my coordinating cardigan and heels on the big swim upstream. The rest of the morning went by as if in a dream. The whole idea that I was actually going to get inseminated was surreal. Until it was happening.
Yet again, I sat in the doctor's office with my little kleenex cover, shivering on the table waiting for the action to start. It was a long road leading up to this point and now that it was actually here..... I was a little afraid. No turning back now, right? The nurse came in first armed with B's mojo and once I verified his Social Security number was the correct number on the package the doctor came in and got down to business. I'm not kidding. He pulled up the rolly chair, unwrapped the catheter, rubbed his hands together and said, "let's do this." No foreplay, not even small talk about the weather. Just spread 'em and "let's do this."
Needless to say, I less than ready for the metal duck lips and the doctor said to the nurse, "look, she's holding back already." What did this guy expect? And while we're at it, why should I be condemned for this? Shouldn't I receive praise for not being so willy-nilly about foreign objects coming my way down there? Who are these women whose bodies apparently scream, "bring it on!" and why aren't they getting the admonishing looks?
In less than five minutes the whole insemination was over and again I was alone in the room laying on the examination table. Talk about wham, bam, thank you ma'am! I layed there for ten minutes as instructed and thought about all of the plans B and I had made for our kids-to-be over the years. I imagined the look on his face when I would tell him I was pregnant and wondered if when we were old and fighting over jello cubes would we remember all of the craziness that lead us to this day? But most of that time I prayed. I prayed to G-d that we would be blessed with a little boy or girl and promised I would spend every moment as a parent making my mom proud of me. I prayed that our home would be filled with a little child's laughter as Gilby and Ovie licked him or her.
Then before I knew it, ten minutes was over and I was dressed, bill paid and heading back to work. I called B and Lemmon to fill them in, but that was it. I was convinced everyone at work and then later at Publix could tell. Instead of a scarlet letter I felt like I had a big IUI imprinted on my chest.
So the waiting game has officially begun. In about two weeks I'll know if it worked. Cross your fingers!
Yet again, I sat in the doctor's office with my little kleenex cover, shivering on the table waiting for the action to start. It was a long road leading up to this point and now that it was actually here..... I was a little afraid. No turning back now, right? The nurse came in first armed with B's mojo and once I verified his Social Security number was the correct number on the package the doctor came in and got down to business. I'm not kidding. He pulled up the rolly chair, unwrapped the catheter, rubbed his hands together and said, "let's do this." No foreplay, not even small talk about the weather. Just spread 'em and "let's do this."
Needless to say, I less than ready for the metal duck lips and the doctor said to the nurse, "look, she's holding back already." What did this guy expect? And while we're at it, why should I be condemned for this? Shouldn't I receive praise for not being so willy-nilly about foreign objects coming my way down there? Who are these women whose bodies apparently scream, "bring it on!" and why aren't they getting the admonishing looks?
In less than five minutes the whole insemination was over and again I was alone in the room laying on the examination table. Talk about wham, bam, thank you ma'am! I layed there for ten minutes as instructed and thought about all of the plans B and I had made for our kids-to-be over the years. I imagined the look on his face when I would tell him I was pregnant and wondered if when we were old and fighting over jello cubes would we remember all of the craziness that lead us to this day? But most of that time I prayed. I prayed to G-d that we would be blessed with a little boy or girl and promised I would spend every moment as a parent making my mom proud of me. I prayed that our home would be filled with a little child's laughter as Gilby and Ovie licked him or her.
Then before I knew it, ten minutes was over and I was dressed, bill paid and heading back to work. I called B and Lemmon to fill them in, but that was it. I was convinced everyone at work and then later at Publix could tell. Instead of a scarlet letter I felt like I had a big IUI imprinted on my chest.
So the waiting game has officially begun. In about two weeks I'll know if it worked. Cross your fingers!
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Can Somebody Spare a Square?
We waited and waited for the crazy to begin. I don't think anyone questioned that I would be a complete nutjob on the Clomid, so to all my doubters, "HA!" I didn't go crazy! I swear! I even asked around if I was acting nuttier than usual. No hot flashes either, so Clomid and I got along just fine. A few days after I finished with the Clomid I went in for an ultrasound to make sure there was more than one egg growing (but not 8..).
As soon as I walked in the door of ACRM I had to give more blood. My track marks are causing quite a stir at work. I love the whispered speculation about what I'm on. I was really impressed when I overheard heroin being thrown around because a) that's hard-core which would mean I was hard-core and b) that stuff ain't cheap, so they've picked up on my good taste without realizing that my shopping Mecca has Marshalls and TJ Maxx right next to each other with Target up the street.
Armed with my bandaid, I was led into the ultrasound room and told to take everything off from the waist down. Once the nurse left and I started to take off my clothes, I came to the all-familiar underwear dilemma. Take it or leave it? Why isn't medical staff ever clear about this? I've seen many ultrasounds on MTV's Teen Mom so I know they just throw some cold gel on your stomach and rub a stick around it and voila! A picture appears on the screen. Why do I need to take my clothes off for that? I figured maybe they've had problems with the gel staining clothes and wanted to protect my work pants. (Another point for Marshalls and TJ Maxx! People think my pants cost more than $12.99!) I took them off, turned to the examination table and picked up the paper "sheet" to cover myself. This "sheet" turned out to be approximately the size of the paperback book I read in the waiting room. No joke. In the words of Elaine Bennes, "[they] couldn't spare a square?" I'm not one of those cute, petite little women in the waiting room. I need something that will actually cover more than a knee cap! I began to frantically search the cabinets for another little piece of paper sheet so I could attach them together with the little medical code/chart stickers on the counter. (very MacGyver) of me, yes?) There was none to be found. I couldn't afford to run around the exam room any longer because at any moment the Dr would walk in. I heard footsteps approaching and then stop outside the door. I lunged for the exam table and just managed to land on the edge with the sheet covering my crotch when the PA entered. After a few minutes of small talk her eyes drifted down and noticed my underwear. She asked why I hadn't removed it and I told her I didn't see why I would need to and anyway, it's a bit drafty for my cheeks. She looked me right in the eye and asked, "Lauren, you do know that all of our ultrasounds are vaginal here, right?" "Oh.. yeah, duh. I guess I forgot." WTF? This wasn't explained in the folder of graphs and charts! How could I miss this vital piece of information! I don't think I'd remember something as important as VAGINAL ULTRASOUND. A person needs to prepare for this kind of thing.... I shimmied off the exam table and the PA held the kleenex up for me while I took off my underwear and hid it in under my pants. Because she hadn't seen it, right? Why do I keep doing that?
The rest of the exam went fine. There was a big, juicy egg and a few smaller ones so insemination is a GO! Now I just call when I surge (like my lingo?) and the next day is Turkey Baster Day!
As soon as I walked in the door of ACRM I had to give more blood. My track marks are causing quite a stir at work. I love the whispered speculation about what I'm on. I was really impressed when I overheard heroin being thrown around because a) that's hard-core which would mean I was hard-core and b) that stuff ain't cheap, so they've picked up on my good taste without realizing that my shopping Mecca has Marshalls and TJ Maxx right next to each other with Target up the street.
Armed with my bandaid, I was led into the ultrasound room and told to take everything off from the waist down. Once the nurse left and I started to take off my clothes, I came to the all-familiar underwear dilemma. Take it or leave it? Why isn't medical staff ever clear about this? I've seen many ultrasounds on MTV's Teen Mom so I know they just throw some cold gel on your stomach and rub a stick around it and voila! A picture appears on the screen. Why do I need to take my clothes off for that? I figured maybe they've had problems with the gel staining clothes and wanted to protect my work pants. (Another point for Marshalls and TJ Maxx! People think my pants cost more than $12.99!) I took them off, turned to the examination table and picked up the paper "sheet" to cover myself. This "sheet" turned out to be approximately the size of the paperback book I read in the waiting room. No joke. In the words of Elaine Bennes, "[they] couldn't spare a square?" I'm not one of those cute, petite little women in the waiting room. I need something that will actually cover more than a knee cap! I began to frantically search the cabinets for another little piece of paper sheet so I could attach them together with the little medical code/chart stickers on the counter. (very MacGyver) of me, yes?) There was none to be found. I couldn't afford to run around the exam room any longer because at any moment the Dr would walk in. I heard footsteps approaching and then stop outside the door. I lunged for the exam table and just managed to land on the edge with the sheet covering my crotch when the PA entered. After a few minutes of small talk her eyes drifted down and noticed my underwear. She asked why I hadn't removed it and I told her I didn't see why I would need to and anyway, it's a bit drafty for my cheeks. She looked me right in the eye and asked, "Lauren, you do know that all of our ultrasounds are vaginal here, right?" "Oh.. yeah, duh. I guess I forgot." WTF? This wasn't explained in the folder of graphs and charts! How could I miss this vital piece of information! I don't think I'd remember something as important as VAGINAL ULTRASOUND. A person needs to prepare for this kind of thing.... I shimmied off the exam table and the PA held the kleenex up for me while I took off my underwear and hid it in under my pants. Because she hadn't seen it, right? Why do I keep doing that?
The rest of the exam went fine. There was a big, juicy egg and a few smaller ones so insemination is a GO! Now I just call when I surge (like my lingo?) and the next day is Turkey Baster Day!
Thursday, July 8, 2010
She Came! She Came!
Flow finally made an appearance! I haven't been happy to see her in well over a year, so it was a nice change to dance a little instead of lining up shots in her honor. So now it all begins. On days 5-9 of my cycle I take a drug called Clomid which is supposed to stimulate some tubes or something to shoot out a few more eggs. It's all very technical, as you can see. The thing about the Clomid is.... everyone says it makes you crazy. B was very concerned about my signing the release for this medication which I found touching because there are some pretty scary side effects I can potentially develop from it. Of course, this is not the cause for B's concern. B is scared shitless that a) I'm going to turn into a Raving Nutt (shout out to a former student, and YES that was her real name!) and b) that the Clomid is going to turn me into the next Octomom. Which won't be too bad if I get to sit next to Matt Lauer when he interviews me for the Today show!
Let the Crazy Countdown begin!
Let the Crazy Countdown begin!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Flow? Are you there?
Alright. We're ready to go. Let's start this Insemination Party! The first step is to get my period. Only, it's not here. It should have been here. No, I'm not pregnant - three tests made that glaringly clear. So what's the deal? I haven't wanted Old Flow around for a year and a half and NOW she decides to play games? ACRM called to find out when I started so we could start tracking. I'm supposed to start taking Clomid on days 5-9 to sprout some extra eggs, but see, I can't start taking it until I get my period! I've waited too long to sit in a holding pattern right now. People at work are beginning to give me strange looks. Perhaps it's because I keep running to the bathroom to check. Talk about 6th grade flashback! (refer to Ode to Menstruation for more details). Just a few minutes ago my boss made me laugh so hard I felt a little trickle of something down there and got up and ran to the bathroom.
No Flow, just a little pee.
No Flow, just a little pee.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Men: Gotta love 'em
Based on some questions B asked the doctor at our big appointment, I was seriously doubting his understanding of how babies are made. I think his sex ed teacher said the word boobies and B tuned out the rest of the semester. I was getting pretty riled up about it until I went nextdoor, to the home of my little boyfriend. Boyfriend's parents are absolutely hilarious, and they are so reassuring about this whole process because they've been through it. I took my folder of graphs, charts over to them with my list of questions and they took one look at it and laughed. So we were off to a good start. As we were talking I told them my concerns about B's lack of understanding of reproduction and they told me the following fantastic story:
Friends of theirs had just started trying to get pregnant. One night the wife called down from the top of the stairs, "Honey, I'm ovulating!" to which the husband replied, "So we're pregnant?"
or how about this one:
When I heard this, I almost peed myself. A friend of friend has a baby who is over a year old. She had finished her period one morning and her husband propositioned her that evening. She asked, "what are you doing?" and he responded, "trying to get you knocked up."
umm just a little late...
That pretty much put it all into perspective :)
Friends of theirs had just started trying to get pregnant. One night the wife called down from the top of the stairs, "Honey, I'm ovulating!" to which the husband replied, "So we're pregnant?"
or how about this one:
When I heard this, I almost peed myself. A friend of friend has a baby who is over a year old. She had finished her period one morning and her husband propositioned her that evening. She asked, "what are you doing?" and he responded, "trying to get you knocked up."
umm just a little late...
That pretty much put it all into perspective :)
Monday, June 21, 2010
Earth to B
Later in the evening of our first appointment with ACRM, B called me after speaking with a friend of his who recently had twins as a result of IUI treatments.
B: Laura said we should start having sex on the 10th day of your cycle and then every other day afterwards
Me: Are you serious?
B: Yeah, that's what we were doing wrong! (he sounded like he found gold in the backyard, no joke)
Me: No, are you seriously that clueless? What do you think we've been doing for the past 14 months???????? Do you not recall every month when I bring out the calendar and tell you what days to make sure you're not working too late?
B: Oh, that's what you were doing
Me: What did you think? That you won the sex lottery?
B: I chose not to question it.
B: Laura said we should start having sex on the 10th day of your cycle and then every other day afterwards
Me: Are you serious?
B: Yeah, that's what we were doing wrong! (he sounded like he found gold in the backyard, no joke)
Me: No, are you seriously that clueless? What do you think we've been doing for the past 14 months???????? Do you not recall every month when I bring out the calendar and tell you what days to make sure you're not working too late?
B: Oh, that's what you were doing
Me: What did you think? That you won the sex lottery?
B: I chose not to question it.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Surreal World of Fertilty Treatments
Our test results are in and everything looks good. Yay! But I'm still not pregnant. Boo! We were referred to a fertility specialist, Atlanta Center for Reproductive Medicine (ACRM). This was pretty tough to swallow, but after a good long talk with B, a pep talk with my BFF and three very good and diiirty vodka martinis I was feeling better about the whole situation. After a year of "be patient" and "don't stress" I was anxious for someone to figure out the problem and solve it already.
Our first appointment was literally two days after I called, which was a good thing because I didn't have time to overanalyze all the emotions running rampant inside me. The night before the appointment B and I were filling out the 15 pages of paperwork and we started talking about adoption. If it came to that, where would we shop for a kid? After much debate we decided we'd get a kid from Asia because being Jewish, soy sauce runs in our blood.
We got to our appointment promptly at 8am where we were handed yet another stack of forms to fill out. The office was packed. Every seat was taken with good looking, young couples. I was surprised. I expected a dark, dungeon where they stick all the fertility-challenged folks, but the office was well lit, nicely decorated and every single couple was beautiful. It was like walking into a JCrew catalogue. B and I definitely didn't fit in. Just as I was thinking this, B took the opportunity to point it out by saying quite loudly, "Where are the other ugly couples?" har har. The more women I saw coming in and out of the exam rooms, and filling seats in the waiting room the more comforted I was. I wanted to shout out, "There are others like us! We women can do this together! Your shoes are fabulous!"
Soon we were sitting in the doctor's office looking at various charts and graphs while the Dr went on and on about percentages and other stuff we didn't understand. What I still can't grasp is that I have "unexplained infertility." WTF is that? After all the testing and waiting and researching, the diagnosis is "Beats Me." How do we work with that? We were also told we have a 6% chance of conceiving on our own. B did not believe the Dr and told him so. B then diagnosed us with not having sex every minute of every day and thus not getting pregnant. The Dr explained that every male who comes into the office says the same thing, but that is not the case. B continued to disagree. I guess sometime in the last 8 years we've been together B acquired a medical license without my knowledge. It was embarassing. They finally came to an understanding but I know B still thinks he's right.
We decided to try insemination. This entails my getting bloodwork every week, ultrasounds, taking a medicine that's notorious for making women crazy (because I need anymore of that), and finally another catheter shoved up my hooha full of B's junk. Sign me up!
Our first appointment was literally two days after I called, which was a good thing because I didn't have time to overanalyze all the emotions running rampant inside me. The night before the appointment B and I were filling out the 15 pages of paperwork and we started talking about adoption. If it came to that, where would we shop for a kid? After much debate we decided we'd get a kid from Asia because being Jewish, soy sauce runs in our blood.
We got to our appointment promptly at 8am where we were handed yet another stack of forms to fill out. The office was packed. Every seat was taken with good looking, young couples. I was surprised. I expected a dark, dungeon where they stick all the fertility-challenged folks, but the office was well lit, nicely decorated and every single couple was beautiful. It was like walking into a JCrew catalogue. B and I definitely didn't fit in. Just as I was thinking this, B took the opportunity to point it out by saying quite loudly, "Where are the other ugly couples?" har har. The more women I saw coming in and out of the exam rooms, and filling seats in the waiting room the more comforted I was. I wanted to shout out, "There are others like us! We women can do this together! Your shoes are fabulous!"
Soon we were sitting in the doctor's office looking at various charts and graphs while the Dr went on and on about percentages and other stuff we didn't understand. What I still can't grasp is that I have "unexplained infertility." WTF is that? After all the testing and waiting and researching, the diagnosis is "Beats Me." How do we work with that? We were also told we have a 6% chance of conceiving on our own. B did not believe the Dr and told him so. B then diagnosed us with not having sex every minute of every day and thus not getting pregnant. The Dr explained that every male who comes into the office says the same thing, but that is not the case. B continued to disagree. I guess sometime in the last 8 years we've been together B acquired a medical license without my knowledge. It was embarassing. They finally came to an understanding but I know B still thinks he's right.
We decided to try insemination. This entails my getting bloodwork every week, ultrasounds, taking a medicine that's notorious for making women crazy (because I need anymore of that), and finally another catheter shoved up my hooha full of B's junk. Sign me up!
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Branson, MO
This is completely unrelated to my trying to get knocked-up, but I had to share anyway. The other week B was in Branson, MO for his grandfather's WWII ship's reunion (very cool, I know). While the reason for going to Branson was interesting, the location was not. Of all the places to have a reunion, Branson topped the list?
After weeks of endless jokes about Branson, B called to say he arrived at the hotel. Apparently, the hotels in Branson were doing an Around the World theme and each hotel represented a different place. B wanted me to guess which country they were. He said there were animal print chairs in the lobby and the staff was wearing really bright clothing. Without hesitation I guessed, "New Jersey?" He wasn't amused. How was I supposed to come up with Africa? And yes, I realize that neither guess is a an actual country, but shouldn't a state that has given us Jersey Shore AND Atlantic City be expelled?
Ahhh, but the best was yet to come. The next day B called me from a river boat all abuzz with excitement. Imagine my shock that there was something more to be excited about than the all-you-can-eat fritos in the lobby he mentioned every time he called.
B: Oh my gosh, you'll never believe who is on the show boat!!!!
Me: Who?
B: The girl from Undercover Boss! Who needed childcare? Remember her? She carried the big trays of food?
Me: Oh yeah.
B: She's a few rows in front of me!! Can you believe it?
Me: Wow, a celebrity sighting, B. Are you going to ask her for her autograph?
B: Better - I got a picture taken with her! Jealous?
Yes, B. I'm incredibly jealous. Tell me again about the part where you are on a showboat in Branson, MO at 9am?
After weeks of endless jokes about Branson, B called to say he arrived at the hotel. Apparently, the hotels in Branson were doing an Around the World theme and each hotel represented a different place. B wanted me to guess which country they were. He said there were animal print chairs in the lobby and the staff was wearing really bright clothing. Without hesitation I guessed, "New Jersey?" He wasn't amused. How was I supposed to come up with Africa? And yes, I realize that neither guess is a an actual country, but shouldn't a state that has given us Jersey Shore AND Atlantic City be expelled?
Ahhh, but the best was yet to come. The next day B called me from a river boat all abuzz with excitement. Imagine my shock that there was something more to be excited about than the all-you-can-eat fritos in the lobby he mentioned every time he called.
B: Oh my gosh, you'll never believe who is on the show boat!!!!
Me: Who?
B: The girl from Undercover Boss! Who needed childcare? Remember her? She carried the big trays of food?
Me: Oh yeah.
B: She's a few rows in front of me!! Can you believe it?
Me: Wow, a celebrity sighting, B. Are you going to ask her for her autograph?
B: Better - I got a picture taken with her! Jealous?
Yes, B. I'm incredibly jealous. Tell me again about the part where you are on a showboat in Branson, MO at 9am?
Friday, May 7, 2010
Spank It, Baby!
B had his Spank-It test the other day. He was downright giddy that morning because he got to go into work late to choke the chicken. Prior to the test, we had a full house for Sedar, and some of our friends in attendance had done through the same fertility testing. The women cringed at my mention of having the HSG test so there was no need to give them a recap. The men, however, all got that teenage gleam in their eyes when talking about the Hand Jive. Then came the stories...
I have to say, the best parts about this whole conversation is a) that it occured during SEDAR and b)how serious the guys were about making sure B got the the highest possible count. As he drained another glass of wine (what? the haggadah tells us to!), he was reminded to abstain from alcohol, stay away from jaccuzis and not blow the load until after the test. Of course the house was absolutely silent at the precise moment C said, "and you can't use any lube - not even spit!" The look on his pregnant wife's face - priceless.
I was surprised that B's lab didn't go over all of this with him when he made his appointment. By the way, this insurance-covered lab only does this test once a week only in one location within an hour of us. WTF? According to B, the only instruction they gave him (repeatedly) was to make sure he brought in his own material. This sparked an even better round of conversation while refilling wine glasses in the kitchen.
One friend told us that when he got into The Room, the nurse gave him a binder of porn to choose from. He politely thanked her and waited for her to leave. She didn't. As she continued to stand over his shoulder, he tentatively opened the Porn Book and began to flip through the varied selection kept safely in plastic sleeves. He noticed that the nurse wasn't leaving. He also noticed that several plastic sheets held driver's licenses instead of pornos. He looked up at the nurse trying to configure his question, when she instructed him to make his selection and place his driver's license in the sleeve. He'd get it back when he returned the magazine. Really? They have such rampant porn theft that they have to take these measures to avoid replacing $5 copies of Butts n' Boobs? Could you imagine flipping through the pages and seeing, "Oh, Steve's here." "So is John!" Ick.
Another friend told us his room had a big cabinet o' porn. When he opened it he saw stacks of VHS tapes with COPIED porn! Do you all remember how we copied video on the VCR? You had to let the tape play out all the way! Some poor receptionist had to watch many versions of Brazilian Fire Women (actual title).
I was kind of disappointed when B's appointment was uneventful. Aside from being sent to a regular bathroom (so the insurance-covered lab ten minutes away doesn't have one of those?) he did the deed and went to work. Not a bad day.
I have to say, the best parts about this whole conversation is a) that it occured during SEDAR and b)how serious the guys were about making sure B got the the highest possible count. As he drained another glass of wine (what? the haggadah tells us to!), he was reminded to abstain from alcohol, stay away from jaccuzis and not blow the load until after the test. Of course the house was absolutely silent at the precise moment C said, "and you can't use any lube - not even spit!" The look on his pregnant wife's face - priceless.
I was surprised that B's lab didn't go over all of this with him when he made his appointment. By the way, this insurance-covered lab only does this test once a week only in one location within an hour of us. WTF? According to B, the only instruction they gave him (repeatedly) was to make sure he brought in his own material. This sparked an even better round of conversation while refilling wine glasses in the kitchen.
One friend told us that when he got into The Room, the nurse gave him a binder of porn to choose from. He politely thanked her and waited for her to leave. She didn't. As she continued to stand over his shoulder, he tentatively opened the Porn Book and began to flip through the varied selection kept safely in plastic sleeves. He noticed that the nurse wasn't leaving. He also noticed that several plastic sheets held driver's licenses instead of pornos. He looked up at the nurse trying to configure his question, when she instructed him to make his selection and place his driver's license in the sleeve. He'd get it back when he returned the magazine. Really? They have such rampant porn theft that they have to take these measures to avoid replacing $5 copies of Butts n' Boobs? Could you imagine flipping through the pages and seeing, "Oh, Steve's here." "So is John!" Ick.
Another friend told us his room had a big cabinet o' porn. When he opened it he saw stacks of VHS tapes with COPIED porn! Do you all remember how we copied video on the VCR? You had to let the tape play out all the way! Some poor receptionist had to watch many versions of Brazilian Fire Women (actual title).
I was kind of disappointed when B's appointment was uneventful. Aside from being sent to a regular bathroom (so the insurance-covered lab ten minutes away doesn't have one of those?) he did the deed and went to work. Not a bad day.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Just Relax... and Try Not to Fart
It's finals week over here. At least that's what it feels like. At this point we've already had genetic testing done, I've been recording and reporting my mentruation and ovulation patterns for a year and now it's time for the Big Kahunas. Today I had my HSG test done (I think the full medical name is hsgajshdfkaedfkjsdh) and at the end of the week Bryan goes in for his Spank-It test. It feels like the end of a long semester and once we get our grades back we'll know if we move on to the next level of baby makin' or get held back.
The whole fertility industry needs a makeover. An animal print throw, some sassy accent pillows, a smile here and there, chocolate in the waiting room-I'm not asking for much. But if you're going to tell couples who've been trying unsuccessfully for at least a year to get pregnant to "just relax" and "don't think about it" you could at least make sure said couple isn't sitting in a sterile waiting room in uncomfortable chairs reading Oprah from three years ago (or Parenting Magazine. Much appreciated). This leads me to my List of Things You Shouldn't Say to Someone Trying to Get Pregnant. Feel free to add your suggestions.
The whole fertility industry needs a makeover. An animal print throw, some sassy accent pillows, a smile here and there, chocolate in the waiting room-I'm not asking for much. But if you're going to tell couples who've been trying unsuccessfully for at least a year to get pregnant to "just relax" and "don't think about it" you could at least make sure said couple isn't sitting in a sterile waiting room in uncomfortable chairs reading Oprah from three years ago (or Parenting Magazine. Much appreciated). This leads me to my List of Things You Shouldn't Say to Someone Trying to Get Pregnant. Feel free to add your suggestions.
- Just relax
- Don't think about it
- Just get drunk
- God has a plan
- Well maybe God's plan hasn't started yet
- No, I don't think God is making you infertile out of spite because you blamed stopping up the Goodman's toilet on their son you babysat when you were 12.
- I can't believe you're having such a hard time. We got pregnant our first try!
- You just need to have more sex
- I'm sorry you found out I was pregnant from the birth announcement. I didn't want to hurt your feelings when you know... you can't... you're not...
Back to the HSG test. I was the only one in the waiting room at 7:30am (yes, an ungodly hour to have a catheter stuck up your hooha) and after a half an hour went by, I went up to the receptionist to ask if I could expect to be seen before my eggs shrivel up and die. She hollered over to her colleague, "Hey, Shirley, Infertile's been sittin' in 'em chairs fo twenny minutes. When she gonna go back?" To which Shirley hollered back, "I dunno. Tell her she jus gonna have to wait." Did I mention that their rolly chairs were right next to eachother? And that I was right in front of them?" Or that my name was the only one on the sign-in list? What level of confusion was there to lead them to believe that my name was not Lauren, but Infertile? I may need to reread that handy Privacy Policy brochure, but I'm going to go out on a limb and say that referring to patients by their diagnosis is a voilation.
Finally, the tech-in-training aka Doogie's Little Sister led me back to the x-ray room and bathroom. She instructed me to strip down, put on a gown and wear the purple socks with grippers on the bottom waiting for me. I did as instructed and remembered to hide my undies underneath my neatly folded jeans. I have no idea why every time I go to a doctor's appointment I'm compelled to hide the fact that a) I wear underpants and b) that I usually leave my clothes in the heap they land in as I change.
I got up on the x-ray table and laid down on my back. Miss Doogie explained how to scoot down to very the edge (ahh that's why they gave me gripper socks. It wasn't in recognition of my delightful personality as I had assumed) and placed a bunch of towels under my pelvis so my hooha was now at the radiologist's eye level. I'm sure it was the highlight of her day. I was really relaxed as all of this was happening because my nextdoor neighbor had the same test done and told me it wasn't a big deal. I foolishly believed her. The next thing I knew, I was instructed to breathe in and out and WHAM! Suddenly. something went into me and it HURT! Instantly I felt strong cramps and a little shortness of breath. All I could do was concentrate on breathing and not spewing on Miss Doogie. Soon the catheter was out and... so was the doctor! I happened to turn my head and caught the back of her white coat in the doorway.
"Wait!" I called out, "Is everything ok?"
"Yeah, ok"
"I'm ok?"
"Uh-huh." (so thousands of dollars in med school tuition doesn't include a course titled "A Complete Sentence: Patients Like Them)
"Can you show me on the screen?"
"No, you're fine. I'll send a report to your doctor."
"But wait! They had this test on Guiliana and Bill and their doctor held her hand and showed them her tubes and-" Too late. She was already gone and Miss Doogie was wiping up the puddle of dye that followeed the catheter's exit. I, too, instantly had a lot more respect for Miss Doogie. She led me back to the bathroom where and industrial sized pad was waiting for me.
"Ok ma'am. You'll need to wear a pad for the next three days to catch the rest of the dye and no sex."
"Huh?"
"The dye. It doesn't all come out right after the test."
"You mean, that stuff is still up in there?"
"Yes."
"What's it doing up there? Why is it hanging around? Did it go somewhere it shouldn't have? Just tell me the truth. You don't need to sugar coat it. Is there a clump of dye in my butt right now? Is it going to come out when I fart? It's ok, I just need to know."
No response.
Still no response. "Be sure to put your gown in the bin when you're dressed. You can keep the socks if you want. Have a good day!"
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Time to Face Facts
Many people have assumed that since I haven't posted a new blog in so long it was because I was pregnant. They assumed wrong. The truth is, there hasn't been anything to post. Every month is the same old thing. We do it. We do it again. And again and again... for nothing!
March 1 marked an official year of trying. Looking back on this past year, I'm pretty proud of how we've handled all of this. There haven't been any huge meltdowns, we don't hate our pregnant friends and family members (though I can't stand the pregnant meth addicts I see on my commute to work each morning..) and we have actively stayed positive each month. But you can't ignore that a year of trying is a long time.
Most annoying is that over the course of the year there were many times when even though I was really irritated with B for some reason or another, I shtupped him anyway because I was ovulating. Which meant he won whatever argument we were having at the time. In fact, he knew he could do no wrong on those days and cashed in. "Oh, I haven't weeded the backyard like I said I would do three weeks ago? What are you going to do about it today?" "Oh, you're upset that I played Playstation all night and didn't acknowledge your existence? Sure you want to fight about it today?" I hate to admit it, but I can't blame him because I would do the same thing.
I had been artfully avoiding my Gyno's office hoping that instead of just going in for a yearly exam it would be a pregnancy appointment, too. But by March 1 I had to face facts. I wasn't pregnant and my Gyno's office was getting more incessant about my scheduling an appointment. There must be gold down there because I've never known anyone to be so determined to get to my hoo-ha. Eventually, I sucked it up and scheduled my appointment for the middle of March. I was about to hang up with the perky receptionist when she asked if I was having any issues I wanted to discuss with the doctor. There was a long pause before I could choke out the words, "infertility." "What?" replied the receptionist, "I can't hear you." "umm," I said, "I think -" sobs spilling out - "I think I'm infertile" WAH WAH WAH. I tried to stifle my cries and mop up the river of snot working it's way down my shirt and waited for the receptionist to offer some of the words of encouragement and comfort she must dispense daily to crazy people like myself. Instead, she answered as chirpy as ever, "Okay, see you in two weeks from today!" Click.
When did it come to this? For a year, I've been strong. The first one with a joke and a prayer. What happened to me?
Two weeks later, my craziness was further confirmed when I sat in the doctor's waiting room with tears spilling out faster than I could mop them up, watching all the preggos walk past me to the check-in on the other side of the room.
I just want to sign in on the other side of the room, damnit!!!!
March 1 marked an official year of trying. Looking back on this past year, I'm pretty proud of how we've handled all of this. There haven't been any huge meltdowns, we don't hate our pregnant friends and family members (though I can't stand the pregnant meth addicts I see on my commute to work each morning..) and we have actively stayed positive each month. But you can't ignore that a year of trying is a long time.
Most annoying is that over the course of the year there were many times when even though I was really irritated with B for some reason or another, I shtupped him anyway because I was ovulating. Which meant he won whatever argument we were having at the time. In fact, he knew he could do no wrong on those days and cashed in. "Oh, I haven't weeded the backyard like I said I would do three weeks ago? What are you going to do about it today?" "Oh, you're upset that I played Playstation all night and didn't acknowledge your existence? Sure you want to fight about it today?" I hate to admit it, but I can't blame him because I would do the same thing.
I had been artfully avoiding my Gyno's office hoping that instead of just going in for a yearly exam it would be a pregnancy appointment, too. But by March 1 I had to face facts. I wasn't pregnant and my Gyno's office was getting more incessant about my scheduling an appointment. There must be gold down there because I've never known anyone to be so determined to get to my hoo-ha. Eventually, I sucked it up and scheduled my appointment for the middle of March. I was about to hang up with the perky receptionist when she asked if I was having any issues I wanted to discuss with the doctor. There was a long pause before I could choke out the words, "infertility." "What?" replied the receptionist, "I can't hear you." "umm," I said, "I think -" sobs spilling out - "I think I'm infertile" WAH WAH WAH. I tried to stifle my cries and mop up the river of snot working it's way down my shirt and waited for the receptionist to offer some of the words of encouragement and comfort she must dispense daily to crazy people like myself. Instead, she answered as chirpy as ever, "Okay, see you in two weeks from today!" Click.
When did it come to this? For a year, I've been strong. The first one with a joke and a prayer. What happened to me?
Two weeks later, my craziness was further confirmed when I sat in the doctor's waiting room with tears spilling out faster than I could mop them up, watching all the preggos walk past me to the check-in on the other side of the room.
I just want to sign in on the other side of the room, damnit!!!!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Lift Those Legs
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.
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.
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!!!!!!!
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