the most prettiest #s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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......