23 weeks

So, here I am in all my glory.
I look not so hot because we've been cleaning the house, shoveling, etc. all day. I could look happier, also.
Eh. Here it is. A 23 week belly shot.
Enjoy.

Mom suggets a name

My mother called me to suggest a baby name.
My father's name.

Very interesting. And to suggest my mother and father don't get along is a vast understatement. It would be less of an understatement to suggest that Hitler was a touch cranky and vaguely homicidal.

I'd have suggested the name myself, but I was truly afraid of how my mother would react. I didn't want her to think of my father EVERY time she said my son's name. And all that would come with.

My father and I have a bit of a checkered past. But it's just that: the past. So I'm not even going to get into it. Our bad history was a very brief period of my life and otherwise, I have the most wonderful memories of my father. And since becoming a "real" grown up (you know, out of college, career, etc), my father and I have patched our differences and are very close. I always thought naming my child after him would be a very touching way to honor my father and really, once and for all, put our bad chapter behind us. But how could I do that when I know how my mother feels about him? Who would that hurt more? My mother or my son? It was a no-win situation for me. I suggested my father's middle name as a middle name. It's a family name and one my mother respects. So that would probably have been OK. But the HG is not a fan. And in all fairness, it's not a great name. But it was a compromise. Ultimately, we bagged the idea altogether and settled on a different name. We thought. (Hey, I'm prone to changing my mind and we don't want a bunch of personalized stuff if this kid is going to get a last minute name change in the delivery room.)

Then mom called.
And now I'm torn. Because as much as I love the idea of naming my son after my father, we were really quite set on our other name. I realize we still have a few months to make this decision, but I have grown quite attached to calling my son by his (potential) first name. So what to do? We don't know that we'll have more children. Or even more sons for that matter! We can't very well just "save" one for next time. And we love both names.

So, I'm putting it to vote. Not that we'll absolutely go with the winning name. But hey, it might help us figure it out.
Either that or we'll change our minds completely and name this kid Dweezel in the delivery room.
Hey, it could happen. Epidurals are crazy things.

I have an announcement.

I am pregnant.

Yup, that's right. I'm pregnant.

I realize this may come as a shock to you, but I feel it's time to stop hiding it. The mood swings? It's really not my fault. Trust me, I'd like nothing more than to not be a basket case most of the time. There are times I can see myself from outside myself and I think, "Whoa girl. Simmer." But I swear, it feels like I have the worst case of PMS I've ever had, 24 hours a day 7 days a week. Have I mentioned I married a saint?

On Saturday, I literally collapsed in sobs. Naked. In the middle of the hallway. Why? Because the plow guy didn't do a very good job. I mean, yes, there's more to the story, but that's really the gist of it.

On Sunday, the HG and I were putting together the snow thrower we had to buy after the plow guy screwed up. And I started to panic when I couldn't get the screws in right. The HG said, "Hey, calm down." And I screamed, "You have NO IDEA. JUST NO IDEA." in response. "Um, no idea about what?" Yeah. I have no idea. I think I was annoyed that we were putting the snow thrower together in my kitchen. Still, though. No idea why I lost it like that.

Today, I yelled at the AT&T customer service rep because she wanted the HG's SS number to verify our account. Ok, never mind that I'm on the account as well. And never mind that all I wanted was a replacement phone for the POS they sent me last time my phone broke (hi, it's less than 6 months old and I'm on replacement number 2....). And I think it's a royal load of BS that they need my husband's permission to do that like it's 1952 (Oh, all RIGHT, they need the primary account holder's permission. Don't nit pick.). But regardless. I think it's entirely possible I overreacted a touch when I hung up on her. Twice.

So, I believe it's entirely possible that I'm pregnant. And losing my mind. Why, oh why, is Xanax contraindicated with pregnancy? It would be best for at least my little portion of the free world if I could take something.

Or, absent that, at least get some sleep. I know your body goes through changes in pregnancy to get you ready for parenthood. I do truly believe this. Every pregnant woman I have ever spoken to says she cannot sleep. So I do realize that some of what I'm going through is preparation for the sleepless nights I'll deal with in a few months. But come on. It seems cruel. Nature should work the other way. This is the time you should get your best sleep ever. You know. To stock up.

Also, you should be at your most rational right now. I mean, in a few months my hormones will be running rampant and I'll be exhausted. AND I'll have a new little life to care for. Can't we talk to someone about this? Is this one of those things we get to blame on Eve? You know, like our periods? I'm telling you, that chick and I are gonna TALK when I see her.

In addition to the acid reflux, strange cravings (Peanut butter on eggs, anyone?), weight gain, bloat, and leaky boobs (hot!), I'm sure the the mood swings and exhaustion are irrefutable evidence that I'm pregnant. As if there was any doubt.

But you know, it's not all bad.

Right now, as I type, my little man is throwing a dance party in my belly. I'll take the weight gain, bloat, and leaky boobs for this little guy any day of the week.

I just wonder if the people around me are willing to take the mood swings.

I want a bump!

I have no bump.
I'm just a big fat cow. With no bump.

I see all these pretty pictures of women with the most adorable baby bumps. And I have bump envy. I want one. All I have is a fat belly and then a not fat, but looks like fat, belly. It is decidedly NOT a bump. It's....blob. I have a baby blob.

Pregnancy is not glamorous, and I never really expected it to be, but frankly, I'm just miserable today. I'm hormonal and cranky. And fat and gross.

And I worry about my little man constantly. I just want it to be 16 weeks from now so my little guy can be born safely. There is so much sadness in the world and I wonder why how I'm so lucky. I keep waiting for bad news. And I just love this little man so much, I cannot imagine not having him in my life and the thought of it scares me so much, some days I can't NOT think it.

There is nothing I love more than sitting on my couch and feeling my little man swimming around in there. I love all the punches and jabs he gives me. The other day, I swear he did a full flip. He was kicking down low, then I felt a rolling motion, and then he was kicking up high. It was quite seriously the coolest thing ever. Have I mentioned how much I love this little guy?

And the HG loves him too. He talks to my belly (um...blob....) every night. "Daddy loves you, little man. Grow big and strong so you can come see us!" How does that not just melt your heart? He's going to be the best dad in the world. He already worries about taking the best possible care of him. He's always been very conscious of our finances, but now he's like a Wall Street broker, the way he watches everything like a hawk. Not in an overbearing way--in a cute, doting father kind of a way. And he talks about how he's going to play catch with him and take him to Dunkin Donuts on Saturday mornings before going to the park. It's just so cute.

We just love this little man so much. Can we just please fast forward to April so he's here safe and sound? I want to kiss all his little toes and squeeze his little bum. And I can't wait to cradle him up against my chest with him curled up into my shoulder. I want to know if he has my nose and the HG's eyes. Will he be cursed with the evil toes of his father, or will he have model perfect feet like his mom (hey, something on me should be model perfect!)? Oh....and that lovely baby smell. I can't wait for that.

I know that what I'm feeling is perfectly normal and I'm certainly not the first woman to love her unborn child so much, the thought of NOT having him is overwhelming. It just seems that if I have to be a hormonal basket case, I could at least be blessed with a cute baby bump.
I'm just sayin.

It's Christmas Time!

Thank goodness it's Christmas Time! Because Thanksgiving is not for the faint of heart.

At least mine wasn't.

It started off well. The HG and I went to visit his family in Florida. As I've mentioned on many occasions, flying is not my favorite activity. I've had fillings I enjoyed more. The time I fractured my ankle ranks higher than flying. There are really only a couple of events that are lower on my list of things to do than flying. But fly I must if I want to spend the holidays with my husband. So I suck it up and go. Generally all hopped up on Xanax. One to get to the airport. One to get on the plane. One with every bump of turbulence. And it works well. I don't even draw blood on the HG's hand (anymore).

On the flight TO Florida, I was a champ. I got to the airport and on the plane without even the slightest hesitation. And no Xanax. I "breathed" through the take-off. (Ok, I actually prayed constantly. And repeated "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" and "Let go and let God" and singing various praise songs that popped into my head "God is so good, he's so good to me".) But whatever. I did it. And there was virtually NO turbulence. AND the flight was not full so I even had an empty seat next to. Best flight ever! Our luggage was the first out of the baggage claim! This vacation is going to rock!

And then we went to pick up our rental car.
And it went down hill from there.

Rich, my new anti-BFF started with the attitude. Ok, ok. I know I'm not known for my love of the people on the other side of the counter, but for real. This guy was a piece of work. At this point in my pregnancy, I'm clearly pregnant. Or at least really fat wearing maternity clothes. Either way, there is certainly enough of a question that you shouldn't mess me with. And secondly, it was after midnight. Ok, so I was really, really tired. And HOT. It was 20 degrees when we left Boston...and over 70 when we landed in FL. And I had a sweater and a fleece on. SO I'm hormonal, hot, and tired. And Rich was coping attitude. I didn't understand what he said when he asked for our phone number. So I said, "I'm sorry?" (I said it nicely. I PROMISE! I swear, this is true. The HG will vouch for me.) His reply: "PHONE.NUMBER." (really slowly..like you would to a 2 year old) Um, excuse me? Did you really just say that? Anyway, I let it go. I figured I'd have to fight about not taking the insurance and wanted to save up my sweet customer points. Rich wasn't having it. We had a similar exchange at least 3 times with different questions. I let it all go. I was too tired. I really just was. And then. After giving me a quick look over he said, "Is the Chevy Alero ok or do you want something, um, bigger?" He was very clearly insinuating that I'd be happier in a bigger car. Oh, no you didn't. (Insert finger snaps here) Ok, that's it buddy, we're gonna battle.

But I didn't. I was sweet. (Hi, can I get some karma points, PLEASE?? apparently not. Read on)

We got in the matchbox car Chevy is calling an "economy" car and headed to the family house without further incident. Which is too bad. Because had there been a problem on the way to the house, I would have assumed the trip was doomed and insisted we drive back to the airport and grab the next flight home. But instead, I assumed the rental car guy was an isolated incident and the rest of the trip would be great.

How wrong, how wrong, how wrong I was.
Once we got into the house and ready for bed (ahhhh....BED), I realized that I left my wrist braces at home and would have to sleep without them. That was a mistake. The HG woke up and found me in tears the next morning. Between his snoring (Dear Lord, how does he not wake himself up? Seriously.) and the stabbing pain in my arms, I got no sleep. My arms hurt so badly, that had I not known it was because of my carpal tunnel, I'd have headed to the ER. But Ok. It's fine. I'm in FL, the weather is fantastic, and I can fix the arm pain with some new braces. The worst is behind me, right?

Wrong. I made the mistake of checking my work email. The first one I read said, "I know you're sort of on vacation, but.....". Sort of? SORT OF? There is no sort of. I am ACTUALLY on vacation. Except for the next 2 days apparently, because I spent half of each of the first two days working. Lovely. But really, at this point, there's no place to go but up.

Right? Wrong.

Everything was great right up until Thanksgiving dinner. Or rather, right up until AFTER Thanksgiving dinner. Dinner was wonderful. I am a huge fan of butternut squash and my diabetes nutritionist informed me that I can have a WHOLE CUP of mashed butternut squash versus a lousy half cup of mashed potatoes (For real? 1/2 a cup? What's the point of that?) So for the first time, we had butternut squash for Thanksgiving while in Florida. I made it. And it.was.fantastic. I decided I was so good at dinner (3 slices of turkey, my cup of squash, one roll, and some green beans) that if the HG and I took a nice long walk, I could afford to have some pumpkin pie (mmmm....pie....). So I hit up the bathroom first. Hey, I'm pregnant. You have to prepare for long walks.

And that's where I saw the terrifying sight. Blood. Again. (Come ON, it's Thanksgiving for crying out loud!) But rather than panic, I decided to take the walk and see what happened when we got back. So we took it easy and walked to the lake. It's a nice lake and lots of people in the neighborhood had Christmas lights up. And the weather was beautiful. Mid 60's, low 70's, not a cloud in the sky. Too bad I didn't enjoy any of it. The second we got home, I ran to the bathroom and hoped to see nothing.

It was a futile hope. So the HG and I called my OB, who I have to say, was fantastic. She told me that I was fine, but for peace of mind to head to the nearest ER with an OB department. If I was having cervix problems, she didn't want me on a plane the next day. So we headed back to the family room and said, "Oh hey, so we're gonna take a ride. Um...where's the nearest hospital with an OB department?" We're so subtle. And stealth... nobody suspected a thing. (Ok, that's not true, but it did ease our path to the door....)

Anyway, very long story short, our little Nutter is just fine. A big pudger, measuring 2 weeks ahead by weight and a week ahead by length. So big, but fine. Whew. Once again, it's just my cranky cervix. I over did the walking, cooking, flying...etc. So I'm back on pelvic rest for the duration of this pregnancy. My doc wants me to continue walking and I can swim. But nothing more than light walking. And no sex. Sigh. Poor HG. He's such a trooper.

Ok, so Nutter man is fine. I'm fine. We can head home. 2 hours on a plane and everything will be fine.
Huh.

I had a bad, bad feeling about getting on the flight. But then I ALWAYS have a bad, bad feeling about getting on the plane. So I sucked it up and got on. But this was different. I could not shake the feeling that being on that plane was the worst idea ever.

And while it turns out that it wasn't the worst idea EVER, it wasn't a good idea, either. We hit the worst turbulence I've every felt with in 15 minutes of take off. I woke up the HG (that boy can sleep through ANYTHING) and tearfully told him I wanted off the plane. Immediately. He suggested that perhaps leaving the plane at that moment was not the best plan I'd ever had. Alright, I'll give him that. The turbulence settled down, but I was still very nervous. More nervous than I've been on a plane in about 5 years. I was just terrified and I didn't know why.

It seems that there really is such a thing as women's intuition. Since we fly into Boston, we fly right over Providence, RI. Once we got there, the pilot come on the intercom and said "Due to some heavy wind sheer in Boston, we're in a holding pattern here until they can change up some runways to clear us to land."

Ok, now to a normal person, this is a not a scary announcement. But I am NOT a normal person (Hi, if you think I am, you've clearly not been reading for long.) I read those fear of flying websites. Or rather, I used to read those fear of flying websites. I have since learned that they just scare me more. But I did manage to learn enough to know that wind sheer is actually the only kind of turbulence that can bring a plane down. Oh.freaking.joy.

After about 15 minutes of circling (during which time I prayed they'd just have to land us in Providence. That's cool. I have friends in Providence...I'd get home. No problem. Land the plane...) we were cleared to land in Boston. And land we did. Praise the Lord. After 10 minutes of the plane being pushed from side to side and several nose down drops that caused passengers to scream, babies to cry, and flight attendants to visibly panic, we landed. Dear Lord. I might never get on a plane again. If you've ever seen the movie The Day After Tomorrow, picture the plane scene in that movie and you'll have an idea of what we went through. Terrifying does not even begin to describe the last 10 minutes of that flight. The HG didn't want me to know how scared he was, but later he admitted that he was a bit concerned that he'd die watching "True Life: I'm a Shopaholic" on MTV. (Ok, now that's just funny.)

I shook for a good three hours after the flight. I cried for no reason several times that afternoon. But we were home.
And my Thanksgiving was over.

And now it's time for Christmas! I can't wait! I'm so blessed this year. So happy for everything we have. So happy to be pregnant and having this little man. It is such a change from last Christmas when the baby nazi made her monthly appearance on Christmas day.

I am so happy to be past that.

Best Dressed Class of 2027

I'm starting the little man off right.
Look what I bought him today. I love it. The little bear on the bum is just too cute for words.

http://preview.tinyurl.com/6qs8vo
http://preview.tinyurl.com/5gqlov

That is all.

Well that's.....new.

So, it turns out that Poppy isn't so much a Poppy as a Poppi.
Seems my little girl has an extra part.

And he is NOT shy about showing it off! If I didn't want to know what I was having, I would now, regardless. there was simply no mistaking what was on the ultrasound screen. The little man, who will thus forth be known as "Nutter" (I will explain later), was happy to show us the goods whenever the wand was anywhere near his legs. Whenever the ultrasound wand was near his face, he covered his face with his hands. Apparently he's only partially camera shy. I love him already!

Everything looks great, according to the U/S tech. Unfortunately, the doctor wasn't there so we don't know everything yet, but she did say that she'd tell me if there appeared to be a problem. So, I'm going with the idea what everything is OK. Except for one minor setback....
Our little Nutter was NOT very cooperative when it was time to get a good look at his heart. The good news is that because we couldn't get all the views we needed, I get to see my little man on December 10th again.

The bad news is that crazy girl (Hi! That would be me!) is going to obsess over it for the next two weeks. Maybe there was a problem and she didn't want to tell me. Maybe there is a problem she couldn't see. Who knows? Rational girl (um, anyone see her? Bueller?) knows that everything is probably fine. We've had a million ultrasounds and a lot tests all pointing to the fact that our little Nutter is just fine. So do I still worry over every little thing?

But I'm trying to put that out of my mind. Because if I start, the list of crazy gets longer and longer.
And longer.
As an example. I hate to fly. Hate it. And we're going to Florida on Sunday. And if I let my imagination run crazy, I can come up with at least 15 reasons the plane will crash and I'll meet a fiery death after spending 10 agonizing minutes knowing the plane is going down.
See? This is not rational. Whenever something good happens, I'm convinced that on the other side of that coin is something terrible. So terrible the bad is worse than the best good.

So really, it's best not to even get going there. Instead, let's talk about how Nutter got his name.

A few years ago (this is so funny, given all we've been through), the HG and I had a condom malfunction (Dear Trojan, can we get a refund on all the money we spent on condoms??). We decided we'd just let nature take it's course and if I ended up pregnant, that would be fine. Bad timing, but fine. Good times. Anyway, I asked him what he thought we should name the baby, if one should appear. "Fluffy". Leave it to a man.

Clearly we didn't end up with a Fluffy, but Fluffy became the name we used when we discussed all of our future children. After a while, it occurred to me that Fluffy, sort of like Poppy, was a rather girly name. We needed a boy name as well. And what goes better with Fluff than peanut butter? But "Peanut" and "Butter" seemed sort of silly. Besides, Fluff + Peanut Butter on bread=Fluffer Nutter. And thus, Nutter was born. We're not normal. I'm fine with that.

But for the past three years, we have been discussing Nutter at length. Sometimes Nutter ends up as a Pro Baseball player. And sadly, sometimes poor Nutter ends up on the short bus. Hey, you have to be realistic. But now that Nutter is a reality, I'm quite certain he'll be an All Star catcher. You should see this kids thighs. He's well prepared for squatting all day.

In addition to his already beefy thighs, our little man weighs just over half a pound. I'm so proud of our little man! Average for the end of 17 weeks is between 5 and 7 ounces. Our little Nutter is a beefy 8 ounces. Sadly, I think most of that weight is coming from his larger than average head. Yeah. That'll be fun. Thanks HG for passing THAT lovely trait to your son.

But all in all, the little Nutter looks good. His heartbeat was nice and strong and he has 10 fingers, 10 toes, 2 arms, and 2 legs. We saw his little kidneys, bladder, and liver. He has all his parts! Not to mention the cutest little baby bum ever. He had the hiccups and was practicing his swallowing. **Swoon** I just can't wait to meet my little man.
(Um, Nutter, just so I'm clear, I can't wait to meet you in APRIL. Feel free to hang out in there for a few more months.)

I'm not sure I'll ever be over the shock that my "little girl" has an extra part, though! I'm THRILLED he's a boy. But just flat out shocked! I can't wait to tell him his first name was Molly. His therapist will love that.

I'm so old.

I hope I'm just old.
If not, I'm an idiot.

I think I'm the last person on earth who cannot figure out Facebook. I just spent the last45 minutes searching for people I know. Or rather, knew. I suppose if I still knew them, I wouldn't have to spend 45 minutes looking for them on Facebook. But let's not nitpick. You'd think that in 45 minutes, I'd find someone. Or at least figure out how to narrow a search down from, oh say the 5000 hits I got on one name, to something usable. But you'd be wrong.

In the interests of not embarrassing myself for the person I was looking up, let's just say that some names are entirely too common. How the heck does anyone find anyone on Facebook? You hear stories all the time (um, perhaps I'm the only one who hears them...I also hear voices...so maybe don't judge this by me) of how people connected with old friends on Facebook. HOW? I just want to know. I mean, perhaps if your best friend from elementary school was Penelope Dorothy Nicademous you'd be able to find her. But say her name is Sarah Smith. Don't hold your breath. Unless you're not me. In which case, please send Sarah my love. Because you will certainly find her.

Ok, so while I was searching for people who don't want to be found by me (I hate you all. And don't need you. So there.) I decided to try to figure out how my wall works. And what, exactly are the gifts I keep getting. Frankly, I can't figure it out. I really can't. I do, however know why high school kids all over the place aren't getting their homework done. They're busy planting facebook trees (or whatever) and cropping out shots of beer cans in their profile pictures. And it's fine. Really, it doesn't often bother me that I can't figure these things out.

But, um. Just like high school I haven't been nominated for any superlatives. And I'm still hurt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And in other news, Poppy and I had a doctor's appointment today. Where there has been further proof that the Poppy is doing whatever she can to give me a run for my money for the next 5 months.

We'll start with the good news. Poppy has a strong heartbeat of 150ish BPM. At 16 weeks, they expect the heartbeat to be anywhere between 120 and 180 BPM. I love that Poppy managed to find the number smack in the middle. Average in pregnancy makes me very happy. How can you complain about that?

Also, despite being a bottomless pit for the past 4 weeks, and bracing myself to be yelled at for my weight gain, I only gained ONE pound since my last appointment. Turns out I can't button anything because I'm pregnant. Not just because I'm fat. Who knew?

And finally, my uterus is right where it should be right now. And in the best news EVER, it's right where I've been feeling some flutteries. I'm not sure if it's wishful thinking or if it's real, but how exciting that it could be my little poppy moving around in there! She's really making herself at home. Which is what we're going for. Move on in Poppy. Hang some pictures. Get to know your neighbors (please don't get too friendly with Mr. Bladder....mommy spends too much time in the bathroom as it is). I'll eat more pizza as a welcome to the neighborhood gift if it makes you happy. In a few months, you can come out and play. When it's warmer. Just skip the winter. Spring is a lovely time to born.

So that's the good news. The not so good news is that I have the worst carpel tunnel known to man. My OB said "Oh, that's not good!" She seemed very, very concerned about it. Enough to briefly panic me until she said "Oh, not that it's a problem for the baby! It'll just get worse and you have 24 weeks to go. Your third trimester is going to be difficult." Gee. Thanks for the pep talk. So I'm off to see my PCP on Wednesday for a referral to a specialist. Apparently it is not normal to have to sleep sitting up with your arms propped up on pillows so your arms don't feel like someone is stabbing them with a hot knife. Who knew?

And she geared me up for the really bad news. She is pretty sure that at some point, I'll end up on insulin. I'm hoping that'll be later, rather than sooner. But at 16w, that is NOT a conversation you want to have with your doctor. I want to keep Poppy as safe as possible for as long as possible. And I hate the idea that my body might betray me. Again. But at least we know early and can keep an eye on everything. And hey, I'm really good at giving myself shots.

Oh oh! And my blood pressure was superfly low! The lowest it's been all pregnancy! Whoo hooo!!! Pre-Eclampsia scares me so every week my BP stays low is a happy week indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And quickly. One more thing I don't understand. If the secret service is going to give someone a code name, and that code name is made public, doesn't it kind of defeat the purpose of using a code name in the first place? Just wondering.
I wonder if Renegade has a Facebook page. Probably. Such a "man of the people" (insert gag here)

Alright. That's IT!

I love Private Practice. Love it. It's probably one of my favorite shows.

But I have HAD IT with inaccurate medical procedures on that show. Specifically the inaccurate infertility treatments they show.

Last year one of the episodes showed 2 of the doctors doing an egg retrieval, sperm retrieval, ICSI, and embryo transfer all in one day. The woman did not have any fertility drugs to stimulate her ovaries, thicken her lining, nothing. Then they pronounced her "pregnant".
Sigh.

Tonight, they are attempting to get a 17 year old girl pregnant. She was awake during the egg retrieval. Her mother was present and her husband joined them part way through the procedure. And now the entire family is watching the ICSI procedure. And according to Naomi, she'll be pregnant in 24 hours.
Bigger sigh.

Let me explain the finer points of IVF. It starts with a month of Birth Control pills and lupron (or some other drug) to stop your body from ovulating so your doctor can control when you ovulate the following month. Then, if blood tests confirm you are sufficiently "suppressed", you take a cocktail of drugs (all injected--none of these are oral drugs) to stimulate your ovaries. After weeks of ultrasounds to confirm you are producing enough eggs, you have an egg retrieval. Under twilight. A very long needle is jammed into your private parts and you cannot be awake during that procedure. You can't have any perfumes, hair spray, lotions, etc on your body that day because the eggs are so fragile. While you are having the egg retrieval, your husband is busy providing his half of the DNA. And you can be darn sure he won't be in the same room with you. Nor would your mother. 17 or not.

Once your eggs have been successfully harvested, they are generally mixed in a petri dish with your partner's contribution to this blessed event. It is NOT common, as TV shows would have you believe, to do an ICSI procedure. ICSI is when the sperm is inserted directly into the egg. It's a procedure that is only done in certain instances. Anyway.

The embryos need to three to five, sometimes six days to mature. To split. To grow. This makes perfect sense. During a "natural" pregnancy, the egg is fertilized in the fallopian tube not the uterus. The environment is different in the two places. You cannot place a recently fertilized egg directly into the uterus, it needs time to mature in an environment that more closely matches the fallopian tube. So no, it's not going to go right into the uterus the second it's fertilized.

And finally, just because and embryo has been transferred, it does NOT mean you are pregnant. You have a 40-60% chance of success on any one round of IVF. I know many, many wonderful women who were not successful during IVF. I was one of them. (yes, i realize I just called myself wonderful. What can I say? I call 'em like I see 'em)

Ok, so I realize I'm nitpicking and it's just a TV show. And the sciecne behind the procedure isn't really the point. But I think it's important that people understand infertility. So many couples struggle with it. It's so very common. And so very misunderstood. And the more bad information that's out there, the worse the perceptions get.

For example, yes, I got pregnant naturally. And every time I tell someone my story, I get the same response. "Oh, isn't it great how once you relaxed, you got pregnant" or "They say all you have to do is relax." or "I know so many women who got pregnant when they gave up!".

Let's clear a few things up.
I did not relax.
I did not give up.
and my baby is a miracle 2 years in the making.

2 years, a miscarriage, a failed IVF, surgery and 2 months of weight loss in the making.
Yeah, I was wicked relaxed.

I just hate that shows like this diminish the hard work that goes into advanced reproductive therapies. It's emotionally exhausting. It's physically exhausting. It's a lot more than a quick trip to the doctor.

And I think people should know that.

And vent over. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

I'm baack...

Hope you all missed me. You should have. If nothing else, I'm entertaining. And modest.

Here is a quick run down of what's been going on:
Nothing scary!

Yay!
Our little Poppy seems to be just as healthy as possible. On October 15th, we had what's called a Nuchal Translucency Ultrasound. Basically they measure the space under the baby's neck and combine that measurement with some factors found in your blood to determine the risk for Down's Syndrome and other major chromosomal defects. The lowest risk is 1 in 10,000. At my age, the average risk is just over 1 in 300.
Ours is 1 in 10,000. That, combined with all the ultrasounds we've had showing no concerns mean that the odds are very, very good that our wonderful little Poppy is healthy.

Praise the Lord.

Also, I was able to get a "probable" diagnosis for all of the spotting I had. A "friable cervix". Sounds fancy, huh? It's not. It's actually quite dull. Pregnancy increases the amount of blood flow in your body...and it increases it everywhere. Even your cervix. And my cervix was just superfly sensitive. Since I had to use progesterone suppositories, I was irritating it every night. After all of that, I got the most boring diagnosis ever.

Does it sound like I'm complaining about that? I'm not. Not at all. When it comes to pregnancy, I feel like boring is better. Bring on the boring. I'm alllll about the boring.

Oh, except for when it comes to my little Poppy. This little baby is just about the most exciting thing ever. He/She is a tiny dancer. Every time we see her on the ultrasound screen, she'd just dancing up a storm. I hope she has better moves than her mom does. Either that or I hope she's a he so it won't matter. (Other things I hope Poppy doesn't inherit from me: procrastination, small feet, slow metabolism coupled with a love for food and loathing of exercise, hair that won't hold a curl (if it's a girl), stubby fingers. Poor Poppy. Saddled with me as a mother. I've said it before, and I'll say it again. Screw the college fund. I'm starting a therapy fund.)

At our last major ultrasound, Poppy was very naughty and wouldn't get into the right position for measurements. We tried everything. Shaking my belly. Wiggling my hips. Poking my belly with the ultrasound wand. Moving the table around. Everything. Poppy was not having it. He was, however, happy to wave at us. I think he was mocking us. "Hi mom, hi dad! I know you want me to move....I'm not up for it right now.... but Hi!"

In just over 2 weeks, we'll have our "big ultrasound". This one make sure all the internal organs are developing correctly. And can usually determine the sex. Seriously, I cannot wait. Is it a boy Poppy or a girl Poppy. I must know. I can't wait. And I'm sure that our little problem child won't give up the goods. Just because I want to know so badly. Man I love this kid. I would expect nothing else.

Oh, and we moved. LOL It seems almost anti-climatic at this point. But we are in our house now. Which, honestly, makes me feel very grown up and a little old. And yet excited at the same time. I love our little house.

So that's us in a nutshell. I will be back to witty criticisms and observations of life soon. I just wanted to update everyone after the weeks of worry!

My God is bigger

My God is bigger than all of my fears. He just simply is. Yes, you know what, this might turn out badly. And if it does, I will survive.

But it probably won't. Because my God is bigger. Because He has a plan, whether I can see it or not.


And in other news: I'm a homeowner!!!!!!
I didn't sleep well last night, so I'm cutting this short and heading to bed early, but I thought 2 happy posts in a row was warranted.

Thank you for all the positive comments, emails, IMs, phone calls, etc...they mean the world to me. Even if I don't respond. (I still love you! I promise!)

What a difference a day makes. Take 2.

Ok. I'm back.
And again, I say. I refuse to give up on my little Poppy.

Hey, we've made it this far! 10 weeks today! In my crazy-girl mind, I thought if I could just make it this long, I'd be fine. So I'm going to stick with that.

Everything is going to be fine. Besides, what is stressing about it getting me? A lot of sleepless nights and stress I just don't need to deal with. I'm sad and nothing has happened. Well now, if that's not silly, I just don't know what is. And it's not like I'm the only woman ever to have a tough pregnancy. So I'm telling myself to put on my big girl panties and deal with it.

Anyway, just thought I'd share.

Oh, and in other news, in 24 hours the HG and I will be homeowners! Whoo hooo!!!!

What a difference a day makes.

I take back my big sigh of relief.

I don't even know what to make of this anymore. I don't know how to cope. I don't know how to handle it. I don't know how to be optimistic anymore.

Above all, I don't know how this can turn out OK.

If it's possible, the spotting is worse and scarier than it's been. And yet it's not actual bleeding. Oh, it's blood, there is no question of that. But it's still just spotting. I'm not sure I'll be able to say that much longer.

After a fantastic day yesterday (no spotting! Heartbeat!!), I woke up to more of the same. More and worse. I have the HG on standby to leave for the ER. I have my doctor on speed dial. I took a shower and shaved my legs (hey, I'm not going to the hospital all nasty! I might be sad, but I'm not gross.) And now I'm lying in bed hoping for the best and preparing for the worst.

It's raining out. A lot. And it really matches my mood. My babies (the Sir and Babygirl--the best kitties ever) are sitting at the foot of my bed. Babygirl is keeping a close eye on me and the sir is occasionally bumping me with his head to let me know he loves me. They're good babies. I'm glad it's raining. If it was sunny, they'd be out on the porch looking for bugs to terrorize. But instead they're here with me. The HG is in his man-cave working. I think that's good. I don't want to talk about it out loud.

I have a friend on the way over to watch movies and order in some dinner. I hope I can find the strength to be happy. I'm just so tired.

It just feels so cruel. I've tried for 2 years to get pregnant. We worked so hard at it. And yes, I got pregnant on a "break" cycle. I know that. We got lucky. But it doesn't feel so lucky anymore. It feels like a cruel, cruel joke. The second I allow myself to get excited or to be optimistic, the spotting starts up again. Just read my post from yesterday. I was so happy. So excited. So optimistic.

I even planned to go buy a Bella Band today (or whatever Motherhood's alternative is). And I kid you not, not 3 minutes after I solidified plans to go to the mall with a friend, the spotting started up again. Worse than ever. (I will spare you all the details. Even in this state of mind, I'm a giver.) So I ask you: What is the point of optimism? What is the point of thinking the best? All it does it make things worse. I can't do it any more. I don't want to think the worst, but I don't know how not to.

All I ever wanted was a happy, healthy pregnancy. I mean, we worked so hard to get here. So hard. And now....this? Really? It's just not fair. And I know, I know. Life isn't fair. Trust me, I get that. I know I'm blessed in many, many, many ways. Does that mean I'm not allowed to be blessed with a child, too? Does that mean I have to suffer so painfully right now? Because I'm blessed in other ways? Somehow that doesn't seem right. I know plenty of other people who are equally, if not more, blessed. I mean, when you count up my blessings, and I'm not complaining about them, but when you really look at them, they're not all that out of the ordinary. I have a good job. I married a good guy with a good job. We saved money and bought a house. I'm not sure I'm special. It all seems kind of normal to me. Not that I take them for granted, I do not. I know it could be very different. I know it could be worse. I know I could lose my job, the HG could lose his....a lot of "bad" things could happen to us. But because they haven't, I should somehow have to suffer through this? Is that how this works? I don't think so. That's not how I always understood the world to work. So why does it feel that way now?

Let me try to explain how I feel.
Some of you may know just how painfully afraid of flying I am. And for those of you who don't, let's just say, the HG likened me to a cat in a bath the first time he and I flew together. I was so terrified that I drew blood on his hand from grasping it so tightly. So flying is not my thing. We fly to Florida to see the Florida family at least once a year. It takes a night of not sleeping (so I'm nice and sleepy) and a triple dose of xanax to get me on the plane. Then I have to take 2 more doses of xanax on the flight. It's a 2 hour flight. I'm not just afraid of flying, I'm terrified of it. And the whole time I'm on the plane, I have the sensation that at any moment the plane will plunge from the sky. I sit on the edge of my seat waiting for that inevitable moment where I feel us rapidly losing altitude. Imagine how it would feel to be on a roller coaster, blindfolded, without a seatbelt. The drop is coming, you just don't know when. That's how I feel on a plane.

And that's how I've felt for the past almost 2.5 months. Only without the xanax.
And I'm not sure how much longer I can keep it up.

Yes, I would take this feeling over the feeling of loss and despair I'd have should I actually lose this little baby. But I really can't take this feeling anymore, either. And I don't know how to stop it. Because I fear this anxiety and fear is just a precursor to the despair I'm about to feel.

How am I supposed to stop feeling this way? I can't stop the spotting. I can't stop the bleeding. I can't do anything but wait and see. Wait and see. Wait and see.

But for how long? Certainly this can't keep up for the next 30 weeks, right? And if it does, will I ever get used to it?

In the meantime, I think I'm going to continue to pay for COBRA. Our infertilty benefits were provided by my previous company's benefits. So we've been paying to keep them for the past year. I can keep them through next June. At this point it seems prudent to keep them. Just in case.

And now I'm going to go try to be happy. I'll let you know how it goes.

Big Sigh (Relief)

I have to say, it really sucks that they can't figure out what's wrong. But at least my doctor is really good about seeing me when I need to be seen.

The HG and I made an emergency trip to the OB this afternoon. After a very scary afternoon yesterday, I called the OB this morning and they wanted me in right away. Which, frankly, is easier said than done.

I was in the car on the way to a work meeting when the nurse called me back. It was a non-optional meeting. That was at 11am. We agreed I'd come in a 1pm. So my morning looked something like this:

11-11:30 Rush meeting with customer (hurry! stop talking! I have places to be.....)
11:30-11:45 Run to DD to feed my aching belly. Oh, so hungry. Also, change out of suit coat into sweater
11:45-12:05 Rush, rush, rush back to the office to tell them what's going on
12:05-12:10 Look frantically for someone to talk to. Damn this "lunch hour" thing.
12:10-12:11 Confess to boss that I'm pregnant. Went well. "Hi, I'm pregnant and my OB needs to see me ASAP." Blessesdly, my boss is a man and wasn't going to ask. I should have just told him it was that time of the month.
12:12-12:29 Fight traffic and torrential downpours to pick up the HG (hey, I'm not going through this alone) at work
12:30-12:55 Fight more traffic and rain to get to the hosptial
12:55-12:55:30 Change out of dress pants into jeans in the parking lot (hi, I soooo need to stop trying to wear my "regular clothes")
12:55:30-12:59 Navigate 3 foot deep puddles, some girl from the psych ward on her weekend pass, and broken elevators to get to the office on time
12:59-1:55 Wait in doctors office for my turn

Good times.

But finally the nurse came in and said she'd try to get the heartbeat on the little office ultrasound. "However," she said, "you're a big girl, so we'll see if I can get it." Hi, yeah, I prefer the term "fatty" thank you very much. Anyway. She also said that if she couldn't get the heartbeat, it didn't mean anything. We'd just be in "limbo" until I could get in for a real ultrasound on Monday. Now, to a normal person, this is a reasonable suggestion. I, however, am NOT a normal person. The prospect of having to wait all weekend for an answer was not a pleasant one.

But I didn't have to wait. After helpfully pushing my fat out of the way ("you hold your tummy out of the way, please" this nurse and I are gonna fight!), the nurse was able to find the heartbeat on the ultrasound right away.
Phew.

And as a bonus, she set me up for what she called a "Maternal Reassurance Check" on Wednesday. In other words, they'll let the crazy pregnant chick come back on Wednesday to check for a heartbeat again.

I'm feeling much better today! MUCH better!

I'm so over this.

Make it stop.
That is really all I have to say.

I am not so slowly going insane and frankly, it sucks.
And so I repeat.
Make is stop.

I'd like my life back, please.

I was ROBBED!

I was born in 1974 (if you do the math, you'll come up with 33. I'm not sure how that works, since I'm only 26, but I'm more an English girl anyway....) so I did a lot of growing up in the 80's. I have a picture of me in an acid wash mini-skirt with an oversizsed Guess? t-shirt, silver conch shell belt, keds, and like 4 pairs of socks to prove it. Spikey hair and all. And as a certified child of the 80's, I am a New Kids on the Block fan. Not like a super fan or anything. I never had posters, pins, books, a Trapper Keeper, sheets, shoes, dolls (excuse me "action figures"), or ok, even any of their tapes. But I was fan. And in my defense, we were under a veritable "media blackout" in my house.

No really. When I was around 10, my father decided that "secular" music, books, and TV was going to send us all to Hell. So the TV was moved to the closet (funny, though, the TV in my parent's room was allowed to stay. Guess dad wasn't worried about going to Hell....) and the radio was banned. All books were pre-screened for acceptability. It was pure craziness.

When my older sister learned to drive, she and I would ride around town listening to the "Evil" music on Kiss FM. Then we'd change the station back to the Christian one right before we pulled in. Somehow, we got busted every.single.time. How? Well, I'll tell you. The Christian station was one channel lower on the dial than Kiss. So my dad would get in the car, hit a button, and the last station played would come up.

Or so I thought. In reality what happened is that dad would get in the car, hit the "scan" button and the radio would automatically seek out the next station. Then he'd turn to us and say "Is there something you want to tell me?" And we'd confess. Man were we stupid. The best part of this story? Yeah. I just figured it out like last year.

But none of this kept me from loving NKOTB. In my sad, pre-adolescent mind, I was totally, totally Hangin Tough. Or something like that. All I know is that I knew every lyric of every song. Know. Not "knew" or remember. Know. Yeah, I'm pathetic. But you know what? I'm totally fine with it! So fine with it, in fact that when the local radio station started running a contest to win tickets to the concert this weekend, I dialed as fast as my bloated little fingers would dial. Ok, I have the station on speed dial. Stop nitpicking.

I have tried to win a couple of times (couple=everyday for the past 2 weeks) and haven't even gotten a busy signal. Until today. I dialed once. And heard: Caller 21!!
OMG OMG OMG I'M SO GOING TO SEE THE NKOTB!
I giddily waited for them to take my name and address and record my crazy squeals for everyone in the area to hear.

But all I heard was dial tone.
What?!? Where are my tickets? I was totally caller 21! I won!
But I got nothin but dial tone.

The radio robbed me. Sigh.

I suppose in the end it's for the best. I'm not sure how dancing to The Right Stuff all night would fit into my "pelvic rest". But really. That's not the point.
Stupid radio.

Maybe Dad was right. Radio is from the devil after all.

Back up off me.

Alright, alright. I know. It's been a long time since I blogged. I'm tired. Hi, I'm growing a human.

Ok, that's a terrible excuse. Like sitting on my fatty butt and typing for a few minutes is so difficult. It's more that I don't know what to say. I thought that NOT being pregnant was hard emotionally. Being pregnant is harder. If that's possible. What's that saying "be careful what you wish for...." I think it's true.

I soooo badly wanted to be pregnant. If I could just get pregnant, I'd be OK. I'd just KNOW everything was going to be OK. That's what all my friends said. You'll just know it's fine. You'll feel it in your heart. I feel nothing like that. I feel fear and panic on a daily basis.

But that's not all. I also feel a sort of peace. Yes, I'm spotting on a daily basis. And that is simply terrifying. And it makes me think of all kinds of terrible thoughts. Starting with "I'm going to miscarry" and ending somewhere along the lines of "My baby has a horrible defect and only the progesterone I'm taking is keeping me from miscarrying." Hi, I'm crazy. If you've been reading my blog for any length of time, you know that. If you're new, please make a note. I'm crazy. It really makes my mental ramblings easier to understand if you just accept that I'm not sane.

But Ok, so I'm spotting. It's not much (TMI alert...please skip the next sentence if you don't want to know)...it's generally just a dot or two of red. Or a red streak once or twice a day. I never need a panty liner. It doesn't last all day. (Hey, you were warned. Karma points for me for warning you.) My nurse calls it "scant". Whatever. I call it "scary as shit". Po-tay-toe/po-tah-toe. Then I think that if it was going to turn into more, it would have, right? (This is where you all chime in and tell me it'll be OK)

Let's discuss my day. I start off completely optimistic. I am pregnant! I'm going to be MOM. There is a little heartbeat (and legs! We saw them!) living inside me. And it's not mine! Yay! Then every time I go to the bathroom and have a "safe" trip, I feel more and more reassured that in April, we will come home with a healthy baby. Then it starts. Sometimes it's bearly noticeable. I wonder if it's really there or if it's all in my mind. So I keep checking. Until I get the confirmation of what I was afraid of. And then every reassurance I felt that everything is OK flies out the window. And the terror is back.

It's sad. My mom wants to talk about the baby. My sisters want to talk about it. My MIL wants to talk about it. Heck, **I** want to talk about it. But I feel like as soon as I start to feel good, it starts up again. So I avoid it. As though by avoiding talking about the baby I can prevent the spotting. As tough I have that kind of power. If I did, this stupid spotting would have stopped already. Because I try the mind body connection thing on a daily basis. You know, the new-age touchy feeling theory that you can heal yourself by thinking it. For the record, it doesn't work.

You know what else doesn't work? Prayer. I have prayed and prayed and prayed for it to just stop already. Just stop. I can't take it anymore. But it doesn't. Of course, I also pray and pray and pray for Poppy to be just fine and frankly, if I can only get 1/2 of what I pray for, I'll take that, thank you very much. So really, I'm not even complaining about that. Just pointing it out!

So I wonder. Will blogging about it have any effect? What do you think? Perhaps the Internet has some power I'm not aware of. Any chance I can ask you all to pray for me? And Poppy? And the poor HG? The HG has been a trooper. I have to say he's like the best and stuff. In addition to dealing with a really nasty work problem (think absolute terror on a daily basis of being fired--for the record, this won't happen and was never going to happen. But I, of all people, understand irrational fear), finishing his Master's thesis, and buying a house, he's been dealing with the crazy, terrorized wife. For real. If ever I wondered if I married the right guy (um, I never have but if I ever had), those thoughts would have been put to rest after all of this. He is a trooper. I don't know where he gets the strength to deal with it all. I wonder if he taps my Xanax....hmmmm....

To sum up this rambling, not so amusing post, I'm a crazy girl. Who is going crazier with every passing day. And as I cannot take any xanax, Valium, lithium, or even aspirin, please send help. Post haste.

PS--The HG has reassured me that he does not tap my Xanax: "It's expired anyway." Good to know.

We have heartbeat!

114 BPM!
The ultrasound tech made me lay down completely on the table, making it incredibly difficult for me to diagnose myself. So I had to ask her if she saw a flicker. She did. I immediately started crying. The HG panicked and said "What's a 'flicker'?" I love the HG. He had no idea if my tears were tears of joy or pain. Once I choked out "heartbeat" he started to tear up, too. Poppy is alone in there and has a heartbeat! Poppy's gestational sac measures 6 weeks, 2 days and our little overachiever is measuring at 7 weeks! What more could we ask for?

I'll tell you what more I could ask for....
Some symptoms. I'd love some morning sickness. Boobs that are sore to the touch. Heartburn. Something. I just don't feel very pregnant. I want to know everything is OK in there. I know, I know, I know. A heartbeat is the best news at this stage. There is nothing more I can know or ask for right now. I know. But it's hard not to want more.

And I'll tell you why I'm worried this time. I'm worried because my progesterone level dropped. It went from 14 up to 21 then down to 15. So I'm freaking out. But you know what? It's my own fault. I asked. The doctor had no interest in sharing it with me. She wasn't going to mention it. Why? Because she wasn't worried. So please, someone, please tell me why I am? Please? I just want to be able to relax and enjoy this and so far, I'm not. Even though everything is looking good. A heartbeat is a really good sign. It's the best indicator of a viable pregnancy. It's what I prayed for. And yet. Sigh. I want to stop worrying. Perhaps after next week's ultrasound, I'll feel better.

Yes, that's right, I get another one next week. Because I was released to OB. Yikes. That's scary. I like the comfort of seeing the RE every week. Of having repeat betas to see that number going up. But my RE is letting me go to OB because I have a "normal" pregnancy. Why doesn't that reassure me? What will reassure me? Probably labor.

And then I'm sure I'll find something new and fun to obsess over. This child will give me sleepless, prayer-filled nights from now till the end of time, won't it?

Here's what I've decided.

I refuse to accept defeat.
This is my little poppy and I'm not going to accept anything less than a perfect pregnancy from here on out.

Here is the story. I have been spotting on and off since the very beginning of this pregnancy. At first I didn't think anything of it. It was light and was really only pinkish. And it's really quite common during the first few days of pregnancy. Then it changed to bright, scary red. But it's only on the TP, never any more than a very little bit. And despite the increase, my numbers keep going up, up, up. So really, what am I worried about?

Plus, boobs bigger? Check! Sore? Well, sort of, but they never were. So check! Nausea? Well, no. But then again it's early and morning sickness doesn't usually start this early. Food aversions? Oh CHECK! Big, ginormous check! (For the record, Poppy doesn't do too much cheese, zucchini, green beans, or malted milk balls.) Hungry? Check, check, check! Which doesn't help when nothing sounds good. (oh, except milk. YUM!) Tired? There isn't a check mark big enough and I'm not even sure "tired" is an accurate description. Mood swings? Ok, well this isn't a fair one. I'm the queen of mood swings. But Ok, I'll bite. Check.

So we had our ultrasound yesterday. And it was a mixed bag. Oh wait. It was great! I'm only giving good news from now on because this baby WILL be ok. I just know it. (Ah well, now I'm tearing up. What mood swings?) So at the ultrasound, all they could see was the little gestational sack. But I'm only roughly 5 weeks, so that's not unexpected. In fact, it's a reach to say I was even a full 5 weeks on tuesday. I'm fairly certain I ovulated on August 5th (hey, we infertiles can often time it to the minute...) but that doesn't mean I conceived on the 5th. So a gestational sack at late 4 weeks/early 5 weeks is just fine. And it was where it belongs! Which, for the record, is the uterus. Rather than say, my ear. Or fallopian tube. So that's a good thing! And, the best news of all--they can find NO source of bleeding in my uterus. And none in my cervix either. The only source of bleeding they could actually find was some irritation on my cervix. And my cervix was closed. All of that is the best they could possibly hope for this early.

I'll have a repeat ultrasound on Tuesday (which should be late 5 weeks/early 6). At that point, we'll be looking to see a little fetal pole (Poppy is a pole dancer!) Ok. Not really. The fetal pole is actually the little baby. They should also see a yolk sac (mmmm...Poppy loves eggs!) which nourishes the little poppy. I'd LOVE to see a heartbeat. Honestly, I could use some prayers for a good, strong heartbeat. So please send some up for me, the HG, and our little Poppy. We're really quite attached (some of us more literally than others....) to the little guy.

And you know what? Positive thinking is really the way to work this. Earlier today I told this same story to my mother, with a lot more doom and gloom. And wow. It put me in a bad mood. So not having that. Poppy needs a happy place to live.

So I'm about to go feed the Poppy something yummy (not sure what that'll be yet. I'm only good for deciding on food about 3 or 4 minutes in advance. And by the time it gets to my plate, I'm no longer interested....) and celebrate good thesis news with the HG!

Wait, don't I get 12 years?

Seriously. I thought your children weren't supposed to give you sleepless nights until they were almost teenagers.

This one has only been around for like 12 days and it's already keeping me up at night. I've had some red spotting--the scary kind they tell you you don't want to see--so I'm having an early ultra sound in the morning. I'll only be 5 weeks, so there isn't much they'll be able to tell me. Just that my little poppy is still in there and safe. Or maybe that poppy has a friend in there. Wouldn't that be something?

Twins is a bit of a stretch for a girl with one good fallopian tube and an ovary that doesn't like to ovulate, but my numbers have been reasonably good, so doc says there's a chance. Hmmmm....maybe the blood was the two of them duking it out for the best view. Or if there's only one, maybe poppy was just haning up some pictures and curtains to settle in for the long haul.

I'm not really in the mood to blog. I'm just scared. I want my poppy(ies) to be OK. Please pray.

OH, did I mention?

In addition to a new poppy, we're buying a house. The HG and I are on a life changing roll!

Check out the pictures of our new pad. http://picasaweb.google.com/idkmybffk8/House
Fancy, huh? Ok, not so fancy, but perfect for us and our new little family!

We close September 30th and barring a total collapse of the mortgage industry, we should be good to go! And frankly, if the entire mortgage industry collapses, well, not getting our house is really the least of our worries. Just sayin. (Note to Freddie and Fannie--hang in there! You can do it! Do they have progesterone for mortgage lenders???)

So many happy changes make me nervous. I know, I need to focus on the positive, not the negative. I know that. But still, after many false starts, it's hard to believe this is really happening. This is the third house we've tried to buy. We lost the first 2 after inspection. Apparently a cracked foundation and bad electrical="move in ready!". I suppose if you want your house to collapse in a fiery mess, that's not so bad. The HG and I are more high maintenance than that. You know, we have this thing about safety. Crazy kids.

Now that the house and the baby are happening, I'm just nervous. I'm not sure how to handle all this good news. And does good news get balanced with bad news? I mean, I also recently got a raise and a promotion. Is this too good for one person? The paranoid crazy bitch in me is spinning out of control. Is it fair for me to get what I want in such a short period of time? Is it a disaster waiting to happen?

For the record, I am unbelievably happy about this pregnancy, the new house, and the job. I feel so incredibly blessed right now. The HG and I have been blessed beyond my wildest expectations. But I guess I don't know how to NOT worry. For years I've worried for the 2 weeks after I O'd...would **this** be our cycle? And then it wasn't. And I'd spend the next 2 weeks worrying about when I'd O, what was wrong with me, would it ever happen... The worry was never ending. And then, it finally WAS our cycle. And it ended before I had a chance to enjoy it. So I think it's just so normal for me to worry, I don't know how not to.

But I'm working on it. I repeat 1st Samuel 1:27 to myself all the time: I prayed for this child, and the LORD has granted me what I asked of him. (NIV) It's become my mantra. So much so that I want to name the baby Sam--Samantha or Samuel. And I'm going to stencil it in the nursery. I cannot express how blessed I feel. I just wish my joy could over come the worry. With every passing day, it gets a little better. My mother says it will never end. Hmmm...do you suppose the Donster still worries about me? I hope so. Mom, if you're reading this, hi, can you worry about this one for me? It's exhausting. Plus, I have to save up my worry. This little poppy is going to need me to screw him up once he's here...I mean, I didn't send my RE to Aruba, I'm going to have to do my part to keep the medical community in vacations, so it's only fair that I make sure my kids need years and years of therapy. And if I keep up this whole worry thing, I'm going to be wicked successful. (note to therapists: you're welcome.)

Oh! There's a thought. I can't give my worry to my mom...but I'm sure I can give it to God. He can have it. He's like, WAY bigger than me. Despite my big swimmer's shoulders (and occasional fashion faux pas with shoulder pads...), my shoulders simply can't handle all the worry. And His are specifically designed to handle my worries. So I'm over it.

For now.

But, despite my fears, I'm loving this pregnancy thing.
Me to HG: "I'm thirsty"
HG: "Oh yeah?"
Me: "Yeah."
HG: "Juice?"
Me:"Yes please."
Ahhhhh. I can finally be waited on. Next time I'm gonna test the waters on having him run to the store of something we don't have....like guava nectar and lobster.
Bwah hahaha.

So I have news.

I'm pregnant.
Me.
I'M
PREGNANT.

Take THAT Baby Nazi.

So, the logical question is: how did that happen?
Well, kids. When a man and a woman love each other very much, sometimes they do a special hug. And if they do the special hug at the right time, sometimes the woman gets pregnant.

Rough translation: we did this one on our own! No needles. No monitoring. No egg retrieval. No embryo transfer. We did it the old fashioned way. Bow chika wow wow... The HG is so proud of himself. His guys can swim and you'd think he taught them himself based on the way he struts around the house. I suppose sometimes it's the little things.

Speaking of little things, right now my little miracle is the size of a poppy seed. I wonder if it would test positive for opiates right now. Note to poppy seed: drugs are bad. Except progesterone. Progesterone is good. Very good. It keeps the little poppy seed right where it should be! Growing big and strong in mommy's uterus.

Of course, progesterone isn't all kicks. First of all, it's icky. I mean, it's not exactly a pill I swallow...it's more like one that gets up close and personal with my cervix. Yum. You should not eat it. So it's in my body and it warms up and melts. And well. Ick.

Secondly, it can cause some spotting. Which freaks me out every time. But it's not unheard of since the cervix is such a sensitive part of the body. It doesn't take much to irritate it. And when it gets irritated, it bleeds ever so slightly. Funny, because when I get irritated, I yell. And not ever so slightly, either. Though I guess if the alternative is bleeding, a little yelling isn't so bad. Imagine if instead of yelling at Macy's employees (bad, bad Kate, you so lose Karma points), I bled all over them? Um. I'm sure that would earn me a trip to the exit door escorted by the mall's finest rent a cops.

Speaking of mall rent-a-cops at our mall have taken to riding Segway. Ok, seriously, not to judge or anything, but the already have the easiest job in the world. I mean, what, chasing down the occasional shop lifter or breaking up fights between pre-pubescent boys? Not exactly the most taxing job. I think it would be a harder job if they had to walk around the mall with a pre-teen girl. For that, they'd deserve a medal. Or at least the right to ride their little scooters. But seriously, the biggest crime at this mall is someone taking an extra refill from the soda fountain at the Quiznos. Ok, so it's a big mall. I will grant them that. And we recently had a movie filmed there where the mall security guards (would it be more politically correct if I called them "security engineers" what about "contracted security engineers"?) rode around on Segways. So Ok, I get that now the security engineers at our mall fancy themselves as famous...after all, they did hobnob with the rich and famous recently, which clearly makes them important by extension. However, the only thing riding around in scooters is doing is extending their backsides. Seriously, I swear, I saw at least three of them today who were bursting out of their pants. I love a man in uniform as much as the next girl, but either the morning sickness is kicking in or that makes me want to toss my cookies. My money is on the latter.

Anyway, I'm tired and my wit is low this evening. And so Poppy and I are headed to bed!

Why no blog?

I know, I know. Long time since I blogged.
Life has been crazy busy.
And now what I want to blog about, I can't. Yet.

Hopefully there will be a happy updated tomorrow night. :)

And now. A Play.

On our diet, we have to drink 3 shakes a day. Which gets a bit boring at times. So to break up the monotony, they've created some options: chocolate and vanilla shakes, chocolate and vanilla pudding, cereal, and a chicken soup. The shakes, pudding, and cereal are quite good. The soup is not.

The HG decided he'd try the soup one more time. This time without hot water.

This is a what happened:

See? I'm going to try it again! Looks good!

You gotta shake it up.

So excited!

Oh, this is going to be so good!

Huh. Smells good.

Real men eat with their hands.

Down the hatch!

Hmmmmmmm.....

not sure.....

Oh. That is not good.

Lesson learned.

Well....wow.

So, I love movies. I mean, I LOVE the movies. I'm not even sure why, they're rarely good and even more rarely have any redeeming content. Anyone remember Road Trip?

I spent the day at the mall, searching for a shirt for the HG to wear to my little sister's wedding in 2 weeks. I found a wicked cute Polo dress shirt on sale. Rock on. I think Ralph has designed the Polo line for my HG exclusively. It fits him perfectly. Every time. And makes him look just ever so cute. Seriously. I love a man in a suit. But I think I love men in Polo even better. Yum.

And you know, it's not fair that he gets a new shirt and I get nothing. He doesn't even care about clothes. Much. He does like it when I dress well. And he likes it when I think he looks good. But for the most part, he doesn't care much. When we met he wore black shirts and jeans. Exclusively. Black polo shirts (not the Ralph kind...the cotton collar kind), black t-shirts, black sweatshirts, black coat. On our first date, he wore his "best" black t-shirt. He was proud of himself for wearing his best shirt for me. He is such a boy. I do have to give him credit for going with black. At least he always matched. I have since fixed his color problem. He even has a pink shirt. Oh yeah baby. And plenty of shirts with actual buttons. He is practically a supermodel.

But unlike him, I actually like clothes. Scratch that. I love clothes. I only wish I could afford the clothes I love. Well, first I wish they made the clothes I love in my size. If they came in my size, I suppose I could afford most of them. I'm not a label whore. I like quality, well tailored clothes. But I'm not about to spend $98 on a Lacoste shirt. Even that tiny little alligator isn't worth almost $100. (I think. These are largely the things I tell myself to talk myself out of buying $100 glorified t-shirts. Karma points baby.) However, I do wish I had the body to dress better. I just feel that at my current weight, well tailored clothes are wasted. Like, why bother? Besides, my waist size fluctuates so much, it's not worth spending a lot of money on clothes. I would be impressed if you could find any item in my closet that cost more than $40 (Stacey, Clinton: call me). Some day I will spend too much money for a polo shirt. But it'll fit for a long, long time.

In the meantime, I'm a bargain shopper. And I didn't think it was fair that the HG got a new shirt and I didn't get anything. So after I chose his wicked cute shirt, I headed upstairs to the fatty section of Macy's. (The escalator was broken. I did the stairs. whoo hooo!) Oh, can someone explain to me why Macy's hides their fatties behind the bras? What's that about? Seriously. Michael Kor's has a plus size line. You can't hide us forever. For one, we're pretty big and therefore hard to hide. But more than that. The average American women is a size 14. What sense does it make to hide the clothes half of us need? That's just silly. The first time I shopped in that particular Macy's, I left angry, thinking they didn't have a plus size section. (No, I didn't make any sales girls cry...that was a completely different Macy's. I think I have a Macy's problem.) I stumbled upon it a year later while looking for the outwear section. Makes sense. Hide the fatties under a coat.

So, upstairs I went. And it was like shopping heaven. Those little white "sale" signs were everywhere. It would have been rude not to at least try things on. I mean, they went through all the trouble of marking everything down. I should be grateful for the work they did. Plus, if I spend money, I'm doing my part to stimulate the economy. And stimulate the economy I did. I found three of the most adorable dresses ever. And they all make me look so thin. Well, thin is a stretch. But they make me look not fat. Oh, and I found a $130 jacket for $25. Oh yeah. Shop with me. Deals find me. I'm a sale magnet.

Anyway, when I got home, I had nothing to do. I did, after all, do two full trips around the mall (3 miles, thank you very much.), as well as, three loads of laundry this morning. So, in keeping with my love of movies, I popped Evan Almighty into the DVD player. Ok, not the best example Hollywood has to offer. And certainly not a shining example for ethics training. But one line stuck with me.

In the movie, Evan's wife prays for their family to become closer. Evan prays for help in changing the world (I know, nutrasweet on film). And just when everything seems to be at the very worst it can possibly be (Evan is suspended from Congress and his wife left him), God has a conversation with Evan's wife. And he says to her, "If you pray for your family to be closer, does God make your family closer or does He give you an opportunity to make you family closer?"

Um. Huh. I've been praying for patience and understanding for years. And I have no more understanding and no more patience then I did two years ago. Some days, I think my patience has worn even more thin. I lie in bed at night and just think about how it would feel to be pregnant (again. This time for keepers). I think obsessively about my friends who are pregnant. How do they feel? What does it feel like? What goes through your mind when you see your baby's (your baby!!) heartbeat on the ultrasound for the first time? The second time? The third time? Does it get progressively more exciting? Less exciting? What does honest to goodness morning sickness feel like? What about the nursery. How will I paint it? How does it feel to shop for your own baby?

So no, I can't say that I've gotten any more patient than I was two years ago when we started. I think I might seem more patient. I have days where I actually have good humor about it all. Where it doesn't bother me for every second of the day. But it's a forced patience. It's not real. I'm patient because I have to be. I don't have a choice. I'm not pregnant and I can't make myself be pregnant. So I have no choice. I have to be patient and take one day at time.

As for understanding. I don't. I don't know if I ever will. Maybe someday I will. But right now, not a single iota.

But you know. I've been praying for it. And perhaps, just perhaps, my prayers are being answered. I want patience. So I'm getting an opportunity to be patient. I've prayed for understanding. So I'm getting an opportunity to understand. Ok. I can do that. I can learn from this. Really, I can.

And in the meantime, I can look at all the good things that have happened to me (and the HG...I'm not exactly alone in my struggle) in the past two years. We both got promotions at work. We moved to an adorable new apartment. We didn't buy two money pits....and we dodged one of the money pits twice (Long story. Let's just say our housing angels must be exhausted.) We were able to spend more money than I'd like to fix one of our cats who was sick (poor babygirl!). We've paid off all of our consumer debt and most of my student loans. We've been able to travel at whim, buy new computers when we need them (um, for me, this is virtually never. The HG has a computer problem similar to my shoe problem.), and sleep till 10 on the weekends if we want. So you know, I might not have a baby, but maybe when we do, we'll be more prepared. Who knows.

Maybe this is what patience looks like.

The Fatty Show

Imagine my weight loss class is a play. I do. For starters, meetings of this nature generally bore me, so it's easier to pretend I'm watching a movie or a play. A bad movie. But even bad movies are better than watching paint dry if you're trying to pass the time.

Well, I suppose not all bad movies are better than watching paint dry. When I was 16, a friend of mine took me to the movies for my birthday. We saw Bonfire of the Vanities. I should have known it would be a disaster. For one, I had never heard of it before. Secondly, I didn't, and still don't, understand the title. Can someone please enlighten me? I really have no idea what it means. And that doesn't bode well for the movie. I am one of the few people I know who ever saw it (and I use the term "saw" loosely) so I can't even ask anyone what it was about. Even the HG, the world's biggest movie trivia buff, can give me a coherent description of the movie. Why? He was smart enough to skip it. Take my word for it. Don't waste your money or space in your netflix queue with this one. It didn't even deserve the Raspberry Awards it won.

But on a snowy, winter day in late December my friend Shane and I got on the bus and headed to the closest movie theater. 20 miles away. Ah, small town living is such fun. The best part of the day was the 30 minute ride we bought $3 each. Oh, and the twizzlers. I love twizzlers. They make the best straws. Bite each end off, insert in soda, and voila! Yummy straw. And the twizzler gets all mushy on the inside so after a while your soda takes on twizzler flavor. This is my second piece of movie advice. Get the twizzlers. (I'm racking up loads of karma points tonight. I'm going to need them in a moment.)

We were, quite literally, the only two people in the theater. We should have returned our tickets, crossed the street to the 24 hour diner and drank our weight in coffee. It was, in later years, one of my favorite pastimes. But, alas, on that day, we elected to stay for the entire movie. Can someone please call Brian De Palma and ask for those 2 hours and 5 minutes of my life back? He doesn't take my calls anymore.

So the moral of the story is that sometimes, watching paint dry isn't so bad. But that's an extreme example. At the fatty show, I simply prefer to sit back and watch the actors play their parts. I am convinced they are simply actors and actresses. Caricatures of this nature cannot simply exist in real life. And if they do, certainly I am not lucky enough to spend roughly an hour a week with 6 of them at the same time. The HG goes and attempts not to speak at all. I, on the other hand, and am sucker for interactive theater and often join in the show.

Perhaps my favorite of the group is a guy I'll call "Denial Boy". When come into the meeting, there is a big board where we write down the number of meal replacements we've had all week, as well as, the number of days we've been on the diet (without cheating) and the amount of physical activity we've gotten during the week. Denial's stats frequently look like like this: 10, 3, 5,000. In other words, 10 meal replacements, 3 days "on plan" and 5,000 calories burned. Week one he lost 9 pounds. Week 2 he lost 9 pounds. I think I hate Denial. But week 3 he lost 2 pounds. And this week he lost 1.5. And yet, despite his dismal results, he consistently insists that his plan works for him. He is, after all, still losing weight. Um, yes, yes you are. But when asked why he's spending hundreds of dollars a month on a diet he's not following, he insists he is following the plan. That's where the denial comes in. There are two rules on this diet: eat the food they give you and nothing else and work out daily. Hitting one of two rules doesn't count. Our leader keeps trying to point out that his habits will not lead to long term success. He disagrees. My 10 year old niece could point out the denial here....9,9, 2, 1.5....would seem his success gets less and less obvious as time goes on. But hey, whatever works for him (insert sarcasm here. Hey, I warned I'd be cashing in some karma points.).

There is also a sweet young girl who I adore. She's just so cute. She's 17 and I swear to you, if my children end up like her, I'm giving them up for adoption. But, hey, she's not mine, so she makes me laugh. Last week, we engaged in a discussion regarding her recent failure to make it all week on plan. She was honest in admitting she didn't follow the plan one night, while out with friends. Our fearless leader asked her what she ate. Sweet young girl said, "I didn't eat anything off plan." Our leader further questioned, "So you were on plan all week?" SYG: "No, I wasn't." Leader, "So what did you eat?" SYG: "I didn't EAT anything..." Leader, "So you were off plan because you didn't get all your food in?" SYG, "No, I got my food in....I just didn't EAT anything off plan." Our poor leader was confused. I, having been SYG at one point, immediately understood that the cheating was in liquid form. Illegal liquid form. She cracks me up. She frequently doesn't eat anything off plan...thank God she's not my kid. Though I suspect my children will also not eat off plan....

Then there is the one we call Boca Burger. Boca Burger earned her name when she confessed that during week one she consumed 1/2 a boca burger at a BBQ and was "so full" she couldn't finish it. Can we discuss this? Boca Burger weighs more than I do. And while I suppose I can't say for sure that she can probably eat more than I do, let's just say, she didn't gain weight by only eating half of her burgers. I'm just sayin.

I could continue to describe the players in my little show. But really, they all have one thing in common: failure to do what they're supposed to do. I know it sucks, I do. Trust me, it sucks for me too. I want nothing more than to not eat anything off plan. Or eat 1/2 a boca burger. Or spend 4 of 7 days deciding I've "earned it". But the fact is that doing those things is what landed me the role in this show as it is. I've certainly earned it. Pizza, chips, cookies, and things with cheese were my main food groups for a long time. I have no excuse. I have reasons. There are reasons I gained weight. I was depressed. I had a shitty job. I was bored. I was angry. I was going to start my diet tomorrow. But none of my excuses make it OK. And it doesn't mean I can keep doing it and hope that somehow the food in the little blue boxes will help me reach my goal if I don't do all the work. Not half the work. And that means always, ever day, doing what I'm supposed to.

I know, not so much fun. But you know what is fun? Losing weight. Looking in mirror in the morning and seeing almost the same girl when I get to work. Mirror girl sticks around a lot more these days.

And shopping is more fun. I like going to stores and dreaming about the things I could wear if I just keep doing the work. That's wicked fun.

And the most fun of all? Knowing that with every day that passes, I'm getting closer to getting my babies back. And that someday, when they're old enough to understand I can tell them just how hard I worked for them.

I suppose it's wrong to talk about the players in my show like this. But come on. As the HG says, it's like smoking. If you quit smoking, and then have a cigarette, you're no longer a former smoker. Either you're following the diet or your not. And if you're eating (or NOT eating) food off the diet, you're not on the diet. See, simple?

And yes, I feel somewhat superior for not cheating. Hey, before this, the only thing I committed to for a long period of time was my love of all things baked. Ok, baked goods and the HG. But other than that, there's not much. Not even jobs. So, yes, I feel superior that I'm doing this now.

See? I told you I'd be cashing in a bajillionty karma points. I wasn't wrong.