layover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.