i gave the cat a name

the happiest ending

2008-09-30T16:14:00.005-05:00

At long last, baby Anderson Lee:

Our sweet baby boy was born as scheduled on September 17, weighing in at a very sturdy 8lb 15oz. We entered the OR at 11:00am, and shortly after, the room was filled with the sounds of the sweetest newborn screeches and the laughter and sobs of two very blissed out, thankful, amazed parents. Parents! Us! It was only when I heard Dr. S tell me he saw our baby's (huge) head and was about to take him out that I let go of my fears and really, truly let myself believe that our baby had made it, he was here, one journey ending as another very exciting one began. Life is so very, very good. We are happier than we had ever imagined we could be. From here....I think it's time to close this blog. It seems most fitting to let this post be the finale, and move on to a new place, a place I can fill with mundane mommy type ramblings and incessent pictures of little A that only our nearest and dearest will appreciate (or politely pretend to appreciate). I don't know. What I do know is that the little man snoozing in my lap, making sweet sleeping baby squeaks, has made us complete. At last!

ONE WEEK TO BABY TIME

2008-09-10T12:26:00.003-05:00

Remember this guy?

It's Grimace. Grimace from McDonaldland. He hung with that nasty Hamburglar and the creepiest of all creeptastic pedophile clowns, Ronald.

This has what to do with my normally me-centric blog? Well, I went out walking the other day. As I'm standing there letting Griffin sniff a light pole (okay, and trying to catch my breath), I see something alarming. It's a shadow. A dumpy looking, Grimace shaped shadow. For a brief, very scary moment, I swore Grimace was standing behind me about to pounce. Then the moment got even scarier....that's MY shadow! My shadow, dear friends, looks like Grimace. A clear indication that it's time to have this baby and (as soon as the doctor greenlights hard core workouts) whip my formerly skinny ass into a shape that doesn't remotely conjure up an image of a big dumpy McDonalds character.

So vanity aside, now for the very exciting news.......BABY HAS A BIRTHDAY! Assuming all goes as planned and my body doesn't pull some crazy miraculous stunt (the odds of such event according to my doctor: 3%), our baby boy will be welcomed to the world a week from today. Wednesday, September 17. The doctor appointment yesterday went about how I had figured it would- baby is big and looks blessedly healthy, mom is not making any progress, GD is still a factor, doctor is not wanting to wait this out and see a 9+ pounder. All of that in mind, we agreed to schedule a c-section for next week. I still have a Tuesday appointment and one last (more painfully awkward than painful) internal exam, and if progress has been made, we may talk induction instead. But given the fact that my closest female relatives are prone to 42 week deliveries of 9+lb babies and my cervix appears to be as stubborn as its' owner, I'm thinking we know where this is headed. And I'm surprisingly calm about the idea of my abdomen being sliced- my doctor is known to be a great surgeon and truthfully, I don't care WHAT has to happen, as long as it ends with J and I holding our safe and healthy little guy 7 days from now. WOW. There was one brief moment of panic as we got into the car after the appointment when J, ever the poster child for "speak....then think" looked at me with something in his eyes that could have been fear or boyish elation and said 'THEY'RE GOING TO TAKE YOUR UTERUS OUT OF YOUR BODY AND LAY IT ON A TABLE". Gee, honey, thanks for that comforting little visual! I'll chalk it up to pre-baby jitters though, something he hasn't shown much of to this point. But something about having his baby's birth scheduled, KNOWING he is really, truly coming, is getting my normally so-laid-back-he's-comatose honey a little worked up, making him sweetly dumbfounded about all that is to come.

Needless to say, I'm beside myself with excitement about the impending birth date. I can't watch Baby Story without bawling my eyes out, even when the couple having a baby has the most obnoxious of Jersey accents and puffy bangs and the mom is wearing a scrunchie. Even then, I cry. I think about hearing his very first cry and the sight of J holding him for the very fist time, and I cry. I watch J move the video monitor around the nursery (for the 10th time) to get the very best picture of the crib, and I cry. I don't quite cry but I do get all excited when I glance into the backseat and see a baby seat, professionally installed and ready to hold our most valuable cargo. I also cry when I puke in my mouth during the night, but that's not very sentimental at all. I am so ready. We are so ready, even if only 1 of us realizes it. The pedi is chosen, the parents' flights booked, the hospital bag packed, the pet arrangements handled.....we're ready.

So now, I get through the next week. Tick tock. I thank the TV gods for new fall series, trashy as they may be, and my resulting bloated DVR list. I cuddle with our pets and tell them over and over that they're still our babies, to hang in there through the craziness. I pray that this ridiculous Hurricane Ike is being overblown and does NOT bring 73mph winds to Austin on Saturday night. As eager and anxious as I am, I try to enjoy these last 7 days as a two-some with a quiet and clean house.

Okay, and I also pray that I'll come out of the hospital skinny-jeans ready, pain free and well rested, and looking not one iota like Grimace. A girl can dream.

he's full term!

2008-08-31T16:40:00.005-05:00

Well, folks, I'm proud to report that Baby is FULL TERM! He could come out today and not be premature! I could call my doctor in labor and have that be a GOOD thing! I'm feeling a little in awe at the thought of it, and I'm hoping and praying that time continues to move at the speedy pace it has been going by as of late. Many a new mommy has warned me "the last month will drag". Week 1 of the last month (aka, week 36) went by in the blink of an eye. Probably because I was really busy. Busy doing what, you ask? Well......napping, watching crap TV, peeing every 3.5 minutes, walking my dog, watching my feet swell to epic proportions, reading literature (Tori Spelling's memoir, US Weekly, etc.), honing my Wheel of Fortune skills each weeknight at 6:30pm cdt, and refolding baby clothes for about the 10th time just for an excuse to hang out in the nursery. I really don't know how I fit it all in. Skills.

We saw Dr. S on Tuesday and were truly blown away by the ultrasound images. It's a BABY. He has lips, and they MOVE. He has little elbows! Not that I was ever expecting a lipless, elbowless child.....but still- wow! My body made LIPS AND ELBOWS. The sight of his little face really moved me, really made it feel possible that our baby boy, our child, is soon to come out and meet us. Wow (again). No progress as of Tuesday, but that's really okay. Really! I'm stubbornly refusing to cave to impatience just yet, and telling myself I'll go to at least 40 weeks is the best way to do that. Baby was measuring a little closer to normal again (just a week and a half or so ahead, as opposed to the 2+ weeks ahead we've seen in the past), which was a relief. Dr. S didn't seem entirely convinced (since so many ultrasounds have shown him measuring large), so we'll have another ultrasound on the 9th to check in.

Here's mama at 37 weeks and baby at 36 weeks!

is this your first?

2008-08-15T14:13:00.003-05:00

Something about a pregnant woman invites conversation, observation, and curious questions that would be considered very nosy under normal circumstances. For the most part, I normally enjoy the chatter (or on a crabby day, tolerate it compliantly). While other pregnant women complain and vent annoyance at being smiled and stared at in line at the pharmacy or questioned for the 50th time about when baby is due/if it's a boy or girl/if the baby has a name, part of me screams (inside) "JUST BE HAPPY YOU'RE PREGNANT! THERE ARE WORSE PROBLEMS YOU COULD BE HAVING!" I refuse to allow irritation at the public's curiousity of something so miraculous, so full of joy. I feel so fortunate to BE pregnant that it seems wrong to wish the attention away. I'm still part of that "other" club. The one where nothing is taken for granted, the one where complaining and bitching and moaning about the minor inconveniences that come along with pregnancy feels somehow disingenuous- a betrayal of those who are still in the journey, still wanting and hurting.

One line of conversation, however, is a problem for me. It touches a nerve, as innocent as the question is, as simple and harmless as the answer may seem to most: "Is this your first baby?"

Literally, physically, in every way that matters to anyone of aquaintance status or less, to all those people just making conversation with a pregnant woman....yes. Yes, this is our first child. This is the first baby we've seen move through the skin on my belly, the first baby to have a full name and a nursery and showers, the first baby that (we hope and pray and believe) will live with us in our home and make us a family. I know there's one right answer to the question- one proper, socially acceptable, non-insane/disturbing answer. I know the topic of loss and death is just not appropriate in casual conversation. I know I don't want to cheapen our other babies' memories by flippantly discussing them with a stranger. TMI, right? But still....there's a pang in my heart every time I smile and answer "yes, our first". Because while he is well on his way to being our firstborn, he is not our first baby. There are two others. Two seperate, beloved souls out there that belong here, two babies who were alive, two children we won't have the joy of holding in the hospital, or kissing way boo-boos for, or seeing off on the school bus one emotional fall morning. Some would argue they never existed, a heartless and cruel thought bred of naivity or fortunate ignorance or a belief in a definition of "life" vastly different from my own that insults me, that takes something away from me. They DID exist. They were planned for, they were loved, the sight of each beating heart was cherished on an ultrasound screen. They were celebrated and acknowledged. A steak dinner out the night I told J about our first pregnancy, our first baby on the way. We alternated between disbelieving laughter, grinning at each other across the table, and asking ourselves what, exactly, we were supposed to do next, what we needed to buy, who we needed to tell. (So innocent, so new, so trusting in the process!) The second time, we laughed and hugged and held each other close in a hotel room far from home, a positive test clutched shakily in my hand, both scared to death and ecstatic at our 2nd chance, our 2nd baby....and later that night, J surreptitiously drank his own beer and the one I'd ordered to keep our happy secret under wraps from the friends that surrounded us at the bar. A secret between the two of us, an existance only we knew of...but an existance nonetheless. So nobody can tell me they weren't real. They affected our lives. Their presence, as brief as it may have been, changed our course, changed our lives.

I don't have a point here, but when this question came up again this afternoon as the mail woman made happy chit-chat and asked with a broad smile if this baby is our first, and I smiled and told the well meaning woman "yes, this is our first"....something inside of me just....cracked. I hoped that in that moment, those other babies weren't listening. I wondered if they heard, if they thought they were forgotten. Replaced. Fading. Behind my sunglasses, tears welled in my eyes, and I excused myself to get into the safety of my house and for just a while, mourn those losses once again. Make sure they understood they're not forgotten and not denied, my tears the only offering I had to make this known. As I sat on the staircase crying, this baby inside my belly, this to-be-firstborn kicked and wiggled and I felt torn. Torn between the sadness for what was to be, and the breathtaking, dizzying joyousness for what is to come in 5 short weeks or less. And I felt once more like I WILL be a better mommy to this little boy because I know how damn fortunate we will be to know him in a REAL way, a way we can touch and feel, a way the outside world understands and accepts. I'll thank him in my heart each and every day for coming to us at long last, and in times when we're stressed or tired or frustrated, I know we'll have the wisdom to understand how blessed we are for all of it. So for that, I thank our TurkeyBaby, our Grover....for all they taught me just for being, for the new depths of loving they've made me capable of.

i. am. so. hot.

2008-08-09T18:41:00.005-05:00

I just heard on the news that this, the summer of 2008, is the hottest on record in Austin for the past 83 years, the 3rd hottest in all of this city's history. We're on day 45 of 100+ degree temperatures. I've accepted the fact that any movement, even from the upstairs couch to the downstairs couch, will bring on a slick layer of sweat. My walks commence with me in a cold shower, clothes directly into the wash, glass after glass of icy water until my body temperature returns to the double digits. There's no relief in sight, so says the perky blonde weather woman and her annoyingly chipper "no end in sight, folks". My point is, I'm hot. Smoking hot. So hot that sometimes during my twice daily walk, I swear my feet might burst into flames. I sometimes sit in my closet, gaze at my mohair sweaters and Ugg boots and denim jeans, and wipe a tear from my eye as visions of snowflakes dance in my head. My at home wardrobe now consists of just a few bland, completely unfashionable staples formerly reserved for workouts....sports bra, tank top, cotton shorts. Anything else is just too hot. I give up, I cry uncle, I resign myself to being a definite fashion "no" during these dog days of summer. On those rare occasions where I'm required to be seen in public by people whose opinion of my appearance actually matters, I pull on a sundress. One strapless, black sundress. The last remaining frontier in wardrobe choices that still fit comfortably without encouraging extra sweat. Church, OB office, dinner with a friend....count on me turning up in that trusty frock.

And for the record, it's with great chagrin that I lament the weather. I'm notoriously anti-winter, and spent each and every negative wind chill day of my midwestern life cursing the frigid climate and whining to anyone within earshot about my contempt for winter. It was, in truth, equally MY idea to move to Texas, so tired I was of ice and snirt (snow + dirt) and Columbia coats as far as the eye could see. I remind myself each day how lovely fall and winter will be- the mild climate so perfectly suited for strolling with the wee one. Almost there. August is 1/3 complete.

34 weeks! 2 weeks until weekly OB appointments begin. 3 weeks until full term. No more than 6 weeks until I can finally, finally reconcile with my secret lover...the (94g carb, 72g sugar) Peanut Buster Parfait. Oh, gooey fatty goodness and former summer staple, how you're missed. The term "excited" doesn't do any justice in explaining my feelings about the impending due date. I'm so ready to meet this kid. So ready to finally, at long last, look down into that little face and say hello to motherhood.

the home stretch

2008-07-29T16:24:00.004-05:00

The end is near! 53 days/7-ish weeks until JumboBaby's eviction date, and I'm seeing signs all around that he really and truly will be here sooner than later. A sampling:

1) Craft stores have FALL things out. No, I don't (often) shop in craft stores. With the exception of that bitchin' wreath I concocted last year (see September 24, 2007) I leave the crafting to the trained professionals at Pottery Barn. But anyway...they have fall stuff out! I parked outside a craft store today en route to another shop, and through the window I spied grinning scarecrows, bundles of hay, and wreaths of burnt orange leaves. That can only mean it's almost FALL- when babies come! Along the same lines, WallyWorld is clearancing the swimming pools and lawn chairs, and filling in those vacancies with displays of notebooks and crayons- BACK TO SCHOOL- when babies come!

2) We have a STROLLER in our house! Okay, so we've actually got a ripped apart box with 15 stroller pieces strewn around the dining room...details, details. I thought I might assemble the stroller, which arrived today, but upon further inspection decided it's a man job. But the pieces sure are cute!

3) I've outgrown some of my maternity clothes. Yikes. The belly is simply too big to fit under some of the more stylish "2nd trimesterish" pieces of my limited maternity wardrobe. Even the stuff that still fits is fitting me...well, pregnantly. I'm pulling my tops down, my bottoms up, and the whole effect is a very Farley-ish "fat guy in a little coat". I'm suddenly seeing the appeal of muumuus (moo-moos seems more appropriate, no?) I mean, maybe with leggings....? Not so much? Okay. I also spent a few moments the other day wondering why all my underpants had shrunk, and asked J if his underpants shrunk, too. Unfortunately, no underpant shrinkage occured. My butt is pregnant, too.

4) I'm pretty sure that at this point, an air mattress on the bathroom floor might not be such a bad idea. I spend the witching hours in an unconscious march from bed to bathroom, bathroom to bed, bed to bathroom. I don't feel so bad about occasionally missing my daily walk (on account of the 300 degree heat) because I get my workout in doing the potty walk. The kitties no longer sleep with us, so inconvenient were my frequent stirrings.

5) Increasingly frequent moments of panic in the middle of the night, much like my horrific nightmares in the spring of 2004 where I showed up to our wedding in sweatpants or forgot to order bridesmaid dresses or was left abandoned at the alter....the baby panic dreams have started. No, I'm not sleep stressing over the biggies- labor, delivery, the very possible risk of a major operation to extract JumboBaby- it's the trite details that disrupt my sleep. Sometimes I jolt awake in bed after a nightmare where we simply forgot to buy diapers. Once I dreamt that we got home with the baby to discover the nursery had fallen off the house, chunks of the room were scattered around our front lawn. The most disturbing was when J went to pull the car around upon our hospital discharge...then peeled out of the parking lot, never to be seen again. I sat calmly in my wheelchair, watching him go. JumboBaby and I bussed it home.

I could go on and on, but I'm fatigued. Another wonderful mid-third-trimester symptom...the return of 1st trimester fatigue. I'm actually turning into an infant, it seems. Eat, sleep, pee, cry, repeat.

a funny....or two

2008-07-23T18:07:00.007-05:00

I'm too lazy to write much today, but this was just too damn funny to not share:

(Courtesy of the fantastic Dot.)

Okay....one more. Because it also made me laugh so hard I thought I might pee myself, and because I think I once sat next to this guy at Lambeau Field:

In baby news, we attended breastfeeding class last night. Yes, we. I'd heard the majority of husbands attend this with their wives, and decided J needed to have some idea how the whole thing works so that if (when) I decide it's too much work/too painful/too something or other to continue on, he may be able to keep my head (er...boobs) in the game. And for the record, well over half the hubbies were in attendance. That said, I don't know that we're much further ahead than we were pre-breastfeeding class. It was kind of like a junior high film strip (from which the instructor read verbatim) and just not quite as informative as I was expecting- basically a platform for the lactation consultant to pimp out her pump renting services. HOWEVER- we did sit next to McLovin. I shit you not. Had there been a tactful way to pull out my cell camera and capture this McLovin clone for proof....I would have. McLovin was hardcore about his breastfeeding. As his wife slumped in her chair looking bored as all get out in the row behind him (weird, right?) he took page after page of incredibly meticulous notes in his wirebound notebook. I caught him jotting down "cracked nipples...olive oil" as his wifey poo snored away behind us. I feel bad for our baby. While McLovin's baby will have parents with a notebook full of helpful tidbits to assist them in their feedings, JumboBaby will have parents who are still giggling about McLovin and his note takin' skills.

baby, meet baby!

2008-07-22T09:34:00.006-05:00

That's me (duh) and my mom's sister, Jodi. Never would I have imagined we'd be doing the "baby thing" simutaneously- providing my grandparents with their last grandbaby and first great grandbaby in the span of a week or so. Jodi filled the big sisterly idol role in my childhood- she convinced me to name my first dolly Patty PooPoo (later joined by Wanda WeeWee), let me wear her punk rock clothes in the 80s and even took me to Dairy Queen to show 'em off, and was the first person I knew who actuallly had a pair of ::gasp:: Girbaud jeans- pretty much the epitome of coolness circa 1989, right? Her 3rd baby, a girl, is due 3 days after JumboBaby. Poor girl won't ever get a date. She's got two big brothers, and now this same-aged boy cousin to scare off any suitors.

That's all for now. J's home today and cleaning the house. For the first time ever, I just don't feel that bad about letting him clean up a storm while I sit and kill time on the internet. I feel more pregnant by the day- very exciting, very exhausting! The Fred Flinstone feet I could do without...but I suppose it's all part of the experience.

a premonition?

2008-07-17T15:23:00.005-05:00

Or just your average dream, who knows. Last night, I had a very distinct dream that I want to post to my blog so I don't forget about it. In the dream, we went to see Dr. S in early September. In the next scene, we were in an ice cold Dairy Queen when the phone rang. (The Dairy Queen phone, not our cell phones, that would make all too much sense.) The Dairy Queen people announced over a loudspeaker that we had a call. When I picked up the phone, it was Dr. S's office, instructing me to check into the hospital at 10:30pm on September 10 to deliver the baby. I hung up the Dairy Queen phone and waddled back to the booth to tell J. We realized at the same moment that this meant our baby would likely arrive on September 11, which we both thought was kind of neat. Then I went back to my banana split, which makes me doubt the validity of this dream. A banana split is about as appetizing to me as a freakin' string cheese is right about now (protein, protein, protein....I go through a pack of those mothers a week, and it's getting miiiiighty old). If this were an accurate premonition, I'd have been chowing a Peanut Buster Parfait, extra hot fudge, pecans instead of peanuts. Then my blood sugar monitor would leap from my purse and smack me upside the head.

It probably means nothing, other than I have a very strong (and sadly unfullfilled) desire to go to Dairy Queen and that both September 10 and 11th have meaning (10th= grandma Rita's birthday, 11th= obvious). But just in case I am right, and this is some creepy mother's intuition at work....I'm on record.

happy 28th, J!

2008-07-16T17:58:00.003-05:00

The J man is 28 today! Seems like just yesterday my best buddy (pre-boyfriend status) was turning 21, taking enough shots to keel over a man three times his size and passing out with his head in a spaghetti pot. Aaahhh....college. I'm guessing the big 2-8 will go down tamely, just a sugar buzz at most- thanks to his favorite chocolate covered pretzels prepared big-heartedly by yours truly, who thanks to gestational diabetes was unable to even lick the chocolate off the sides of the bowl as I slaved over his treats in a steaming hot kitchen. That's love, folks. I'll share a gratuitous shot of his adorability in celebration of his big day.

just one of those days

2008-07-15T15:42:00.005-05:00

It started with good intentions on Sunday. Knowing how much Henry enjoys the dog park (the main feature being the lake with more balls and dogs and mud than any Golden has the right to imagine in his wildest dreams), we trekked down there for some playtime. Henry can't play in the lake without drinking half of said lake. Said lake, apparently, isn't full of puppy-tummy-friendly water. Our dog park ventures are inevitably followed by a barf session later in the day. Sunday evening, Henry seemed okay. Tuckered out and refusing to walk upstairs for bedtime, but okay.

Monday morning....not okay. He EXPLODED during the night. From both ends. Not on the approximately 1,000 square feet of tile on our main floor. Ohhhhh, no. On the carpet. Brown, green, shades only seen in the gut of an 85lb monster of a dog. Carpet cleaners were called, carpet cleaners came, carpet cleaners collected an exorbitant fee....the carpets were as good as new. Phew. Henry seemed back to his happy drooly self, end of story. We thought.

Tuesday morning. 3am. I smell something funny. Faint, but definitely poo-ish. I blame my dear J, thinking the fried feast he ate for dinner wasn't agreeing with his tum. Up again at 4 (notice a trend? Yes, the hourly bathroom marches have begun), I start wondering if there's not something more going on. However, the idea of lugging myself back out of bed and down the stairs is unfathomable, so back to sleep I go. Only when we awoke at 7:30 and J headed downstairs to let the dogs out did we find it.....another EXPLOSION. I'll spare the details, but just believe me when I say it was not pretty.

I should have paid attention to the stinky omen on the living room floor. Stay home, it's not a good day. No, siree. I had plans. Some fun, some mundane, all necessary. The new mom-mobile needed Texas plates. Then to the mall for J's birthday gift and perhaps a bit of baby browsing. A pedicure appointment for mama, and a few other random stops on the way home. Wanting to get the un-fun chore out of the way, I head to the county clerk. Where, believe it or not, there's NO line! And I miraculously have each and every document necessary to prove that this is MY car, I haven't stolen it off the streets and driven straight to the county for new plates. Hot damn, I might get this accomplished without so much as a return trip OR a meltdown! Get this- I even got a REFUND! The dealership overestimated the cost of registration, so the guy tells me I get money back! Tell me, dear friends, when's the last time YOU heard the department of motor vehicles say "hey, guess what, we're going to send you a CHECK!" And the guy even SMILED. Wow.

I bounce out, as much as a woman rocking a fine set of 100 degree heat incited cankles can "bounce", Texas plates in hand and visions of the (air conditioned, summer sale aplenty) mall dancing in my head. Fire up the auto, and notice a little orange light on the dashboard. Huh? Tire pressure? Heave my giant ass out of the car, do a quick walk around, and stop dead in my tracks when I spot a tire...a very flat, undrivable tire. J is approximately 45 minutes across town and absolutely unable to leave the office to help- he's the only man on the job today. I can't think of anyone else to help. So I cry and cry and cry. Because seriously, what's more effective than sobbing uncontrollably in a desolate east side county office parking lot? When J quiets me enough to get a word in, he instructs me to call our insurance and utilize that roadside assistance program, the one I told him over and over again that we didn't need. I sit for 95 minutes watching handcuffed inmates led in and out of the building until the Pop-A-Lock guy shows up to change my tire. He should really be working for Nascar, because in 10 minutes I'm back on my way. A little tired, and no longer up for the mall as lunchtime looms and my diet dictates that I not go too long between meals....but there's tomorrow.

The rest of the day just didn't go much better. The pedicure place was packed and particularly noxious today, so no pretty toes for me. I pull through Chick-fil-a for one of life's simplest sugar free joys- my Diet Coke. Wait in line for-freaking-ever behind an Expedition packed solid with teenage boys, burn approximately $45 in gas idling, finally get to the speaker to order my DC....and find out that the DC is temporarily "broke". How do you BREAK Diet Coke? Augh! Shove it, chicken place! I come home to find the stains clearly visible on the now dried carpet (I was confident when I left the house that I'd scrubbed them out....not so much). I decide to nap for just a few minutes and before I have a chance to get comfy on the couch, I get a call from the groomer, where I'd dropped Griffin off earlier in the day. "Um, we have a little problem with Griffin." OF COURSE WE DO! Why not? It seems my little angel isn't a fan of the groomer, which he made clear when he tried to bite her. Oh, fantastic. She agreed to finish the job if I'd come supervise (aka- clamp his face shut so he didn't take her fingers off). Nap over.

Alas....I'm just blowing off steam. As a whole, life is good. I'm thankful that tire held out as I cruised along the interstate. I'm thankful I have a husband who cared enough to purchase the roadside assistance in the first place (he obviously did it with his auto-repair-challenged wife in mind). I'm thankful to have a house at all- carpet stains be damned. I'm thankful Griffin didn't really bite the groomer, saving us from a pesky lawsuit. I'm thankful that I, uh, have toes. Homely chipped toenails and all. I'm reaching a bit here....but you get my drift. None of it really matters, because I'm thankful that as I sat in that east side parking lot waiting and waiting, my tummy bounced up and down and side to side- reminding me that life is really truly amazing, and I'm really truly blessed. And coolest of all, I'm ALMOST 31 WEEKS!!! We've got less than 10 weeks until we're holding the (seemingly very squirmy) little guy!! Here's a photo from last weekend, 30 weeks, and happy. So very very happy.

baby got wheels

2008-06-28T16:55:00.006-05:00

and mama need drugs. Serious, fast acting, anxiety reducing drugs. My cat's on one happy little pill that leaves him staring at the bedspread in awe and makes him sleep 23 hours a day....but I'm thinking that wouldn't be very healthy for the wee bambino.

Today, I decided to do it already. Buy baby things. We've done okay with the nursery- the crib a gift from J's mom, the dresser and bedding too sweet of deals to pass up. The kid is clothed- thanks to my mom, he's got so many duds that we'll have to change him four times a day to sport each outfit once. But for some perplexing reason, buying any of the necessity type items lining the walls of our local Babies R Us scares the dickens outta me. (What the hell are the dickens, anyway?) I've been carrying an intimidating list around in my wallet for months- stroller, carseat, pack n play, swing, bouncy seat, baby gates, changing pad, on and on and on. But each time I visited BRU, I emerged empty handed and a little anxious. I'd usually bolt next door to Petsmart and stock up on doggy bones and cat toys to bring my blood pressure back to normal. At least there I'm legitimate- have pets, need stuff. I don't know what it is about the baby things that makes me feel so....illegitamite. Or maybe I do. Deep inside, I think I'm SCARED TO DEATH that I'll stock our home with all these colorful, perplexing items, and never end up needing them after all. The result of twice believing I was having a baby, and twice winding up comatose, depressed, and empty in my bed. But this third time is different, I know in my heart it is, have been blessed with an underlying, deep in my heart feeling of confidence about pregnancy #3 since before it even happened. We're 17 weeks past our latest point of loss. All tests have come back with beautiful results. Baby boy is strong, evident in his simutaneous chops to my bladder and my ribs. People beam at my belly in public, cheery in their approval of my reproductive skills and ginormous uterus. Dr. S is confident as ever while explaining the baby-cooking schedule from here to D-Day. We are, he says, as safe as we'll ever be.

And since my nightmares of late have all been of lack of preparation, like bringing a baby home and realizing he's got no diapers, or being released from the hospital and not having a carseat, or scrummaging through my kitchen cabinets in search of a bottle, coming up with just a turkey baster and a wine glass....I know I need to get on the ball. The days-to-baby countdown is in the 80s. And since my fairy godmother won't be rolling up with a carriage full of gear, and I'd prefer not to be waddling from one end of town to the other, sweating in the heat of September with my belly sticking 4 feet out, wishing I'd been on the ball sooner and avoided that kind of stress on my cankles....it's go time.

So I did it. I marched into BRU, and drove off 15 minutes later with a car seat. I came home and ordered baby's stroller. But I didn't get that "new mommy rush" that I hear other girls talk about, nor did I feel my usual sense of shopping euphoria over a big new purchase. No "yay, this is so fun, I'm buying these pretty things for my pretty baby!" I got a panic attack. One that left me short of breath, scared at my bold assumptiveness that we'll really need these things. Boo. I deserve the excitement just like everyone else, damnit.

But here, for the sake of normalcy, is my pretty baby's pretty wheels. The stroller I've been eyeing for 15 months, the stroller I finally have every reason in the world to purchase. And with any luck, when the UPS guy shows up with it, I'll act like a normal person and rip it open with abandon. Maybe even push the cats around the house in it, telling them what pretty pretty kitties they are in their pretty pretty stroller, take a photo or two....you know, because super normal people do super normal things like that.

**EDIT** Stroller purchase was cancelled. Avoid tinyride.com at all costs, because they're shady money stealin' mofos. So.....never mind. We'll still get a BumbleRide, but J decided he wants the 3 wheel Indie instead. Stay tuned.

i...

2008-06-26T20:22:00.009-05:00

I found this on a blog.....seemed a good way to stay awake and waste some time as I await J's arrival home.

i am: fighting to keep my eyes open
i think: people who dislike animals are sad inside
i know: very little about babies
i want: a thunderstorm, every night...and green grass as a result
i have: quite possibly the nicest, kindest husband in the world
i wish: it were September and our baby was an "outside baby"
i hate: people who smoke in my presence unapologetically
i miss: my mom. and my dad. and my sister and brother. and wine.
i fear: so many things that it can be exhausting
i feel: awkward loading my eco-friendly cloth grocery bags into my SUV
i hear: the TV
i smell: like vanilla
i crave: steak with pink in the middle
i search: for my chapstick every day
i wonder: what really did happen to poor Jon Benet
i regret: very little in my life...if anything at all
i ache: for those two tiny souls
i care: too much sometimes about other people's feelings
i always: think of my Grandma Rita when I eat green beans
i am not: really blonde
i believe: prental yoga will keep me sane these next 12 weeks
i dance: like a white girl
i sing: off key, horribly, as little as possible
i cry: whenever I want to
i don't always: brush my teeth for as long as I should
i fight: stubbornly
i write: on my blog for my own amusement
i never: go without a seatbelt
i stole: kitty litter that was "hiding" under my cart. Oops.
i listen: to Hanson without shame
i need: to hear that J loves me every day, because it makes me feel whole
i am happy about: the obvious

28 week appointment

2008-06-24T17:32:00.006-05:00

My 28 week appointment was this morning. I'm feeling like a "big girl"- literally and figuratively. These are "real" appointments- ones where we talk about fun things like cervix checks and glucose levels and childbirthing classes and circumcision decisions- all very fascinating topics for a girl who in not so distant days, wondered if she'd ever pass the 1st trimester. My belly measures right on, my once alarmingly rapid weight gain (alarming to me...okay with the doctor) has slowed to a more steady, "What To Expect When You're Expecting" approved rate, and all looks to be going very well.

Baby boy is doing his thing, and doing it in the over-achiever style you'd expect from the spawn of J and M: he's big! While I'm at 27 weeks, 3 days, he's measuring at a whopping 29+ weeks, 2lb14oz or so. Dr. S guesstimated, based on his million catrillion pregnancies served, a baby measuring in at this size at this point will be a "nice 8 pound plus baby". "NICE"? Yes, healthy is good, thriving babies are fantastic, and if he needs to be 12 pounds like my grandmother's first (who she swears gestated for 43.5 weeks), we'll deal with that. But an 8 pound baby out of my teeny tiny little lady town....YIKES! Again I say, bless you, sweet drugs. How I love you already, and we have yet to meet. (I was talking to the epidural there....but the sentiment applies much more appropriately to our sweet baby boy, of course.)

not so sweet dreams

2008-06-23T12:24:00.006-05:00

Aaaahhh...sleep. My old friend. Where have you gone? Between the pee trips, the restless cats, my snoring spouse, the pee trips, my 140 degree body temperature (despite the AC chugging away to keep us at 68 degrees), the pee trips, the leg cramps that rip me from dreamland on a more and more frequent basis, and most recently the crazy dreams....I miss sleep. Yeah, yeah, yeah- I know. Sleep will remain a distant memory for many months and years to come. But the disturbing dreams of late are really getting old. Last night, two in particular stuck in my mind this morning. Some quick internet research proved that my most recent dreams are quite telling....that one about giving birth to a kitten, I'll just leave untouched. I don't care to know. And I've got ultrasound pictures, about 80 of them, to prove there is no kitten in my uterus.

Dream 1: I'm sitting in my dining room, staring out the window, watching a low flying Northwest Airlines plane fly right at the house. It appears to be about to fly over just overtop our roof, when it jerks toward the ground and into our house. It explodes, we explode, gray dust everywhere as I scream for J.....game over. I wake up drenched in sweat clenching my pillow like a life preserver, and turn my lamp on for a moment to make sure we're not actually exploded. And poke J to make sure he's alive. He is, and he's also not impressed by the lamp. Or the poke.

You are “flying high” and whatever happens can reflect wishes/anxieties/progress regarding your life or professional progress, possibly your ability to “rise above it all” risk-taking abilities/attitudes. An accident suggests the perils of pursuing a particular goal or route, possibly a fall in self esteem or confidence. Hmm...the "perils of pursuing a particular goal" could make sense. As does "flying high"- life is good, all is well, but the low flying plane probably uncovers my thinly veiled fear and feeling that we're never "in the clear". God, what IS it with me and all these airplanes? You'd think I had a thing for pilots! Oh...wait....

Dream 2: I'm on Mopac. For those outside of the Austin metro area, Mopac is a highway running north and south. However, I'm lost on a very unfamiliar stretch of EAST Mopac. "East and west?" I repeat over and over in my dream. All I'm passing are storage units and strip clubs. That's it, one after the other. I finally spy a church and pull into the lot, where I proceed to ask for directions, but they're all telling me I'm nuts, and there is no East Mopac. They're also worshipping in the parking lot, and most are dressed in head bandanas and baggy pants- not dressed like the church people I know. The dream continues with me driving back and forth and back and forth, never finding that South Mopac sign I'm so desperately seeking, just sobbing in my car. I jerk awake again, roll over and feel for J beside me, and mumble something to him about how much I hate that stupid Mopac. Then I get up and pee. For the 18th time since my puffy little head hit the pillow just 6 hours before.

Dreams of being lost express anxiety in waking life. You may feel that the path to your goals lacks direction or that you don't know which way to turn in a situation. According to some dream experts, being lost symbolizes fear and anxiety about leaving the familiar behind when moving on to a new phase. (Bingo!)

final approach

2008-06-20T17:28:00.002-05:00

Remember months back, when I was sad and frustrated, when I talked about feeling like we were stuck on the layover from hell? Well, at risk of being a total corn-ball- as of today, we're on our final approach for landing! I can see our destination from here!

I AM IN THE THIRD TRIMESTER. The trimester that ends with a baby. The trimester that brings with it waddling, childbirth class, frantic nesting, and perhaps (though I hope not) a temporary second chin. 27 weeks today and damn happy to be here. I've noticed while chatting with other new 3rd-tri-ers that this is usually when the panic sets in. The "ohmygod, I actually have to get this thing OUT" fears creep in and begin to taunt, keeping mommies-to-be awake in their beds at night long after the rest of the house is fast asleep, heartburn and leg cramps as their uncomfortable companions. Call me crazy, but I'm not scared. (ME- not scared of pain! The girl who cried getting shots, for whom a skinned knee was a catastrophic infliction, who nearly failed junior high phys ed for her refusal to play dodge ball- it huuuurts!) I was telling J the other day that I just don't have that fear. I think it's because I've explored the hellacious depths of emotional pain to such an extent that physical pain seems temporary, a small price to pay to finally, finally, finally achieve our ultimate goal. Physical pain heals. Physical pain responds to drugs (and oh yes, there will be drugs, much to my yoga instructor's chagrin). Physical pain comes in one big long burst, then fizzles, wears off in the weeks that follow. Emotional pain, on the other hand, lingers. It carves a space in the back of your mind and the front of your heart, it festers, it mocks you at inopportune moments. It scars in ways far uglier than a stretch mark or blemish. My emotional wounds, while easier to manage at this point, won't go away. There are still tears. A song on the radio. An ultrasound photo found wedged between medical records. A photo of me, grinning on my 26th birthday, secure and confident. Meeting a new mom in the return line at Home Depot and asking how old her baby was, realizing when she answered "7 months" that the baby was born when our first should have been, forcing me to smile tightly and pretend to be totally engrossed in the caribeener I was returning, probably leaving the mother to wonder what, exactly, I had against 7 month old babies. As much as I dislike it, as ungracious as I felt for thinking it, the old thoughts crept in- "why is she here with her baby, while I'm still waiting?" I'm fully convinced that 20 years from now, when something or someone recalls the memory of our first baby, or our Grover, or as I open the green memory box that I'll always treasure- I will cry. Whereas if you ask me about the bodily harm I'll incur welcoming baby Cinco to the world...I'll wax poetic and think it really wasn't so bad. I'll look upon the scars and feel they're honorable. I'll probably have even signed up to do it again (and again?) All that to say...I'm not scared to do this birth thang! I'm still scared of the unknown, still panicky in baby's quieter moments, still worried about this or that coming between me and motherhood...but facing one of humankind's most painful experiences in 90-some days? Not so scary. Disclaimer: I fully reserve the right to eat my words at a later date. Say, 39 weeks or so.

What does strike a bit of fear in my heart these days is the weather. We've still got 15 minutes or so left of spring, and we're already 1/4 of the way to beating a heat record in Austin. A record set in 1920. Something like 12 days thus far with the mercury rising into triple digits. It's so hot that the air conditioning can't quite keep up, and I've just taken to wearing as little clothing as possible in those scorching late afternoon hours. I've also ordered some new blinds for the remaining uncovered windows...the neighbors simply don't need to see that much of me.

Anyway, here's to a smooth approach and landing! And dinner with J, who by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, is HOME before 9pm!

Under 100

2008-06-14T15:40:00.007-05:00

I never thought I'd utter these words as a reference to this pregnancy: but time, it is a'flying! As of today, I'm 98 days from my due date. 98. Something about seeing a two digit number standing between us and this baby is very, very exciting. I'm 26 weeks, the 3rd tri begins this week, and everything appears to be trucking right along. I'm looking big, and feeling great. Baby is very active in there most days. His kicks get stronger each week and my new favorite hobby is staring at my bare belly, watching as he pokes and prods and bounces beneath my skin.

The trip was fun filled and action packed. And tiring. And cankle-inducing. In a nutshell: watched as baby brother graduated, cried with realization that our little Binky Boy is off to do his own thing and make his own way, celebrated said graduation, flew to CA with mom and my sister, ate a whole lot of bacon, lettuce, and avocado sandwiches at our favorite cafe, spent countless hours taking in the sun and the totally vacation-esque view from the deck, flew back, did laundry, repacked, hit the road for ND, hung out on the farm, hit the road again, met up with friends and remembered just how lovely my friends are and how much I miss them, rejoined the family for the beautiful wedding festivities of my beautiful cousin/sister, played DD for a very rowdy group of margarita enthusiasts twice my age one night and my grandparents (YES- my grandparents) the next, drove through hellacious thunderstorms back to WI, spent a day crying into my Taco John's potato oles about leaving and never returning to Madison, endured not one but two cancelled flights, rebooked on a 5am flight and boarded looking crustier than crusty has ever looked....and at long last....returned home to (the very summery) Austin.

And what a welcome home. In good ways and not so fun ways. The good: Well, first and foremost, seeing J and the pets! Funny how you don't realize how you miss people (pets are people too) until you see them again. And the even good-er: J and his dad started the nursery and blew me away with their efforts. Gone is the allergy-inducing carpet....replaced with beautiful cherry wood floors. The walls are a most gorgeous shade of blue and there's an airplane rug chosen by J, all by himself, that brought tears to my tired eyes. The man truly outdid himself. Not that I didn't already know this, but he is going to be one HELL of a daddy. The not so good: I broke an unspoken rule between Ralph (my emotionally unstable cat) and myself (a rule I don't remember agreeing to) and left him alone for a week or two too long. His recourse? Urine. Stinky, potent kitty pee in the least convenient of places. My Pottery Barn sofa, atop dear husband during the middle of the night, my brand new silk drapery, and as a grand finale, inside my adorable pink luggage. To the vet we went, his diagnosis: emotional instability. The vet believes, in essence, Ralph is showing me what's up. "You ditch me lady? I ruin your shit." I'm sure he'll be thrilled when a tiny, screaming, demanding new "pet" joins the household in 98 (+/-) days. As we work through his "issues", he's on anxiety medication. His affect in his medicated state is not unlike that of stoner friends I had in college: "duuuude....where the eff am I?" Did I mention the dog also needs a root canal? If they keep this up, we'll be pushing baby in our rusty wheelbarrow instead of that $500 stroller I was all set to buy this week. Damn, that's not going to look good.

In other news, my mom-mobile is on its way to me next week! Out with the ginormous SUV and its correspondingly ginormous gas bill. In with a smaller, more functional SUV that I'm very excited to haul baby around in. And actually be able to park downtown without causing a traffic jam and/or lots of needless anxiety.

I'll close with a few photos...

The nursery begins:

The bump at 24 weeks:
With the bride:

big yawn

2008-05-17T18:07:00.003-05:00

It's been one of those Saturdays where I had mighty plans to accomplish big things....and just looked at the clock, saw the time, and wondered how it got to be evening. Oops. Amazing how a 3 hour nap, despite the weed wacker-weilding neighbor's best attempts to waken me, eats up a day. Lest you think I'm a total bum, I did work this morning and run a few errands after that. Then I plopped on the couch with a Quizno's sub and watched some Kardashian drama ("I'm getting a Bentley!" "You're a bitch!" "No, you're a bitch!"), which made me very sleepy, which necessitated the nap. Annnnnd the day is toast.

22 weeks. Tick tock. Can't time hurry up? Whenever I admit to someone that I'm just ready for it to be September and to actually hold this baby, they look at me like "what a shame" and urge me to just enjoy being pregnant, sleeping when I want to, and revel in the anticipation. Which I am (when I'm not worrying). But I'm not a patient girl, and while I think that without the horror that was last year I'd likely be one of those "I love being pregnant, never felt better, this is amazing and beautiful and I'm glowing" types....because of all the misery that preceded this pregnancy, I just kind of want the end result already. Being pregnant for the better part of the past 14 months will do that. Big ultrasound coming up on Tuesday. Send us your "ten fingers, ten toes, healthy little baby in every possible way" vibes.

My week in a nutshell:
1) Griffin was dying of cancer, then he wasn't. Learned not to trust crooked vets in dirty clinics who insist on immediate surgeries, and that the very good, kind, experienced vets are hiding out in the country. Also learned it's a very good thing to trust my budding "motherly instincts" to avoid my dog being sliced open for no good reason at all.
2) Jonathan sick with a cold, me with Clorox in one hand and Vitamin C in the other. Haven't slept in the same bed in 4 nights. Kind of miss the guy. The dogs are enjoying it- no Jonathan in bed = lots of room for dogs in bed. Cats are angry. Dogs in bed = cats not in bed.
3) Lars and the Real Girl last night on pay per view. Brilliant. Man loves blow up handicapped sex doll. Oddly touching and just the kind of offbeat flick I needed after a string of syrupy chick flicks. And too much of that weird Kardashian show.
4) Our boat is sold. My refusal to boat while pregnant and our realization that a 9 month old wouldn't be a very good ski boater next summer necessitated the sale. I was very proud of J for not crying as the nice man hooked our boat to his Suburban and pulled it on down the road. He looked like a little boy giving away his puppy, but he held it together.
5) Maternity swimsuits are not your friend, and were created as a way to ensure your husband will never want to touch you again, because the image of you in glorified granny panties and a tent for a top will be etched in his memory forever. (Hint: not sexy.) I tried on about 10 before doubling over in laughter at the thought of actually donning one of these beasts in PUBLIC....not even in my (dark) closet would I wear one. I'll stick to land until next summer, and J will thank me. We may even have a 2nd child someday. Pretty sure if he saw me in one of those suits he'd prefer I never become impregnated, ever again.

This post is about as fascinating as my day has been. I'll be back soon with something majorly exciting and introspective. Or a picture of my cats or something.

lightening up

2008-05-09T18:11:00.002-05:00

I hate to say it, but I do think blondes may have more fun. I consider myself a blonde at heart. I was a white blonde kid, a medium blonde young adult, and full adulthood brought with it a shade somewhere between "cardboard box" and "dull tree bark". Not a pretty shade. Expensive, time consuming highlights ensued- I do believe that if I totaled up the amount spent on my blonde hue over the past 9 years, I could buy J that airplane he wants. Last fall, I had my beloved highlights filled in with lowlights and just let it grow. I was depressed, I felt dark, I just didn't care to deal with my blondeness. It was pretty at first, with the stylists' strategically placed mahogany pieces, but as that uninspired natural shade took over...not pretty. (Take a close look at the 20 week belly photo below for proof.) It became so homely that when I asked J last week if he'd mind me spending $200 on highlights (despite the fact that we're less frivolous with our cash these days, what with that mile long "ridiculously expensive and likely very useless things we need for baby" list) he responded with a cheery "yes! That's a GREAT idea! Shall I drive you?" Gotta love the man for his support. Or hate him for his closeted lust for blondes. Whatever.

I had my highlights, and I'm happy. I looked in the rearview mirror on the way home and thought- "now THIS is me". The dark hair didn't fit, seemed a disguise of sorts. It reflected a dark mood, a dark outlook, a desire to blend into the background. ((I mean NO offense to brunettes- those that are meant to be brunette are stunning and I'm envious of that "Kelly Kapowski" look I'll never rock- I'm just not meant for the darker tones.)) I can't help but think my lighter hair reflects my lighter place in life. Like maybe I'm restoring a part of who I was, allowing back a superficial aspect of the happy girl at heart.

My mood has lightened too. Wednesday was a tough day that moved into a tough night, and I woke up Thursday feeling a bit lighter. The fact that a year ago today I was in surgery, a surgery I never even knew existed before being told by the sad doctor that I'd need one, went by without any tears, just a sigh, a shake of the head. The crusty hospital, the shockingly insensitive anesthesiologist, the overwhelming feeling of emptiness that filled me as the drugs wore off- all seem so distant, so alien- like a story of another person's sad memory. Instead...onward and upward. Today marks 21 weeks. OVER halfway. Closer to the big, anticipatory third trimester than the frightful first trimester. I can't wait. Bring it on- all of it. Even that unsightly little spider vein that appeared overnight where my butt meets my leg, I'll take it- because I'm ready. Ready for what comes next, and just happy as a (pretty blonde) clam to be this damn close, this full of life and hope.

one year ago

2008-05-07T19:42:00.002-05:00

May 7, 2007. If I had kept a journal, that day surely would have been the most depressing entry of all my days, 26 years worth of days. That morning I woke up innocent. Blissfully naive. Unfortunately and stupidly confident. Truly believing all the contrived statistics that say once you have a heartbeat, you won't be miscarrying unless you're in that incredibly slim 2%- too tiny a number to even be considered real, laughable really. I drove downtown to the doctor's office excited to see our little one again, sure he/she would be wiggling about, more interesting than the creature we'd seen 4 weeks before. J and I waited forever for the doctor, reading In Touch, looking out the window at the steam rising off the street, eager to head out and over to Whole Foods, where I'd seen adorable natural onesies a few weeks before. I thought I would buy one as a celebration gift after my appointment.

Instead, the day became the one that cracked our surface, brought so much pain into a previously fortunate existance. The one that took away bits of my sunny nature and substituted some bitterness, a harshness that wasn't there before, a sadness that I just don't know that I'll ever entirely leave behind- a hole. I don't remember leaving the office. I remember crawling into the car, slumping into the seat, dialing my parents' phone number by instinct alone, and just wailing, wishing I was wrong, hoping they would make it better. I remember mom's tears, her shock. J's face, as he faked a mask of strength, pale complexion and watery eyes in contrast. His voice on the phone to his dad, a hushed voice, like he didn't want me to hear what he was saying, like I didn't already know. I felt empty, I felt robbed, I felt crushed beneath the weight of all my hopes and dreams and plans for our November baby. And then, the perinatologist's office, there for a second opinion I already KNEW wouldn't be any better, that had I been thinking clearly (thinking at all) we would have declined. Sinking to the cold tile floor as we waited for the doors to open, my head on my knees, the huge bellies too much for me to handle in the waiting room, being escorted to the privacy of an exam room to be signed in. Leaning against J as the world spun, my head spun, words like "social security number" and "primary OBGYN" bleeding together on the paperwork, foreign and meaningless to me. I wanted only my bed...my blanket...darkness...my baby. I wanted my baby. The baby still inside me, so still and lifeless on the screen, gummy bear arms and legs, vaguely human but so beloved. Gone. Without me ever knowing it. Gone while I continued to love, to plan, to share the news. I just kept murmuring "I wanna go home. I wanna go home. I wanna go home." Home, when I was there last, was happy, was safe. Where "if" wasn't a word that applied to babies...just "when".

A year. A year that has been the fastest and the painfully tortured, slowest year of my life. A year that aged me. A year that, despite my hesitation to tack anything positive onto this experience and turn this into some BS "on the bright side" posting (there is no bright side), will make me a better mother. A strong, thankful, gracious mother. Has made me a better friend. Has taught me who I trust and whose love is pure...has shown me who was never really there, not in the way I thought. A year that has shown me who J really is, his strength, his unfiltered optimism, his refusal to let me slip away into dark places, irretrievably. The limitless patience of his love for me, so unlovable in my misery. A year that has shown me the unshakable love of family, the instinctual, unquestionable support they offer, the safe place they hold in my world.

And as I sit here sobbing, American Idol blathering in the background (just get to it, already, we all know that stupid puppy faced kid is safe), Baby Boy kicks at my belly button. I imagine him saying "mom...you're okay! I'm okay! We're okay! More Sunkist!" I hate to let this day be one of sadness, because it somehow cheapens my love for this baby boy, makes me ungrateful, takes away some of the joy I should feel, the joy of a mommy to be, the joy that has been tainted by the fear, the memories, the tears of this past year.

That's all. I'm eager for 12:00am. A new beginning, this date no longer looming dark on my calendar. One day closer to THIS baby, to the peace he'll bring, the love he'll be born into. The other babies are forever loved. No amount of love lavished on this baby (and those I hope will follow) will detract from that. I hope they know.

bellies

2008-05-03T12:16:00.006-05:00

I'd venture to say that at this point, 20 weeks, my midsection can no longer be mistaken for a gut- the belly looks less "beer" more "baby". And J.....well, he just wanted his picture taken. We were on our way out for a rare dinner date, thanks to J being off work before 8pm for the first time in a million zillion years.

Nothing else to report. An uneventful weekend in store. J's working, I'm supposed to be cleaning, doing laundry, proving myself useful. Instead, I'm eating a hot dog and watching Girls Next Door. (Yes, a hot dog. Heated to steaming. Back off.) It's looking increasingly likely that the most ambition I'll display today will be cracking open my new UsWeekly and putting the backyard lounge chair to use. So be it.

hormonal hungry hippo

2008-05-01T18:35:00.004-05:00

It's been a long day. While nothing bad or worthy of distress actually happened, I've cried more times than I can count. But here, for the hell of it and because Wheel of Fortune college week bores me, I'll try.

Episode #1. 8am. Breakfast table. George jumped into my lap. He rubbed his little kitty face up to my chin, and I burst into tears. I don't know if it was the pure, unfiltered look kitty adoration in his eyes that got me...or the realization that he's just left the litter box and probably had crap on his feet.

Episode #2. 9am. Shower. I'm all soapy and warm when I realize there's not ONE towel in the bathroom. I'd hauled each and every dirty towel down to the washer an hour earlier (and by each and every dirty towel...I mean our entire towel stock. I'm a bit behind on laundry.) I'm nakey and wet and have no towel. Tears flow. I haven't vacuumed in days, so rolling around on the carpet isn't appealing. My sweatpants worked in a pinch.

Episode #3. 3:30pm. Wallyworld. Some mental midget was hangin' outside the store, greasy mullet blowing in the wind, likely waiting for his ball and chain to come out with his Natty Lite and nudie magazines- it's pay day, folks. Smoking away. Beside his FREAKING NEWBORN BABY. The poor bambino (who looked to be all of a week or two old) sat innocently in her infant seat, stacked precariously atop the Walmart cart, while Father of the Year puffed away. The wind was positioned just right to waft the second hand smoke right into her tiny little defenseless face. I bit my tongue and kept walking as tears sprung at my eyes. Not my baby, and certainly people do FAR worse, but it made me sad. Made me pissed as hell that people like him have kiddos while so many more worthy people don't. And also made me wonder how harshly, exactly, the state of Texas punishes kidnappers. I sat in my car and cried for a few minutes, then left before I stole a baby.

Episode #4. 4pm. The big kahuna. When I came home from lunch, a large box was waiting. This, I knew, was the bridesmaid dress I'd ordered for my cousin's wedding. The one that's in 5 weeks. The dress I had to get into a screaming match with the bridal store over in order to get it in time for alterations. The dress I purposely ordered a whopping 4 sizes up from normal, thinking I'd have enough fabric left over to fashion a jacket, purse, headband and some leggings. Maybe even a boutenairre for J. I dash inside, rip open the box, and think...hmm...looks small. Up in my room, I realized the dress was HOPELESS. Wouldn't zip over my bum, squeezed me in all the wrong places, basically looked like something I'd stolen from a kindergartner. MAJOR, HEAVING SOBS. The wedding's in 5 weeks! My cousin doesn't need this stress! I'm so faaaaaaat! $200 in the toilet! No dress for the wedding IN 5 WEEKS! I called mom and all that came out was "waaaaaaaaahhhh!!!!" which of course, scared the daylights out of poor mom. Imagine her relief upon finding out it was a stupid dress inducing the hysteria. (Update: found new dress, spoke to designer's rep, will be here by May 16. Halle-freakin-lujia. Even better, because I was STILL crying like a lunatic when I called about the dress, they dropped the standard $75 "mega super crazy rush" charge.)

Episode #5. 10 minutes ago. My DVR is broke and is forcing me to choose between Grey's, The Office, and CSI. How unfair is life? My remote broke too, so my night's pretty much shot.

Yeah, I realize life is pretty good when my litany of complaints includes a misfunctoning DVR box. But, too bad. It's my blog, and I'll cry if I want to.

my poor neglected blog!

2008-04-28T16:18:00.006-05:00

There's really no good excuse for my recent lack of blogging. Too busy? Nope. Too sick? Nope. Just kind of lazy and a lack of anything remarkable to write about? Ding ding ding! But just for Monica...because she asked so nicely and is buying me a Bugaboo (I kid, I kid)....a new post. This might be a whopper. Get a drink.

Thankfully, blessedly all seems to be well. 19 weeks, 2 or 3 days. As of Friday, I'll be in the second half of my pregnancy. Thank you, God. Seriously- I could NOT be more thankful for a healthy, happy pregnancy thus far. My daily heartbeat checks are reassuring. Well, to me- the cats are still a little tripped out by that creepy, wooshing doppler, and George did try to chew the cord apart the other day in protest. 2 weeks ago, at 17 weeks on the dot, I felt the little guy move! I was sitting at the computer working on a Saturday morning (woe is me) when I felt a tiny, vague rumble. Honestly, my first thought was "oh, crap!" Literally, oh- crap? Nope! A second later, another nudge. As the ingeniously funny Amy Poehler says in my recent favorite movie "Baby Mama"- indirect quote here- it's like you ate a meatball sandwich, and now the meatball sandwich is moving inside of you. I feel something every day now, nothing steady or dependable, but it's fun and reassuring. When I have a Sunkist, which is a rare but delectable treat, Baby zooms around in there like he smuggled a trampoline up there or something. I am sleeping pretty heavily these days.... The tummy is taking on a life of its own. My belly button, day by day, is shrinking and threatening to disappear. Thank GOODNESS the girls in my sorority house were wrong- that belly button ring hole (that has refused to close in the 5+ years since I removed the ring) is NOT ripping open and turning into a big, ugly hole now that I'm pregnant. I'm loving this stage of pregnancy. My sickness is all gone, I eat when and what I want, and I've got a bit more energy than I did a month ago. That said, I'd still be thrilled if I could just fast forward directly to September and be holding the little guy. The control freak in me feels like only when he's HERE, when I can micromanage his every move, will he be safe. And then I'll breathe again. When I remember to in my sleep deprived haze, i guess.

Now that I'm really showing, I have moments of feeling like a traitor- like I crossed the picket line and became "one of them". Case in point: I was at Walmart (yeah, I know, ew) last week and wearing a tank top that clearly outlined the belly. Okay, it was a wife beater. I was wearing a wife beater in Walmart. Call the cops, hand over the keys to the trailer park, whatever. I'd just run in for some Tums, that hot dog I chowed was NOT working for me. As I'm reading each antacid bottle's label for any sign of any potential danger to the fetus, I look over toward the pharmacy and notice a girl about my age glaring at "the bump". At first, I thought she was just some bitchy chick. But when I looked back a moment later and found her STILL staring at me with a mix of anger and what now looked a bit like sadness, I looked down at my obvious belly lump, and my heart sunk. Because, and it still hurts to think about this day, 5 months ago, I was glaring down a pregnant woman while waiting at the Target pharmacy for meds to kick start my period, which had disappeared seemingly for eternity after my second miscarriage. I was miserable, bloated, crushed, a little buzzed, and mad as hell that we even HAD to try again and my body refused to cooperate to LET us try again. A mom sauntered by with a cart, toddler in the front of the card, tiny baby in a baby carrier, nonchalant and in my eyes totally undeserving....and I'm pretty sure the look I gave her (through puffy, grief hazed eyes) could have melted metal. Wherever I went in those awful days, my heart sunk whenever I saw a pregnant girl. More than once, just the sight of one sent me in tears to my car or the privacy of the nearest restroom. Remember Big Butt Becky? Who knows. Maybe the girl at Walmart hated my purse or found my grown out roots distasteful. But in that moment, I felt ashamed, guilty, and sad to be "the pregnant girl" who may or may not have ruined someone's afternoon with my presence. It shatters my heart a bit to know it may be me stomping my belly through someone else's sad time with my happy pregnancy glow, it may be me who sends someone to their car in tears cursing that it's not THEM. If only they knew, I always think! How many pregnants did I let crush my spirit, never once thinking getting (or staying) pregnant may not have been a picnic for them, either? Short of donning a hooded sweatshirt for the next 4.5 (hot and sweaty) months, I'm not sure there's much I can do but remember Big Butt Becky and keep my banal, obsessive nursery decor conversations to a hushed minimum.

I'm gearing up for my big summer trip- a 3 week "Tour De Midwest". Could I BE more excited? NOPE! My baby sister graduates college, my baby brother graduates high school, and my wonderfully unbridezilla-ish cousin/pretend sister gets married (I'll be the fat one in the pink pup tent crying my eyeballs out, if you're looking for me). I leave May 22 and will be gone a whopping 3 weeks. The puppers will be safe and sound (and likely thrilled exhausted by her trademark, boundlessly energetic walks) at Grandma Frazier's. The kitties will have to deal with 3 long, boring weeks without their human entertainment/treat dispenser. They'll be lucky if J, after his 13 hour workday, remembers to dump some kibble in their bowl once a week or so. Poor guys. I'm sure they'll retaliate, like the time we left them to go to Hawaii and they clawed a hole through the back of our leather (okay...pleather) couch. The trip will be one laced with bittersweetness. In preparation for the big CA move, mom and dad's Madison house is on the market (and will quite possibly have an accepted offer in the next day or two). This house has been our "home" for longer than nearly any house we lived in as kids. There are so many memories there, and it's tough to think that there will no longer be a home there for us. We'll still have Rhinelander securing our Wisconsin roots, thank GOD- the thought of never again trolling Walmart for mullets or tasting Rhinelander Cafe & Pub's hash browns or living somewhere where a hunk of cheese is appropriate attire is heart wrenching at best. When we're homesick, the cabin on the lake will beckon, and a'home we will go. Anyway, leaving Madison in June will be tough. I'll never be back to that house, never again see the backyard ducks, and Madison will be a place we used to be, a memory, our past. Megan will depart shortly after for a yearlong consulting job, Michael will leave for college, I'll become a mama and my Lambeau Field pre-game keg stands will be history (I kid again, that never happened)...lots of changes in our happy family.

What else. It's getting hot already. It's April. It's snowing in some barren parts of the world (helloooo, North Dakota). But in Texas, we're smoldering. Can I just say how excited I am, despite my Madison nostalgia, to jet off to the 'rent's new place in (comparably) cool, coastal Orange County when I start feeling like a (gigantic, bloated) ant under a magnifying glass? Wanna guess where I'll be hiding out for a week or so come July, when it's 300 degrees in the great state of Texas and the siding is melting off of our house? Not after July, though. Mom said if the baby is born in Newport, it becomes a citizen, and is no longer allowed to leave the State of California, by law. I've never heard of that, but she sounded serious.

All right, I've exhausted myself. I hereby do solemnly swear to stop neglecting my blog. Stay tuned.

OH PS- how FREAKING EXCITED AM I THAT IT'S BACHELOR NIGHT?! SO excited, THAT'S how excited! And Gossip Girl! Off to get some Ben & Jerry's to prepare.......

hello, mr. obvious!

2008-04-04T13:39:00.000-06:00

a son in september

2008-04-04T13:26:00.005-06:00

Well....helllllo! As you see in the above posting (I'm finding I have to post pictures seperately or the text morphs into some itty bitty unreadable mess that gives me a headache to try to read)....we're having a SON! It's DEFINITELY A BOY! Our appointment wasn't technically until Monday, but I've had some discomfort this week that kept me up with worry most of last night, which made me call in this morning to see about a nurse visit today. I was uneasy and knew the weekend would drag if I didn't just go in and get seen. Stress isn't good for me or the bambino, I figured. They brought me right in and I even got a bonus Dr. S visit!

The ultrasound began and.....wow! He's a HE! How's this for a typical boy- the nurse first tried for a cute face shot. Moved all around, jiggled at the tummy, no go. His hands were firmly in front of his face, rubbing at his ears, blocking our view, wiggling fingers in front of our faces. She then decides to head to the nether region. What happened to the modesty, kiddo? There it was! Legs spread, unmistakable penis. I saw it before the nurse even said anything, and my belly laugh sent the little guy jumping all about in there. Thrilled, in awe, relieved. The other issue I was there to check on turned out to be absolutely nothing, but I was reminded once again how fortunate I am to be under the care of Dr. S. He came in to do the measurement and put me totally at ease.

He's measuring big- 17 weeks today (I'm 16 weeks along)! Mom's measuring big too- let's just say the scale hit an all time high this morning, and I'm not so upset about that. It means I'm growing, it means he's growing, it will come off next fall. Or winter. Spring. Whatever. Definitely by summer. Our test results from the 12 week testing were gorgeous. Our risk for Downs Syndrome and another disorder called Trisomy 18 are as low as can be- 1:10,000 chance. Happy day!

We still go back on Monday for our "official" 16 week ultrasound and gender check. I'm playing coy with J and telling him I know for sure what we're having after today's ultrasound (he wasn't there) but that he has to wait for Monday to see for himself. Cruel, I know. But I just want to see the look on his face when he discovers for himself that his first child will be a SON!

16 weeks already. 4 more weeks until halfway. 11 more weeks until the 3rd trimester. So incredibly grateful and ecstatic to be here, and so thrilled to be expecting a son. My son. Our SON!

oh boy. maybe.

2008-03-12T14:17:00.008-06:00

Monday was the biggest day of all big days in a very long time. I'll make this concise:

1) We had our 12 week appointment and NT Scan. "This prenatal test (also called the NT or nuchal fold scan) can help your healthcare practitioner assess your baby's risk of having Down syndrome (DS) and some other chromosomal abnormalities as well as major congenital heart problems.The NT test uses ultrasound to measure the clear (translucent) space in the tissue at the back of your developing baby's neck. Babies with abnormalities tend to accumulate more fluid at the back of their neck during the first trimester, causing this clear space to be larger than average." It was a wonderful morning! Baby Cinco is suddenly looking gigantic. In reality, he/she is the size of a peach, but the first look at the ultrasound image made us both gasp- it's a baby! Nose, mouth, hands with fingers, feet with toes, and 6.4cm of pure cuteness. The measurement was perfect- 1.2. They want to see a number under 3.0, so I breathed a big sigh of relief at baby's low measurement. They took blood as well, and good results will rule out 99.9% of chromosomal issues. The amount of confidence this test gave me is remarkable.

2) There was a possible PENIS SIGHTING! J saw "it" immediately (or so he says), and the tech asked a momet later if we planned to find out the sex. She said she's "fairly certain" that we'll be having a BOY!! She added that we need to wait another month to know for sure, and cautioned us not to paint the nursery just yet. After she left us in the exam room to dress (me, not J) we stared at each other, eyes wide, speechless. J's grin made me happier than I ever could have imagined- although he's still quick to say he'd love a boy or a girl- he was thrilled. I was just relieved that the test had gone well, and trying to take in the idea that this may very likely be our SON! Afterward, when we chatted with the nurses during my nurse visit, they said this particular tech isn't a guesser, and that if she's not sure, she's not saying anything at all. They too reminded us that it's early and our next scan could prove the tech wrong, so April 7 will be a big day! J's itching to buy the airplane wall decals, but mama's holding him back.

3) J got a new job! He's been waiting for 5 months for this to happen, and when it happened, it happened fast! He found out about the position opening on Saturday, emailed his interest minutes later, chatted with the dealership manager Saturday night, and received a call for an interview with the general manager right after our ultrasound Monday morning. Three hours later, he called to say he had the job, effective immediately. He looked so happy this morning in his big boy clothes, heading to his big boy job, in his big boy office. I'm one proud Mrs. His former manager sent him off with his blessing, saying he had no doubt that within a few years, J could be running the dealership. Proud, proud. His new hours will take some getting used to (he'll work until 8pm or 9pm five days a week)......but on the bright side, that leaves me with unrestricted remote control ownership in the evenings. Always a good thing. But seriously, we'll manage. It's worth it to see his dreams beginning to come true.

Monday evening found us exhausted, thrilled, and feeling on top of the world. And gosh darn it, we kind of deserve that kind of happiness. At last. 2008, so far, so good!

that's one hungry baby

2008-03-07T18:42:00.002-06:00

I'm blaming it on baby. Today, despite the tantalizing plethora of restaurants available to us in the Austin metropolitan area.....I had to have Applebee's. Yes, Applebee's. Not one of the approximately three billion unique, tasty, well thought out restaurants the Austin area has to offer....I wanted to do as the apple says and eat good in the neighborhood. (The neighborhood located inconveniently far from our house and close to nowhere we needed to go.) Random.

I ate my salad, and half of J's (the veggie part....gotta get those veggies in). I resisted the urge to lick my salad plate for the Thousand Island droplets. Next I polished off my Fiesta Lime Chicken, and tucked into the fries. I stole a few chicken strips of J's plate. As he pushed his plate away, loosened up his pants, and began to look ill, I chewed my fries, asked if he wanted that last chicken strip, and whipped out the dessert menu. "Seriously?" he has the nerve to ask. Bad idea. "THE BABY WANTS IT! SHUT IT!" And shut it he did. As did the waiter after I placed the dessert order, when he asked "two spoons?" and I frantically shook my head no. "Just one." Mama's hungryyyy. (I'm not selfish, J doesn't even like what I ordered. And he still looked ill.) I totally showed that maple nut blondie what was UP. The ice cream too (calcium!) The sad part is, as I looked over the ruins of my 8,000 calorie meal, I wasn't even that full. We left, ran a few errands, and my phone rang. It was my aunt, wondering if I'd like to join her and her boys for Mexican. I'll be damned if I wasn't tempted. J looked afraid. Or grossed out, who knows. (I didn't go.) Anyway, morning sickness seems to be fighting a losing battle here. It wants to hang out longer, but its time seems to have come. I'm feeling more cravings, fewer gaggings. There are still moments of misery, but overall, I'm sensing a change. And a rapid outgrowing of my pants in the not so distant future.

I had another ultrasound on Monday, and it was beautiful. And so exciting. As I emerged from the bathroom, cup o' pee in hand, Nurse K was waiting outside, looking ecstatic. "11 WEEKS! SWEETIE, THAT'S WONDERFUL!" I put my pee down, and we hugged as she congratulated me and said how happy she was that things looked so great. (I love this place.) My nurse practicioner was just as excited, and I couldn't help but feel special to finally be the patient they're happy to see. The ultrasound looked wonderful. Baby was wiggling all over and making it very difficult to get a good photo or measurement. Heartbeat strong, measuring ahead of schedule, every part looking perfect as can be. Next up, Monday's 12 week appointment and NT scan. After this, we tell the whoever will listen.

At home, the doppler continues to be my very best friend. I love it. I love laying there, listening to the proof that baby Cinco is in there, working away at growing big and strong. I'm 12 weeks now and amazed that I've made it this far, that the "second trimester" chapter in my pregnancy books will soon apply to ME. More and more, we talk about the baby in "when" terms instead of cautious "if" terms. We've got names on the short list. Of course, there are still moments of worry, where I'm afraid to feel too happy, too attached, to hopeful. But those are fewer, and we are happier.

a-chugga-chug-a

2008-02-29T20:26:00.004-06:00

Not THAT kind of chugga chug! Although it is Friday night.... But no- a chugga chug of the heartbeat sort! Major excitement today. On a weak moment on Wednesday, I decided I absolutely positively had to have a doppler machine. They can be rented online for $20-40 per month, and as I thought ahead to the long, torturous month between my 12 week and 16 week appointments, I realized I'd need some reassurance. I'd tried to hold myself back, figuring it may cause more worry than excitement. But in my new, positive way of thinking- I hopped online and minutes later, it was on its way. And this morning, on my doorstep! I coulda kissed the UPS guy!

It didn't start off very well. I moved the listener-thingamabobber all over my gel caked stomach, and heard only my own (rapidly increasing) heart beat and lots of background digestive noise (thanks to that Cap'n Crunch breakfast, perhaps). The cats crouched nearby, taking turns having moments of bravery and sneaking toward the alien sounding machine, taking a verrrry cautious sniff, and retreating with haste back to the safety of the corner of the bed. After 10 minutes of searching, the worry crept in. See, I'd rented one of these things before. Back in my first pregnancy, I ordered one with so much excitement around 9 weeks. I couldn't wait to listen with J before bedtime, and just figured it would be a fun thing to do. I finally tried it out at the 10 week mark......nothing. At that time I was still blissfully naive and figured it was just too early, I'd bring it out the next week. Instead, I ended up packaging it back up in a Vicodin haze and slamming it out on the porch for pick up a few days after my D&C. So as I laid there today, the bad thoughts crept in. After taking a break, during which I chugged more water than it would take to fill a wading pool (they say a full bladder helps), I was back at it. Seconds later, THERE IT WAS! Clearly not my own (much slower around 70)- it was baby's!!! Chugging away at 170-178, way up on the high end. If you believe the old wive's tale (which, for what it's worth, I do not) that's firmly in "girl" range. Time will tell.

So, so exciting. Oddly enough, this feels more official to me than that 15,000 ultrasounds we've had so far. I can't explain why....but something about this makes me feel really pregnant. For me, it was much like the moment most women have when the second line appears on the stick. That "wow, we're going to have a baby, for real" rush. And wow, is that exciting.

Now, somebody hide that damn thing so I don't start carrying it around in my purse, just in case I get stuck in traffic or the line at Panera Bread is too long. Kidding.......

home again

2008-02-27T17:31:00.004-06:00

I'm home! After five fun filled days under the California...er....clouds, I'm back. The trip, as expected, was fantastic. Nothing better than spending time with my family, and we had a great time looking at houses and narrowing down the areas of interest for mom and dad. But flying, I could do without. When we got to the airport yesterday morning, I breezed up to the self check in kiosk and was alarmed to receive a printout reading "see agent" instead of the anticipated boarding pass. Damn. Flight cancelled. I was rebooked, but the next two flights to Dallas were full, leaving me on the third option, 5 hours later. 5 hours in the entertainment challenged Orange County airport. By the time I boarded I'd read half of my book, read each word of my Us Weekly and In Touch magazines, gone back to the newstand for a Reader's Digest (desperate times), back once more for a local newspaper (desperate measures), and clogged both mine and Cinco's arteries with two McDonald's cheeseburgers and a medium fry. I figured I'd snooze through the flight, since it was about naptime anyway.

The bratty 2 year old behind me had different plans. As soon as I laid eyes on the tottering munchkin, I pretty much knew I was screwed. He looked owly and I swear he stared me down as he waddled past my seat. Just moments later, he was in the throes of a MAJOR temper tantrum, complete with gaspy breaths and shrieks that sent dogs barking miles from the runway, and kicks to the back of my seat that would have been helpful had I been choking or something, with their heimlich effect. And as I learned from his mother's pleas for his cooperation, his name was Braden. Braden's mom enrolled immediately in my shit list with her feeble attempt to silence B-man's tantrum- teach him how to work the seat back tray. The seat tray on MY seat back, mind you. For ten minutes, I worked through the jolting that resulted from Braden releasing the tray with a crash and kicking the tray back into place...deep breath, happy place, deep breath. But then, I'd pretty much freaking had it and shot his mom a look that made it clear I didn't find Braden's trick as cute as she did. To which she responded by looking at me as if I'd just stomped on the head Braden's kitten- I was an evil, child hating wench, obviously. Because anyone who truly loves children would be *totally* okay with being thrown all about in her $400 plane seat because someone didn't get his nap. Right?

The fun didn't end with Braden. There was also a barking puggle three seats over who escaped mid flight, an angry mother berating her kids for the world to hear because they wouldn't "JUST TRY ONE MORE TIME TO PEE BECAUSE YOU'RE REALLY MAKNG ME MAD RIGHT NOW", and the same angry woman telling her husband "THEY WOULDN'T BE SUCH BRATS IF YOU WEREN'T SO FUCKING INDUGLENT". We were in row 24, folks, and that last bit was spewed at such high volume I'm fairly certain the pilots heard. It was super awesome, I tell ya. Did I mention the urine on the bathroom floor? The stinky, sticky urine that held my flip flop firmly to the ground and induced another round of gagging and nausea? We really need to strike it rich and buy a plane. This public flying stuff's just not working for me. And at least then, when it's *my* precious darling having a total toddler meltdown, we won't be ruining anyone else's flight with our seat back tray acrobatic act.

Otherwise, all is well. I had another ultrasound the day before leaving for California, and things looked very good with the little one. When I told the nurse practicioner how excited I was that we'd made it this far, she smiled and assured me to "relax, because you'll be carrying this one for the long run". Hearing that from the mouth of a medical professional was so, so wonderful. The ultrasound pictures show what looks like an actual BABY! He/she was dancing all about, arms and legs moving....it was miraculous. Here's the latest picture of the little munchkin just over a week ago, at 9 weeks 4 days.

valentine's redemption

2008-02-14T13:56:00.003-06:00

I'm not a Valentine's girl. It was all fun and games in elementary school. Build a cool cardboard mailbox adorned with construction paper hearts and glitter, diligently go down the class list addressing a valentine to each and every classmate in my best cursive (saving the grodiest looking valentine for Matt Kro, aka the booger picking kid), ending the day with a sugar high that sent shudders through the mommies in the carpool line. But in junior high, Valentine's Day turned into a "prettiest girl" contest where we all waited, breathless, to see who would gather the biggest bundle of carnations sent by fickle, squeaky voiced boys....I could just do without that kind of stress. Or carnations for that matter- the floral equivelant of beer can coozies and mullets doesn't exactly spell romance to me. Then came high school, and the disgraceful (albeit temporary) V-Day dumping from my tempermental high school boyfriend. Add in the fact that I don't look good in red, and that I have a general distaste for having my emotions manipulated by a greeting card company...just not my style. Then came Valentine's Day 2006, and the heartbreaking passing of my Grandma Rita. Put a fork in it. Done. Mark me firmly in the anti-V-Day camp.

However, I think that after today, I'll rethink my position. Something great happened today. Another ultrasound, another milestone passed, another peek at our rapidly growing little one! There were LEGS! In my belly! How weirdly fascinating is that? We saw a great heartbeat, a little wiggle, and our already over acheiving little embryo growing one day ahead of schedule. But before this, when I got to the doctor's office, they were clearly running behind. I got into an exam room and waited. And waited. And in that time, worry mounted. But then I thought, for the 10th time in one short morning, of my Grandma Rita. Strong doesn't touch the will this woman possessed. I know that today, of all days, she's watching over her loved ones. Reminding us not to be sad, not to dwell, not to waste a single day with worry when there's so much joy to be experienced. And I felt her there, in that quiet exam room, her trademark calmness bringing my heart rate down. And when the news was good (so good) I felt her spirit there, too. Patting my hand, rolling her eyes a bit at my tendency to panic, reminding me to keep the faith. The only tears I shed after my appointment were for her, or moreso, for me for missing her. Sadness that she won't be knitting an afghan for this baby, that I won't be calling her with this wonderful news of her first great grandchild. And since my radio is psychic lately, as I merged onto the interstate, on came the perfect song to turn the tears into sobs. Although my white, midwestern, conservative Grandma Rita had very little in common with Puff Daddy or his murdered pal Notorious B.I.G., the song still fits. That is, if you remove the whole "bust in the six, shop for new clothes and kicks" business (since neither I nor my grandmother, nor anyone from the state of North Dakota for that matter, would even know how to begin to "bust in a six"). So on this Valentine's Day, I rethink my position. Not on carnations, not on Hallmark's reign of terror....but on the possibility of sunshine on an otherwise gray sky day. On the power of hope, of love, of Rita-sized strength. And I send up my love- to Grandma Rita, to Turkey baby, to Grover. XOXO. And yes....Happy Valentine's Day.

It's kind of hard wit you not around
Know you in heaven smilin' down
Watchin' us while we pray for you
Everyday we pray for you
Till the day we meet again
In my heart is where I'll keep you friend
Memories give me the strength I need to proceed
Strength I need to believe
.............
Still can't believe you're gone
Give anything to hear half your breath
I know you still livin' your life after death
Every step I take
Every move I make
Every single day
Every time I pray I'll be missing you
Thinking of the day
When you went away
What a life to take
What a bond to break
I'll be missing you
Somebody tell me why
One day morning
When this life is over
I know I'll see your face
Every night I pray
Every step I take
Every move I make
Every single day

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSYswqi9ZhQ

no quiero taco bell

2008-02-12T14:32:00.000-06:00

Note to the pregnants: don't listen to that crazy chihuahua.

I forced myself out to Target this morning. Yesterday, my morning (ha- morning) sickness was minimal. I don't know if it was the massive heart attack in the morning and the resulting couch coma in the afternoon that distracted me, but I felt okay. (By okay, I mean not gagging ALL day and eating from two food groups.) I told J this morning, when I awoke pretty sure I'd been transplanted onto a rocking, barf inducing cruise ship while I slept, that I think Cinco is pissed. "You're not going to have faith that I'm in here and doing well? You wanna freak out like that? FINE! Here I am! Happy now?" Hoo, boy. It's been one of those days where showering is only possible from the comfort of my bum on the questionably clean shower floor. But I needed things, so to Target I went. I wound up in the grocery department for bread (amazing how many loafs you burn through eating toast for all three meals) and my stomach rolled. I needed food, and nothing healthy was remotely appealing. Really, just thinking of anything healthy made me gag over the grassy spot in the Target parking lot.

To Taco Bell I went. I'd get tomatoes in my taco and call it a veggie serving. Big mistake. Just the smell was enough to make my stomach audibly grumble, and I ate it anyway. Not good. The experience reminded me of my mom, 18 years ago, pregnant with my baby brother. Bless her heart, sick as could be, she took my sister and I to the mall and (at our begging, whining, and pleading I'm sure) took us to Arby's for lunch. We were just settling in at our table when mom dropped our tray and BOLTED. I can still see her long, permed hair and stone washed maternity jeans rounding the corner, away from Arby's and her two bewildered daughters, en route to the completely inconvenient bathroom at the far corner of Kirkwood Mall. I remember looking at my side pony tailed little sister, obliviously digging into the curly fries, and wondering in my eight year old mind why on EARTH anyone would want a baby in their tummy if public puking were a part of it. So thank goodness I did the drive through thing, and the gagging was done with only the cats as my witnesses. On that note, I nap.

the evidence

2008-02-11T16:43:00.000-06:00

2.11.08 ultrasound (week 8)

2.7.08 ultrasound, week 7

hello, baby

2008-02-11T15:44:00.000-06:00

All right, I'm out of hiding. And first, let me say thank you, thank you, thank you to those of you who emailed me- wondering where I was, sending thoughts and prayers, making sure I was okay as the "kirbyman" post sat growing stale at the top of my blog. I appreciate it!

Explanation for the absence.....I AM PREGNANT. Just in case the above picture containing post was confusing to you, that is a baby, and it's in my uterus, kicking my ass. Feel free to scroll down and see the posts I wrote but didn't publish in the earliest days, too afraid to publish a thing and have to retract, but needing a place to release some of the anxiety. So far, so good. Not out of the 1st tri, not safe, but thriving and optimistic. As of today, 8 weeks 2 days. We had an ultrasound this morning. This morning was rough. I had my first OB appointment scheduled for today at 8:00am. J took the day off, and I spent the weekend in worry. Here we were again- week 8. If you've been paying attention, week 8 has not been a good one in the past. We've never had a heartbeat in week 8. I had some slight pain, although pain seems too strong a word- I had discomfort. Gas pains were a likely suspect, as were growing pains- each of the 25 pregnancy books I scoured for reassurance at Borders on Saturday said growing pains were to be expected starting about this time. But later, when darkness and paranoia set in, to Google I went. I don't suggest that the pregnant among us Google "cramps, pregnancy" unless you'd like to send yourself into a tear streaked tailspin. Which, naturally, I did. Then came this morning. I rose early, wanting to shower and look nice for my first real appointment. And there, in the bathroom, it happened- spotting. Not heavy, not dark....but it was there. Twice. I sat, frozen, numb. I actually said the words "there it is". I stared at the evidence, moved to the floor, and sat there staring at the wall. I woke J, and when I broke the news to him the confidence I seek from his eyes wasn't there. In its place was the look I imagine best described as 'deer in the headlights'. At a loss for words. I dressed quickly, nary a comb through the hair, and went downstairs to call mom. No confidence in that always reassuring voice either- rightfully so- we were all sure this was bad. (And later today, I found out mom started packing her suitcase and looking for flights to Austin after my call, and sent my brother off to school with a warning that she'd be halfway to Texas by the time he got home. How much do I love my mom for that kind of love?)

The doctors office, as always, was packed when we arrived. I pleaded with the receptionist to call a nurse to come and get us, and I must have looked desperate because the usually surly girl did as she was told. Anyway- to the point. The nurse assured me there were plenty of explanations, most harmless. The doctor came in moments later, full of his characteristic soft spoken cheer. Then he CONGRATULATED J. At this point I wondered if my doctor was a fruit loop. Or high. For real. I wondered if he was on pot, as seconds earlier we heard the nurse brief him the the hall, muffled by the traffic in the hallway and a heavy door ("something something two miscarriages something something extremely upset something something spotting something"). But he saunters in anyway, all country gentleman, happy as can be. I'm sure I looked puzzled at best, scornful at worst- didn't he know that SPOTTING IS ALWAYS BAD NO MATTER WHAT? If you're a confirmed neurotic freak, that is. Why take cues from the super experienced OB, when I've got my own pessimism and Google education backing up my fears? After the fastest pap smear in history, before J or I could even see a baby on the screen, he's telling us "here's the heartbeat, and a beautiful baby". WHAT? And there it was. Bigger than last week, the start of arms and legs, an umbilical cord, even a quick wiggle of movement. Heartbeat 169, on the higher end of the expected 120-170.

I was truthfully too busy sobbing to take in much after that. Thank GOD. Despite my struggles to remain faithful this year...seriously, thank you God. The doctor, again full of congratulatory smiles, assured us that this is as close to "out of the woods" as we'll get. 98%, he says. Statistics, still, are hard for me. I've heard statistics before, comforted myself with their enormosity...and they haven't been good to me. But I'm inclined to believe this doctor. He's a specialist. He's been in People magazine. He doesn't seem the type to go around spreading bullshit. He leaves the room and the beaming nurse sits down with her paperwork. They have to enjoy the scares that end happily. She explained each visit from here on out, testing we can choose to do, and which appointments were with the doctor and would likely be an hour or more delayed. She rolled her eyes while explaining everything related to pregnancy eating online was wrong, and to eat whatever I like- lunch meat won't be killing anyone. With a stern warning to "stay off the internet", they sent me on my way. (Blogs aren't "internet", right?)

For my own "emotional well being", they set me up with another scan on Thursday, and other the following Wednesday. The doctor was sure to say this was for mental health- reassuring because he likely felt they were medically unnecessary, but sad because I'm pretty sure I was awarded the "Crazy of the Morning" award today! Back in the car, we stared at each other, in disbelief. We'd exited that car an hour earlier, feeling like POWs marching to a certain death. And here we were, ultrasound photos in hand, still pregnant. Still pregnant!!

So there it is. Praying types, pray. Voo doo dancing types, dance. Or just send up a good thought that things continue so well (and if you want to add a word about NO MORE SCARY FREAKING SPOTTING feel free). Baby Cinco (Uno, Dos, Tres, Cuatro were already taken by the furry children) is alive and well and with any luck, a big believer in statistics.

a privilege, this worry

2008-01-30T18:02:00.000-06:00

A book I just finished reading closed with this thought "Worrying is painful, but compared to the alternative, a privilege". I first skimmed over it, not feeling any significance there (the lead character was referring to her daughter, doing missionary work in Mexico, and her nephew, at war in Iraq) but as I went to close the book, my thoughts were drawn back to that line. And a light bulb went off for me as I realized that as hard as these early weeks are, as miserable as it is to trudge through my third first trimester in under a year, just being given the opportunity to fret over this baby is a privilege. What's the alternative? (Not worrying, obviously, is excluded from the list of possibilities- there will never be a worry free pregnancy for this one.) The alternative, I see, is to NOT have this pregnancy, not have this third first trimester, not to have any reason to toss and turn and distress. That alternative, obviously, is not appealing. I'll take this, the worry, and the opportunity it brings with it. An opportunity to be called mom by a living, breathing creature of the two legged sort.

6 weeks, some odd days. Likely 5 or 4. Creeping towards week 7, a number that to me, seems monumental. 4, 5, 6....they seem earlier, more naive, less substantial. They're "pregnant, but early" and they're preclinical. For weeks I've kept my eye on week 7- closer to 8, closer to 9, closer to skipping over the sad milestones of pregnancies 1 and 2 and into the new world of "the end of the first trimester". My first ultrasound is tomorrow, 12:40. I wasn't scheduled until February 11th, just after the 8 week point. However, I'm anxious. I wouldn't even say that I'm nervous- as much as I hope these won't be classified as "famous last words"- I feel like this baby is okay in there. But there's always going to be anxiety when the ultrasound wand is unveiled, in those moments of silence as it pokes and prods and beams a grainy, unfocused image onto the screen. Those moments where I stare at the ceiling, squeezing J's hand tight, listening for any inhale or exhale from the doctor, that breath (is it sharp?...relieved?...the oh shit variety?...excited?...) an indicator of our future. Because of our horrible history with these things, even non pregnant ultrasounds scare me. The nurse practicioner who performed one in November to check on my ovulation progress seemed a bit perplexed about my nerves during the ultrasound, probably thinking I was some silly little twit nervous about the probing bit. Nope, just a skittish girl for whom these things have never yielded happy moments. I hope tonight goes quickly, a good sleep is in store (without an hourly wake up from the neighbor's dog), and that before we know it, we're exiting the doctors office exhaling triumphantly.

All day sickness arrived late last week. One day I was worried over my lack of symptoms, actually at one point sneaking into the corner at work to poke at my boobs for any sign of soreness, and the next I was dry heaving on the bathroom floor. Helllloooo, hormones. My taste buds have adopted an extraordinary fickleness. One minute chicken noodle soup sounds like an amazing lunch, the next I'm staring miserably into the bowl wondering if I should puke into it or try to dash into the bathroom. Yesterday morning I attempted to drink grape juice and just the smell sent me off to the "vomitorium" formerly known as our powder room. My pukes are unproductive, too. (Which is good- keeps those nutrients in.) I just gag and cough and watch the saliva hit the water as my stomach tries without success to expel every bite I ingested. The cats dash in, big eyed, bewildered, concerned about my hairballs. Then I lay my cheek against the cool tile, with a snotty nose and shiny eyes.... and I smile on the inside. It's a symptom, and I'll take it. Hell, I'd take a daily punch in the teeth if it would somehow keep this baby growing and thriving and ensure its September homecoming.

So for now, I remember that I'm privileged. I'm lucky. I'm pregnant, and I have a chance. I believe in this baby, despite the worry.

hangin' tough

2008-01-21T22:52:00.000-06:00

NKOTB sums it up for me right now. The days are long, each twinge incites worry, much googling of various symptoms and signs has taken place, but I'm hanging in there. As of midnight, I'll be at 5 weeks 4 days. Possibly 5 weeks 2 days, depending on exactly when egg met sperm, but I'll go with the higher number because I like it better. I'm feeling good, I'm feeling pregnant. My boobs are in constant pain, I had to have a quesadilla Saturday afternoon then promptly dry heaved upon completion of that must have quesadilla, and I sobbed for a half hour when the Packers lost in overtime last night. SOBBED. Face in pillow, crocodile tears, the whole dramatic bit. And I shit you not....for a few seconds today, I contemplated mixing my dill pickles into my vanilla ice cream. Overall, I'm happy to report that my overall mindset is one of cautious optimism and occasional excitement. Occasional. Cautiously.

However, I'm not cured. My head and my heart are still the same, still wounded, probably forever altered. It's amazing how two people under one roof, who have walked the same road, can have such vastly different views on our experience. The other day, I was complaining to J about an obnoxiously pregnant women who came into PB. She was one of those who wore her belly like a crown, obviously expecting me to bow down in her reproductive glory, and drove me nuts for a myriad of reasons I'd just rather not bore you with. As I bemoaned to J about the experience, he looked at me in befuddlement and said...."but honey, you're pregnant too! You're one of them!" Oh, my. One of them? Bless the man's heart (and I mean this whole heartedly) for being able to cast away the fears and embrace this pregnancy. He's upping his investments, explaining to the financial advisor that "he's got a baby on the way". He's working on trading his aging SUV for a newer, safer sedan. As far as he's concerned, we're no different than any first time parents to be. And for this, I love him. Hell, I envy him! But I'm totally unable to just trade in my membership to the "troubled" club for one to the "pregnant and having a baby" club. Maybe this will change when we pass milestones, when we have new pregnant experiences, when we're able to share the news. But I know now there's a part of me that won't be coming back, and prevents me from ever being "one of them".

There's a song that seems to be on my radio lately each time I get in the car. And as I drove along this morning, I realized the words were bringing a smile to my face. It sums up the feeling of contentment I have this time, the unshakable bravery I have moments of, the feeling that no matter what the books say or my past says....we'll be okay, me and this little life inside and that clueless, optimistic honey of a husband of mine.

I just want you close

Where you can stay forever

You can be sure

That it will only get better

You and me together

Through the days and nights

I don't worry 'cause

Everything's going to be alright

People keep talking

they can say what they like

But all i know is everything's going to be alright

No one, no one, no one

Can get in the way of what I'm feeling

No one, no one, no one

Can get in the way of what I feel

for you, you, you

Can get in the way of what I feel for you

the most prettiest #s

2008-01-15T14:53:00.000-06:00

Once again, the heavens listened. For my 3rd blood draw, I begged and pleaded for some number over 500. That's doubling plus some. As long as my progesterone stayed steady, I would be happy, I promised. Another early morning drive up Mopac for blood draw #3. I feel so out of place out there on the highway, sandwiched in between the morning commuters, cell phones at ear, briefcase for a passenger. And me, in my sweats, only my history of reproductive failure along for the ride. Then the long trip back home, the long day of waiting.....and another FANTASTIC results phone call! With a happy sounding nurse! I never get the happy nurse voice! I get the sad nurse voice, the pessimistic nurse voice, the you're totally screwed and I saved this miserable call for last nurse voice. The happy, proud of your uterus nurse voice is my most favoritest.

HCG 770

Progesterone 41

Nurse K, the same Nurse K who kissed my forehead in the midst of m/c #2 and promised me they'd get me through, calls and puts me immediately at ease that at least this, the very earliest part of pregnancy, is gong well for me. She offers her congratulations (my first medical professional congratulations!) and tells me she can't wait to see me at my first appointment. Better yet, if I get to antsy before then, she says to call. They'll fit me in for an earlier peek. Now, just waiting and resting. And examining the TP incessently, of course. No more bloodwork, which makes me happy. Not because I minding the pokes, but because it tells me that for now at least, they're content with my progress.

undercover embryo

2008-01-12T15:28:00.000-06:00

We did it. Once again, we are pregnant. We are expecting. A baby. There- I said it. But, it's a secret. For that reason, this post, and all subsequent posts until I'm safely ensconced in the second trimester (March 17, 2008) will remain hidden from view. Or maybe sooner. Maybe once we see a fabulous beating heart at our first appointment (February 11, 2008). We'll see. At that yet undetermined time, I'll unleash the beast, and publish each and every neurotic, nervous, excited, and happy pregnancy post for the world to see. Regardless of the fact that I'm writing these in the sly, and that nobody but me will see them for a few months, I need to get things out. And I want this record of this very exciting time. And as I stated in my very first blog post- journaling hurts my hand. This works for me.

Monday, January 7, 2008. I'm only about 10 days past ovulation. For those not part of the crazy trying to conceive world, testing is not suggested until 14 days past ovulation, when your period is due. But at 8 and 9 days past ovulation, I felt a little something. I was hot, to the point that my cheeks were flushed. I'm normally chilly and prone to wearing North Face in less than appropriate seasons (you know, like July in Texas). And one night, I was up multiple times to pee. This was also out of the ordinary. But still, I didn't get my hopes up, not too much anyway. That Monday morning I was headed to spend the day with Jacob and Garrett. Up early anyway, bladder full of pee, I decided to test. As the test developed, I brushed my teeth. Nothing there, just white, just as I expected. But.....wait. Is that? Um....there's something there. I swear there is. It's so light I wouldn't dream of showing J. He'd likely laugh, which would make me mad, which would affect how many teeth he has in the front of his face. No bueno. That evening, I test again. While still faint, it's not invisibly faint, and this time I show J. He sees it. He grins, he hugs, we stare at our embracing reflection in the mirror, and we breathe. We don't say it, but it's palpable......now what?!

I test each morning. I pee on no less than 8 additional tests, each confirm what I hope and pray is true. I'm pregnant. And oddly, I don't feel the sense of sheer terror that I did last time. I'm also not buying every baby book at Borders or planning my Pottery Barn Baby purchases like I did the first time...but I'm happy, I'm excited, and I feel like this is somehow right. My heart feels it, my head feels it, I really believe in this little September baby we created. On Tuesday, I call the nurse, and although she feels it's too early, she agrees to let me come in for bloodwork. The call comes that evening, and my strong demeanor shakes a bit.

HCG 14

Progesterone 18.7

These, dear friends, are disappointing numbers. Curl up on the couch and hide under your blankie numbers. Mainly the HCG, which is expected to be 5-50 at this point. So I'm "normal" but for once I want to be on the high end of normal. However, it's likely that the pregnancy implanted like a DAY ago. It's likely all is okay. My progesterone is fine. Above 10 is good. But that night, as I scour the internet, I see numbers twice and three times my own, both the HCG and progesterone. I freak. I cry. I have a manic meltdown that brings Jonathan to say "honey, you need yoga or therapy. Your choice." In my heart, I feel we (this tiny new life and I) are okay. 72 hours must go by before my next blood draw. They drag. I know, the nurse knows, the entire big internet knows- my numbers MUST double in those 72 hours. I find out online that a level of 100 at 14 days past ovulation is preferred. I tell myself if I can get even close to that, I'll be happy. If my progesterone rises to just 20, I'll be happy. Please, please, por favor. Friday morning, I'm back at the lab. Okay...so I'm the first person in the office, a full 20 minutes before the lab even opens. Eager? Me? You don't say. Then I go home, I pull a blanket to my face, and I lay under it. I don't move. I don't eat. I don't do much but beg my body and God and this wee little embryo to help. I leap from the couch like my ass is on fire each time the phone rings. And finally, at 1:30, the nurse calls.

HCG 151

Progesterone 32

HALLELUJAH! HOT DAMN! SWEET BABY JESUS! Those are some MAJOR rising numbers! An HCG doubling time of every 2-3 days is preferred. My doubling time comes out to .87 days! The nurse is pleased, I am pleased, the world, for today, is good. She tells me to come in again on Monday "for your own peace of mind, really" and transfers me to the front desk to schedule my first (ha) OB appointment around 8 weeks.

I'm excited. Of course there's caution- there always will be for me. But there's real, legitimate reason for celebration here. I feel good, a bit of nauseau, sleepier than usual, yearning to eat healthy and stay strong. Keep this positive frame of mind I'm inexplicably blessed with.

Now, if I can just keep the secret for the next two months. This will NOT be easy. But I'm just wanting to keep this, to enjoy this, to allow this to be all ours for now. Our friends and family will soon enough be able to celebrate with us, and their celebration will be more whole hearted if they know we're farther along, past the points of the last losses.

kirbyman

2008-01-02T17:29:00.000-06:00

Did you know that the bad taste in your mouth every morning is the result of the dust mites who feed off your dead skin crawling into your mouth and pooing? And that they also crawl into your eyeballs seeking moisture and they poo there, too? How do I know these shockingly repugnant (and very likely fraudulant) factoids, you ask? Because the door to door Kirby salesman told me so.

I sunk to new levels of naivity today. A woman came to my door, telling me a new company was visiting our area in hopes of creating word of mouth credibility for a brand new carpet shampooing machine. For free, she said, they would shampoo up to three rooms in my house. In my defense, I told her this sounded sketchy, there was surely some catch. She smiled a gap toothed smile and assure me that no, they just wanted to come in and show me how this worked, so that if I were impressed with the product I'd tell all my friends and family about them. I knew better. But....well, my carpets are dirty, and who doesn't like a freebie? I figured he'd get in, clean the carpets, leave a business card, and leave me to my afternoon. I called J and told him to call in 10 minutes, so if they were really here to murder me and/or steal my pretty earrings, he could come rescue me.

Uh, yeah. After 2.25 hours, I got the creep out of my house. He showed up and took an unconceiveable amount of time setting up his Kirby contraption. Then, I had to see all the parts. Then, I heard all about the evil microbes lurking in my carpets. Before I knew it, I was pushing his fancy machine and agreeing that yes, it is very lightweight and yes, I agree that my current vacuum has been letting me down. With a sure smile, he tells me this $1,989 vacuum is the answer to my problems. TWO GRAND! For a vacuum! I shook my head, crossed my arms, and thanked him for his time but gee, I really should get my dogs out for a walk about now and had a zillion things to do. Unfortunately, Kirbyman just wasn't ready to take no for an answer. He vacuumed my air filter. He asked about my bed, and told me the above horrifying tales in hopes of cleaning my mattress. That sounded mildly creepy to me, and I doubted J would appreciate the thought of me taking a Kirby salesman to my bed, so I declined. He then started in on the couch, as I stood helpless to remove the eager fellow from my house. I pictured evening falling, me in my PJs, as he continued to suction away. He. Wouldn't. Leave. He needed water. He needed to show me another thing. He wondered if he could see my vacuum. He thought I should try pushing it again. He bargained, telling me we could spread the payments over 36 months and that really, even if we didn't pay some months, Kirby didn't mind. He asked for more water. He started to resemble a child who didn't want to go to bed, one with the likely capability of turning violent if told no, and I was desperately watching the 3 o'clock hour slip away, Dr. Phil drawing to a close, afternoon of relaxation down the drain (or...sucked up by his magical machine).

And finally, after he carried on a long personal conversation with his dad, on his cell phone, from the comfort of my couch as I cowered upstairs gmail chatting with L...he left. I had a clean living room floor, a sink full of fur and dirt and those mouth pooping bug thingies, and a firm talking to from L about letting strangers into my house like that.

So, note to all of you....beware the smarmy Kirby salesmen. Who knew?

auf wiedersehen, adios, adeiu

2007-12-31T20:51:00.000-06:00

Good bye, 2007. I've waited for this send off for many dragging months, and now that 2008 is in its final approach for landing (tray tables in the upright and locked position), I'm inexplicably pensive. And afraid. Afraid that 2008 won't be different. Afraid it will instead bring more hurt, more pain, more longing for something that feels all at once unattainable and unimaginable to live without, more friends who grow distant and silent when I most need encouragement and support, more unanswerable question marks, more tears and puffy eyes that never quite lose that sad shadow only I can see in the mirror each morning. I've counted on this new start for some time now, thought of it like a fresh new page in a cluttered and messy book, a large step forward toward what will be.....and now that it has nearly arrived I can only trust, and hope, and believe that through all this bad will come good. That the psychic my friend saw on Montel was right, and 2008 is a year to finish what was started in 2007 (thanks, Kekis, for that). That after all this, hope is not lost, our time will come.

I refused to leave the house tonight. Celebration seemed somehow awkward, something foreign. More fitting, I felt, to curl up with my five loving companions. J's eyes are heavy at the other end of the couch, remote still possessively in his grip, and sandwiched between us are three sleeping pets (the other on the floor- we've only got so much couch space), all blissfully oblivious to the revelry all around save for the occasional firecracker outside. We're cozy, we're calm, we're damn near geriatric for being in our sweats before 10 on New Years Eve. But this fits, this seems a proper expiration. In a way drinking and laughing and socializing just did not.

I hate to come off sounding ungrateful for all that did go right in 2007. There's much that I cherish, and no amount of self indulgent blogging changes my thankfulness for those things. My mom's health and the unwavering support my parents offer each and every day. J's total lack of epileptic symptoms. Our beautiful new home looking more and more "us" all the time. Our precious new addition to the petting zoo, and the health of his cohorts. Those friends (old ones like Michelle and Jenny, new ones like Lisa) who were there, who held me tight and brought optimism and love to the toughest times. My amazing, amazing sister and brother, supportive through things they can't and shouldn't understand and wonderfully distracting with their texts and irreverent facebook pokes. My PL support group, those girls who KNOW, who care which cycle day it is, how my boobs feel or don't feel, and who ask whether I'll pee on something soon. And of course- the most simple of things that we do have- food, clothing, warmth, love. I know I'm blessed. I know I've got much to be thankful for. It's just that, in a way I can't describe to someone who hasn't experienced this...there's someone missing now. Two beautiful, beloved someones. They're missed so dearly and as I leave 2007, a part of me feels they're being left behind as well, when they should be here, or well on their way here. Not locked up in my heart, all evidence of their existance tucked in a green memory box beside my bed. They're so loved, and my only hope is that this love we feel, this undirected huge aimless amount of love we have, will soon be poured upon one very spoiled little babe.

Anyway, Happy New Year to you, from our couch to yours. Here's to 2008.

cuteness overload

2007-12-29T20:02:00.000-06:00

Whether you like cats or not, there's simply no denying the adorability of my kittens. See? Told ya. No particular reason I'm sharing this, other than to point out the obvious.....Ralph Engelstad and George W are basically the definition of cute. I'm sure many of you have cats of your own, and I really do hate to be the one to inform you....but my cats are the cutest.

UsWeekly really needs to get a damn grip. Refocus on celebrities, their sexcapades, and determining "who wore it best". Because the new issue is all baby, all the time. Jamie Lynn (don't even get me started). Shiloh. Suri. A special 18 page bonus of babies. I don't even KNOW half of the celebrities featured in these pages holding up their offspring, nor do I care what Melissa Joan Hart has to say about the unique challenges of a 2nd pregnancy. Ugh. Melissa Joan Hart? Really? Can't we please talk some more about Lindsay or Paris, or shit, even those Hills girls?

52 hours to go.........

80 hours to go

2007-12-28T15:01:00.000-06:00

In 3.33 days, 2007 will be GONE! The worst year of my whole entire life, history. Mom's cancer scare, my miscarriages, and all the rest of the sad drama that unfolded will have happened "last year". And 2008, I'm convinced, will be a good one for us. Historically, election years have been fortunate ones. In 2000, I met J. Love at first sight. Not in the husband/wife way, in the best friends forever, coolest dorm neighbor of all time way. Only over that next year would we come to see there was more there than friendship. In 2004, we married. We moved to the northwoods, bought our first home, got our first puppy, started life together. And in 2008, we'll have our baby. Or at least, create it. But let's shoot for having it. We've got a low key New Years Eve planned with friends. No big parties, no drunken revelry, no hats or horns. Just my dear sweet husband beside me as we watch the clock tick away and usher in a new era. I can already feel the sigh of relief coming on.

Christmas, despite the heavy heart reminding me of what coulda shoulda woulda been, was wonderful. I dare to say, one of the better ones I've had. My family was funny and warm and generous as always. Board games, (ugly) football games, delicious food, amazingly thoughtful gifts. I'm partial to my gorgeous sparkling Tiffany diamond earrings, my cozy fleece coat, some wonderful wardrobe updates, and the yearlong Us Weekly subscription from baby brother. Truly, the gift that keeps on giving. Much like, say, the Jelly of the Month Club. And the weather, it was Christmasy. Snow is much more enjoyable when one knows they'll soon be back in the south, under the sun, not needing mittens again until the next trip north.

Traveling home was less than fantastic. I dare say, the worst travel experience of all time. There was lost luggage, both trips. Jonathan's didn't even arrive in Wisconsin until the day before our departure. Curiously, it arrived wearing a luggage strap and tag written in Asian, so it appears Northwest Airlines confused "Wisconsin" with "China". Easy mistake. Then lost luggage again on the trip home, our overstuffed bags ditched in Minneapolis amid the Christmas travel chaos made more chaotic by a snowstorm. The night also featured screaming babies for seatmates, bitchy flight crew, major delays, misprinted boarding passes, a can of Pringles for dinner, and the longest sprint of all time across the Minneapolis airport. I cried tears of relief when we descended through the clouds and the lights of Austin welcomed us home. As rocky as life here has started off, it truly is home.

Well, this was rather pointless. The suitcases (they finally arrived) are calling to be unpacked, the dogs itching for attention, my Christmas cookied ass is needing a walk. Or lipo.

awkward meter = 10

2007-12-15T19:26:00.000-06:00

I'm not a happy little elf. Why? I've got a cold, thanks to a week of rainy weather with temps fluctuating from 80 to 40 every 12 hours. I'm not pregnant, so say the 3 bitchy, lilly white tests in my bathroom garbage (1 of which, and I don't know who did this, is smashed to bits.) I'm obviously PMSing. I'm horribly unprepared for the holidays. I'm still not packed for tomorrow's flight. I've clearly flopped as hostess to the in laws, seeing as how my holiday cheer is dampened by above mentioned cold and well, every dreadful event of this year has me relating more to the Grinch than Buddy the Elf. AAnd last, but certainly not least, I was forced into the worst conversation of my life this afternoon.

Behold, the conversation. The caller (here known as "He") is an old (not little old man old, way back when old) friend of the in laws. He and Father In Law were chatting, and apparently He requested to speak with me. Then He kicked me in the gut like a verbal ninja......

He: All excited and congratulatory...
"So, how far along are you now?"

Me: Awkward silence for a beat too long, wondering if my hearing is bad...
"Um....I'm not"

He: Not sensing my horrified tone...
"No! I SAID, how far along are you now?"

Me: Vomit rising...
"Yeah....um....I'm not"

He: Not getting it...
"OH! I thought you were pregnant?!"

Me: Wondering if he'd like me to draw a picture, a very gory, sad picture...
"Um...I was, now I'm not"

He: Finally sensing my awkwardness...
"Oh, uh, okay"

Me: Hands phone to Father In Law, goes into bathroom, sobs hysterically

Merry Christmas to you, too, Mr. He. Hope you can wash down that foot in your mouth with some tasty egg nog. I understand it's not exactly He's fault. He was obviously on the "tell" list but left off the "untell" list. He just didn't get the memo. But you'd think (wouldn't you?) that after "I'm not" number uno, he may have dropped it? Stammered out a quick apology and allowed the conversation to end a bit more gracefully.

*&^%$#@! How many more days left in this year? The Nyquil isn't helping my math skills, but we're getting closer to single digits with every dragging minute......

layover

2007-12-11T20:55:00.000-06:00

The holidays are almost here, and with that comes travel. (Yay! To Wisconsin!) Yesterday, in the spirit of holiday travel, I was thinking about how annoying layovers and flight delays are. You left someplace to get to another place and you're stuck in some middle place. The middle place isn't bad- there are enough cool things to see and do and eat to keep you occupied. But in your heart, the airport layover isn't where you want to be- you want to be where you were going, damnit! How inconvenient! How unfair that other flights are taking off, packed full of smug passengers, while your stupid flight just SITS there at the gate, going nowhere.

2007 has totally been a layover. We left where we were- happy and content in Couple-with-spoiled-pets-land. Sure, our departure was technically an accident, but we departed nonetheless, final destination- Parentland. We boarded the baby bound plane, buckled up for the ride, and said adios to newlywed, childless life. The drink carts rolled out and the destination seemed clear. But instead of comfortably coasting to our destination, we hit a snag. Call it a "mechanical failure"- it just didn't go off as planned. So we landed. And waited. And became more irritated by the hour. And there weren't even moving walkways to speed us along!

So now, we're "trying" again. (I hate that term, I hate others having the knowlege that for a few days a month, my husband and I are engaging in "unprotected adult activities". In fact, it kind of makes me gag to hear other people talk about such things. But this blog is private now, and those who are still allowed to read are those I feel comfortable with having that knowlege. Read or don't, your choice.) Anyway, with this "trying" I picture us sitting at our gate, boarding passes in our grubby little hands, waiting for the polyester clad airline employee to announce our flight status. Will they start boarding? Will we get on the plane and reach our destination hassle free, arrive tired and worn, but entirely satisfied to finally be "there"? Or be handed more layover, given another wait, told to come back in 4 weeks and see what they can do? That's not the end of the world, obviously. Together and relatively carefree isn't so bad, after all. Much like an airport layover, we'll find some way to entertain ourselves in the meantime. We'll find a bar and get some wine and glare at people with strollers and make fun of the midwesterners wearing bright white tennies with tapered leg jeans. But God, I'd love for our flight to take off. And for this flight to be the ONE that gets us there. The one that lands us at our destination- Babies R Us. Well, Babies R Us, L&D, then Home....mini-us in arms, content at long last.

Here's hoping.......

one foxy feline

2007-12-06T13:48:00.001-06:00

If you weren't sure before whether I was halfway to Crazy Cat Lady Land....now you know. I've found the website of feline wonderment known as http://www.icanhascheezburger.com/. These pictures of little Ralphie are very entertaining, if I do say so myself. My little supermodel. The other pets, as loved as they are, just don't know how to vogue like PeanutFace does.

(I'm not sure why that last one is cutting off....it's supposed to say No More Piksherz)

In other news....well, there's not much in other news. I'm moving through the in between land known in TTC circles as the Two Week Wait. I'll be back at the Fat Farm (aka, my OB's office) on Monday for a blood draw. This will either confirm my ovulation, filling me with renewed hope and faith in my reproductive organs......or send me back into (a likely drunken) depression over once again falling for its' trickery. I'm really thinking it will be choice #1 this time around. I hate to be naively optimistic, or to set myself up for a devastation train wreck once again, but I really think all signs point to O-town, and ovulating has definitely never been a problem for me in the past. It's very likely I'm worrying myself because, well, I've got nothing else to worry about at the moment. And if not....we'll deal with that when we have to. But we won't have to.

up your butt, becky

2007-12-04T20:22:00.000-06:00

I've been so normal lately. I don't cry at random, I don't scream at people from the driver's seat of my car, I don't even mind watching Jon & Kate Plus 8 on DHC. But today, I was tested. And I flunked (yes, mom, like Home Ec). Said examination ended with yours truly in the Pottery Barn bathroom, crying and gasping and transported back to the Icky Place. And it's all stupid Becky's fault.

I was at work. It was a good day. My shirt was freshly pressed, my hair turned out okay, and I felt merry. I'm excited because I'm ovulating again, I'm happy because there's hope, I'm feeling at long last like I'm not entirely fragile. Then came Becky. As I'm ringing up an older lady, I see her waddle in. Cutely pregnant, huge Pottery Barn Kids bag, and smiling away like someone who just doesn't have a clue. As she's waiting her turn (and I'm wondering whether I could fake a seizure convicingly enough to get out of having to interact with her) she recognizes another girl shopping the Barn. "Megan??" Megan turns around and obviously hasn't seen Becks for some time because there's immediate squealing. Squealing as women only do when there's a) an engagement ring on the finger or b) a baby in the uterus. Or maybe if there's puppies. Whatever. Anyway: "BECKYYYYYY! OH MY GOD YOU ARE THE CUTEST PREGNANT LADY EVER!!!! YOU MUST BE SO EXCITED!" Oh, My, God. Perfect. I already know what's coming, and I already feel my strong facade cracking down the middle. They start in, talking about Becky's latest ultrasound, about Becky's nursery purchases, about Becky's hope that it's a girl, about how Becky is just so excited to be a mom, about how CRAZY it is how fast it happened but that's just Becky's family, all Fertile Myrtles who have big huge babies one after another. Then Bitch-ecky says "I'm SICK of being pregnant! I was so sick before and now my belly has just gotten so big and I want it over. I keep outgrowing my shirts!" Oh, isn't that a shame. Poor you, Becky. My heart really goes out to you, idiot. See, I didn't want MY pregnancy over. I wanted more of it, 30 more long, tiring weeks. Even during pregnancy #1, when I barfed and ached and felt like all around shit, I was quick to say every single bit of it was A-okay as long as the little one was healthy in there. So I'm not buying the whole "you'll see when you're pregnant" bit. Because I was pretty damn miserable when leaving the couch was on most days an insurmountable feat, but thankful every minute to have that little life growing inside of me.

Well anyway, that shoved me over the edge. I'd heard about enough out of Big Becks about her big, stupid, perfect pregnancy. I finished packaging the old lady's reindeer ornaments and just walked away. Told my manager I needed to go to the ladies room, ignored his dumbfounded look (one doesn't normally leave a line at the register to tinkle), and hid out in the bathroom. Looking at my tear streaked face in the mirror, I just felt so ....... sad. Sad that I have to be this person now, this person whose happiness for others is overruled by her own heartache. Sad that I couldn't have been out there on the sales floor chatting nurseries with the likes of Becky. Just sad that I'm different, broken, sadder than I was before. Someone who cries in mall bathrooms.

Thanks for that, Big Butt Becky. And by the way, pink is not your color.

welcome, december

2007-12-01T16:05:00.000-06:00

It's been awhile. I needed time away from myself, the grief, being sad. And it was freeing. December, at long last, is here. November is gone. Our tree is up, our lights are twinkly, and best of all things- 2007 is on its' last legs, weeks from disappearing into the past. The past weeks have brought new peace, new hope, and fewer tears.

November 27 came and went. And I was okay. I cried a bit, I shopped a lot, I drank just enough to blur the lines as the evening fell, surrounded by good friends both old and new, each aware of the sadness of that day but each there to carry on as if this was a run of the mill Tuesday night gathering. And I woke up the next morning feeling a bit lighter knowing "THE DATE" wasn't still looming ahead. I'm not saying I'm all better, I'm not saying the "old Mandie", whoever she is, is back. The only way I can think to describe it is my grief no longer fits like it did before. It's like a piece of clothing that once slipped on comfortably every day, it's still familiar and mine, but just not quite right for me any more. Our babies, obviously, are as missed today as they were in May and September and all the crappy days in between. But they're loved in a way that allows me to step forward. Cautiously, optimistically, eons older and wiser and kinder than the girl who accidentaly started this journey 9 months back.

In honor of December, a shot of our tree and Ralphie waiting patiently for Santa:

a much needed break

2007-11-17T11:58:00.000-06:00

I took a "life hiatus", so to speak. In those times where the world seems to pile on the trouble, and bad news rains down relentlessly, there's nothing like mom's love to pull one through. I've been in Madison for 9 days now, on what has been a wonderful opportunity to clear my head, reclaim my life, and remember joy. Nothing like a daylong Michigan Avenue shopping excursion or a 34/0 Packer win over the Vikings to bring a smile to my face.

It's been fun, and it will also be wonderful to see J's smiling face again. And of course, the kiddos. I hear Henry, Griffin, Ralph, and George are getting lonely, and knowing I'll be greeted at home by four happy fuzzy faces will make it easier to board the southbound plane back home on Monday.

Here's me, mom, and mom's very good friend enjoying our day at Lambeau Field....

i like tv

2007-11-05T12:37:00.000-06:00

Last night was the first time I've seen an accurate, heartfelt portrayal of miscarriage on television. Usually, when the unthinkable happens, the victim takes a spill down the stairs, or some other very obvious unrealistic thing happens to cause the loss. (Remember Gabby on Desperate Housewives? Stairs = falling = miscarriage. Ask any soap viewer or my grandmother.) Anyway, then the mother-not-to-be mourns for 2.5 seconds and is back to normal. Last night, on Brothers & Sisters, they showed a loss that hit all too close to home. One of the main characters, Kitty, found out last week that she was pregnant. She was excited, she immediately started planning, and her whole family knew in minutes. Silently I cursed her, rolling my eyes at yet another overly simplistic pregnancy plot in the making and making a mental note to remove B&S from the DVR recording list. I'll pass on another super-authentic TV pregnancy - positive test, bulging belly, and a newborn in time for finale season. Bing bang boom! It's that easy! The more realistic-minded TV writers add in a puking scene or two, and that's it. Everything else must be sunshine, happiness, and tacky shower games. Last night, I watched Kitty go through exactly what I (and so many of my newfound friends) did back in May. Laid back on that table, big old smile, with high hopes her ultrasound begins......and suddenly the doctor is shutting off the machine and looking sadly at her patient as she prepares to smash her happy little world to pieces. Her baby had no heartbeat. She was devastated, her family was devastated. As I wailed on the couch, hurting for this lady in pretend-land, I felt very thankful to whoever came up with this storyline. I really feel like people don't realize how common this is, and how achingly tragic it is, until they or someone they love experiences a miscarriage. I think so many women take pregnancy for granted. They think miscarriage is something that happens to other people. Good example- a work aquaintance who told me how happy she is that she doesn't have "those problems". Mind you, the aquaintance in question has had one healthy pregnancy and apparently has a crystal ball stashed in her closet (right next to the bottle full of ignorance) to make her oh so sure that she'll never experience this. And before this happend to ME, before it became MY reality...I probably didn't get it, either. I didn't go so far as to exlude myself from the realm of possibility, but it wasn't something I sincerely worried about or spent more than a moment considering. And don't get me wrong- never in a zillion years would I wish this upon anyone. Not even Britney Feed-The-Baby-Coca Cola Spears or Nicole-Smoke-While-Pregnant Richie. Not for a minute. All I'm trying to say here is that I applaud whoever came up with the "Kitty has a miscarriage" story and brought a very common occurance to light in a very public way. As tough as it was to watch, it made me feel less like a circus sideshow to watch someone on primetime TV go through nearly exactly what I did. No stairs involved.

Off to work. Here's hoping it's a stroller-free kind of day.

it's here

2007-11-03T10:16:00.001-06:00

Well, it's here. November. The focus of much dread, it has arrived. And so far, it's not been as bad as I anticipated. ((Disclaimer: it's only day 3. I reserve the right to hate November at a later date if I do so choose. Stay tuned.)) It certainly helps that my doctor's appointment went better than I could have imagined and left me feeling much more hopeful about life in general, and seeing with my own two eyes that I have things called follicles and they are fantastic ones, indeed. These people know what they're doing, and I have no doubts that it will be the place to change our fortune. It also helps that I've decided to keep my eyes on the prize- 2008. (Well, and Christmas, but mainly 2008.) 2007, in a word, sucked. Sure, it brought our house, our ever-expanding kitty George, and a little piece of television genious called Kid Nation. But moreso, it brought misery, doubt, and sorrow. And medical bills. (Have I mentioned those? Have I mentioned how entirely awesome it is to pay the equivalent of a new couch and roughly 7 pairs of fantastic shoes plus a great handbag or two to lose your babies?) BUT- back to the point at hand- 2007 is almost finito! 57 days until we're on to better times. 57 days until the 2007 is officially the past, aka, "so last year". Here's hoping my hunch is right, and 2008 is happy happy happy. There's already so much I'm looking forward to in '08. Both of the siblings have graduation, my most favorite cousin marries in June, a trip to California is in the works for February, J's new position has been promised to him at the start of the year, and I'll be 27. For some reason, 27 sounds like an awfully good age to me. It sounds officially grown up, but not so close to 30 that I need to fret about an impending mid life crisis. Anyway, long story short, I've chosen to focus on getting through November and on to happier times. God knows we deserve them.

I'm giving TV-stardom a second chance, despite the rocky start. I got a call yesterday from the FNL casting people. (That's Friday Night Lights for those of you with so little taste in television that you're not watching this awesomely addictive show.) Actually, I missed the call and got the message. They offered me what's called a "Lead Extra" role. Had I actually been by the phone and received this call OR called back quickly enough, I would have had the superfun opportunity to play the wife of a guy car shopping. I guess the couple is on a car lot buying a car from one of the lead actors on the show, so I would have been face to face with one of the stars AND nearly guaranteed a chance to see my face on prime time NBC. And actual hair and makeup and wardrobe! Alas, I was too slow in returning the call, and they'd filled the role. Damn! Instead, my big break will be the role of.....drumroll...."Applebees Customer". Not quite "lead extra" status, but surely it will be better than freezing my buns off with 200 other extras in a football stadium. And I might even get a free meal out of the deal. I was promised a better role soon, and you better believe I'll be keeping the cell phone closer from now on.

And on a totally unrelated and absolutely meaningless topic: I heard yesterday that Lance Armstrong has been spotted making out with....Ashley Olson. Yes, that's right, Michelle Tanner and the bike guy. Is that even legal? Even if it is, it seems a bit pedophilic to me to date the little girl who coined the phrase "you got it, dude" and started the ongoing playground debate over whether she was one person with an obscenely long name (Mary Kate Ashley Olson) or twins. This has nothing to do with anything, but I'm so flabbergasted at the thought of it that I figured it deserved a mention. Ew. And as the fabulous L said last night over wine "but...but...he only has one nut!" Touche.

Thankful for: a chat with Jenny yesterday, who I swear reads my mind and from whom I know I'll never have to suffer through the sight of a mini van or anything Pooh related, fall weather in Texas, Dr. S & company making me feel all better, my puppies despite their lackluster behavior of late, a sweet card from Auntie K, Bee Movie this afternoon with J & J & G.

i never liked turkeys anyway

2007-10-29T19:58:00.000-06:00

In lieu of diving right into my usual self-indulgent nonsensery, I want to share a few clips that make me giggle. J saw these at a dealership training seminar. Dad also seems to get a kick out of them, since every time we talk I hear a badger impression.

Okay, back to all things me-related. (That's what blogs are for, right?) This morning was not among my finer risings. I woke up and as usual, spent a minute figuring out what day it was, what the date was, and what I had to do today. Then tried with all my might to sink down into the mattress and disappear for 33 days or so when I realized this is the week November begins. November, the month that was supposed to bring with it our first baby. Instead, it is likely to bring a whole lot of sad emotions. Not only am I not having our Turkey baby, not only am I not finding out the sex of our April baby, but I'm still waiting for my body to decide to function normally. Two MONTHS since miscarriage #2 began, and I'm still not "normal". (I'll omit any detailed explanations in the rare chance that this is being read by my husband, my father, my brother, or any member of the male species.) This is getting o-l-d. Or, I should say, it got o-l-d about 3 weeks ago. Now, it's verging on ridiculousness, as I prepare to head back to the doctor's office tomorrow to investigate this newest reproductive system malfunction. Yep, back to the OBGYN. Perfect. I'm sure the sight of 100 or so bulging bellies in the waiting room will affect me positively. But back to the point, I wish that I could rip out the November page from my calander and crumple it up and have that be that. I'd like to go Rip Van Winkle awhile, wake up on December 1, past the dreaded date, past the turkeys, past the risk of a mental breakdown. Or, you know, just wake up with a uterus that aims to please rather than infuriate. I just want it to be '08 already. I know there are no guarantees, but I'd bet my lucky scrunchie that it will be better than '07. (No, I don't have a lucky scrunchie. If you didn't catch the Legally Blonde reference I'm embarassed for you.)

Here's what saves the day: tonight, The Bachelor is partaking in the "most dramatic rose ceremony ever". Well, probably not, but he is making the home date rounds. AKA, the best episode of the whole season. We're DVRing so I can half-watch the Packer game, and because it's much more enjoyable to watch a recorded commercial-free version.

That's all for now. Here's hoping for good news tomorrow.

there's been a mistake

2007-10-25T22:02:00.001-05:00

Sitting here on the couch tonight, listening to J snore softly as I half watched TV and half perused the internet looking at things I'd buy if that backyard money tree would start sprouting (a Pottery Barn couch and leather side chair, a Coach bangle, a home on Lake Austin next to Sandra Bullock's) my father's voice was suddenly in my head. I know, creepy. I flashed back to something he said many moons ago. Specifically, the summer of 2005. It was July. He and my mom had gone to Minneapolis early that week to be with my Grandma Rita as the doctors performed surgery to remove her cancer. Needless to say, that didn't work out so well. The cancer had spread, the surgery would not save her, there was nothing more they could do for her. Seconds after getting the call from my dad, tears choking his every word, my brother and sister and I threw bags into the car and drove to Minneapolis. To do what, I don't know. To hold up our daddy, to hold our grandma's wonderfully strong hand, to see in person that this was real and really happening, I suppose. The specific moment I flashed to tonight took place very late in the evening of our arrival. Dad, mom, brother, sister, and I, along with my very favorite cousin M, left the hospital and wandered wearily along a busy Minneapolis street. We found a restaurant with tables scattered about on the outdoor patio, twinkly white lights strung in the treetops above. We ordered drinks- the stronger the better- Long Island Teas for all, keep 'em coming. My heart broke looking down that table at my usually strong and stoic dad. The lines by his eyes, the endearing ones that mirrored Grandma's more with each hearty laugh, were deeper that night. I'd only seen this sadness in my dad once before, the first time Grandma had cancer, when I was all of 8 or 9 and was mercifully spared the details of why her hair was gone. We were all so very sad that night in Minneapolis, Teas in hand, so out of place on this festive avenue, revelry all around, our six-some a dark cloud in the midst. And dad says to us that he doesn't believe for one minute that God doesn't give you more than you can handle. How he thought that people who said that were wrong, that it simply wasn't true because this, losing his mother, was clearly more than he could handle. And something about how every single day, people went through incomprehensible agony that was most definitely more than was handle-able. Back then, just two years ago, I didn't think too much about what he said. Just tucked that thought away to think about another day.

But you know, now, I get it, and I agree. I do feel that God got this wrong, and he's given us more than we can handle, there's been a mistake on heaven's part. I hear so often these days how strong I am for handling this mix up of God's. How strong we are. I don't understand this. I'm not strong! Do I appear to be because I'm among the living, because I'm not crying at that moment, because I pretend to laugh and smile when inside I'm sad and mad? Is that what makes people believe I'm strong? But what is my alternative, what would make me not strong? If I crawled into bed, between my cool cotton sheets, and hid? If I didn't fake that smile or pretend I'm enjoying myself from time to time? If I spoke my mind and responded to the gas station attendant's "how are you, ma'am" with "well, I was a whole hell of a lot better before we had two dead babies and a new soul and wallet depleting medical bill in our mailbox each morning, and now I feel like an empty ugly broken shell of my old self, with nothing but 10 extra pounds to show for all this physical and emotional assault, but thanks for asking, and I'll take $40 of regular unleaded on pump 12, thanks". ::exhale:: I wonder if people tell us we're 'strong' and that 'God wouldn't give us more than we can handle' because they don't know what else to say. Because "I'm sorry" gets old. Because they don't want to deal with the ugliness of grief and Hallmark doesn't sell a card that says "you lost a baby or two, it sucks, it's okay to be pissed at the world" that they can stick in the mail and feel they've successfully played and completed the role of supportive loved one. Because they want to believe that God is carefully dosing out the misery, deliberate in his attempt to not make anyone's load too heavy, protecting them from such sadness. I don't know. I don't even know that this all makes sense to anyone residing outside of my mind. I just know that suddenly tonight, it hit me that I understood why my dad thought that sentiment was bullshit. I get it. I'm 1500 miles away from that table and that moment with my nearest and dearest Auses....but for a moment, I was back there, nodding along with dad, now burdened by an all too heavy load of my own. Now if only the waiter would just appear with that wonderfully mind numbing Tea.....

I hope the days come easy and moments pass slow,

and each road leads you where you wanna go,

and if you're faced with a choice,

and you have to choose,

I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.

And if one door opens to another door closed,

I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,

if it's cold outside,

show the world the warmth of your smile,

But more than anything,

more than anything,

My wish,

for you,

is that this life becomes all that you want it to,

your dreams stay big,

your worries stay small,

You never need to carry more than you can hold,

and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,

I hope you know somebody loves you,

and wants the same things too,

Yeah, this, is my wish.

fast forward

2007-10-24T09:01:00.001-05:00

I'm pretty sure by now, with all my talk of TV shows, it's clear that I enjoy a love affair with my DVR. Last night, while watching an old recorded episode of Sex and the City, ever-powerful DVR remote in hand....it hit me. What I need is DVR for my life. Yeah, yeah, I know our days here are numbered anyway and it's foolish to wish even a second away and blabitty bla bla bla and just watch that Click movie if you want proof that this is a tricky plan...but too bad, after the past 7 months- I want it. Or specifically, I want the fast forward button (and the mute would be good, too). As Miranda and Steve bickered about their baby, the perfect healthy one they became pregnant with and weren't sure they wanted so Miranda spent that entire pregnancy whining and bitching about being fat and uncomfortable....I was able to speed right through it! Right on to the fun bits! I NEED this. I could go to the mall and fast forward through any belly and/or stroller encounters! Hit pause on those days where the sun is shining, the dog-kids behaving, I don't think of the m-word, and my hair looks pretty. Then speed on through any moments inducing pain or frustration (which are aplenty). Hell, I could just fast forward right on through this entire life turbulance event and hit play again when I see myself weighing 25 extra pounds (in the right place- if it's in my butt, I'll just keep fast forwarding), smiling placidly like the lady on the cover of WTEWYE and painting a wall in pastel baby-friendly shades. Then *voila* rejoin my previously scheduled life!

And after that disgustingly cold Monday (which I did, indeed, survive) I guess fall is here. I'm so confused by seasons at this point. It was 90 and summery, then it was 40 and dark by 7. No gradual, pretty, flowing transition into the hell that is winter up north. Down here, you're on the boat workin' your tan one day, and frantically searching for your "cold weather clothes" box in the garage the next. But boy, am I loving this fall thing. I was able to walk Henry yesterday without even a trickle of back sweat! How special is that?

c-c-c-cold

2007-10-22T09:12:00.001-05:00

Brrrrr. I've become one of "them". A big midwestern-grown sell out. One of the southern folks whose blood threatens to freeze at 50 degrees Fahrenheit. Yes, the girl who grew up doing THIS for fun....... ....deemed this mornings' chilly, wet, windy 50-degree conditions "too cold to go outside" and urged dear J to take his big coat with him to work. Immediately disappointed in my feebleness, I tried to redeem myself by taking Henry out for a walk. Let's just say his "walk" consisted of three layers of clothing, a jaunt to the end of the block and back, and a smelly wet dog. A week back home in Wisconsin over Christmas should cure this insanity. Because, as all northeners know, you're not cold until at least one extremity is numb. Until then, I'll be the one in the Uggs searching fervently for that FUPA-inducing pink snowsuit of mine.

The weekend passed with a fairly low amount of our "new normal" chaos and drama. J's still frustrated with work, I'm still frustrated with my recovery, I had an emotional Saturday afternoon that I just prefer not to get into in an attempt to avoid an emotional Monday...but all in all, we managed a decent (if lazy) weekend. I did wreak havoc on the condiment aisle at the grocery store, so there's that. While reaching for a bottle of horseradish, I took down a few containers of ketchup with my elbow. Since they're plastic, one would assume they would bounce to the ground and land safely, right? HA! Not at the hands of Mandie! One smashed into the concrete floor with so much force that it exploded. An explosion aimed, naturally, at yours truly. My shorts-clad legs were splattered with enough ketchup for at least 5 burgers- enough to make me look as if I'd been shot right there in the grocery store aisle or was experiencing some sort of explosive period. And I wasn't the only target. The merchandise on the opposite side of the aisle received an even coating of ketchup, too. So there I stood on a busy Sunday afternoon, an obese old woman rolling up beside me in her motor-scooter gawking, a lady with (of course) a baby glaring at me as if I'd set out to attack her precious bambino. Move along people, nothing to see here. I flagged down a pimply teenage employee, made a lame attempt to help, and finally just took his paper towel offering and bolted.

I need to go find socks. My toes are numbing.

tv star dropouts

2007-10-19T15:43:00.001-05:00

The TV career of J and Mandie was short lived and entirely disappointing. We signed up to be extras on the set of Friday Night Lights, one of our very favorite TV shows. I had been called to do this once before, but when I found out it was a pool scene in need of "young college types in bikinis" I decided against taking the job. I don't want to be seen in my bikini in my backyard, much less on national television. Yikes. But when my next invite came, to take part in the fully clothed taping of a football game scene, I was all over it. I convinced J we'd have fun doing this together. Well, fun wasn't had. Let's just say the show looks a whole lot more entertaining on TV. In person, it's a lot of "rolling" and "cut" and sitting around staring at our shoes in between. No glamour, no craft services, no paparazzi. And let's just say the knocked up high schooler sitting behind me with her 14 year old looking boyfriend forced me to consciously focus on not poking her in the eyeball with my pom pom. Then we overheard someone say the taping would probably last until 3am. What?! 3am?! When the next potty break was called, we gathered our stuff and ran for the hills. We'll see when the show airs (Laribee Lions v. Dylan Panthers) whether our adorable mugs made the cut or not. Here are a couple pictures from our time on set. They look as boring as it was, but if you watch the show regularly, and smush your face up real close to the screen and squint- you'll recognize Riggins, Sarreson, and Smash in the top photo.

changing topography

2007-10-17T23:06:00.000-05:00

Group is over. I was so sad driving there tonight. Partly because my car smells inexplicably like vitamins (?) but mainly because the six weekly group meetings went by much, much too quickly. I know I've gained so much from the group. J and I have been able to talk openly about subjects we'd never touched on before, our grief has been validated as real and hurtful and our babies as worth our grief, and we've learned a lot about one another and ourselves and how we deal with sadness and loss. But creeping along in traffic towards our group meeting, I wondered whether I was "better" yet or not. I remember when we started I thought that by the end of the six weeks, I'd be fixed or on my way to fixed- I'd be somehow "better". Since I'm still often some combination of sad, mad, and confused....I wasn't sure that I had changed.

Then came our final discussion at group tonight. See, at the very first meeting, we were asked to describe our pain as an object or physical thing. My pain was easy to describe- it was a mountain. A big, rigid, scratchy, black mountain. (I may have talked about this in an earlier post, I don't remember, and I'm too tired to go back and investigate.) Anyway, back to me and my feelings (me, me, meeee). There was that mountain. I was on top of the mountan during my pregnancy. Excited, proud, happy. Nervous about it, but more comfortable every day. The miscarriage shoved me off the mountain, plunged me down to my worst fear. And there I was, 6 weeks ago, laying at the bottom of this intimidating, frightening mountain. It stood in the way of everything- I couldn't focus on anything but that damn mountain or see any light behind it. Afraid to look up at it, no choice but to climb back up it if I wanted to have a baby. But totally terrified of what it would take to get there and how much it would hurt to get back on it.

Tonight, our counselor (W) asked us what our pain was now, whether it had changed since the beginning. Without having to think about it, I immediately pictured my pain as a hill. Specifically, a hill beside the road leading to my grandpa's farm. It's a bigass hill. But it's rolling, it's soft, it's more green and grassy than black and rough. It's do-able. It's one I can picture us walking up steadily. Not so intimidating like that mountain, just a challenge I know we can overcome. Wow! Somehow, the mighty W had led us through our darkest weeks and brought us to this new place. A place where the next steps are ones I know we can take, instead of ones that appear so harrowing that I'd prefer to just lay on the ground and cry with helplessness (or eat cookie dough and go back to bed). I could just hug W for shaving down that mountain a bit for us. And I did.

At the end of our group, W played the song of a very talented Austin musician, Sarah Hickman (you've heard her voice- the "dollop of daisy" sour cream commercials?) Sarah was kind enough to sing for our remembrance ceremony a few weeks ago, and her song about angels will forever make me cry, but in that good and cleansing way. While listening to it tonight, I was comforted by the thought that Grover and Baby F are our little angels. And as Sarah says, we will meet when it is time.

Sometimes you'll stumble
Sometimes you'll just lie down
Sometimes you will get lonely
With all these people around
Ohh Oh
You might shiver when the wind blows
Yea, you might get blown away
Ohh Oh
You might lose a little colours
You... you might lose a little faith...
Ohh Oh
But we are each other's angels
Ohh Oh
And we meet when it is time
Ohh Oh
We keep each other going
And we show each other signs...
Well, I reached my destination
Yea, I finally made it home
God sent ten thousand angels
To make me one of his own...

Here's a link to Sarah Hickman's album if you want to hear a preview of this song:
http://www.sarahickman.com/music/spiritualappliances/#angels

things not to say to me

2007-10-17T16:21:00.000-05:00

Or to anyone suffering the loss of their baby. It's amazing to me the things people say when they think they are being helpful. Since this is a continual topic on a message board I frequent and often comes up in chats with friends who have also miscarried, I figured it was worth putting this totally non-comprehensive list out there. My hope is that it will help you (whoever y'all are who are taking the time to read this) from inadvertently saying something hurtful to someone when they most need support. Off the top of my head:

You're young! Hmm. That's great to know, and I get the intent behind this one (you've got plenty of time). Unless you are my doctor (and I doubt you are because he's far to busy with his three gazillion patients to read my blog, but from him it meant a lot because he assured me we have approximately 12 years before he's even mildly concerned) I don't want to hear this. Our age is entirely unrelated to the grief we are feeling right now.
Relax! It will happen! So-and-so adopted and then she was so relaxed that they got pregnant! Relax! Right. YOU go through losing two beloved little babies, two surgeries, and countless sleepless nights of worry and wonder and then YOU freakin' relax. Relaxation does not = pregnancy. Ovulation predictor tests and timed boinking and voodoo chants while standing on one's head does. Duh.
At least you know you can get pregnant! Here's another "unless you are my doctor" rule. It's not super comforting to know you can get pregnant when your babies aren't making it for whatever reason. Plus, I doubt infertile women appreciate the insinuation that they are everyone's worst case scenario ("hey, at least you're not INFERTILE like THAT LADY!")
It's God's will. Okay, are you TRYING to make me angry at God? Or make God the bad guy here? Because I'd rather not sit here thinking that God is the bad guy in this situation (He isn't). I've never questioned my own faith more than I have through these miscarriages. When you become pregnant, everyone is quick to tell you how "blessed" you are. Then when you lose that pregnancy, you're left to wonder what you did to "unbless" yourself. After hearing the "God's will" line over and over again, I started to truly believe our first miscarriage had happened because I hadn't gone to church enough and my 20+ daily prayers for our babies health wasn't quite enough to get His attention. I doubt that's the truth, and it's not good for my spirit to have to wonder about that.
It's natures way or the biggest whopper I've heard- you wouldn't want a retarded baby. I don't know that a lot of explanation is necessary here. Just don't go here. It's offensive (to us and to anyone raising a handicapped child), it's beside the point, and it's most certainly not comforting.
You can have another one. Fantastic, really, that is fantastic (no sarcasm- I mean that). BUT- right now it's not another one we want. We want that one. The one we lost and miss. Another one won't fill the hole in our heart, that will always be there to some extent. This is tantamount to telling a woman who has just lost her husband that she can have another husband. See?
I know how you feel. Unless you've been through this, you don't. You're better off saying "I'm sad for you, and I'm here for you". Now, if you HAVE been through this, preach on, sister!
Time heals. One of the best lessons we've learned through our support group is that time alone has basically nada to do with healing. Since my first miscarriage, I've spoken to many women who have suffered similar losses. Whether it happened last week or 30 years ago, they still hurt, they still cry when they talk about it, they still remember what color shoes they had on the day they got the news or what the moments of their miscarriages entailed. Time doesn't heal. It makes hurts easier to accept, it brings distractions and happiness and peace that lessen the pain, but the loss of a baby is always there in a parent's heart.
Nothing at all. The most hurt J and I felt were from people we thought we were close to who chose to ignore our miscarriages entirely. Needless to say, these aren't people we are close to any more, nor are they people who will know about our future pregnancy(s) until little Habib is on his way to kindergarten. To ignore a loss like this is to say it doesn't matter, to us or to you. I get that it's an uncomfortable topic and some people are afraid of the raw emotion accompanying this kind of loss. I get that some people feel it will hurt me or us to talk about it. But ignoring the loss does not make it less of a reality for us.
I drank the last Diet Coke. Just ask J or RoomieG. This one's got nothing to do with miscarriage, but it has everything to do with whether I want to kick you in the shins or not.

Lest this newest posting come off as entirely negative, I don't mean it to be so! I just realized today how often this topic is discussed among those of us who have miscarried. I'd love to make another list of all the great things people have said to us or done for us since our losses, but that would take too long and get too all too mushy for my liking. And I've got dogs to feed and clothes to wash and a final support group meeting to attend. For now, I'll leave this at that.

memory lane

2007-10-15T22:52:00.000-05:00

I'm in a retro kind of mood today. This morning, with the pretense of cleaning out my closet, I ended up on the closet floor looking through a big rubbermaid container that has moved from house to apartment to house again without examination. Faced with the choice between sorting the clean clothes from the dirty and rehanging all the articles George pulled off their hangers OR digging through this container- reminiscing seemed the much better option. Aaah...procrastination. My second middle name. Opening it up, I was amazed at how many neat things it contained that I'd totally forgotten I ever had. The last letter I received from Grandma Rita was especially touching- it contained a photo of my dad and his grandpa Leon, a note about their busy weekend, and an afterthought mention of her chemo starting the 21st. There were piles of cards and pictures collected in college, assorted memorabilia from the hockey cheer team, love letters from J during his time in Quantico, and the most time consuming- a stack of photos from my childhood. The following picture is a testament to my inherent classiness:

My shopping problem started very early on. That shopping cart was a key part of my child play. I'd use it to play grocery store, to play Pamida (yes, Pamida), and to push an assorted collection of baby farm animals (kittens, bunnies, chicks, you name it) around in. I look wasted, or perhaps the FruitLoop buzz was just wearing off. I swear I made that same face just a few weeks ago when faced with the challenge of figuring the tip on our bar tab. And, may I add- that is some funky ass linoleum. No wonder I looked so tripped out.

Today was also National Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day. Last year the House of Representatives passed a resolution to declare October 15 a designated day to remember those lives lost far too soon. There's something comforting about the official, governmental acknowledgement that our losses are real, and that at least some of our nation remembers that.

(an excerpt from the passing of the resolution)

Mr. Speaker, I think the importance of this resolution is to let people know that when couples have a miscarriage, it is a child. It might be for some people, well, it is just a miscarriage. They were only 6 weeks or they were only 9 weeks, and they did not even know whether it was a boy or girl. But in the minds of that couple in many instances it is their very first pregnancy, and they are already thinking about that little boy or the little girl and what the name is going to be and the clothes that they are going to pick out and the joys they are going to have sending that child to school and raising it and seeing it play sports and become an adult some day and contribute to our great society. We tend to forget that. And this was brought home to me pretty vividly recently when my daughter-in-law, pregnant with their first child, found out at 10 weeks that the baby did not have a heartbeat. And so that baby was lost. And she went on, of course, and miscarried. And that loss will be with them forever. And so I think it is just so important for us all to realize that when somebody, when you hear about somebody having a miscarriage, do not think, well, it was just a miscarriage, it is not like losing a child or an older child, which of course I do not know that anything compares to that. But this is a significant loss. And that is why this resolution today is so important. I thank the gentleman for yielding. I thank Congressman LATHAM for bringing it forward and Congressman DAVIS as well.

I hope that G and Baby F, wherever they are, knew that this day was theirs, and that as always, they are loved.

I'll close with something that makes me wonder if I ever stood a chance at being normal, with parents (or possiblity an auntie) who allowed me to be photographed like this. I look like I'm just bored to death with my own fantasticness. "Yeah, so, I'm wearing these majorly awesome shades. And I'm up past my bedtime, yo. I'm just cool like that. Take a picture, grandma, it will last longer."

awake, again

2007-10-14T23:35:00.000-05:00

Night time. As recently as 4 years ago, it was where the action took place. Bar hopping, frat parties, hockey games, late night chats with questionably sober girlfriends. Now, it's when the sadness sets in. It's when I feel most alone. It's when I most want the comfort of my pregnancy(ies) back, three nightly pee trips and all. It's when I count the weeks to figure out how far along I'd be (34 , 14). It's when I replay the scariest moments of my life over and over in my head. It's when I just wish this wasn't my life. Wasn't us dealing with this. Wasn't us who have to suffer so much to get what we want. A wise woman (aka Madonna) once said: if it's bitter at the start, then it's sweeter in the end. I sure hope Madge is right.

I'm homesick, too, on this Sunday night. (Wendy Whiner in the hizz-ouse!) I love Austin. If given the choice, I absolutely wouldn't leave. It feels like home, we're making great friends, J (mostly) enjoys his work and his potential there, I adore our humble abode, we have yet to run out of exciting places to go or things to do, I never have to worry about my nostrils freezing together or seeing another Polaris jacket as long as I live. But. In that wearing rose-colored-glasses way, I sometimes miss things about our past life. Mainly the obvious- proximity to ma, pa, M2, and M3. But random things, too. That ominous gloom in the air threatening the first snowfall, rushing home from work to get cozy and crank the heat before it hit. My old job that mostly entertained me, often exhilerated me, and kept me buzzing long after the Red Bull wore off. The silence in our old backyard- it was the kind of silence like when the electricity goes out and the hummmmm of a working house shuts off and you're startled to realize how much noise there really was when you thought it was quiet. And did I mention being close to the 4 people (other than my dear J, obviously) that make me the happiest, if only because they understand why fox hats are funny and who Cow Patty is and where she's gone? Hell, it doesn't take a psych-trained individual to recognize I'm probably just missing a time when life wasn't so steadily defined by sadness and loss and raw emotion. Probably pining for the girl I was before my innocence took a beating. In fact, I KNOW that's true. I know how much I love our life here and that I wouldn't trade it for anything or anyplace (uh...unless said place offered a significant raise and big boss status for the J-man and a Lexus GX470 for yours truly and no less than 1 Nordstrom in a 20 mile radius...then maybe we'd talk). I just want old Mandie back. The girl cruising in her green Trailblazer, listening to Madonna, doing her part to bring some fabulousness to the northwoods. The girl who had no idea of the shitstorm coming her way in 07. The girl who slept on a regular basis.

Things that made me smile today: G's amazing brisket and J's bbq-sauce chin, breaking out my rollerblades (how retro am I?) for an inaugural spin around the 'hood, pumpkins on our porch, another Packer win, reading our HOA rules over and discovering it actually IS legal to have 4 pets (we thought we were one over- breathe easy Hor-hay, you're safe!)

saturdaying

2007-10-13T16:34:00.000-05:00

Back to the real world. Mom's visit was the BEST. She has a way of giving me strength and courage as only a mama can, and we never have any trouble finding fun ways to kill a day. I'm so glad she was here and so sad she had to go, her visits are always too short. We also had a fun visit from the in laws and a great birthday celebration for Jodi. Until Garrett had enough of our end of dinner chit chat- "hey ladies, are you done? Cause I'm done." Gotta love 9 year olds and their lack of tact. Lots of shopping (mom's now infected by the PB Outlet addiction), lots of chatting, and just a few tears at the airport this morning.

The constant drama flow seems to have slowed to a trickle. No near death experiences, no actual death experiences, actually, the only death-related-moment of the week involved a spider and my shoe. The only additional drama of last week was an engine blowing up at a gas station and spewing scalding something or other all up and down my bare arms and legs. (No, I wasn't pumping gas naked again. Just dressing appropriately for your run of the mill 92 degree October day.) In comparison to the chaos earlier in the week, a little mystery fluid burn is nothing. Phew. Please let last week be the end of the craziness. Please let everything from here on out be puppy dogs and rainbows and strong margaritas sipped in peace. We've got a completely unventful married life weekend going on. We're Saturdaying, if you will. Leisurely morning, a bit of housework, a trip to the unbelievably exciting new neighborhood Super Target, some lawn work, and a lazy afternoon in the yard and on the couch. It's funny how "uneventful" has become the best thing ever in comparison to "all hell breaking loose all the time".

What makes me sad right now is that this miscarriage madness has tempered my formerly insatiable taste for the glossies. Fridays used to be a day of special excitement because it was "new UsWeekly and People Day!" Now, I find myself having to skip over half the damn magazines. The ridiculous coverage of celebrity pregnancies, celebrity baby showers, celebrity babies, celebrity bump watches, celebrity maternity fashion, celebrity baby names, celebrity stroller choices....augh. I'd really prefer more details on Brit's latest crotch shot or for Paris to go back to jail or something. Nicole. JLo. Christina. Halle. What IS it with Hollywood and reproducing lately? And Nicole? Really, God? You do realize she is totally unfit, right? Where's the justice in this world? Can't a girl just enjoy her junk reading without a reminder that the whole world is pregnant?

I'll close with a quote I found on the fantastic blog of a woman dealing with her own TTC issues. Perfectly put and a reminder that the present is passing and the future promises better days.

"Hope has two beautiful daughters. Their names are anger and courage; anger at the way things are, and courage to see that they do not remain the way they are."
-Augustine of Hippo

drama

2007-10-09T13:47:00.000-05:00

We've got to be at our drama quota for the quarter or even the year by now. The past few days have just been so draining. Last night was another of those sleepless, sad, lonely nights and I couldn't be more relieved that as I type, mom is boarding a southbound plane to come stay for the week. I need my mommy.

First, we were nearly wiped off the face of the earth on I35 on Sunday. Leaving the remembrance ceremony, southbound, we watched in slow-mo horror as a northbound jacked up SUV swerved out of control and straight at us. We were screaming and and braced for collision, sure the cement center divider wouldn't hold the monster truck and we were about to be smushed, and unable to move out of the way because of characteristic parking lot traffic conditions on 35. The truck smashed into about 5 cars as he swung all over the road, then directly into the divider just 4-5 feet from our car, and thank the good Lord.....didn't break through. Scared the hell out of both of us, how easily a Sunday afternoon could have turned into tragedy.

Yesterday brought some very sad news from Dr. S's office. Nurse K, who has to be the sweetest, most empathetic nurse I've ever met, called late in the afternoon with the results of the chromosomal testing on our baby. Grover was a boy. A sweet little boy for J, just as he has always wanted, although we would have loved ANY baby that could have been healthy and joined us here on earth. It breaks my damn heart that I couldn't give that little boy to him, although we now know without a shadow of a doubt that this miscarriage was NOT my body's doing. Grover had Trisomy 22, which is a chromosomal problem incompatible with life. Survival beyond the first trimester is very rare. I've done some reading on this in the past 24 hours and while it's horrifying to know our little boy wasn't healthy, I feel a sense of peace knowing our baby boy was spared a lot of pain and suffering...he never had a chance at being strong and healthy and able to live with us in this world. K explained this happens at conception, and is very unlikely to repeat itself. Comforting, but still not any easier to handle his death. I'm conflicted, and we're more heartsick today than we were yesterday, as this news sinks in and we begin to mourn a specific baby...not just an "it" or "fetus". I will never forget the look on my sweet husband's face when I told him the news. As J does, he showed very little, but I'm coming to know that flicker of sadness in his eyes all too well. It's been a very hard, very emotional time. I sit here looking at the notes I took during my call with K yesterday. Abnormal chrom.....tri 22....incomp w/ life....conception....Boy. I wonder why I wrote that last word down. Did I think I might forget? And how crushing that THIS is our "big" moment of finding out the sex of our child. I had been so very excited for the day we got our "big ultrasound" and found out whether our first born child would be a boy or a girl. I imagined having the ultrasound tech write it down and seal it in an envelope, so J and I could take it with us to open at home or at the park or in some place where we could savor the most exciting news and celebrate the impending arrival of our son or daughter. Quite a different experience to get the news by phone, from a nurse who sounds on the verge of tears, home alone, adding more grief to this whole experience. Don't get me wrong- I'm glad we know. It's just much more personal now. I miss my little man.

There was another discovery in my bloodwork, but one that, according to K and Dr. S, was unlikely to have caused this miscarriage. It's doubtful to have caused the first one, but we can't say for sure. In doctor speak, the test showed "Antinuclear Antibody- positive low tider". I'm still not 100% sure of what this means, but the prescribed antidote from Dr. S is a simple baby aspirin once a day. According to one of my 85 books on pregnancy and miscarriage, the success rate of a subsequent pregnancy after such a diagnosis is as high as 90% with the correct treatment- usually baby aspirin or a prescription drug. From what K said, it's very common and they aren't concerned. This is where I need to trust in the fact that I have a great doctor and not let my worries or paranoia overtake my already cluttered head. If they say it's not concerning, I can't let it concern me. I just can't handle more worry.

Last night brought one more dose of drama (and trauma). We met up with L and her very sweet husband G for margaritas. A great way to salvage a very sad day- newfound friends who understand our pain and tell us funny stories, a calming marg or two, and a gorgeous warm night to sit out on the patio. As the night came to a close, suddenly there was shrieking from the table behind us, and the horrifying scene as an elderly woman....I don't know....died? I'll spare the details and say we don't exactly know what was happening, just that it looked very, very grim and that the 911 operator apparently decided J had his MD and went on and on asking him 100 questions about the poor woman's condition and medical history which he calmly handled in a way only J can. We left the restaurant amidst resuscitation, sirens, flashing lights, and a bunch of chaos as diners and waiters scrambled off the patio and out of the way. Just another reminder that one minute life is manageable....the next, it's gone terribly awry. I can't get the pained, shocked look of the woman's daughter out of my head. Or the cries of the poor little boy out front who just witnessed this at his table. The same pained, shocked look we've had ourselves all too much lately, the same hysterical cries of despair. Ugh.

ENOUGH ALREADY. No mas.

remembering

2007-10-07T17:23:00.000-05:00

Today J, my friend L, and I attended a memorial service hosted by the Ronald McDonald house. It was very touching, definitely emotional, and I'm too tired to say much more about it than that. We were surrounded by people who know our grief all too well. We were presented with these remembrance stones, inteded to be placed in the remembrance pond. Tellingly, I was unable to let go of ours, so they're at home for now (and likely for always) in the hydrangea garden we planted after the first loss. I miss our babies today more than ever.

And sometimes I don't have the energy
To prove everybody wrong
And I try my best to be strong
But you know it's so hard
It's so hard
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard when it doesn't come fast
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard
It felt like a given
Something a woman's born to do
A natural ambition
To see a reflection of me and you
And I'd feel so guilty
If that was a gift I couldn't give
And could you be happy
If life wasn't how we pictured it
And sometimes I just want to wait it out
To prove everybody wrong
And I need your help to move on
Cause you know it's so hard
It's so hard
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
It's so hard when it doesn't come fast
It's so hard when it doesn't come easy
So hard
I can live for the moment
When all these clouds open up for me to see
And show me a vision
Of you and me swimming peacefully

-Dixie Chicks

sabado

2007-10-06T11:32:00.000-05:00

You know what's blissful? Saturday mornings. As a kid, what could be cooler than a day where you don't have to get out of bed until you want to (meaning: you sleep in allll the way until 6:45 instead of the weekday wakeup of 6:30). Parents sleep in (or attempt to) on Saturdays, so it was one long morning of sugary cereal eaten on a blanket raft in the living room wearing pajamas and watching Inspector Gadget, Smurfs, or later, Saved By the Bell. Coolness. Now that we're over cartoons, Saturday should equal a couple extra hours of lazy sleep, right? Hah.

You know what's NOT blissful? Saturday mornings with two bright eyed bushy tailed cats, ringing phones, and an inconvenient shortage of Diet Coke. 6:50am. I awake to curious noises coming from my nightstand. Then furious clawing. Then a satisfied little meow and the telltale sound of something hitting the floor- I know it's George, the household ChapStick fiend, striking again. I can't ignore that, I need my ChapStick. I peel my eyes open, drag myself from bed, and sure enough- there's George in the corner doing his best to look totally kittenish and innocent (ho, hum, nothing to see here, certainly nothing hiding under your dresser, definitely not, go back to bed!) I fish my ChapStick out from under the dresser and crawl back into bed, hiding it under my pillow. Minutes later I'm awaken again (literally- 6:54am)- more meowing. A few paw nudges to my chest. A fuzzy little head butt. This means one thing- Ralph's awake, and he wants his Sheba. I open one eye and he's there, 4 inches from my face, looking at me expectantly. IT'S SATURDAY, fools! I scoop up both of them and lock them in the laundry room to steal another couple hours of sleep. One hour later the phone is ringing. I ignore it. No one who calls at 8am on a Saturday is worth getting out of bed for. It rings again moments later. FINE, world, I'm AWAKE. Happy? I'll get up. If I don't get to sleep in, what I really need to rescue my Saturday morning is a Diet Coke. As any self-respecting Aus knows, you're not actually awake until there's an aluminum can of caffienated something in your hand. I stumble downstairs, open the fridge, and you guessed it........vast nothingness where the DC should be. I even did the movie thing where you shut the fridge and open it up again real quick to see if something has changed- nada. J and Roomie G are going to GET IT tonight. We've got an unspoken rule in this house that mama always gets the last DC (yeah, I'm spoiled, so what). Thieves.

yeah, about that

2007-10-04T23:22:00.000-05:00

Bitter insomniac Mandie is baaaaaack! Raise your hand if you missed me.....anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Lest y'all think I'm cured and on with my life and back to HappyLand, just FYI, this evening shall be filed under "relapse".

Things were okay until the TV came on. I don't even watch My Name is Earl, since I don't find trailer parks or jail all that fascinating, but it was on as I started dinner. The blonde floozy with a belly out to there. Cool, but whatever, I'm HAPPY, remember? Gray's. I love Grays! While the storyline was blessedly free of anything involving pregnancy, there was that whole meth-baby issue. Cool! People like THAT become parents every day. But not two hard working fun loving good hearted mostly sober married people, noooooo. Next, we finally got around to watching last week's Desperate Housewives. You KNOW you're losing it when you're jealous of a fake pregnancy. Yes, I have no shame, I'll admit it- I was jealous of Bree's strap on baby bump. And just moments later.....it gets better! Susan's pregnant! Total shocker! Isn't that just perfect? I can't wait for next week. I'm sure she'll be painting the nursery in designer maternity. And last but most certainly not least- our beloved Friday Night Lights premiers tomorrow. Somehow I found a link to a "sneak preview" of the first episode. What could be safer than a show about small town Texas and football and high schoolers, right? Until Minute 2 when we get to watch the coach's wife go into labor. Then the miracle of birth and the proud new daddy with the misty eyes....and....well, that's as far as I got before shutting that crap down and proclaiming how much I HATE that stupid Friday Night Lights show and really always have because it just sucks and they're a bunch of stupid asshats and who the hell wants to live in stupid farking hot old TEXAS anyway and I hope those STUPID DYLAN PANTHERS LOSE EVERY SINGLE GAME because that show is just CRUEL!!

Insanity. I own it.

So, TV is looking off limits unless I can manage to find something 100% NBR (aka Not Baby Related). Or at least, it's off limits when the bitter mood sets in. We better find a hobby.

getting off my own ass

2007-10-04T13:35:00.000-05:00

Over and over again I've been admonished- "get off your ass!" (not as in get up from the sitting position, as in you're too hard on yourself) or "cut yourself a break". Mostly from my mom, sometimes from my dad, and more than a few times from my former manager/business partner B. I'm an oldest child, I'm an Aries, I'm type A....meaning, I was basically born strong willed and innately fearful of any failure on my part or causing disappointment to others. It usually pertained to work situations (causing myself a whole lot of stress where none was needed) but also to life in general (expecting too much of myself or if not too much, more than I would expect out of anybody else). Last night at group, we were asked what we've learned so far from this miscarriage madness. Without even thinking, I informed the group that I've learned to get off my own ass. Lighten up on myself. Cut myself a break. Meaning- if I didn't feel up to talking to a friend who had just had a baby, I didn't. If I wasn't sure I could handle a certain social interaction, I didn't. If I just wanted to pull the sheets to my chin and call it a day, I did. If the idea of going back to work at a certain point seemed insurmountable, I just didn't do it. As I finished talking, our counselor was sitting back in his chair nodding and looking mighty impressed with me. He informed me that that very lesson of being kind to oneself is often a lesson only learned after many, many months of sessions and discussion. And here I was, 1 month and 1 day out from loss #2, growing as a person and learning that lesson (without the gigantor therapy bill). Does it sound like I'm patting myself on the back? I am. Get off my ass.

I had another breakthrough on the flight home from the wedding. At the wedding, I ran into someone I knew in college who somehow knew about both miscarriages (odd since only #1 was public knowledge, but these things happen in small circles, I suppose). She went on and on and on about how miserable I must be and how awful life must be and how I "just shouldn't worry because SOON I would find some happiness in my life again". At the time, she pissed me off. There was a definite overtone of "poor, poor Mandie" that grated my nerves. And 35,000 feet over the central US wedged up against the plastic window doing my best to escape any skin to skin contact with my seatmate who looked suspiciously like Milton from Office Space (where's my sthapler?)....it hit me why that bothered me so. Because I AM happy! Because our life ISN'T miserable! Because there's no room for "poor Mandie" in my life. Sure, there's been misfortune, and sometimes "sad Mandie" or "confused Mandie" or "bitter b*tch Mandie" comes to visit for an afternoon. But she goes just as quickly as she came, or is chased off by a good margarita, and leaves me remembering that we have SO much!! Our life really and truly is fantastic in so many ways. Our marriage. Our families. Our house. Our friends. Our boat, our ambitions, our relative health, our keen ability for causing outbursts of hysterical laughter in one another, our future. Our future that is bright and big and 100% likely to include children. Children without 4 legs who don't chew the furniture, I mean.

Thankful for: Malinn (so, so thankful for her right now), Megan's strength even if she can't appreciate it, J's lessons on stress free living, that scary motorcyclist changing his mind and deciding not to break my face in at the stoplight when I accidentaly honked at him, Thursday night television, Facebook, mom's visit in 5 days

54 hours of fantasticness

2007-10-01T16:46:00.000-05:00

Well, I never. Turns out I haven't become a total bore, and I TOTALLY still know how to have and be fun! What a lot of fun packed into lesser than 2.5 days. The plane landed at 11:30pm Thursday, and 30 minutes later, Sarah and I were at the bar. The packed, fun, alumni filled bar (homecoming weekend) where the schooners were flowing. And the fun truly didn't stop until my crack of dawn wake up yesterday morning to get to the airport. That....not so fun. But totally worth it.

Where to start? We got pedis, had a hilarious girly lunch that reminded me just how amazingly funny my girlfriends are and just how much crazy shit we packed into 4 years at UND, did some shopping at the world famous Columbia Mall, and later, Jenny and I visited Alpha Phi. That made me feel older than dirt, but brought back some fantastic memories. The girls are still grouching about the Big Green Couch, Euna-bomber is still the most cantankerous house mom on University Ave, and the rooms are still cute and crammed and cable-free. But more importantly- it still looked like the same cozy casa that hosted the very best of my college years. Same foyer where I played Recruitment Nazi and perfected "window popping", same kitchen where I shirked my kitchen duty night after night, racking up some pretty impressive duty fines, same formal where Monday night meetings were attended and world peace (er...Greek Week and frat prefs) were discussed, same Closet and Haunted Triple and Lookout. So, so many happy memories. Thanks, Martha Foote Crow!

We had the rehearsal and dinner that night, and kept on going until the $4 cab ride home much later on. (A $4 cab ride! Only in ND! I couldn't get to my MAILBOX for 4 bucks!) The wedding was great and the bride was Gorgeous. No doubts about that happy couple, not a one. Lots of old friends and catching up to do. The weekend flew by and I'm already missing it. Sara was the final in our six-some to marry, so it was the last marital hurrah. Now on to planning a get together cruise for the next round of reminiscing and debauchery.

Back in real life, I had my follow up appointment with Dr. S today. Good God, I love that man (and J knows and doesn't mind). The waiting room was cruel as ever (only 1 of 100 examples: the thrilled couple sitting beside me after their sonogram as the wife admired and examined and grinned over their perfect little sonogram showing their perfect little end of 1st trimester fetus) but the doctor is worth the wait. He pronounced me entirely healthy and healed, and talked me through the blood tests they planned to run if I wanted to. Dr. S truly feels it was a freak chromosomal mix up (meaning- not our fault, nothing wrong with me, just truly terrible luck times 2) but understands my desire for testing to, as he said, ease my mind with the great results. He says he's no more concerned about me after miscarriage #2 than he would have been (had he been my doctor) after miscarriage #1. We'll know more the end of this week or so as the test results come back, but I'm certainly encouraged by his confidence.

Off to ease my about-to-burst DVR. I literally can't decide what I want to watch first. The cheerleaders are waiting, Addison's new show still unwatched, and I'm totally slacking on LC and JustinBobby. And I need to hurry, because it's Bachelor night. I'm exhausted already.

A few shots from the weekend.

Jenny and Mandie self-portrait outside Alpha Phi:

Me with the beautiful bride-to-be at the rehearsal dinner:

Three Fantastica Bridesmaids

i'm off

2007-09-27T15:37:00.001-05:00

Grand Forks, watch yo'self! Despite Ralph's best attempts to keep me home, I leave for the airport for my trip to GF in a few minutes. After many hours of laundry and packing yesterday (packing, by the way, my most favorite new carry-on sized suitcase) Ralph relieved himself atop of my clothing and suitcase late last night. Not a happy time at our house right about then. So, I got to stay up until the wee hours laundering and scrubbing and trying to get my weekend wardrobe clean and free of the stench of cat pee. Thankfully, the bridesmaid dress was NOT packed yet. Yikes.

I'm probably more excited to go to Grand Forks than anyone has ever been to go to Grand Forks. Trees with colors! Alpha Phi! The Ralph (not Ralph the pee-er, Ralph the stadium)! Canadian accents! I'm sure the wedding will be fabulous, and I could just cry thinking of how happy it will make me to be in the company of my very best friends.

Boring entry, but there should be much more to say by next week.

cleanup, aisle 4

2007-09-25T23:20:00.000-05:00

Oh, I'm just so thrilled that Knocked Up is now out on DVD. You know, because it's superfun to watch Katherine Heigl's dumbfounded shock at her accidental pregnancy on the commercials playing over and over and over. "Oops, got pregnant on accident with some schlubby pot smoking loser, and of course it's going to stick and be healthy and end in a baby! What the hell is a miscarriage anyway?" J and I went to see this about a month after miscarriage #1. I thought I was ready and I just really wanted some greasy, salty, tongue-numbing popcorn. I was wrong about the whole "being ready" thing. As the credits rolled (awesome- pictures of the cast members/crew as teeny tiny babies with their moms) I sat there sobbing and gasping and wheezing and J just sat there all helpless because he kind of knew all along that going to this movie was a baaaad idea but had quickly caught on that you don't fight with the hormones, you do as they say, so we went and it ended badly. So you can imagine my joy walking through WalMart today and spying the big huge rack of Knocked Up DVDs. Remember the movie Mean Girls, how Lindsay Lohan's character would have those crazy visions of herself doing inappropriate things? That was me in WalMart. I pictured myself grabbing ahold of the rack, knocking it over with gusto, and jumping up and down and all around stomping the crap out of those stupid DVDs. Then running over the whole awesome mess over and over and over again with my creaky wheeled cart. (How do I ALWAYS get the creaky wheeled cart?) Anyway, I literally had to shake off that daydream and remind myself to keep walking towards the grocery aisle.

I have the same Lindsay Lohan crazy visions thinking about Thansgiving (casserole tossing, wine chugging, platter breaking). Due date #1 was November 27, and I remember not so long ago thinking I would just absolutely positively die if I wasn't pregnant again by then. In my mind, that would be the worst possible thing that could happen. Pffft. Way to go, dummy. See how much worse it could be? I remember imagining our families coming in for the long weekend, watching football and shoving our faces, all the while on alert for possible contractions or sudden rushes to the hospital. I wish life had a rewind/redo button. I want that Thanksgiving back. This Thanksgiving capital-S-sucks.

So I posted on the nest (my beloved and very supportive message board specifically for those going through a pregnancy loss) about feeling a bit down and angry about things today. I've got one fantastic friend on there, a sweet and witty east coaster in the midst of all kinds of adoption craziness who suffered multiple losses of her own. She's upbeat and encouraging and very good at making me feel more normal. I confessed that I'd made the mistake of venturing over to the pregnancy board where I tortured myself by viewing a post from a girl due right smack dab in the middle of April (aka, EDD #2) celebrating the news of her latest and greatest ultrasound and as a result, I had a total damn meltdown (happy for her, devastated for me). In my emotional freak-out I mentioned that while for the most part I'm getting by okay, sometimes there are these wild moments where I feel like I'm thisclose to retreating into a cozy bathrobe and spending my days talking to my cats. This lovely friend offered the following advice, which I deemed so humorous and comforting that it had to be rebroadcasted here for me to read over when I need a giggle (Jill, I hope that's okay): Mandie, You are right. It is not fair. I hate that you are going through this. I have fooled around looking at other boards and usually come away sobbing and mumbling to my stuffed animal (Dudley) the duck who wants to throw himself off the roof to escape my ramblings, but deep down he knows he can't fly. So talking to your cats really is not that crazy. Now, if you lose the bathrobe, and run down the street talking to say, shrubbery, we'll revisit crazy. You are just rightfully upset, grieving, and madder than hell.

Note to self: keep on the robe, don't talk to shrubbery. I think I can handle that. Sometimes just knowing there's a kindred soul out there murmering to her duck makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

Thankful for: my recipe not flopping tonight, J's excitement over his new finance position, my wreath (yes- still), helping G with his e-harmony/future wife finder, time spent in the yard today with the fancy felines, 47 short hours until GFK touchdown

crafts+margs=monday

2007-09-24T22:50:00.000-05:00

Why didn't anyone ever tell me there was a Pottery Barn alternative that would save me about a bajillion dollars AND make J believe that his lovely homemaking wife actually passed Home Ec? Check out my freakin' work of art:

A WREATH! And I MADE it! That masterpiece would have cost me $70+ at P'Barn. 15 minutes at Hobby Lobby, $7, and 10 minutes of assembly.... and presto! A fantastic fall wreath at 90% savings! Forget that it's 92 degrees outside and the neighbor kids are running through the sprinklers, at my house, it's FALL. Look at the calendar, folks. I'm a bit proud of myself, so much so that when I left the house after hanging The Wreath, I swung back around the block once more to check out that house with the bitchin' wreath, as I'm sure we'll soon be known as. I bet before long I've got neighbors lined up asking wherever did I get that beauty and where can they get their own. Just watch. (Or, back in the real world....someone steals it. Probably more likely over here a smidgit to the east of 35.) See, I'm on to the part of my grief where I channel all my misery into doing things. This afternoon, it came down to decorating or eating. As I'd really like to fit into this weekend's bridesmaid dress without investing in Spanx or going into anna mode, decorating seemed the better selection. And so cheap it's almost free decorating? Sheesh. I'm good. And totally not unaware of the fact that I'm attempting to forget that we should be finishing up an adorable primary colored airplane mural or some flowery pink border in what would have been the nursery by maniacally decking out the house for autumnal harvest. Blah. As much as I tried to stomp out that taunting little voice in the back of my head....it's there. And it's not chased away by any amount of shopping, decorating, eating, OR margarita drinking. Which leads me to......

Happier news: tonight, I had my very first friend-blind-date. L and I have been emailing back and forth for months about our respective crappola ripoff totally unfair miscarriages. Tonight, we met for margaritas (and a bit of food to soak up the margaritas). The boys were amused last night when I told them of my plans, smugly convinced my internet friend would either stand me up or be a bore, a loony, or a serial killer.....but little did they know, L is fabulous and lots of fun and very unlikely to kill me unless I try to take off with her fantastic (and verrry real) LV. Although the instigating factor of this new friendship pretty much sucks, I am happy to report she's right up there on the "coolest people I've met so far in Austin" list.

Thankful for: my wreath, if you've been paying any attention at all. A new friend. The Bachelor in all its' tasteless glory. The margarita in my belly. Mom's visit in two weeks. David Letterman.

el television

2007-09-22T23:41:00.000-05:00

I'm embarassed on my own behalf. If a stranger were given the opportunity to examine my DVR settings, they'd conclude the user is about 14 years old, lacking anything resembling a social life, and tacky as hell. Exhibit A: The new Josh Schwartz (aka the genious who bettered the earth with my all time favorite.... The OC) show, Gossip Girl. One episode in, and I'm in lurve. There's the Seth Cohen-esque Dan, the Marissa-ish Serena, and her KiKi-clone mother, Serena's mom. It's like Josh realized how he'd broken my heart by allowing The OC to crash and burn in season 4 and bestowed this gift upon me. I feel at ease again, for one hour a week on CW, at least. Then there's The Hills. I can't get enough! Will Elodie tell off Heidi? Why are LC's brows so dark? What is UP with Audrina and that JustinBobby guy? And the lamest of the lame- Kid Nation. YES, the one with the kids. The 8-15 year old kids. Ugh, I'm so ashamed. But it's heartwarming! And my troubles don't stop there. Premier week has also rotted/will rot my brain with the following: The Bachelor (he's from Austin! it would be nearly illegal not to watch), Beauty and the Geek, Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team (for some odd reason J is totally okay with this one), the Sunday night double punch of Desperate Housewives AND Brothers & Sisters, the obligatory Gray's obsession, the new spin off with Addison, Friday Night Lights (excused- supporting the local economy), and finally, I'm holding out hope that the Trumpster will be back with another type-A packed dramafest Apprentice competition. It's like the tougher my life gets, the lower-brow my TV selections become. Escapism, people!

J's back from the neighbors' and speaking Spanglish. Someone's had a bit too much fun with Carlos and/or a few too many drinks. Buenos noches.

stupid pictures, stupid wine

2007-09-20T21:12:00.000-05:00

Who would have thought it possible that pictures of J as a little kid could break my heart? Left alone at the in laws' for the night, I spied an old photo album on the bookshelf. It's one I vaguely remember us paging through years ago as giddy collegiates in a new relationship, snuggled onto the couch late at night on one of my first visits to meet his family. He was merely looking at old photos, reliving his past.....I was dreaming and planning and envisioning our future family (middle names and all) a la Kate Hudson in "How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days". I remember how those photos made me feel back then, 5 or so years ago, when marriage was a distinct possibility but far from a certainty. I knew I wanted to marry J and hoped he felt the same way- but at 21 or 22, we only danced around that topic, neither of us wanting to be the first to jump that gun and send the other running back to greek mixers and random makeouts. Where was I going with this? Oh, the photos. So back then, they made me feel hopeful, made my heart skip a little thinking of the two of us someday creating a little blonde headed monster that looked like the grinning little guy with the mischevious glint in his eyes. It nearly took my breath away to think we may someday be husband and wife and welcome to the world a little version of the two of us. Back then, when having children was a "we will"....not an unsettlingly vague hope or wish or dream. Tonight, the photos knocked me on my ass in a way I couldn't have imagined. Seeing this little guy of 3 or 4 horseplaying with his little sister, momentarily pausing the action to grin at his mom on a slide in Scotland, squirming beside his dad on some urban European street....made me hurt for the babies we've lost. Especially the first one, the one in my heart I know was a boy. Would he have had those same curious curls? The same energetic, glowing blue eyes? It even hurts to look at his young, gorgeous parents- so happy and fulfilled in a way I just always assumed we would be, too, the moment we were ready. I do know in my heart we'll be parents. I know that. But I wish that I could somehow have been prepared for the journey those aspirations would take us on. Wondering about these lost babies and staring down at those photos hurts me in a way I can only describe as a total emotional and physical pain, a proverbial elephant not just in the room but planted right on top of my chest, making it hard to breathe or move or do anything but choke back a sob and get another glass of wine. The pain of that dull lump in my throat, a longing for what should have been ours in two short months. Two months! A pain so insufficiently dulled by the large glass (fine, glasses) of Riesling I poured after slamming the dusty album closed and placing it carefully back up on the shelf, wishing I'd never taken it down. A pain that feels as if my body is hollow, all my hopes and dreams for our family scooped away and disposed of before the anesthesia wore off.

So sad.

hiatus in houston

2007-09-20T15:25:00.001-05:00

Going to Houston was a good decision. I miss Ralph and George, but Uncle Geoff seems to have it all under control in the cat-sitting department. (And really, how hard is it? As long as you don't forget their morning Sheba, in which case you'll likely require stitches at some point later in the day.....they're pretty self sufficient.) The change of scenery is helpful, and it broke up my busy schedule of crying, sleeping, and crying more. J has been busy all week with training downtown, so I've had a chance to hang out with MIL and eat chocolate. You may not find balanced meals in this house, but she's ALWAYS got chocolate on hand! It's been a nice week. Still tough to deal with certain things at certain times, but the distraction is good for me.

Morning 1: MIL was up and out early to teach at the college, leaving me and the pups home alone. I woke up around 8 and didn't bother getting changed out of my pajamas before heading downstairs. I'm wearing tiny boxer shorts and a worn and torn old t-shirt (UND Homecoming 1984- this shirt shows its' 23 years of wear and tear). No shoes, no bra, no problem...I thought. Until I stepped onto the back patio to give the dogs their food. The door shuts behind me and because I'm so full of craptastic luck these days....it locks. I know it before I even try the handle. I just know. Oh, *&^%$#@'n fabulous. At that point normal, non-hormonally imbalanced people would have checked the windows or logically figured out an alternative entrance. Not this nutjob! I sat down and sobbed. And sobbed. I'm outside, I'm half dressed, I have no idea when MIL gets home, I'm in the company of three dogs who think we're playing some super fun game, and obviously I have no phone. Even if I had a phone, I have no idea what MIL's cell number is (who memorizes numbers these days?) After about a half hour I decide I've got two options: a) hang out in the yard all day, pee in a bucket in the garage, go into Survivor mode and tough this out as the mercury climbs to 95...or b) suck it up and start knocking on doors until I find someone home with a phone. I went with Option B, found a friend and neighbor of the IL's, and an hour and 20 phone calls to J's phone to get his mother's number later, had the code to the hide-a-key box and, phew, back inside with AC and toilets. And chocolate. I took it as a karmic sign to appreciate the little things- you know, like the fact that I don't live outside or pee in a garage.

I'm in a decent mood today because in exactly 1 week and 7 hours, I get to see:

MY FRIENDS! Sara gets married next weekend and we'll all be back in Grand Forks to partake in the festivities. I can't wait. Since my family has moved around so much, going back to GF gives me that feeling of going home. Although it smells like rotten beets when the weather's warm and ranks right up there with Antarctica when the weather's cold (aka: October through May), that city saw a whole lot of fun times for me in the early 2000s. Briefly- it's where I met my husband, where I learned the true meaning of friendship from girls who were there no matter the time or place, and where I had the fantastic and enviable opportunity to bend over in a miniscule green skirt in front of 10,000 green clad hockey fans as a part of the Chuck a Puck competition. In a trying time when I sometimes struggle to recall who I was or what I enjoyed even six months ago, going back to GF will probably remind me of how much fun I was/how much fun I had before being bitten by the rotten baby bug. I may come home with a hangover, but when that clears, I think I'll be a bit happier too.

raw eggs & aspartame

2007-09-15T13:02:00.000-05:00

I'm looking at the bright side and eating for one and indulging my taste buds whenever and however possible. Anything forbidden during pregnancy is now a go-to food. Hot dogs, one of the first items banished from the moment of the test, were all I ate the first week after this miscarriage was diagnosed. Not that I have much of an appetite (and this eating once a day thing, my waistline and I don't mind) but when I do chow, I make sure I eat something entirely artificial and/or off limits to women "in the family way". See today's breakfast/lunch/dinner:

Yum. Washed down with a aspartame-full Diet Coke, natch. Nothing like some cookie dough to start Saturday off with a bang.

I had a D&C yesterday. Yes, the very procedure I fought for 12 long, wearisome days to avoid. I called in early yesterday morning to leave a message for the nurses inquiring about Thursday's hormone levels. Cell phone close at hand, I headed to the store and loaded my cart with all the necessities we've been lacking since my self-imposed house arrest began. My phone rings. It's Nurse K, and she sounds utterly unimpressed with the results of my lab work. My HCG isn't dropping, I'm still pregnant, they want me not to be. "Have you eaten or drank this morning" she asks. Nope. And she tells me they want me in immediately for a D&C. She tells me Dr. S isn't a fan of having his patients sit for too long waiting for a miscarriage to happen, and that after 12 days, they think I've been through enough torture. They want this over with before the weekend. I can't even explain what a relief it is to have a doctor just TAKE CONTROL. I leave the full cart in the greeting card aisle and book it out of there. An hour later, I'm dressed for surgery and J and I finally meet the wonderful Dr. S. And I'm pleased to report, he appears to be just as fantastic as the masses have indicated. Within 5 seconds, I felt a sense of ease I've been longing to feel for weeks. He was sympathetic but at the same time confident in our ability to have children. He assured us he has never seen a couple have 2 losses and NOT go on to have as many babies as they want to have. He has a game plan and we'll figure this out. I'm impressed and inspired.

I'm also brunette. As I awoke from anesthesia, the first thing I ask J is the time. He tells me it's 1:00 and I realize the 4:30 hair appointment I cancelled en route to the surgery could still easily be made. Still groggy, I request (he might say demand) he go call the salon and get my appointment back. He looks dubious but wastes no time leaving the room to make the call. The nurse looked either amused or confused, I don't quite care which, I wanted pretty hair. And I got it. I feel somehow wiser and more mature all of the sudden. Here's hoping brown-hair-Mandie has more fortune than blonde-hair-Mandie.

retail therapy

2007-09-13T09:44:00.000-05:00

Here I sit, waiting for the nurse to call, hoping to God she tells me my numbers have nosedived further since Tuesday and surgery won't be necessary. It seems like nurse calls are made somewhere between 5:00pm and 7:00pm, so I'm thinking it may be later before I get word of my status. But of course, I'm glued to the house, refusing to leave for one moment and miss the call. Not that I have anywhere to be, but this is torturous. The good news- I did make it in and out of Dr. S's this morning without seeing even ONE pregnant woman, so I do deserve a pat on the back for those efforts, which included leaving the house at 6:55am to be the first at the lab (which opens at 7:30). Crisis averted.

Retail therapy: shopping with the primary purpose of improving the buyer's mood or disposition. Often seen in people during periods of depression or transition, it is normally a short-lived habit. Items purchased during periods of retail therapy are sometimes referred to as "comfort buys."

I don't need a doctor to diagnose me with THAT disorder. As soon as yesterday morning's overnight Vicodin buzz wore off, all I could thinka bout was BUYING THINGS. The outlet mall made perfect sense- huge, nearly desolate on weekdays (read: fewer strollers and waddling women), and relatively cheap! Which, obviously, equals the ability to buy even MORE things. Let me introduce you to my personal vision of where happiness happens:

See it? It's the Pottery Barn OUTLET! It's got EVERYTHING! (I'm yelling here because it really truly is THAT exciting!) Bedding for $30! Candles for $5! Big fluffy towels for $12 PLUS an additional 40% discount! How crazy is that? Really, it has everything and anything youcould quite possibly need to adorn any room of the house with simplicity and affordability. I loaded my car with bags and drove home feeling full and satisfied, momentarily blissful. And J, bless his heart, kindly overlooked the madness and complimented the new bedding. Good boy.

And finally, I must say.....those Geico people have gone too far. Look what I found in my house yesterday. The fact that I'd come home to baby dinos hanging atop my door was a tidbit J left out in his persuasive "why we should move to Texas" lists. Seriously! Yuck, yuck, yuck.

crying in public

2007-09-11T15:52:00.000-05:00

Bursting into public tears appears to be my new hobby. I finally connected with the nurse at Dr. S's office. Dr. S is the prodigious Austin baby doctor (so says my hairdresser, my Nest friends, and any woman in Austin who has been, is currently, or will someday be pregnant) who I contacted after my second loss was confirmed and I clearly needed an expert in my corner. My current/former doctor, Dr. V, is a sweet and compassionate lady. Had I been so fortunate to have a happy, normal pregnancy (either time) she would have perfectly fit the bill. But with any luck, Dr. S will be the one to pull me through a pregnancy that ends in an actual baby. Anyway, the nurse wanted me to come in for bloodwork to monitor my hormone levels. YES! I dressed in a hurry and rushed out of the house, never stopping to consider the OB office scene that might prove unsettling. I brought my medical records as requested.

Finding the place wasn't easy. It's located in a highly trafficked medical neighborhood totally unfamiliar to me. I finally took the right turn into the right parking lot and hiked into the building. I walk into the ginormous waiting room and holy shit, I swear the hyperventilation started before my second foot landed. Pregnant women, babies, blissful couples who probably peed on a stick yesterday and are already planning the nursery. F*cking fantastic. I take a deep breath and hold in the tears. Get to the check in desk. Introduce myself as a new patient of Dr. S, "here are my medical records so you can make a copy". Nooope. They don't do that (make copies). Too busy. Er, okay. I suppose I should have asked before going, right? Normal people would now sigh and ask where the nearest Kinkos is, no biggie. Not I, said the crazy one. I burst into tears. I'm imagining the receptionist pushing the secret security button under her desk to have me hauled off to the psych ward next door. So I sit down to wait for my turn in the lab and one moment later, get a new neighbor to my left. She's large, she's glorious, she's having a baby. I'm sad, I'm empty, I'm not. The tears just keep coming. I really feel crazy. People are looking, I swear they are.

Give my blood and back in the Sequoia. More tears, more heavy breathing. I drive around for a few flustered minutes before spying a Randall's. Grocery stores do copies! I wait my turn at customer service and hand over my 90 page stack of records. There's a baby faced kid working who reminds me a lot of Michael, but his name badge reads "RYAN C". He regrets to inform me that their copier is self serve, and directs me around the corner to their machine. This thing should have been beaten by Peter Gibbons & Co. in Office Space. Think 1982. No top feeder, it's the old kind where each individual sheet needs to be placed on the glass one at a freakin time. Oh, did I mention it's quarter-fed? Awesome. As RYAN C shows me how to work it I feel another wave coming on. I START CRYING AT THE COPIER. IN RANDALL'S GROCERY STORE. Poor RYAN C looks flummoxed. "I'm sorry, it's just that we're an old Randall's and our equipment isn't so great, I'm sorry ma'am." He thinks I'm crying because I don't like his copier. Nope, just crying because I apparently overestimated my ability to function in public. I try to mumble something to him to explain that I'm not crying about his copier, I'm just having a hard day, but it comes out all jumbled and crazy sounding and RYAN C slowly backs away (most likely concerned for his physical safety by now) and hightails it back to customer service.

One more bout of tears after dropping off the records at the office (this time I made it back to my car first). Enough adventure for one day. Here's hoping Dr. S's office is quick about processing lab results and calling to follow up. It would be great to know that my levels are dropping, which would tell me that my body is doing something right and heading in the right direction.

It's not lost on me that today is a day whose history is more tragic than my current situation. Impossible to believe it has been SIX years. I had just moved into Alpha Phi and UND was in full fall glory with the back to school buzz and rush activities. When I woke up that morning and went into the bathroom, the normally light-hearted morning program on the radio sounded very serious. They were talking about a possible fire breaking out at the World Trade Center, or maybe some sort of plane crash. I wondered to myself if that was in Chicago. Then I wondered where dad was, his job required nearly constant air travel at that time. I cleaned up and headed down to the living room and immediately knew something very bad had happened. No fewer than 40 of my sorority sisters were crowded around the television crying, and just a moment later, we watched as another plane crashed into the tower. All I remember from the rest of that day was stunned silence and a sense of the world changing right before our eyes. It's still hard to believe.

***update***

The high praises bestowed upon Dr. S and staff are already looking to be right-on. At 5:30, 5 short hours after I left the lab, I received a call from the nurse. The nurse, who was actually compassionate and kind and DIDN'T treat me like some strange specimen (as I've experienced over and over again this week from the former practice). My progesterone, she says, is "terrible". You know you've sunk to new lows when a word like "terrible" brings hope- we should be so lucky to be diagnosed with a JUST a progesterone problem. It's treatable! It doesn't mean there's anything wrong with me or us- just a hormone deficiency that we can work with and most likely conquer! ((please please please let that be the problem and/or all that's wrong)) Unfortunately, this nurse hadn't received my records from the front desk (not shocked considering the 800 or so patients they were processing when I brought the records back in). So she didn't know I was already aware of my diagnosis and called expecting to break the "your levels suck and you're miscarrying" news to an unsuspecting patient. Instead she got me saying "right, okay ,and now what do we do". Took a second to clear up with her that I'm not a heartless shrew, just that I've known this for 9 days and am past (or numb to) the shock portion of grief. I go back early Thursday morning for another blood draw, which will give us more information to decide whether to proceed with this wait and see craziness, or to do the surgery. For now, I'm thankful to feel that I have a competent medical staff handling my case and I'm no longer fully responsible for overseeing my own diagnosis and medical care. So relieved about this......

happy birthday g'ma rita

2007-09-10T11:51:00.000-05:00

There's no other way to start this day than to pay tribute to a woman who taught me acceptance of others no matter where they come from or what they did, strength where others would fall apart with fear, and faith when most would become faithless. My Grandma Rita was such an inspiration for the many, many people she touched with her boundless love and heartfelt laugh. Days like today, when I'm sad, how I'd love a monster cookie and a good chat with my Grandma- she knew what to say, how to say it, and how to inspire me to stand up tall and face my fears. She also knew just how to teach me (at the young dumb age of 17) why writing a check for more than my account balance was maybe, possibly, not the best of ideas. I didn't fully realize at the time how fortunate I was to spend those years living under her roof, or how much it would come to mean to me that she was at my wedding, the only grandchild she would be able to see stand at the altar. That breaks my heart, because if there's anything she would have enjoyed, it's the upcoming weddings of Michelle and Brittany and all of those to follow. I love you, Grandma. Deep in my heart I know you're up there watching over the angels I miss so very much, your great grandchildren there with you and your parents and the circle of friends I know without a doubt you've gathered around you.

This is the only picture of Grandma I can find, taken at my wedding in June 2004

You are loved, Grandma:

I thought I'd share something that touches me right now. A song that I once listened to unaware of how it would someday speak to my heart.

(Coldplay, Fix You)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRUkGDGbJpk

When you try your best, but you don't succeed

When you get what you want, but not what you need

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse

When the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone, but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

High up above or down below

When you're too in love to let it go

If you never try you'll never know

Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

Tears stream down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down your face

And I...

Tears stream down on your face

I promise you I will learn from the mistakes

Tears stream down your face

And I...

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

austin-versary

2007-09-09T11:24:00.000-05:00

This will not be one of my happier writings. I feel like I'm in jail. Waiting for this awful process to complete itself and allow the actual healing to begin, waiting for my mind and body to start working in ways that allow me to...oh, run the vacuum or drive to the store. I'm on Day 7 of life in my bed. Where I feel safe, where I feel comfortable, where the physical pain can sometimes be managed by a heating pad or a pill. Problem is, that's getting old. My books are old, my magazines are old, and being the weekend, my TV schedule is unjustly interrupted (no noon OC drama, no 3:00 Dr. Phil, no 4:00 Oprah). I'm tired (but not sleepy), I'm sick of this, I'm hurting, and I want it over with. I. Want. My. Life. Back.

Megan left this morning. I wanted so badly to cancel her ticket or refuse her a ride to the airport, keep her as a hostage to entertain and distract me. She's one of those people in my life who sees through the outer BS and into who I am and why I feel the way I feel. And even cooler- doesn't judge what she sees there. Just sat here with me, in my bed, united in our sweats and unwashed hair watching YouTube clips of people singing about their cat. Thanks, kiddo. Now that her visit is over, what do I do? I would sure appreciate it if for once my body would cooperate and fix this mess, which would allow me to function like a human and not like a broken down mess.

Our 1 year anniversary as Austinites is today. I think of the oblivious nearly-newlyweds that rolled into town 365 days ago, boat and UHaul and high hopes in tow. The first 6 months here were so very great. Oh sure, we had ups and downs. I missed my family and friends back in the northern plains. I didn't get that job I wanted. I tried another and it was a bad fit. But overall, no complaints, life was good. J fit right in at the dealership. We enjoyed our time as SoCo-ers, walking up to Home Slice or over to Doc's whenever the mood hit. Our little apartment in the middle of everything Austin saw fun times and late nights and celebrity sightings. New friends, new experiences, and a general feeling of satisfaction that we followed a dream and accomplished it. 6 months in, we bought this house, this perfect place for us, near everything we needed, excited to make it our own.....and that's precisely when the craziness broke loose. Sitting here today, looking at the builder beige walls (lots of time to stare at walls when leaving one's bed is a challenge) I started feeling sorry for this poor House. We came in so excited and full of ideas and young and vibrant. If House had feelings, surely he was ecstatic about these young, eager, imaginative new people. But by day 2, with the appearance of that second pink line, we'd done an about face. The focus was off of the House. It shifted (irreversably? I'm hoping not) to pee sticks and baby books and health food and baby talk and baby nerves and long days of nauseau on the couch. Then to sadness and desperation and lots of mopiness on my part. Then the cycle repeated itself. And in the midst, House has been thrown to the wayside, a toy whose child found something better to do. No walls are painted, no serious or thoughtful decorating done, no indications that the people living here have much taste or personality. There are framed photos and decor stacked against walls, a garage full of boxes and entertaining ware gone ignored, and just a whole lot of potential to be a better place and a happier place too. I'm determined now, (thanks again here to my sister) once my health is restored, to focus on the House. Get this place looking like the Rhinelander house did- warm, inviting, "Mandie-and-Jonathan-ish". I miss that house sometimes, jailbird neighbor and 6 month snow cover aside. I wouldn't trade our life here for anything, but the thought of that house fills me with nostalgia. Deep down, I think it's more that I miss who we were before the changes, before this newest set of challenges. Before we knew that something we basically took as a given would be such a trial.

Losing. My. Patience.

day four

2007-09-06T11:34:00.001-05:00

Poor Henry. He's not taking this well. I adore all of the pets, but Henry has a unique way of just knowing when I'm sad or mad or upset. He refuses to go outside, wants to be no more than 2 feet from me at any given time, and just seems to be feeling this right along with me. The others- not so much. Ralph seems most interested in eating the gorgeous yellow roses sent by MIL, George has decided to make a game of hiding my glasses, my pills, my chap stick- anything small enough for him to haul off in his little kitten mouth and tuck away in the dark corners of our house. Griffin. What to say about Snappy? He's hungry, he's barky, he's incontinent. This is an old picture of H-Man, taken around his first birthday. I remember that day, just settled into our new house in Rhinelander, and fall was in full glory. I miss the fall in the midwest. Crisp air, crunchy leaves, football season, new sweaters....I digress: Megan is coming. Thank God, my sister is coming. I need someone from the outside world to come here and make me feel less insane. I'm hoping I'll be feeling okay and we can get lunch at Whole Foods, see the bats, experience Austin. If not, it's just good to have her here. I'm sure we could watch Breakfast at Tiffany's and eat ice cream and have that be just as good.

Thankful for right this moment: George curled up for his moring nap atop my medical records on my bed making adorable little twitching motions in his sleep, the aforementioned yellow roses on my dresser, Megan being on her way, my mom calling this morning and making it possible for me to breathe, Smart Water, Jodi and family just down the road if I need her, my doctor's appointments and the hope they are providing, the chat I just had with Jenny that made me remember how fortunate I am to have my friends and actually had me laughing for a minute (remembering the aftermath of a certain bachelorette party and the unfortunate resulting hangover), my plane ticket to Grand Forks in 21 days.

goodbye, grover

2007-09-05T23:51:00.001-05:00

The baby is gone. We've lost Grover. We're doing this again. It's taken days to bring myself to return here, to my online journal that I had planned to share with family and friends soon, when news of this pregnancy was public knowlege and official reason for celebration, a journal that would serve as a joyous record of all the happiness I thought was ahead. Instead, we've lost our second baby. Instead, I open this page and wince at the grainy black and white photo looming over my last entry. Who was that? We're saying goodbye, again, and I'm just not okay with this. Not okay at all.

Sunday night, 8pm, it became very clear something was wrong. Such a normal night! We grilled pork chops and corn on the cob, had a great time chatting and eating, pulled on our sweats, and were settling in to watch a pay per view movie ("The Number 23"...Jim Carrey is now forever to be associated with hell breaking loose). As the opening credits roll, Jonathan hears me screaming like a lunatic in the powder room, and (bless the man) immediately sprung to action. In what looked to me like one swooping action he grabbed the phone, the doctor's business card with the emergency number, herded the dogs out into the yard, and got his shoes on. I just knew. I knew there was no hope, I knew what was coming, I knew that once again we'd been bitch-slapped by life. I pulled on a sports bra and warmer top, thinking only of my comfort on what I knew would be a runner up for "worst moment of my life". Another tense drive to Brackenridge, another dirty, hysterical wait in the cesspool they call a waiting room, and another round of pricks, pee, repetative questions, and general absurdity all around us. Dr. V met us there and performed the ultrasound and told us with the saddest eyes what I already knew. Grover was gone. She'd grown since Tuesday but sometime in between that glorious day and this terrible night- she left us. I can only liken this feeling to being shoved off a mountain. A mountain I was on top of in April and May- enjoying the view of the year to come- pregnancy, birth, the joy of our first baby at home by the holidays, snuggled into our arms as we decorated the tree. And then shoved off of that mountain (round 1) on May 7. I climbed and clawed and did everything I could to heal myself and my body and get back onto that mountain. Worked out, ate right, took those vitamins, saw the counselor, read the books, took the ovulation tests, timed vacations to be sure not to miss any opportunity...and we did it. We made it back to the top of that mountain, we rejoiced, we let our guards down after seeing another heartbeat. We tentatively imagined a spring baby, going home for Christmas in maternity sweaters, celebrating my birthday in our last few weeks before the birth....although looking back, I don't know that I ever truly believed that was in the cards. And then....BOOM....back to the bottom we were shoved as the monitor remained still, the heartbeat gone. The drive home replays in my brain like it's some bad movie I watched, not an experience I actually lived 72 hours ago. Screaming, anger, anguish, hate, just red hot desperate emotion. Foggy interstate. Bright streaking lights flying by and blending into one against the gray background of a late summer Texas night. The Ben White loop-de-loops, the tacky red Furr's sign, the motor mile, Chili's sign glowing so ironically festive (for who I wondered? insomniac baby back rib lovers?), the familiar exits taking me further and further from the scene of the crime. The neighborhood so still, the neighbors inside clueless to the desperate cries contained inside the lone vehicle making its' way home. The whole night flashes back at random now. My husband's sad eyes in that tiny ER "private" room. The disturbingly still image on the monitor (did I even look? Or is this just my imagination?) The pain- unable to draw a line between what was physical and what was purely emotional. The sterile, scratchy, warmed blanket a futile attempt at comfort (how did they do that? Where's the dryer? I remember pondering this. I didn't hear a dryer?) The puking sounds from the other side of the curtain. The awkward glances in at us, the young couple back again, the wife once again in tears- weren't they just here? Nobody making eye contact who didn't have to. The young male nurse asking what the waterworks were about. The clock striking 1:00am and my exhausted desire to just go home, begging and pleading to J to just get me out of here. Away from the pokes, the tests, the looks, the science, and the new set of sad statistics facing us from here. And the dark dark hole swallowing me up when I walked in the door, finally home, now wanting to be anywhere else. I remember only screaming at/to J to find me my Vicodin. And tearing apart a cupboard or two in search of the pills, desperate for anything to numb this, unable to grasp that "pain killer" conquers only the physical pains, no relief in sight for the emotional pains that hurt so much worse. I've got no memory of anything after dumping the contents of one cupboard and falling to the tile in exhaustion. I suspect this dear sweet man I married picked up the pieces and guided me upstairs.

3 days have passed. (how?) I bounce between pure dogged determination to get to the root of this and fix whatever problem may be plaguing us....and back to self pity and "why me" and sweat pants and blankets. I laughed out loud for the first time at 2am this morning (watching Airline and a drunken couple missing their flight) and literally froze and looked around to see where that sound had come from. The cats are enjoying my nocturnal-ness, pleased to see their human pet coming around to their way of life. I just hurt. I miss our babies that were to be. Their losses seem so unfair. I cycle through the textbook grief laundry list- anger (and the counterparts- jealousy, frustration, helplessness, resentment, even hate), shock, denial, despair. There's guilt. I have moments of confusion. Then I get mad and determined to do anything I can to make our dreams of parenthood come true. I'll see a specialist in 11 days, one who is exhaulted in Austin as the miracle worker. It's not that I think we need a miracle, but I think we need to go straight to the top, to whoever will be as determined as we are to make this happen and make it stick.

But for now, we'll focus on us. I'm making lists of things I want to do. Simple things to get me moving- get a highlight and cut, paint a room or two, organize the closet, travel to Houston with J in a few weeks, figure out where that funky smell in the loft is originating from. Bigger things- travel to Boston to see friends, travel to DC to see a cousin, fly home to WI and go to Lambeau Field and drink a big man-beer like only a midwestern girl can, find a part time job to entertain me and pay for dinners out and trips to the Pottery Barn outlet. My dad urges me to remember the good in my life. I list things I am grateful for on scrap paper beside my bed. Jonathan. My amazing parents. My amazing siblings. My amazing in laws. The selected few other relations I let in who lift me up with their emails and calls and advice (J, M, A, J&G- you know who you are). My girlfriends quick with hugs and tears. My sweet baby pets, always steady, always loyal. My bed, a place to hide and heal. And again....the man laying beside me snoring, the man who came home from work an hour after arrival Tuesday morning when I called in hysterics, who blended me a fruit smoothie and looked at me with those eyes that for a moment make me okay, who sat beside me through all this darkness.

Good night, Grover.
Good night, Turkey Baby.
Mommy loves you.

houston, we have a HEARTBEAT!

2007-08-29T10:26:00.001-05:00

Woooo Hoooo! The appointment yesterday went so much better than I had ever imagined! I was a WRECK. I didn't sleep for more than a few hours the night before, and I nearly had a panic attack in the exam room waiting for the doctor, but I think that's not so abnormal all thngs considered. The ultrasound started and I couldn't look at the screen or Dr. V. Instead I stared up at J, watching for any sign of elation or crushing disappointment on his face. I saw him smile and my heart jumped. A moment later, Dr. V was pointing out our growing embryo and her (I'm going with "her" on this one) BEATING HEART! I was too busy sobbing to hear much after that, I had been so positive the news would be bad that I hadn't even imagined a positive outcome or how it would feel to be so HAPPY. The little one was measuring late in the 6th week, I had thought we were mid week 7, but Dr. V assured us this didn't matter since the heartbeat was present and strong. 150-160! J decided on the drive home that BabyFrazier will be called Grover for now. I'll go back in 3 weeks for another ultrasound and am feeling so positive this time. I can actually envision an April baby and hope this optimistic point of view will stick around. Oh, and the nurse said Grover has my eyes. Lucky G!

I don't want to live in Texas anymore. I walked down the stairs a few hours ago to see George creeping around on the tile hunting...something. A second later I saw what I can only imagine was the biggest, ugliest bug in Texas. A cockroach? I have no idea. Long legs, huge feelers, gi-gan-tic. This thing was nearly the size of my cell phone and I swear if he wanted to he could have eaten the cat. Sensing my fear (maybe it was the blood-curdling scream), both dogs cowered behind me on the stairs- some help they are. I called J, who (how rude is this) refused to leave work to come home and kill this thing. I don't know what's gotten into him. (haha) So I stood on the stairs and whimpered. I half hoped that would scare him to death so I wouldn't have to deal with it. I finally got myself together long enough to throw J's biggest, heaviest shoe on top of him. ::shudder:: I swear, there weren't bugs like this in Wisconsin. Only in Texas can something grow THAT big.

Have I mentioned how relieved I am today? Keep growing, Grover!

i love nausea

2007-08-26T13:48:00.000-05:00

Never has anyone been so excited to wake up feeling nauseated and run down. This morning I awoke to what seems to be a bit of morning sickness. In the first few seconds after opening my eyes, I thought "ugh...what did I drink last night? I feel funny....waaaaait....." I even woke up J to tell him with WAY too much excitement that I felt like puking. And proof positive that he's been sucked into my hysteria, he grinned and congratulated me. Please, please, please let this be a great sign. Granted, morning sickness is no guarantee of anything (I was so sick during the last pregnancy that I literally couldn't walk into a grocery store without gagging like Ralph with hairballs) but, hey, I'll take whatever signs I can get that this might be for real.

We went to Flugtag last night. (The Red Bull thing where contestants build "aircraft" and launch it off a ramp into Town Lake.) We invited J&G along, sure that an 8 and 10 year old would find this event hugely entertaining. Little did we know, 85,000 other Austinites thought this sounded entertaining. We rolled in about 90 minutes early and laid claim to a great spot down near the water, right by the ramp- perfect view, nice grassy spot to lay down our blanket, a fresh breeze- score! Not so much. By the time the event started we were in the middle of a drunken, smoky mosh pit of late arriving Flugtag enthusiasts stomping all over what used to be our blanketed territory. The boys couldn't see a thing, I was choking on the smoke (sure every breath was going straight to my uterus), and did I mention it was as hot as a big fat armpit? We took in all of one launch before we bolted. Not fun, and a total disappointment. Jacob informed us when we got home that going to school this week would definitely be more fun than Flugtag was. So at least we managed to improve his attitude about starting school. Behave, kid, or we'll take you back to Flugtag!

And you know, since it's on my mind, I just don't get smoking in public. You want to smell like a bar, ruin your complexion, yellow your teeth, and die of cancer? Cool for you, in your house, your car, whatever. But what gives you the right to share your miserable habit with me by blowing your nasty smoke breath into my air space? Or onto your KID? I actually witnessed a mom at Flugtag ash on her kid's head. She was real busy talking to what I only assume was her skeevy boyfriend on her cell, balancing herself out with a Coors Light and a lit cig in her other hand, so it totally wasn't her fault that her ashes plopped off into her toddler's greasy hair. Then she plopped down on the grass and shared with me a great view of her (sparkly Ross clearance bin) thong. Lucky kid, with a mom like that.

I think it's naptime. I'm cranky.

thank god for dvr

2007-08-24T16:47:00.001-05:00

Today, I failed miserably at the whole "positive thoughts, positive outcome" thing. Around 2:00 I burst into tears in the car driving down 1626. Hysterical, unstoppable, panicked tears. The type of cry that, had another driver noticed my hysteria, he likely would have called 911, sure the shaking, screaming woman behind the wheel of the silver Toyota was having a seizure of some kind. I cleared my eyes and had a little chat with God about things and that did help, but time is creeping by. And the bad thoughts are strong arming the good ones, and I'm just worn out. I need to know this is viable, now. Came home and crawled into bed with my laptop, a book, the remote control, and a gigantic bottle of water. I plan to stay here until J comes home and takes me to a movie. Nanny Diaries came out today. I read this book a few years ago and have been looking forward to the movie, and what better time for some mindless entertainment. But what salvaged my afternoon was the realization that my DVR had recorded a full week's worth of The OC (now playing twice daily on SoapNetwork). Nothing like watching Marissa OD in Tijuana (or "TJ" as the Newpsie kids call it) to put my problems in perspective. Get it together, Coop.

In my non-pregnancy-induced-stress-related world....I turned down a job offer last week and truth be told, am a bit sad about it. It was a part time sales position with Standard Pacific, our home builder, and an overall great company. Just the type of job I've been hoping for these past 6 months or so. Loved the guy I would have worked with. Full of energy, all about family, our "interview" was reminiscent of the sarcastic banter I so loved while working with Pete & Bryan at Coldwell. Just 3 days a week- leaving me plenty of time for the pets, the house, the detail-handling. Despite the pros, I know I made the right decision. It was a 70 mile roundtrip commute, all on I-35. Anyone familiar with this fair city knows I-35 is to be avoided, be it 1am or 11am- expect traffic. I couldn't get my head around a 1.5+ hour commute home at night. The strict 2 weeks maximum vacation time was also problematic- I've become spoiled this year. Oh, and that little pregnancy thing (back to THAT, right?) Believe me, after the slap in the face reality check last time that pregnancy does not always equal a baby, I hated to base my decision on that. But, I respected the sales manager enough to know it wasn't fair to take the job knowing I'd need a big chunk of time off in what would surely be his busiest months. So....I'll continue along with this SAHW thing. (That's Stay At Home Wife, for those who think The Nest has anything to do with birds.) My part time gig at Pottery Barn is still an option, I'll probably head back there in the next month. It's pretty sad to keep a job only to supplement a shopping addiction, but so be it.

Adios, amigos. Here's to a calm, think good thoughts kind of weekend. And more OC.

is it next week yet?

2007-08-22T17:24:00.000-05:00

As I await the ultrasound that will determine our immediate happiness, I've regressed to the patience of a 4 year old. Now is it time? Now is it? How many more sleeps? Tuesday, August 28 can not come fast enough for my liking. Feeling pretty normal. Maybe a bit hungover this afternoon, which I take as a fabulous sign. Wee bit nauseated, generally run down. Sad state I'm in that I wish I was barfing all day!

Spent day #2 with J&G, the aforementioned adorable cousins. Today I learned why mom always procrastinated for days when it was school supply shopping time and I was begging to get to the store to pick up my Lisa Frank gear and the coolest clicker pencils I could find. Jodi (my aunt, J&G's mom) asked me if I'd mind taking the boys on this errand. Remembering how FUN that was as a kid, I was all for it. Goodness! I swear teachers create those lists as an evil plot to make parents cry. "16 count Crayola crayons." Well, Mr. Crayola made 8 counts and 12 counts and 24 counts, but call me crazy, nary a 16 count in the store. And as any 5th grader will tell you, two 8 counts do not equal one 16 count. "Different col-ors." Well, duh. "5 inch scissor." The blade or the whole scissor? Meanwhile the kids (age 10 & 8) are giving me the "mom sent us shopping with a retard and we may not make it out alive" look. We got as far as "80 page spiral bound non perforated notebook" before I started twitching. We decided to call it a day and headed to Taco Bell for some stress relief. Spent the afternoon at their pool and all was good again.

So....NOW is it next week?

"the pain is a 10, nurse"

2007-08-21T15:27:00.001-05:00

So, welcome to Week 6 of what I hope will be 40. It's not been the best of starts. You'd think someone who saw such misfortune with pregnancy #1 would be issued a hassle-free-pregnancy-pass for round #2, right? Not so much. Some major left sided pain last week had me convinced this was an ectopic and was about to blow up, taking me out of this world at the ripe old age of 26 1/4. When the pain shoots up through my neck I call mom, who insists I hang up and call the doctor. The OB on call tells me in a most serious voice that he's "definitely concerned" and asks how soon I can get to the ER. Oh, boy. I kissed the pets goodbye and mentally prepared myself for what I was sure would be the worst news since.....well, May.

Note to any injured Austinites: avoid Brackenridge Hospital. Unless there's a (rusty) knife angling from your head, you're better off taking your chances, saying your prayers, and waiting it out. Think third world country. Think inner city filth, mass chaos, blood, puke of all colors, no habla ingles, and a cuffed convict or two. And by the way, when the triage nurse at the ER asks about your pain level- "rate it 1 through 10, 10 being the worst"- SAY 10! My meager 3-5 self-estimation ranked right up there with the guy with the nosebleed, guaranteeing us a last place spot in line (despite my panicky, tear-streaked face and obvious distress). A 4 hour wait (still panicky, still crying, still distressed) and and the subsequent stressful 3 hours of explaining and re-explaining and re-explaining again to every doctor and nurse who came to poke, prod, insert, or draw.......and the most uncomfortable, nerve wracking ultrasound in history.....and we get perhaps the best news so far- no ectopic suspected. Apparently a cyst was causing all the pain. Phew. There's the beginnings of a tiny little bean setting up residence in my uterus. It's small, but it's there. And I hope it likes its' new home and decides to stay. 2am, we're on our way home, blissfully relieved that for now, we've dodged a bullet. I look over at my husband's tired face in the driver's seat and think once again how amazingly lucky I am to have found this guy. And how badly I want a little one with a face just like his for us to love.

Life these days is up and down and more than a little nervewracking. I don't have the joyful innocence of the average mommy-to-be. In fact, I have yet to acknowledge there might actually be a baby in there. We see the doctor again next week for what I consider the "make or break" ultrasound. By that point (7 weeks, 4 days) an embryo with a beating heart should be clearly visible. I tell myself that it's only at that point that I'll allow a bit of excitement to creep in. Other girls tell the world and buy baby books and start thinking names and nursery themes. I use phrases like if, maybe, in case, and if we're lucky- never daring to dream that this may possibly end up with an April baby. Gotta protect this heart of mine.

In other news......well.....not much to report there. This whole procreating thing has proven entirely consuming. Surviving what's left of this Texas summer (who knew I'd ever look forward to winter?) Slowly getting the house to look like we actually live here. Hanging with a couple cool as can be little cousins before they head back to school in a week. Basically, trying to keep busy for another week and remain hopeful. Hope. Hope. Hope.

and here we go again

2007-08-20T17:35:00.000-05:00

Date: July 31, 2007

Place: Madison, WI

Time: 6am

Is that? No, it couldn't be? But it looks like.....a second, pink line. 3 months after my miscarriage, and I'm struggling to breathe. I've only tested because I'm in a wedding this weekend. (I'm pretty positive I haven't gotten pregnant this cycle, but before I go to town on the white wine train, I'd better be sure. We don't need a three legged baby.) The line is faint. I run down the hall, desperate for a second set of eyes to confirm that I haven't officially lost my mind and started imagining lines. And maybe drive me to the nuthouse if I have. Mom's dead asleep but leaps out of bed when she sees what her eldest (and perhaps at this moment, craziest) daughter is holding. 6:17am, we're in her bathroom, staring at what most definitely is a faint pink line. And, my friends, a line is a line. A line means you're pregnant. A line means, holy shit, where's the Tylenol. (Right, Clark?) And yes, my mom knew before my husband. As this newest pink line developed, he is 1,257 miles away, on his way to work with no way of knowing he's about to partake in "Pregnant Wife Craziness, Round 2". Can't tell the guy by phone.

The week drags on, I test every morning in the wee dark hours, sure this pregnancy will be yanked away from me before it begins....and they're all positive. Jonathan arrives for the wedding and the look of excitement when I share the news in our hotel room after the rehearsal dinner is unmistakable this time. I pull out the tests and just stand there, shaky and grinning. He's happy, I'm happy, We're pregnant. Scared, nervous, pukey (she), and tipsy (he)....but pregnant. We do a little dance around our room and head off to join our friends for drinks (for him, duh).

However, as any newly pregnant OCD woman knows, it's not true until you get a positive digital test. So to Target we go for that important $10 test the morning after the wedding. ("$10? For a PREGNANCY TEST?" Bet you can't guess who said that. Hint: not me.) No time to actually take it, we're on our way to drop dear husband off at the airport. I figure I'll "hold it" through the 3.5 hour drive up to the lake house, where I'm spending the week with my family before going home, and test immediately upon arrival. I already know I'm pregnant (the 4 tests in the zipper compartment of my purse say so) but I need the literal proof. I need to see the word. If I had any shame, I'd be hesitant to share that this particular test was taken at a truck stop in Curtiss, Wisconsin. It's a really nice truck stop, if that helps. Obviously, patience isn't a strong suit for me. I pull over to said truck stop, race to the lady's, do the pee test, stare at it with a pumping heart as it considers my destiny......and jump up and down and all around in that truck stop bathroom stall when the proof pops up. "Pregnant." I calm down, stash the test with its' cohorts in my purse, buy some cheese, and hit the road.

here i am

2007-08-20T17:02:00.001-05:00

I've decided to try my hand at this whole blog thing. I enjoy talking (about me) and internetting, and figure I could use a place to empty my head. Journaling was another option, but it hurts my hand.

Where to start. I feel like you (all 1 of you who are lost and/or so bored that you care to read my ramblings) need to know the basics. I'm 26, an Aries, proud "mama" to a herd of pets like no other, and married to quite possibly the kindest, cutest man in Texas. Or the whole US. Or...well, you get it. He's fantastic. We had life all figured out by the ripe old age of 23 in Rhinelander, WI. He had a promising career in the car business, my real estate career was going nowhere but up, and we had the cozy house, the adorable dogs, the spoiled cats, and the predictable comfortable future. Then we got bored. We missed city life. I missed SuperTarget. We wanted to move, and we wanted to move now. Forget snow, forget predictability, forget cheese and beer. Sold the house, quit the jobs, packed the pets, and to Texas we went. Austin, to be exact. We found home in September 2006. This city fits us and we don't plan to leave.

2007 dawned on us (Mandie & Jonathan) as a normal, happy, content mid-20-something couple. We toasted to a new year in Playa Del Carmen, totally oblivious to what the months ahead would bring or how they were about to change us. We knew kids were in our future (or, we sure hoped they were). Exactly when "our future" was was up for debate, "by 30" I would say, meaning "27". "Or 35" Jonathan would add, meaning "40". No hurry, but definitely an exciting prospect. Then March came, and a fun night out on 6th street, and exactly 2 weeks later I found myself shaking in the bathroom at 4am with a stick most definitely featuring two lines. Two pink, pregnant, life changing lines. NOW we'd done it! I immediately took to the mommy-to-be role, devouring 6 or so pregnancy books the day the test turned pink and immediately clearing the kitchen of any evil food that could possibly, theoretically hurt this new life (buh-bye, Diet Dew...see ya, feta cheese). And Jonathan, he came around when the hyperventilation slowed and he could see straight through his frightened tears. We had it all! Brand new house, a steady job (uh, his), young healthy parents.....November 27 couldn't come soon enough.

Sent to Megan in Spain to share the news:

The first appointment came and was a complete success. At 7 weeks, our little bean was alive and well, heart beating and right on schedule. The doc assured us it was time to relax, our chances of a healthy baby now looked very (very) good. Woo Hoo! Time to celebrate, right? After all, the books I had and the people I knew told me chances of a pregnancy loss after seeing that glorious little beating heart were so low, I had no cause for concern. I jumped off that exam table with visions of our fall baby alive and well. Extended families and friends (and grocery store cashiers) were told the news, as we were confident the newest Frazier was as close to a sure thing as could be.

We continued. I was sick, and slept my days away, but was quick to point out it was all okay as long as the baby was okay. And we assumed he/she was. Until 4 weeks later. Without dragging out all the sordid, sad, and all too raw details, that little heart was no longer beating at 11 weeks. I say with all honesty that my life was divided laying there on that examination table that day (May 7, 2007). Before the loss (glorious naive joy) and after the loss (bitter sad reality).

The months that have followed, well, we've survived them. A tiny new kitten joined the crazy mix. More plants were planted than I knew were plantable. (See the nurturing trend? Thanks to my therapist, aka Mrs. Obvious, for pointing out my need to "mother" in a turbulant time.) My mom came to stay, Jonathan and I took a vacation to Hawaii, I took another to California, then another back home to WI. The travel helped. So did shopping. Ikea, Nordstrom, or amazon.com- no matter, as long as it momentarily filled that aching hole in my heart. In the back of my mind, though, I knew only one thing would improve this situation.... End Scene.