Good Egg Hatched

The Good Fight

2011-09-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

I heard a song last night and was transported, as a good song can do, to a moment in time, just a few years ago, that I would never want to relive and yet, given the outcome and where I am now, is not an entirely unpleasant memory. I know that anyone reading this who is still in the throes of it (and indeed some who've had their happy endings) may not understand and in fact may resent my saying this, but sometimes, in the same way that thinking about your angsty college years or a bad breakup can do this, thinking about my infertility experience is sort of, forgive the word, empowering. It was one of those times in my life when all of my emotions lived right on the surface, when every moment felt vital and true, even if every moment also felt painful and difficult. And thinking about how much I survived, the fears that I overcame and the obstacles that I saw but kept going anyway, makes me feel like maybe I am as strong as my friends kept telling me I was at the time.

Motherhood does this too. It is not for the faint of heart. You are tired and spend more than a few moments trying to reconcile your fantasy of motherhood with the real-life, day-to-day of it all -- the poopy diapers and milk-stained shirts that are its hallmarks -- and combating your own guilt for not living up to all those expectations you had for yourself as a mother. You become impatient when the toddler in the backseat is fussing as you sit in traffic, then disappointed with yourself for feeling that impatience. When you have days when you feel capable, when your reality more closely matches those fantasies of motherhood, you feel like you've conquered the world. Or at least the little universe contained within your four walls.

I have lots of pregnant friends right now. Most of them have been through the fire to get there, they've paid their dues. One of those friends is experiencing complications with her hard-fought pregnancy, and I know she's going to be okay, but I'm thinking a lot about her today, thinking about how unfair it is to have to fight so hard and then not have the luxury of breezing through the pregnancy. Remembering what that felt like for me nearly two years ago. Wondering how it is that the pursuit of such amazing, life-giving love can be such a brutal, teeth-gnashing, gut-wrenching fight.

Boob Tube

2011-09-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

Okay, following is the requisite mommy-blog post on TV watching. I wasn't really planning on it, but a discussion thread on the topic on my local moms board has me all soapboxy about it. So here goes.

First, here's my take on TV and kids. In the very beginning, before H was old enough to be curious about or interested in TV, I was all for sticking with the AAP's guideline of no TV before age two. I felt sort of smug and self-righteous about it. I was above letting H near anything so mind-numbing as Elmo and his cronies. No thanks.

However, I did turn the TV on for him for one designated purpose: to keep him still while I cut his nails. Nothing else did the trick, and frankly it felt better to let him watch a minute of TV than feel like I was torturing him with the clippers. And initially it was no big deal; I turned it on, he watched for a minute, I clipped, then I turned it off.

Then sometime after his first birthday, he started showing active interest in what he was seeing. He made faces and gestures in response to the characters and what they were saying and doing. He seemed to be getting something out of it, something I recognized and remembered feeling when I myself watched that show: the delight of seeing a lovable character come to life.

So my feelings toward and tolerance of TV have evolved a bit, and H is now allowed to watch a few minutes of Sesame Street here and there. Usually I sit right there with him and comment on the show with him, or I might (horrors) go nearby and take advantage of his stationary position on the couch by washing the morning's dishes or tapping out a quick email. Then we turn it off and we go on to the next thing.

Well. According to some of the sanctimommies on this message board, my son may be illiterate, or have ADHD or have no imagination as a result of the poison I'm feeding him, because I'm taking him away from activities he could be engaged in every waking moment, like reading or playing, or perhaps writing the Great American Novel while composing a symphony.

Sorry, but I don't buy this. If you choose not to let your child watch any TV for any reason -- because the AAP says not to, because you just feel it in your gut, whatever -- I totally respect that. But I reject the notion that the limited amount of watching H is doing is harmful (as does his pediatrician), when we spend the vast majority of our time reading, playing, singing, going to the library, to music class, to play dates, to art class, and to countless other places, adding up to a level of activity and mental stimulation I am certain I never had as a child.

I believe the strict AAP guideline exists to guard against the irresponsible use of TV by irresponsible parents, just like children's equipment and clothing arrive to you with bizarre labels telling you to avoid things like fire when using them. And I just think it's unimaginative to suggest that someone can develop an interest only in TV or reading/activities of a higher intellectual order, mutually exclusively. Clearly they've never seen how I like to unwind: by watching Real Housewives of NYC while reading The New Yorker.

I think overall the thing I reject most is this chorus of women weighing in with holier-than-thou opinions, waving around evidence and data on every minute parenting detail. It makes my mother and her peers smile wryly, and I can understand why. Yes, understanding evolves and we learn things over time and respond to them, improving the way we go about life, including parenting. I mean, obviously I would choose the medical system of today over that of 1970. But I think we run the risk of overintellectualizing parenting too. I'm sure there are studies showing that TV is harmful. But who did they test? Where and when? How much did they watch? What content? Did they figure out how to account for parental involvement, for how many other things the child engaged in all day long? What else influenced the way they learned to see the world?

Sometimes, common sense is just as important to our decision-making as the latest study. As a very good (very smart, TV-watching) friend said, "Please. I watched an hour every day and managed to get my dumb ass into Penn Law."

Enough said.

[Stepping down from my soapbox.]

His Safe Place

2011-08-28T18:37:00.000-07:00

In case you hadn't heard, we got a hurricane on the east coast today. It was a non-event in the Boston area, though you wouldn't have guessed that listening to the news (I'll save my rant about how annoying it is that New Englanders have lost their famous resilience). So we were stuck inside all day with a stir-crazy H, which made me a little, well, crazy.

When we saw what a non-event it was, we decided to venture out after H's nap. So we went where any good American goes when the weather outside is frightful but the prospect of their own four walls is even scarier: the mall. And we ate? At the Rainforest Cafe. Shudder.

H seemed to enjoy the spectacle of the place, but he was really tough to settle down tonight. At one point when he cried out from his crib, I asked him if he was scared of the elephants that "came alive" from time to time at the restaurant. He said yes (in his own way, which is more like "da"), and when I sat down with him in his rocker and told him it was all pretend and he was safe with mama and daddy in the next room, he closed his eyes and fell asleep quickly.

How lucky he was to feel the cozy security of his mother's arms as he drifted off to sleep.
How lucky I was to be those arms.

To become a mother is to have these moments -- all the time -- where you feel like you finally understand the meaning of life.

Who Invited Her?

2011-08-02T09:00:00.000-07:00

Okay, so to update you, I was so spectacularly not pregnant this cycle that I got my period on the first day of our vacation to Maine last week.

And in case you're yearning for details, while last month's was super brief and easy, like Aunt Flo just decided to stop over for tea and didn't want to impose, this time she was obviously in the mood to put her feet up on my coffee table and have a good long chat. It was like old school awful -- I even had cramps, and if I could have asked for a hall pass to go lie down in the nurse's office with a hot water bottle, I would have. All in all, I was a mess.

When you only go to the beach once a year, this is all really. Freaking. Annoying.

So basically? I feel sort of nostalgic for the days when AF only showed up under the influence of synthetic hormones. Especially since I'm not getting the feeling that having a regular cycle is going to produce the intended result.

The Old College Try

2011-07-26T09:34:00.000-07:00

Several weeks ago, I was talking to a friend, one who's been on this boat, bought the t-shirt and lived to tell about it. I was telling her that my cycles have been more or less regular since delivering H (and the post-baby surgeries to correct my banged-up uterus), and that we were "trying" for #2 but I wasn't quite sure about ovulation. That I had tried to use an OPK one month but I got tired of peeing on sticks and stopped doing it before I ever got a positive.

She sort of looked at me sideways. I think she saw right through it. She asked me: Didn't I owe it to myself to really try? Didn't I have as good a chance as anyone else? And even though really trying might bring disappointment, wasn't a chance of success worth that gamble?

I consider myself a pretty self-aware person. I exposed my every emotion in a raw and real way, put everything out there on the Internet, as I worked on baby #1. It didn't exactly take Freud to figure this out but I really didn't see it before this conversation: I was afraid to give it a real try. Afraid of going all in. Afraid I was pushing my luck. Afraid of what it would mean to hope again. Afraid I couldn't stay detached if I allowed myself to hope. And afraid of feeling foolish if that hope was ultimately in vain.

Afraid, afraid, afraid.

There are times when fear is unavoidable, and there are times when it just isn't practical. In this case it's both, and I need to feel the fear and do it anyway. Because as in H's much-loved book about the family bear hunt, there's no way around this one but through it. There's no way to try for a baby except to really try, and that will bring both possibility and the possibility of disappointment.

Having recognized all of the above and realizing that my RE appointment at the end of August is nearing steadily, I bought myself an OPK early this month and peed dutifully, every day, beginning on day 12. On the evening of day 16 I got a positive result. This is good, because as we all know you can still get your period without ovulation, even though I went for months without one before H so I figured the presence of a regular one was a good sign.

Anyway, we -- um -- timed everything accordingly, so this month I would say was the first where I could say a genuine, full-hearted attempt was made. I've seen that some of you have had positive HPTs starting 9 DPO so I tested yesterday (negative). So I guess there's still a possibility this month, though I'm certainly not putting any money down on it.

How am I feeling? A good question to ask. I liked to think I was above the whole "thing" this time -- the whole getting swept away by it thing. I am learning that the reality is it's impossible to want another baby, try for one and have a decent chance at it, and then not be at least slightly disappointed to see a single pink line. I want to believe in the possibility of this, believe that the whole concept of natural reproduction can be redeemed by the way this one plays out for me.

I would love it if this would work, but have promised myself not to dwell on it if it doesn't. Because I've got a napping toddler upstairs, living proof that there's hope beyond the old college try.

A Change Will Do You Good?

2011-07-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

I'm having an odd existential moment that reminds me, not in an entirely pleasant fashion, of my college years. Having just turned 35 on Saturday, you'd think this would be welcome, but in the end, the thing that's supposed to be so nice about 35 is that you can finally unload all the angst. So, not really.

But before I go on, I just need to tell you the song that's going through my head, because of course when you're having an angsty moment, you need a soundtrack from those eight years of high school and college. The song is "I'm trying to tell you something about my life, maybe give me insight between black and white...the best thing you've ever done for me is to help me take my life less seriously...it's only life after all. (Yeah.)." Name that tune! Maybe now it will stop playing over and over, although to be fair, if you're going to have a song on mental repeat that's not a horrible one to have.

Anyway, when last I whined to the Internet, I was trying to sell our house and thought THAT was the stressful part.

The house sold. I was wrong.

The stressful part is actually trying to figure out where the hell to live when you have a child whose entire future seems to hang in the balance of that decision. Where will he get the best education? Where will he find really good friends? Where will he be happy?

So basically, when faced with the above questions, one option is to totally shut down and not make the decision at all, which is essentially what we've done. We're in temporary housing for the summer, ostensibly while we figure out where to live and actually buy a house, but for now, it seems, to buy us time to agonize about it some more. We're really good at that.

Meanwhile, one of our cats, who was adopted just a month after we got married nearly 11 years ago, died on July 4. Losing a pet absolutely sucks. It feels horrible and sad and helpless and is strange to mourn. There's really nothing else to say about that other than that it's contributing to all the change that is making me so angsty.

My husband's job is sort of in a weird time and place since his company was bought by a major, household-name company. His group seems to be coming unraveled and we just don't know what that means for his future there. Another possible change.

Oh, and I've got baby #2 on the brain. Not anywhere near in the same way that baby #1 was on the brain, but it's there. I'm 35 now officially, and I get that people have babies much older than that, but as established before, we're already dealing with a known fertility issue. So I've been trying to figure out my cycle (which continues to be regular, miracle of miracles) and really give it a serious try (more on this later) before we meet with my doctor in late August.

And last but not least, there's H. He changes every. Single. Day. Another word, a new awareness of something. A whole new way to interact with him, really talking to him and having him listen and communicate back. At 17 months he really feels like a little person now, and it's thrilling and scary and joyful and sad all at once.

So all this change is adding up to major anxiety, because unlike most evolved humans I am terrible at dealing with it, even though my easily bored mind would seem to welcome it. That's why I've been a little MIA, a little paralyzed by all these things I need to process and decisions I need to make and therefore a little driven to hibernate and try to figure it all out.

Guts and Guile

2011-04-08T07:52:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so, things could be better over here.

Honestly, it just feels like one thing after another lately. I can't seem to catch even the smallest break. It makes me a little bit paranoid, makes me begin to suspect some universal plot to keep me from getting too comfortable. I'm reading a memoir right now in which the author suggests that we all have a certain number of allotted days in which everything is fine, no problems to report, all is hunky and dory until the next consuming problem comes our way. And, although what I do have on my plate right now is nowhere near a "crisis" in the true sense that, say, people living in the aftermath of a major earthquake, tsunami and nuclear meltdown are dealing with, I sort of long for a day, hopefully in the not-distant future, when I can get a breather.

Basically, I've discovered that in the scheme of things I have going on -- taking care of a toddler, freelancing and just generally keeping up with the business of life -- selling my house is just one thing too many. Now yes, it would help if we weren't listing the house ourselves, if we had an agent to help us with some of the dirty work, but that would also require funds we don't have since this house, purchased in an up market and being sold in a down, was the worst real estate investment ever.

Anyway, we were thrilled to have a contract on the house after just two weeks on the market, and all was going along fine until the most anal home inspector in the history of this planet arrived last Saturday to ruin our lives. He basically told them that our house was about to burn down due to two circuits of old wiring (which we've since learned can be removed for a minimal fee), that our garage needs to be rebuilt, and that we need a new furnace and hot water heater. So they came back to us and asked for $35k (not insignificant in this particular real estate deal) so they could have all of those things. If anyone finds the kind of real estate deal where you pay for an old house but get a bunch of gifts from the sellers that result in a virtual new house handed to you, please let me know. In the meantime, these first-time home buyers will continue to search in vain for their dream-world house with unicorns and fairies dancing in the backyard.

Still, I feel some regret, because I'm not sure I handled the negotiation as well as I could. I can be really unrelenting in a negotiation that involves something personal for me, and I fear I came on too strong out of the gate in light of their obviously unrealistic request. But truthfully the agent (theirs, whom we would still be the ones to pay) did nothing to filter her buyers' request, educate them on why it was outrageous or keep the deal moving along. So I'm pretty sure these people would have tortured us until the deal was done -- and maybe even after.

We are so ready to move on, and I keep thinking back to what went through my mind as we trying to have H -- that we only needed one (in that case, one good egg), that you think it will never happen and then suddenly it does, etc. I'm trying to remember that just because it feels like you're stuck in limbo doesn't mean getting unstuck isn't right around the corner.

On top of all of that, I am still recovering mentally from a really awful incident with my mother. At some point I will probably bore you with all of the sordid details, but for now, suffice it to say that until she learns to respect the boundaries I can rightfully set as an adult, I can no longer carry on the facade of a relationship with her. I made this clear when responding to the half-assed, insincere, blame-the-victim apology she emailed to me last weekend.

Add to that the fact that my foot remains broken (since last July), and I just feel a little downtrodden.

Overall, what I really need to do is stop whining and focus on all that is good. I am healthy. H is healthy. Hubby is healthy. I am not running to the bathroom 10 times a day. What more could I need?

I need to grit my teeth and get through this house-sale thing with more, in the immortal words of the late, beloved Elizabeth Taylor, guts and guile. I've used them before; I can use them again.

On Trying Again

2011-03-24T07:27:00.000-07:00

"We tell ourselves stories in order to live." -Joan Didion

This was supposed to be a blog about having a baby. About parenting a little boy that arrived here on earth only after so much sweaty, teary-eyed, wing-and-a-prayer effort. But what I've discovered is that infertility remains inextricably part of my experience as a parent, because it's part of who H is -- the daily gratitude I feel for him is also a reminder of every difficult moment conquered to get to him -- and because of the future. Because unlike most parents milling around suburbia, as I say goodbye to each stage, as I put away baby toys and tiny infant clothes, I know I could be slowly moving out of this time and place of parenting a small child. Could be leaving behind the very thing I've wanted since my time began. I may not get to linger here like the others. May not get to give those maternity clothes another spin.

I look at H these days and see a boy. His cheeks still have a little bit of puffy baby to them, but he is taller, sturdier, more sure of himself. He brought a book over to me this morning, and when I asked him if he wanted me to read it to him, he nodded. It was the first time I felt like we had a real conversation. I feel like we've rounded the bend into the second year and I'm gripping the edges of his babyhood for dear life, mentally willing us back to the fall, when toddlerville still seemed so abstract.

Don't get me wrong: I love this place, too. It keeps getting better and better, and I continue to declare each new month "my favorite stage." But I looked at some pictures of H as a newborn last night, and I can't even remember what it felt like to hold him when he was so small. It was like looking at someone else entirely. I don't know how to be better about capturing these moments. I don't know how to file them away in some safe area of my subconscious, where I can find them again and dust them off on some gray day when all of this is really behind me.

Having a second child is a kind of betrayal, to my mind. A first baby remains a baby as long as he is the only one in the house. We tell ourselves we're having another to give the first one a playmate, but really where the child is concerned, we know he would rather be the only one with reign over the toys in the house. Really, it's about giving him a family that will be here long after we've moved on -- about giving him the kind of person who will know exactly what he means when he says, Remember how mom and dad used to... and he won't even have to finish. And really, if you keep searching, more than anything it's about keeping your house filled with sweet baby laughter for as long as possible. It's about wanting to relive baby #1's babyhood, but this time in a more deliberate, less uptight, more enlightened way.

For me, and for all of us who had to work harder than is fair to get our first babies, that drive for a second may be an unfortunate biological wire crossing -- an innate desire gone wrong. I may, in the end, need to find something else to do with my time and energy for this. But I have to try. And, with 35 looming and eggs that can't afford to be any wonkier, that has to be now. I have to push toward it despite the voice asking for more time, reminding me of all that was so complicated about my last pregnancy. I have to tell myself that this one will be different. I have to trick myself into believing that, if it works again, it will be 9.5 months of pickles-and-ice-cream bliss. That I will believe in it this time, I will relish it, I will buy designer maternity jeans because they will not be a waste of money. I will have preggie pedis and have my bump placed on record by a professional photographer. I will be active until my due date. And I can have a VBAC! A two-hour delivery! No traumatic birth experience to cry about this time!

This is what I tell myself. Because I have to try.

Are You There, G-d? It's Me, Egg

2011-03-17T06:39:00.000-07:00

I'm having an 8th-grade health class moment. Bear with me.

You all know far too much about my wonky cycle -- how, pre-H, it would never happen on its own. How it suddenly seemed to happen spontaneously after H hatched, and made natural conception a possibility (although a far-fetched one, to my mind). Between January and February, I had a 32-day cycle, so this month I thought there was a very good chance it would be about the same.

So day 32 comes and goes and I have no AF but I do have serious cramping and, even though I know better, I think there is a possibility I could be pregnant. And what I think about that, friends, is shocking. Sit down. Ready? I am not elated. I am horrified.

Seriously. I look at my little H, still -- even though he is full on walking now, and trying to talk up a storm -- just a little baby. And I feel like I've committed an irreversible betrayal, that I've infringed upon his sweet, parental-attention absorbing innocence by possibly welcoming -- nay, creating -- an interloper that will seriously mess with his world, in which all things currently rise and set around him. And I am sort of sick about it.

So I POAS and I see the familiar one line of days past, and I feel relief. And then slight disappointment (I never said I was easily pleased, or that my feelings and thoughts made any sense). But more relief than anything.

I call the nurse at my RE's office the next day, to see what she thinks about no period. Could the surgery have somehow delayed it? Are we dealing with a possible return of scar tissue or PCOS? She says she is not sure but that women often see normal variation of up to a week from cycle to cycle. I realize how clueless I am about normal reproductive operation and hang up feeling ridiculous.

I wait and wait, and then finally AF arrives without fanfare on Monday. So we're talking about a 39-day cycle. Which is better than what I had before (months and months without anything at all), but still makes it a bit of a challenge to think about trying for a baby, although I'm sure my husband, like most husbands, would be very glad to make the attempt on CDs 14-26. Because strangely enough, I'm still interested in trying, even despite the feelings of ambivalence I had when I thought I might actually have gotten pregnant in the first month of trying (ha).

I am left with lots of questions, dear readers, like I'm in puberty, redux:

-How much variation do you see in your cycles?
-And especially for those with wonky ovulation who may have experience with OPKs, how much variation did that cause with your ovulation day?
-When should I use an OPK -- what days? Do they really work for someone with PCOS tendencies?
-Is this all totally pointless? We all know it is probably not going to work.

Please don't harm me for saying this, but IVF suddenly seems quite tidy, predictable and overall not that bad.

Gratitude

2011-03-11T07:18:00.000-08:00

I am crazed. And not in a good way. Trying to juggle multiple work projects, keep H in one piece and now also sell our house after our first attempt last summer/early fall was a colossal fail. Since we bought at the height of a real estate market that has since collapsed, even in the tony suburb where our real estate agent pronounced poor behavior as "un-[name of my town]-like," as if we were the standard setters for all things of discriminating taste, we are trying to sell our house ourselves. Clearly this is not my first choice, but since we're already eating it on the price of our house, I refuse to dole out another $15k for the privilege of having someone schedule showing appointments for us.

Anyway, I went out shopping last night to pick up some things for a community service project sponsored by my town's parents group. They are putting together care packages for this amazing organization called Project Night Night. If you don't know this group, check them out. They came up with the brilliant idea of creating these Night Night Packages with a book, a blanket and a stuffed animal, for children that arrive at homeless shelters with no comfort objects to help them feel safe. I first read about them as pregnancy hormones surged through my veins, and need I even say that it brought tears to my eyes. So I was thrilled to learn my parents group was sponsoring the project and enthusiastically signed up to purchase several bags.

So I arrive at the checkout counter with a cart full of baby blankets and books, and an older, grandmotherly type is the checkout lady. I'm sort of relieved, because I'm about to be a little bit of a pain and I wouldn't want someone young and impatient having to deal with me. I'd told some friends in one of my play groups about the project, and they'd generously offered to contribute both items and money for the cause. Pay attention, because what follows is high finance. I had $50 in my wallet from friends for the bags and I wanted to make sure that money went right to the items. I wanted to pay for the rest with my store credit; I didn't want to end up paying for the whole thing with my credit and keeping the cash -- that just seemed weird.

So I handed the lady the cash first, and then wanted to pay for the balance with my credit. Easy enough, right? Except instead of then asking me for the balance, she started taking out money to give me change. I told her actually, I owe you, and then we both stopped and stared at each other. I began to doubt myself -- was I sure I owed her? -- because I was exhausted and could barely think myself. Remember my previous post about mom brain? Well, here is a case in point for you. It was like the blind leading the blind. She was really a sweet lady, but I'm afraid that one day they're going to count up the money in her register and find she's really off, and that will be the end of her retail career.

Anyway, while I was shopping, I really started thinking about these kids, the ones I was shopping for. I looked at blankets and pajamas that had those cutesy sayings that I personally loathe (Mom's Favorite All Star! Daddy's Little Slugger! Cutest Alarm Clock!) embroidered on them. I just thought, this kid might not have a mother. Might not ever know her. She might be a crack addict. Or she might be there, and loving, but plagued with serious problems that these lighthearted messages seemed almost to mock.

I looked at the books they had, particularly for the older kids, and wondered what content would be appropriate. Would it be a good idea, for example, to give a homeless child a book about some kid who has a really lovely home and parents who dote on him 24/7 and has some silly little problem at school? Would that serve as healthy escapism or bring into sharp relief that child's own, far more serious, problems in comparison?

I stood in the store staring at these things and became profoundly sad for these kids. The simple kindness of these bags, the small gesture that might bring some modicum of comfort to a child in distress, touched me but also broke my heart a little bit.

I mean, there but for the grace of God. What separates us from these families? Was it just a few bad financial decisions that spiraled out of control? Wrong place at the wrong time?

On these crazy days, when it's hard to see anything but what I need to accomplish next to finish a project, get us in a new house and keep H on developmental track, this was just a really helpful reminder to stop and look around. And really see.

Mom Brain

2011-03-02T17:55:00.000-08:00

I may have mentioned this before. In fact, I may have written this exact post already. As I'm about to explain, I have a hard time remembering and keeping details straight these days. Anyway, if this post sounds familiar to you, feel free to close your browser now. Or stick around and suffer through the encore. Your choice.

Before I had a baby, I thought that women who complained about not having time for anything because they had kids were full of, forgive my French, le shit. I thought, how is it possible that I work 45-50 hours a week, participate in a number of extracurricular activities and still keep my ducks in a row -- but because they have kids, it somehow made them busier and their minds more taxed? The whole "pregnancy brain" and "mom brain" thing drove me batty. Especially if the woman in question was a stay-at-home mom.

(The fact that I was also going through infertility and wanted to scream anytime I heard a mother remotely complain about the stress of life with kids may or may not have had something to do with this. But let's just say for the sake of argument that this is an irritating principle to anyone without children.)

Okay, so that was before. And then I got pregnant. And then I had a baby.

The pregnancy wasn't so bad, though I was totally consumed with get this kid out alive, please and had little attention span for anything unrelated to that topic. Then he came out alive and, though a relatively easy baby, he kept us up all hours as newborn babies are wont to do. And my brain cells slowly began leaving for Bora Bora.

I'm sleeping these days, so I'm not sure what my excuse is anymore, but here is what's happened to me: I lose things. Gloves, baby shoes, important papers. Baby nail clippers. I search frantically for such things and then sometimes find them, inexplicably tucked in drawers that make no sense. I "lose" my iPhone at least once a day.

I forget words. They are on the tip of my tongue, but I can't quite bring them home. I'm not talking about fancy words, either. Words for everyday objects. I really have to concentrate to finish a sentence sometimes.

I lose track of my schedule. Some days, I wake up and feel certain that I'm supposed to be somewhere, but I don't know where that is. My calendar, when I can find it (I'm still using a paper planner and dare anyone to try to convince me I should move to an electronic one. I will never give up my paper planner, and until the last real book disappears from this earth I will never use a Kindle.), is not helpful. So far nothing catastrophic has happened but I'm just waiting for the day when a client, H's doctor or an old friend calls me and asks me why on earth I'm not at their meeting/appointment/dinner.

I feel like a granny, or just a really ditzy person. Couple all of the above with the fact that I am no longer reading a national newspaper on a regular basis and I definitely feel a lot dumber these days. The particular angst of all of this has me dreaming my recurring bad dream, the one I've had since college, where it's the end of the semester and I realize I haven't gone to any of the meetings or done the reading for one of my classes, and the final paper is due the next day. I need some serious professional help.

Does this sound familiar to anyone? And do you think it is permanent? I used to be pretty together. I worked with CEOs of household-name companies. This is kind of hard to believe when these days I can't even keep track of a notebook or put something in the mail on time.

It's official: I have become one of those people. I have the thing I thought they made up. I have mom brain.

Mother Lode

2011-02-16T20:39:00.000-08:00

I can be sensitive. Impatient. I am often prone to hyperbole. Sometimes I jump to conclusions and become unnecessarily defensive. So tell me if I'm off my rocker here.

Today I took H to our class at a local parenting center. The center that I walked into while pregnant and declared the Parenting Theme Park. It's a high-end baby gear store, and they also offer prenatal and mom-and-baby classes for overthinking parents. In truth I love this place and have been blissfully spending lots of time there since before H was born. The classes are great -- lots of fun activities for the babies and time for the moms to meet and share war stories. I've met a bunch of great women this way.

Anyway, today we walked in and the others were already sitting discussing naps, namely the consolidation of two naps to one -- when, how, etc. I got us settled and mostly listened to the conversation, since H and I aren't there yet. At the end, I offered up the fact that I'd done a sleep consult through this center (more on this another time) when we'd had transitional sleep issues in the past and had found it enormously helpful since an actual expert tailors a plan to your child's needs. The woman who'd brought up the topic in the first place with regard to her son looked at me squarely and said, defensively, "See, I don't really think that we have a problem." Okay, then.

Twenty minutes later, we had the kids at a water table the teacher had set up with sudsy water and bath toys. Another mother in the class watched as her son removed a full cup of water from said table, turned around and dumped it on my lap. And then said nothing. I gave her plenty of opportunity, too. I said, "Oh, gee, that was a lot of water on my lap." Not a peep.

People. Am I the insane one?

I don't know what it is, but becoming a mother does often, unfortunately, seem to bring out the crazy in people. Mainly what I see in these parts is an unfortunate testament to all those negative stereotype monikers floating out there: Sanctimommies. Martyr Mommies. Mompetition. It seems like all this choice-making to stay at home has created a new monster of competitive women with a lot of latent energy from their formerly driven career lives to now dedicate, solely and completely, to raising the perfect specimen. And to show how brilliant they are at mothering by demonstrating how everyone else fails to measure up.

Case in point: A woman I'll call Jane, from one of my mom & baby classes early on. I knew Jane was trouble from day one. It's sort of hard to describe how she slowly tortured us all with her nonstop oneupmanship and conversation-hogging blather. But oh, she bugged. Anyway, friends of mine have since run into her in random kid-centered venues. What she does when you see her "off-campus" is, she comes right up to you. Doesn't say hello. And simply says, "Is so-and-so walking/talking/reciting Shakespeare/playing Mozart yet?" and then proceeds to tell you how her little darling is.

Another case in point: A friend of mine recently met another mom in a social setting. They talked about a play date, given that their children were of similar age. But then crazy mom found out that my friend only has one child. Apparently she prefers to consort exclusively with moms who have kept pace with her output and have two children. So, no play date for you!

Okay, it's true, the vast majority of moms I've met have been wonderful women that are quite supportive and nonjudgmental. Maybe it's because I spent so much time and energy watching other women with babies, wanting what they had, that I zero in on this kind of BS and have such little tolerance for it. It annoys me (I am just figuring this out now while I write) because I feel it's distracting from the real mission. I don't want to play the game. I just want to keep my child healthy and try and enjoy the ride.

Motherhood is hard, sisters. It's exhausting and it can be hard to get measurable feedback on how you're doing from the person who really matters. So really, unless you're intentionally (or through lazy neglect) doing something harmful to your child, who am I to judge whether you're giving him the exact right proportion of meat to vegetable today?

I have no idea if any of this is coherent, but how 'bout that for a rant? I can't even blame hormones.

Another Holiday Down the Toilet

2011-02-14T14:04:00.000-08:00

In the fine tradition of the past few months, I'm spending another holiday in the bathroom.

Not that we had any Valentine's Day plans anyway. So, why not?

Stomach bug and/or food poisoning has hit our house. Woke up at 3 a.m. Sunday morning to find husband in downstairs bathroom. Was actually annoyed (I know -- I'm not winning any wife of the year contest) that he was getting sick, since we had things to do! People to see! that day. Until I started feeling the nausea about an hour later. And then the diarrhea. And then the body aches and chills -- and then, oh, woe to me, I threw up, which is like the Worst. Possible. Thing that can ever happen to me. Still so sick today. Thank Gd for my parents, who came yesterday to pick up H for the night. Although I felt like the worst mother ever -- shouldn't I be able to overcome my own complaints for his sake? -- it was a lifesaver as neither of his parents was equipped to take care of anyone.

Meanwhile, H seems to be having "loose" GI action as well. It's confusing with him, because a) I'm pretty convinced that what husband and I have is food poisoning, since it's hard to think of what we ate on Saturday night without feeling the need to run to the toilet; and b) we just started him on milk last week, so I was aware that this might happen, especially since he does seem to have digestive issues when he has a large volume of yogurt and cheese.

The milk switch thing has been fairly rocky, and I'd love any helpful hints. Our pediatrician recommended switching to a cup (as in giving up the bottle completely) at the same time that we gave him the cow's milk (which we started last Tuesday). That was pretty much a non-starter. He'd drink a few sips, make a face and push it away. Even though he's been drinking water and formula from a cup for months now, and even though, we've since learned, he will take the milk in a bottle. Any negotiation tips on that front? And as far as the GI issues, my understanding is that they can come on several days after starting the milk (which they have), but usually resolve within 1-2 weeks. Should we just continue to watch it (as if we have any choice), especially given that we also possibly have a GI virus in the house?

Praying that we all are spending less time in the bathroom tomorrow, and that the next holiday (St. Patty's Day?) will please be GI-disturbance free.

My Ute Makeover

2011-02-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

Hysteroscopy a resounding success. My ute is as good as new.

Can't type much now, because I'm still having a hard time stringing words together. Percocet + valium made me love everyone for most of the day. Now I'm just foggy and having a hard time keeping my eyes open. Thank Gd for husbands who aren't afraid of quality time with the little one.

More later.

Ctrl + Alt + Delete on My Ute?

2011-02-04T18:49:00.000-08:00

Aunt Flo arrived on H's birthday.

A 32-day cycle.

WHAT.

Before I started IF treatment, after I went off the Pill (which I was on since the age of 18 since they suspected PCOS), I once waited eight months for a period. And even then I had to medically induce one. So a 32-day cycle is unheard of. Could it be that in this case, I'm on the good side of the odds, I'm one of those stories you hear about pregnancy hitting the reset button on your reproductive system?

I'm not getting carried away or anything. Obviously. Even if my cycle is regular and I'm ovulating now, I still have the Asherman's to contend with. I scheduled the office hysteroscopy (she's going to try to cut out the remaining adhesions in the office with the help of my friends valium, percocet and cervical block. Night night.) for next Thursday. Stay tuned.

Anyway, getting my period was a relief, because I was starting to think I was developing major anger management issues. At a wine tasting party we went to last weekend, I wanted to rip some guy's head off for making an obnoxious comment. Just an old-fashioned case of PMS. Although, in all fairness to me, the comment was, "I know which bottle of wine here is most expensive, because I brought it."

In other news, my husband is back from his business trip (he was away this week, which was not ideal considering he missed H's official birthday -- not that I can complain about such things, since he is by far the main breadwinner these days) and we're going to my parents' house to celebrate H's birthday tomorrow. There will be cupcakes, party hats, balloons, presents. I even got him a t-shirt for the occasion. I can't wait to see my little boy smash into a cupcake. I'm sorry, but life doesn't get any better than that.

Happy Birthday, Baby

2011-02-01T16:55:00.000-08:00

My sweet, sweet boy turns one tomorrow. The idea of this is kind of blowing my mind.

How is it possible that an entire year has passed since I lay in that hospital bed, blissed out with my squishy, warm, heavenly baby? I took one look at his perfectly innocent, sweet face (well, the first look that I really remember after I came out of my doped up c-section trauma) and realized that I knew both everything and nothing about this little being and how to take care of him. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

Let's be real. I won't pretend baby poop doesn't stink. This first year hasn't been all mommy glow and baby bliss. Having a newborn is a grueling exercise in physical torture. I never knew you could feel fatigue in your bones like that. There are the whiny days, when the baby is just "off" and cranky, and you feel like calling the funny farm to see if they can send a car service for pickup. And I definitely think I have become a little bit dumber over the past year. I forget details, leave small objects in public places (two weeks ago I bought a pair of gloves at Target and lost them while doing errands the very next day) and am the least informed about world events as I've ever been.

But, oh. The joy. The heaven-on-earth that is your baby's laugh over a face you just made. The feeling of his warm head burrowed in the side of your neck -- the pride that you are the mother he needs you to be. Watching the milestones unfold before your eyes like a story you know has been told before, but is somehow full of new magic at that very moment. There have been many, many times throughout this year when I've looked around and thought that I must be getting away with something, I must have the best-kept secret, to have this be the way I'm spending my days.

Tonight, I feel gratitude. For the amazing doctors who helped me believe in the power of my dream of parenthood and deliver the medicine we needed to see it through. For the strength I somehow found, time and again, to keep hitting my head against the wall when nothing could guarantee me that it would end well. For all of my amazing blogger and IRL friends for cheering me on, and for never laughing at me when I asked stupid, rookie-mom questions. And most of all, for this delightful, miraculous, spirited child who has turned my life upside down in all the ways I'd hoped.

Birth Control for Dummies

2011-01-28T06:41:00.000-08:00

Went for a follow-up appointment with my orthopedic doc yesterday. Can't remember if I've brought you all along for any of the craptastic ride, but I broke my foot in July while...drumroll, please...walking at the mall. Because I'm me, and this kind of stupid stuff happens to me.

Anyway, I broke my tibial sesamoid bone, one of two tiny, pea-sized bones under your big toe that, if I'm understanding it correctly, keep your big toe sort of anchored so it doesn't start veering off to the wrong side. Also? It is the worst bone in the body to break, because there's almost no blood flow to that area. I was in a boot for several months and finally got an orthotic (too sexy) in December, so at least I can now wear matching shoes, even if the insert only fits into my big shoes, like these.

So after initially being told by one surgeon in town that it would require surgery -- total removal of the bone in question -- I went in December for a consult with a new ortho who works with types like athletes and dancers and is at the top of his game. He said we could probably heal it with more time and the use of a bone growth stimulator, this ultrasound machine I hook my foot up to once or twice (if I'm being good) a day.

Yesterday, I went for a follow-up. The bad news is there's still a fracture, though it is markedly improved from my last x-ray. The good news is he thinks we're almost there and confirmed I won't need surgery. But what was really memorable was the exchange I had with the x-ray technician before she took the images.

She asked me if I could be pregnant. And hilarity ensued.

She asked specifically if there was "any way" I could be pregnant. Now I can be a pretty literal person, so when you ask me a question like that I'm going to answer it literally. I told her I could not rule it out 100%. She looked at me, serious and concerned. It probably didn't help that this doctor, who sees both adults and pediatric patients, is at the Children's hospital here, so they don't encounter this gray area in the realm of pregnancy and fertility area often.

Well then we can't do the x-ray, she said. I said I definitely didn't think I was. I explained that I had fertility problems and that the chances were like .000000001, but that I'd had a period at the beginning of the month so I couldn't say with full certainty that there was no chance at all, which, after all, was the question she had just asked me. Then I got philosophical: I said, isn't there always a chance? and she said, no, not if someone is on birth control pills.

It was a surreal, nuts-and-bolts, conception-101 type conversation that sort of creeped me out.

Ultimately, after she -- clearly irritated -- brought someone else in, we all decided that I would have the x-rays, they would just double cover my girl parts with the lead aprons, just in case. Which was fine with me, because we know I'm not preggers, people. I mean, I have not forgotten about the past several years. But seriously? If it were ever going to happen on its own, you know this would be the month, the month I had the foot x-rays, so I could spend the next 9.5 months imagining the two-headed baby that would emerge from my ute to keep H company as his sibling.

Snow Daze

2011-01-18T11:13:00.000-08:00

More snow? Seriously? I grew up in New England and I have to say the whole old-man-winter thing never really got to me until the last couple of years. I am getting old for this. For boots and hats and coats and gloves and ice melt, shovels and snow plows. Add all the gear usually required to tote a baby anywhere, as a baseline, and my brain is about to explode.

I need a warm weather vacation. Going to do some research as soon as I finish typing.

Also, the wintery weather makes me a slug. All I want to do is sleep. I changed the sheets on my bed this morning, and as soon as I was done I could not resist the lure of that crispy, newly made bed while H had his nap. When H started cooing and half crying only 30 minutes later I silently prayed he'd fall back to sleep. No go.

There's no one I'd rather be trapped in the house with than my gleeful little rascal. But still -- being trapped in the house at all? Is a little crazy-making for me.

What are your housebound-by-snow-with-almost-toddler coping strategies?

The Twelfth Month

2011-01-17T11:31:00.000-08:00

So I'm afraid to say anything. Really afraid. I mean at that point, my superstitious mind warns, why not go grab a black cat and a ladder and open an umbrella inside. But let's just say I'm no longer on antibiotics and I'm not in the bathroom all day long, either. I would say things are still sorting themselves out in there, but overall I'm better. Whew. Big whew.

In other news, I learned last week that my first cousin (dads are brothers), who is also H's Godmother, has been diagnosed with PCOS, which I find interesting. I guess it doesn't surprise me to think that there may be a genetic component to it. She's hopped on the wagon with Clomid, which I think of sort of as the training bra of IF treatment. I mean, how wonderful it would be if this is it for her, if all she has to do is a couple of rounds of pill popping and hot flashing. But if not, if she's in for more, I am so happy that she has me. She'll have someone to call who's already been down the road. She has a Godson who is living proof that this works. I told her she is going to have a baby, there's no doubt in my mind, it's just a question of how painful and messy it's going to be on the way there. She's going to be a wonderful mother, and I hope it happens soon for her and for the other friends I have in the IF trenches right now. They all deserve the crazy joy of parenthood.

Meanwhile, just trying to stay busy and get out of the house every day despite the massive amounts of snow we have here in the northeast. I finally found H two coats that fit under the straps of his car seat (taking the coat on and off in the car in order to fit him in the seat was driving me seriously bonkers), including this one from LL Bean (I got him the carbon/grass color). Those who know me IRL know that I have a serious coat problem, as in I can't have too many of them, and now it seems I'm applying this to H as well. Not buying a bulky coat for a baby is just one of many lessons this parent learned too late. If anyone has found soft, waterproof boots that work in the snow for a baby H's age, do tell. I ordered a pair last week but they were way too big.

I'm also planning H's first birthday party which, incredibly, is just two weeks away. I don't have the space for a huge shindig so we're just having some family over for snacks and cake, including a smash cake for H. I can't wait to see his face.

I think this has been the most boring post ever, but I just wanted to say I'm still here, I'm seemingly healthy and just enjoying this last month of H's first, amazing year.

Deep & Possibly Incoherent Thoughts

2011-01-03T17:53:00.000-08:00

I've really been beside myself about this c-diff thing. As in welcome-to-the-bell-jar depressed.

However. H is now 11 months old. One month left in his first year. And I'll be damned if I'm going to miss this last month because I'm too busy hang wringing and boo-hooing over some bacteria.

It's sad enough watching this first year come to an end. I mean I love watching H grow. I wouldn't trade this opportunity to watch his little self unfold, see his soul emerge. And I look forward to so much -- hearing his little voice talking, watching him walk and run. But it's sad too. I'm mourning the loss of the stages we're leaving behind. The real baby stuff.

Anyway, I'm committed to really trying to be in the moment these next few weeks -- to take snapshots of H at this truly wonderful stage rather than dwell on what we're leaving behind. And hopefully, hopefully, this infection is behind me too.

On another note, talked to my RE today. She'd asked me to check in when I got my period and is very encouraged by how normal it was, since that indicates healthy lining. She threw out the idea of trying to remove the remaining adhesions in the office versus the operating room. I love this idea. She'll give me a cervical block, some valium and some percocet. Sounds pretty fun to me. I mean, not fun as in you'd sign up for it over a day at the spa, but possibly the lesser of two evils.

Clean Slate

2011-01-01T07:33:00.001-08:00

Okay, 2011. Bring it.

Woke up this morning, discovered blood. Freaked. Realized was my period. And (if this isn't oversharing, I don't know what is but here goes) things "proceeded" down there more normally than they've been in a month. So all seems to be well with my bodily functions today and I'm taking it as a very good sign that my body somehow knew to deliver a period despite my presumed continued PCOS as well as the extreme stress I've been under.

What a year 2010 was. The year of my baby's birth. A baby I'd come to think might never exist. So that alone cancels out any negatives, of course. Just looking at the year through the lens of new parenthood, it was an exhilarating, terrifying, shocking, joyful ride. I mean, yes, when you have a newborn you're totally flipped out, and I have to say that as Brian Williams did his news year in review last night I didn't even remember half of what he referenced as actually happening. But there are so many moments that I do remember, and they're the kind that stay with you for a very, very long time.

Of course some really crappy things happened to us too. Because the thing is, even when you get what you've been chasing after, even when you have a baby and are supposed to be in a constant state of bliss, life around you doesn't stop moving on. So you get the same roll-of-the-dice odds that something crappy might happen. Like I broke my foot in July and am still wearing a boot today. My husband returned from Japan with a case of campylobacter food poisoning that required his hospitalization. We couldn't sell our house and had to take it off the market. And now this very annoying GI infection. Oh, and my ute was broken by my c-section and requires a second surgery. Not to minimize my own or others' IF-related experiences, but I almost forgot about that one -- it feels like the least of my concerns at the moment.

Anyway. Auld Lang Syne and all that. To the new year. A fresh start. To more good than bad over the next 12 months.

A Sad Night in the Blogosphere

2010-12-30T17:03:00.000-08:00

Some of the best blogging I've read, like other literature, deals in some way with personal pain. A lot of us are good at calling up all manner of tools to deal with the pain -- snark, sarcasm, slapstick humor -- and sometimes a good laugh as we type helps us keep it all in perspective. A few years ago I joined the blogger community to find a way to channel all the fear, hope, anger, sadness, blood, sweat and tears I was dealing with while going through infertility. I found a ready-made community of amazing women willing to come along with me for the ride.

I've been following some of your blogs for that long now, and maybe it's crazy, but I feel like I know some of you personally. I get a little palpitation when I open my reader knowing someone's pregnancy news could be there waiting for me. I ooh and ahh over your baby pics. And I shake my fist and cry when I read your bad news.

I was dismayed tonight to learn about Jen's (Maybe if you Just Relax) loss. I'm shaken about it, as if a personal friend had called me to share this news. Maybe it's because she's so vibrant, so full of wit and zany humor, but I find myself stunned, more than anything, that this tragic thing happened to her.

I just wanted to send my best thoughts out to her and to everyone experiencing loss in any way.

C'est Difficile

2010-12-29T19:06:00.001-08:00

I don't want to blog about this.

I really don't.

I actually want someone to tell me it's a bad dream and wake me up and take me out to pancakes. It's embarrassing and I just want to deny it's happening.

But it sucks and it's happening to me and what else is this blog for?

So. Where to begin.

I just typed the long version of the story out and then realized that a) it's boring and b) it's not funny yet, because I'm still in hell over it. So here is the short version. I took an antibiotic shortly before Thanksgiving, for something that seemed to warrant it, according to the prescribing doctor, but in retrospect probably could have been handled with something topical or the passage of time. In my defense, he had me convinced with the threat of it spreading to the baby.

That antibiotic gave me an allergic reaction -- the first of my life from a medication. And then? It made me have to go to the bathroom. A lot. Those following along at home will remember this fun episode I had post-D&C two years ago. Having lived to tell about that, I thought, well, this sucks, but I'm sure it will just go away on its own as it did before. Wrong.

Turns out, what they say about antibiotics wiping out good bacteria in your gut and allowing bad things to breed is 100% accurate. I could send you pictures, but trust me you don't want them. That damn antibiotic gave me a GI infection called c difficile, which like its name suggests, is a big, giant pain in the ass. Literally.

And unfortunately, I didn't respond well to the first course of antibiotics that they, ironically, give you to treat it. I found that out on Christmas Eve. Repeat: I had to bring a stool sample to the hospital. On Christmas Eve.

So I'm on a different, stronger antibiotic now. And I'd be lying if I said I wasn't more than a little freaked out by this whole thing.

Here's a tip. If you get something like c difficile -- which I hope you don't (one reason I am typing all of this is to hopefully prevent someone else from going through this) -- don't google it. Okay? Because you will see something that you really wish you hadn't, and that will be hard to get out of your head.

I have been told by some very knowledgeable people that this is going to go away, it just can take time to clear your system. I am trying to be patient. Am trying to stop feeling cursed. Am hoping that in a couple of weeks, this will be cured, the boot will be off my broken foot, I'll have a clean uterus and I can finally, finally start getting myself feeling pre-fertility treatment healthy and fit again.

Stories about someone you know (apparently this is becoming more and more common) who had this and kicked it after a couple of antibiotic rounds, no problem, are most welcome. Stories about your great aunt sally who spent five months in the ICU because of it will be considered a call to war.

Oh, other than obsessing over the battle inside me right now between good and bad bacteria, I spent a good amount of time today trying to figure out what new insurance policy to pick as of next week (all of which suck to varying degrees when it comes to IVF). I've been trying to reach the insurance coordinator in my RE's office for weeks about this and haven't gotten a response. Turns out today was her last day, so that explains why she's basically told me to suck it. So I tried speaking with a nurse to get the answer to my question, which is a basic one (how are the IVF tests, procedures, etc. billed, which seems to determine coverage). Couldn't get a straight answer.

Then I asked this nurse if she'd heard about my having the infection (because I had discussed it with another nurse and my RE). I guess I was probably looking for another "oh, that's too bad, but don't worry, my sister just had it and she's fine now" story. Instead I got an offhand question about whether I was better yet, then she quickly moved on to asking about how my Christmas was.

Well, as I just suggested, I spent a good deal of time pooping on Christmas. So actually? It was not the ideal first-Christmas-with-baby holiday I thought it would be.

I didn't say this. I told her H enjoyed it (which he did), and left it at that.

He did enjoy it. A lot. I wish I could say the same about myself. Because feeling sorry for yourself on Christmas? Is one of the saddest ways to be.

A Pox upon Your House

2010-12-16T17:34:00.000-08:00

I'm waiting for the locusts next. My house has been hit -- hard -- by multiple bugs of the viral sort. The bugs are breeding new bugs. It's not pretty.

I'm sick, and poor H has been struck, at ten-and-a-half months, with his first-ever bona fide illness beyond the occasional day-long sniffle. I don't know what planet I was living on, but I basically thought he would never get sick because, well, he hadn't ever gotten sick. I thought maybe the betamethasone shots he got in utero had given him a superhuman immune system. Magical thinking, anyone?

But of course it hit him (I mean, he sits there with other kids and licks already-licked toys -- this is not complex science) at the end of this week, coming on slowly with more frequent, messier dirty diapers and a horrendous diaper rash that had him writhing in pain on the changing table any time we dared put him down there. Some Triple Paste, per the smart recommendation of a friend, and some prescription anti-fungal cream at least has this under control.

By Tuesday afternoon, the poor boy was harboring a seal in his throat with a hacking cough and a fever, so back to the pedi's office we went. He's been running an on-again, off-again fever and had bad congestion and coughing ever since. And he just looks up at me with these sad, vacant eyes. Why don't they put a warning label about this in pregnancy and parenting books?

The pedi's office, enjoying -- I am sure -- the daily phone call (wish I were kidding) from yours truly providing a play-by-play on H's developing symptoms, has assured me that this is a garden-variety bug or set of bugs that will clear his system soon enough. But I, ever the paranoid, ever the neurotic, ever the over-thinking mom, am wringing my hands and wishing I could kiss it all away for my little boy.

Much Ado

2010-12-06T07:34:00.001-08:00

Just back from the dreaded hysteroscopy. A lot of bark and just a little bite. Much less scar tissue this time -- my RE was pleasantly surprised by what she saw -- which made the pain far less intense. Of course there are still some adhesions remaining (though the uterus is not sealed shut entirely -- take that, crazy progesterone dreams), so I'm OR bound once again. I opted to wait until after the holidays. Because seriously, I need a little Christmas -- especially H's first outside the womb -- without an obstetric or gynecological emergency.

What was a little more interesting was the brief conversation I had with my doctor after the procedure. I asked whether it was crazy to pursue another pregnancy given the complication of the scar tissue and what she'd said around my last surgery about increased risk for placenta problems following a bout with Asherman's. She definitely does not think it's crazy, but she did calculate my risk of placenta accreta at about 5-10%. The treatment for this condition is often hysterectomy during c-section. So 5-10%? Is a pause-and-take-notice kind of calculation.

She also dropped these word bombs: gestational carrier. Now I've been through a lot of gynecological mumbo-jumbo and had a lot of surprising, and often unpleasant, word combos tossed at me over the past several years. Polycystic ovaries. Fetal demise. Placenta previa. So I've learned to be on the lookout for terms that might be heaved my way in advance. But this term caught me off guard today. It's one I've never considered.

Another person could carry a baby for me. She could do the work of growing my little (genetically ours) human while I exercise, drink wine and coffee, and generally go about my days without worrying about every little thing I do. Even better and more importantly, she could relieve the fear of something going seriously wrong with my body -- something that could necessitate the removal of a major organ.

It's got me scratching my head a bit, and wondering how much it would bother me to have another woman linked to my child in that way. But it's something to consider.

Send Me a Bullet to Bite on

2010-12-05T12:17:00.000-08:00

Office hysteroscopy tomorrow. The follow-up from my surgery in October, to see the extent of the uterine adhesions remaining.

Of all the poking, prodding and procedures, this one is, by far, the worst for me. Because when you actually have scar tissue in there, that hysteroscope trying to get through it feels just like an instrument trying to get through scar tissue. Which is to say, it hurts like hell. I'd rather have a week of pitocin-induced contractions than this procedure again tomorrow -- no joke. They tell you to take 2-3 Advil prior to coming in, which IS a joke. I've half seriously thought of carrying something with me that I can bite on while it's happening.

Any other advice for dealing with the pain?

Oh, and while I was on progesterone the other week -- because I always have vivid, messed up dreams while on it -- I dreamed that my uterus was glued shut entirely by one huge adhesion.

I hope my clearly disturbed subconscious is wrong.

A Ten-Month Funk

2010-12-02T08:27:00.000-08:00

I need a good talking to. Somebody snap me out of this.

H is ten months old today. And instead of celebrating the fact that we've made it through most of his first year without breaking him or (hopefully) causing him any long-term damage, I'm sitting here bawling.

He seems so big all of a sudden. He's moving around so much more independently, and I suspect his first solo steps are just around the corner. He recognizes words. He's losing that little baby look. And he actually pushes me away sometimes when I try to kiss him or comfort him after he's bumped his head.

Of course -- of course -- I want him to grow and become more independent. That's the whole point, right? I get it. But there is something so deeply sad about watching these baby days wane right in front of me.

I've loved this time. I wish I could go back and do it again -- yes, all of it. The newborn nights that seemed to never end. The marathon feedings, the days of no showers. The very real trepidation about leaving the house alone with this tiny being who, I was sure, could break if I made the wrong move. I'd take it all just to remember what it felt like to hold him when he was that tiny.

I know I'm being dramatic. I know he's only 10 months old, still just a baby, and when he's four, five or 15 I'm going to look back on this post and think how ridiculous I was, and wish I could go back to this very moment.

I guess part of this is just knowing that this could be it. I've been so insanely happy taking care of this baby and I know I could be saying goodbye to this time with no hope of experiencing it again.

Sometimes I wonder whether wanting another baby is about wanting to relive H's pregnancy and infancy, to go back and right the things I did wrong. To enjoy it more. To let it really soak in.

Either way, I now understand that the angst of secondary infertility is very real. I would not have said this in the midst of the struggle to conceive H. They already had a baby, I would have said, so they don't understand what it feels like to want one.

But I get it now: We know what it's like. And we know what we'll be missing if we can't have it again.

And Now I'm Pooped Too

2010-11-19T16:17:00.001-08:00

An exhausting week. Husband in London = full-time baby duty minus sleep (mainly because I am a freak and have a hard time sleeping when he's not here). He's in his car on his way home now, and I'm kicking back with my US Weekly, thinking about which kind of red I'm going to have when he gets here with dinner.

Being on my own with the baby 24 hours a day gives me deep respect for single moms. I seriously do not know how they do it. I salute them, big time.

I know I don't say it -- or even think it -- enough, but I am incredibly lucky to have a partner who is truly a partner in this adventure called parenting. His absence on a week like this brings into stark relief all the things he does while he's here. I mean, yes, I manage the show -- I figure out what H needs to keep him alive and comfortable and give most of the stage directions. But he rolls up his sleeves and plays his part. And I can see that his being the dad he is makes me a better mom.

The Other End

2010-11-15T06:37:00.000-08:00

This is supposed to be a blog about parenting. Infertility, part deux keeps hijacking it.

Infertility is like a chronic condition. Even if I weren't considering another run, I think I'd still think about it -- a lot. As much as I try to think of myself as just another parent (pregnancy being some sort of equalizer), there are times when I'm reminded that it's different for me. Like when my mom friends start talking about whether it's better to try for a spring baby or a fall baby next time ("next time" being a foregone conclusion).

Anyway. I need a better balance here. So today, I'll be talking about the other great equalizer, poop.

Has anyone noticed their kid's poop has multiplied in scope and frequency since they increased solid feedings? We're now doing three solid meals a day with lots of variety, and for the past couple of weeks he's been pooping, like, 3-4 times per day. It seems like every time I go to get him after a nap or let him play by himself for a few minutes, there's a surprise waiting for me (and it's not wrapped in a little blue box). It feels like he's a newborn all over again, only this poop is not some innocuous, almost cute version of real poop -- it's more like real poop.

Sorry to be graphic.

Anyone else experiencing this? I called the pediatrician's office and was told to "keep an eye on it." As if I'm doing anything else. Is this normal?

It Gets Worse

2010-11-14T18:00:00.000-08:00

My husband's company has been bought by a large, household-name company. The deal went through last week. He will be an official employee of said big company on Jan. 1.

You'd think that given my prior experience working in health care policy, it would have dawned on me that this could be problematic on the ol' reproductive front. I was so preoccupied with everything else going on that I didn't even think about it until this week.

The company is big. Hundreds of thousands of employees.

Which means it's self-insured. I think you know where this is going.

That means they don't have to give a hoot about state mandates on health insurance policies.

Which means that I can say sayonara to easy-peasy insurance plan and worry-free IVF financing when it comes to making baby #2.

I tried calling the nurse on Thursday and explaining my plight to see if they could possibly squeeze in a cycle for me before this happens, while I still have reliable insurance. But the clinic shuts down for two weeks around the holidays so the last day to start Lupron would be 11.17. I couldn't stop obsessing about it overnight so I tried working my way into a call with my doctor on Friday and ended up inadvertently reaching the exact same nurse. I don't want to be that patient. I hate it when I need to be like this, all needy and demanding and obsess-y. So I panicked and asked her about something else instead of being pushy, disregarding what she said (something about "no," which I have a hard time hearing) and asking for my doctor.

Later in the day, I sent my doctor an email reply on another matter and worked in this issue. I asked her if there was any chance under the sun that a cycle could be squeezed in. And now I totally regret sending that note (she has not yet replied). It makes me feel like I'm all desperate about this Operation: Sibling mission, and that was never how it was supposed to be.

I'm supposed to wait until H is at least one.

I'm supposed to enjoy this time with H and not think about the next one. Not be greedy.

But people without wonky eggs and ovaries get to think about another baby without it being greedy. They get to think about it without having to worry about getting insurance to pay for it or somehow coughing up $15-grand. It's unfair, and yes, I'm totally whining about it.

My husband is looking into the insurance options further with HR. It looks like we can probably get one or two cycles at least mostly covered, so it's doable even if it's not great. But you know how one or two cycles can be totally "off" and not work, for no good reason. What if we need a third, what if that's the charm? And what if we can't afford it?

I'm afraid I might be watching H's sibling disappear in real time, like Marty McFly watches his own fade in his family picture when he can't get his high school parents to fall in love.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

2010-11-09T17:17:00.000-08:00

If I were a children's book character, today my name would be Alexander.

First, I went to an orthopedic MD for a second opinion on my broken foot. Can't remember if I've discussed it here but I fractured my foot (the little pea-sized bone on the ball of my foot under the big toe) in July and have been hobbling around in a walking cast/boot since late August. Which, if you know the challenges of chasing a very mobile nine-month-old around, you'll understand is not easy. Oh, and by the way, I broke my foot walking in ill-fitting sandals around the mall. Because the universe thought it would be fun to have that be my answer when the 10 people ask me every day how I broke it.

Anyway, I got lost on the way to my appointment (at a hospital I typically do not use) this morning, because even though I've been to this hospital before and it's in a place I should know how to get to, I could get lost in a parking lot. So I was already rattled when I arrived. My anxiety snowballed when I had to wait forever to be seen by a fellow, was sent for more x-rays with a technician who seemed nonplussed by the whole thing as if he just graduated from x-ray technician school, had to wait again to see the real doctor and was told he recommends removing the bone surgically. By the time I left the place just before noon, I was already in need of a strong cocktail.

As I drove to get H at my mother's house, I discovered a message from my realtor. We had our house on the market most of the summer and early fall, became disheartened that it hadn't sold and sick of trying to juggle all the showings with the messy needs of a baby, and took it off the market last week. But a couple who had seen it before wanted another showing, so we agreed to let them see it this morning. The agent was writing to say that the couple loved the house, our decor, blah blah blah, but thought it was too small (which you'd think could have occurred to them during one of the first two showings they'd already had).

Then, because I needed another reason for aggravation, I took H to his music class where he was the victim (word selected for a little added drama) of a little incident. The teacher was taking away one of those baby crawl-through tunnels, folding it up from one end. When she got to the other end where H was leaning, instead of gently taking him off she basically pulled it out from under him, and he promptly fell back and bumped his head. She then attempted a half-assed apology in which she tried to say she thought he could stand on his own, tried to blame my being upset on my problems with my foot and tried to say I should have been there to tell her not to do it. This last one annoys me in particular since I watched the whole thing from about four feet away and made a conscious effort (before I saw that she was going to basically make him fall) not to be neurotic since surely, surely the trustworthy teacher was not going to let anything happen to him.

I am very good at displacing feelings, particularly anxiety and anger. So the bad news from my doctor's appointment was the perfect excuse to release pent-up frustration on the realtor (which, to be fair and make me sound less crazy, is based on concrete issues with him around selling our house). The thing with H at class was easy to be really pissed off about given my state of mind, and also became about my issues with trusting others to take care of H like I do (this setting me back by serving as proof that actually, my being more neurotic in that case would have paid off). I also snuck in some vengeful eating -- a McDonald's cheeseburger and small fry in the car while H slept in the car (so rebellious, like comfort food with a dark side, given my usual fast-food boycott).

Oh and my frustration with my day makes me hate the TLC commercial for the Sarah Palin special, where she pretends to be outdoorsy and folksy, even more. I mean, seriously, TLC?

Still, all of the above is nothing a little red wine can't fix. Or three glasses. Not that I've had three glasses, just -- theoretically.

Tomorrow is a new day.

Full Circle

2010-11-04T18:12:00.000-07:00

If you can get your emotions out of it, it's easy to appreciate how interesting life is.

Today I drove to the hospital -- the same one that helped us conceive and bring H into the world. I've been having killer heartburn (not just a little gurgling discomfort -- real, out-of-my-mind pain that's nearly sent me to the emergency room) since my third trimester of pregnancy, finally realized I couldn't will it away and went to the doctor, who ordered a test called a barium swallow. On my way to get the test this morning, I thought about going there exactly a year ago today, for a very different reason: because I was bleeding. Badly. At 28 weeks' pregnant.

I will never forget that drive from my office to the same hospital, that feeling of total vulnerability, that the universe could be at that very moment taking away what it had finally, finally granted. The sick anticipation that I might be about to endure my greatest pain yet. The sadness of telling my unborn baby that all would be okay, when I actually had no clue that it would be.

The whole story is recounted here so I won't numb your skull with the same details. But after an ambulance ride to the hospital downtown, a few days of evaluation and the 13 weeks of bedrest that followed, baby H came out when he was supposed to (a week late, even), healthy, hearty and completely unscathed by those events. Which made every second of those days and weeks so. Totally. Worth it.

Later this morning, I swallowed the vile barium in various positions with the very same radiologist, coincidentally, that administered my first IF test -- the hysterosalpingogram -- and himself had seen my RE with his wife. I was thrilled to tell him that I had been successful in my efforts to have a baby. It truly felt like coming full circle.

I then went upstairs to visit a close friend whose husband is a patient on one of the floors. When I came off the elevator I saw that the special care nursery was housed on the same floor. And all I could think was, "There but for the grace of God...." I mean, it really could have been us. Easily. And H could have had such a different babyhood.

So today I'm thinking a lot about the past year, how the intense fear of last November 4 became hope, then confidence, and ultimately insane, boundless joy. How the entire process of bringing H into this world has made me a better mom, a tougher person. I hope I've absorbed the right lessons from emerging alive. Sometimes I think the incident and bedrest were gifts, granting me the down time I needed to finally relax about the pregnancy.

No matter what else I was meant to learn, I know this: My gratitude is endless.

To Have and Have Not

2010-10-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

So I survived yet another surgery on my girl parts yesterday, thanks to my friend versed. It went well in that I got through it with very little pain, though I still felt foggy for most of the day today.

Here's what didn't go so well: She got only 70 percent of the adhesions. Apparently they can't stay in there all day long once they start (something about fluid absorption reaching a limit), so since my ute was in worse shape than anticipated, she ran out of time at 70 percent. For the math challenged out there, that leaves 30 percent to get out. Which means that I? Was so right in hoping to avoid a c-section in the first place (not that I had much control, in the end). I'll be headed back into the OR after a month on estrace followed by two weeks on provera and an in-office hysteroscopy.

The other thing I learned is that the worse the adhesions are, the greater the risk of placenta complications during pregnancy, like placenta previa (which I had with H) and placenta accreta, the scary condition in which the placenta burrows too deeply into the uterus, sometimes requiring hysterectomy during childbirth.

My doctor still thinks my Asherman's case is only a "3" on a scale of 1-10, and remains quite optimistic about my chances of conceiving again (though she said the scarring had affected at least one of my tubes, which further diminishes any minuscule chance of it happening au naturale).

Am I optimistic? I guess you could say I'm cautiously optimistic. I hope to give H a sibling, which is why I'm going down this path again (and it turns out to be a good thing I'm starting now). I know I would not be content to simply watch my 30s slip away without at least giving it a shot.

But in the meantime, what I am is 100% determined not to let this -- infertility, Asherman's, bad luck -- get in the way of my enjoying H's babyhood. It seems to me that it's easy enough on a normal day to let the moments pass without notice. Add the time and emotional drain that is infertility treatment and it becomes even easier. It would be the ultimate sad irony to sacrifice the sweetest moments with baby #1 in pursuit of baby #2. And it just won't happen.

It won't happen in part because no matter what the answer is this time -- another baby or not -- there is a baby boy upstairs, right now, who already made me a mother. And I owe it to myself, to my son and to every single woman out there still in the fight for motherhood to fully appreciate what I have without pining away for more, or at least without letting that longing overcome the joy.

And so, now back to my regularly scheduled life as a mother.

The Good Fight

2010-10-12T14:33:00.000-07:00

Went in for obligatory pre-surgery blood work today -- they need to make sure I'm hcg-free before going in to fix my ute tomorrow, because there's nothing like an infertile girl on the Pill to stir up a pregnancy scare.

Actually, these days I prefer to think of myself as fertile until proven otherwise. I'm sticking to it.

Anyway, while I was in my RE's waiting room, in walked this cute, 30-something couple: she very perky and he cooler than a cucumber. They were either totally new to the process or putting on a very believable, synchronized brave face. They were chatting up a storm about things that seemed quite strategically apropos of nothing. What I wanted to do -- and it actually felt difficult to restrain myself -- was go over, give them a hug and tell them this: Keep fighting.

Keep fighting, because what's at the end? Is so worth it.

Keep fighting, because the warmth of a newborn's breath in the crook of your neck is all that you imagine it will be.

Keep fighting, because when this process isn't breaking you, it's stirring up exactly the amount of strength you need to continue.

Keep fighting, because when you are playing with your baby and he looks right in your eyes and laughs an unrestrained belly laugh that sounds like pure joy just sailed right into your living room, this moment -- whatever you're dealing with today -- will seem very, very far away.

That's why I'm crazy enough to think about doing it again. Starting tomorrow.

Down the Hatch

2010-10-06T11:48:00.000-07:00

Because I have been completely lame about blogging from the moment I set foot in the hospital to give birth, and have failed to provide the kind of day-to-day updates I'd intended (or solicit smart advice from readers that could have saved some of the time I seem to woefully lack) I am now forced to summarize important topics like eating over the past eight months (baby H turned eight months on Saturday -- can you believe it?). Because that's what happens when you don't record everything.

So here goes. Eating. H started out as a great eater. He immediately got the whole thing, and our nursing challenges were never about intent or latching or any of that (issues were always supply meeting demand). We began supplementing with formula right in the hospital since his body weight dropped from the initial 8 lbs 9 oz to below 10 percent of that (I'll leave that math to people more equipped to handle it). After some trial and error we settled on Good Start Gentle Plus formula, which has been great for H as a supplement and then the sole milk product. Really no problems with it other than chronic spitup, which I really think is about him more than the formula, and has improved significantly over the past month or two.

Everything was pretty much chugging along (literally) until H started teething. He got his first two bottom teeth at the age of four months, and then in late August/September all four top teeth started coming in at once (actually, first the fangs started coming in alone, which was kind of hilarious looking -- but then the middle two filled in quickly). This seemed to impact his appetite, so between that and his propensity for easy distraction while eating, it seemed impossible to get any nutrition in him for a while.

We started solids (rice cereal -- Happy Bellies organic brown rice, to be exact) at four months, but we went probably more slowly than we should with introducing new foods -- so only at six months did we really start getting into it with him, offering a wider variety of fruits and vegetables. I guess was hesitant simply because there seemed to be so many different and conflicting points of view on the right approach (including within our single pediatrics practice, which provides two conflicting handouts for each age range on its website) that my brain kind of shut down as it does in situations of information overload. I was afraid of giving him the wrong thing.

Over the past month, though, we've really stepped it up and have introduced finger foods (which he really gets, thanks to all those teeth) in addition to a wide range of jarred (Earth's Best organic) baby food varieties. I've attempted to make him food myself but he has completely rejected it, apparently because I can't make it as thin and smooth as the jarred foods.

I guess at this point, I'm looking for ideas. I want to keep expanding his cuisine horizons but am not sure what else I can be giving him at this point. So here's a list of what we've done so far -- would love to hear what you're all giving (or gave) your babes at this stage, as well as any resources you've found particularly helpful (wholesomebabyfood.com is one site I've found moderately useful). Also, how quickly should I introduce more finger foods -- and what?

-Rice cereal (he will not eat oatmeal -- have tried two brands)
-Jarred fruits, veggies and meats
-Yogurt (Yo Baby)
-Egg yolks
-Canned pumpkin (which he loves)
-Veggie puffs
-Cheerios
-Shredded mozzarella cheese
-Have also tried applesauce and smashed avocado, but he is not a fan -- I think texture bothers him.

Banner Day

2010-10-04T20:19:00.000-07:00

It was an interesting day.

Started with a drive into town for an ultrasound at a diagnostic center with 3D ultrasound equipment. It impressed me that it was a test I had not previously been acquainted with, having done what I thought was most OB/GYN procedures known to womankind at this point. I was not impressed with what I saw on the screen -- my fibroids (which was what my doctor was looking at in anticipation of my upcoming operative hysteroscopy) looked pretty average and I didn't see anything particularly special about the images. I mean, for a commute into the city and $11 in parking shouldn't they have provided a little entertainment?

Anyway I became quite wistful sitting in the waiting area among all the big bellies. And an abdominal ultrasound is just so anticlimactic when all you see is your own boring body parts. No little hands waving at you, no baby hiccups to see in action. It confirmed for me that I'm doing the right thing, exploring the possibilities around baby #2. I like thinking that I have that to look forward to again.

Ultrasound completed, I went on to my alma mater to exchange a t-shirt I'd bought a few weeks back when I visited campus with a good friend and fellow alumna. (Note to self: When buying a t-shirt that says "slim fit" at a store specializing in sizes for students nearly 20 years your junior, even size Large is laughing at you.) The wistfulness continued. Once you've reached a certain age, nothing makes you feel older than walking around your old college campus early in the school year when the fresh-faced incoming class is still buzzing around with all the hope in the world about the good things to come. Still, as I lugged my diaper bag around (H was at his grandparents' house but I was too lazy to switch purses -- don't judge me), I couldn't help but feel a little self-satisfied too. I mean, if I could talk to my own fresh face I'd tell her to just eat this time up. But I'd also tell her there's a heck of a lot of good to come much later. And also, she will someday be just so much smarter than she was at 18.

From there, I went on another long-overdue errand: I went for a bra fitting at a respectable underpinnings store like a real lady. I mean, I've been getting through life wearing a nursing bra because it's the only thing that currently fits (having graduated from my reliable 34B somewhere in the second trimester), and seriously, we simply can't have that any longer. I confirmed I am exactly the size I expected and bought one, perfectly fitting bra that did so much for my mood that I think there should be a nationally mandated bra fitting day.

After H was home for a while and went to bed, I ended the day catching up with a friend -- the kind of friend you miss if you don't talk for a few days -- over a civilized glass of wine.

On my mind the entire day: this news about Robert Edwards and his well deserved Nobel Prize. I blubbered as I heard NPR report on it this morning, on my way to the ultrasound. If it weren't for this guy...well, thankfully, we'll never know. But I'm glad he's around, and that he did what he did. What else can I say but thank you, Professor Edwards. Thank you.

Blog Readers

2010-09-26T18:22:00.000-07:00

So Bloglines, the blog reader service I've been using for at least a year to keep track of all your brilliant posts, is shutting down as of the end of the month. Which means I have four days to find another reader. I briefly looked online for other options, got overwhelmed and decided to bypass all the research and just ask you what you use.

What's the best blog tracker site out there?

As the Uterus Turns

2010-09-20T11:07:00.001-07:00

Something happened after I had a baby: I became a normal mom. Okay, maybe not completely normal. Definitely a bit more neurotic than some. Maybe walking around with just a little baggage from my experience with infertility (but more like a small carry-on). But more or less just another mother of an infant, obsessing over feeding and sleeping and trying to stay sane on the tough days. It's been nice. I've been pretty cautious about bringing up IVF, especially with the new mom friends I've made, those with whom the common bond is having an infant. We're on an even playing field -- we both have babies and it really doesn't matter how they came to be -- and I haven't wanted to disturb that equation with an injection of assisted reproduction chatter.

Well. It's been fun. Last week I inadvertently got off the normal train and boarded the infertility express and now I don't know how to stop it.

I got my period last Saturday, which was an unexpected but welcome event. Based on my history I had every reason to expect that it would never come back on its own post-childbirth. But there it was, just 1.5 mos after weaning H from nursing, just like a normal person. Yay, right? Not so fast. It was extremely light, and on Sunday a lightbulb went off in my head: Wasn't it just like it was after my D&E? And didn't we learn that was because I had uterine scarring? And can't you get more scarring from a c-section, which was one of several reasons I didn't want one?

The next morning, I called my OB, who emailed my RE, and before I knew it I was back in the stirrups on Thursday for an office hysteroscopy. My RE (who is still fabulous) swore it was not going to be Asherman's, since only one other patient in her career got it from a c-section. Do I even need to tell you what she found (while I was trying desperately to breathe through searing pain that hit me harder than contractions)? I was right. I'm the one-percent girl. Again. (If anyone needs me to come over and provide a diagnosis, give me a call.)

So all of a sudden I'm having an operative hysteroscopy in a few weeks. Because if I ever hope to be pregnant again -- and especially if I want to give my body a chance to do it on its own -- the scar tissue has to go.

I am just feeling weird about the whole thing. It feels so optional this time. My whole life doesn't feel like it hangs in the balance of a test result or a procedure. I mean, do I want a second child? Yes (though this answer is complicated too). Do I want H to have a sibling? Absolutely. Will I mourn if it doesn't happen? Yup. But it sort of feels like I could have just waited a couple of months to have it checked out, like I didn't have to force the issue right this moment. I kind of feel like saying wait a minute, I didn't mean it, and returning to my previously scheduled life as a mom.

But how can I? I want to pursue this second baby at some point soon, because it could be a long process, I'm not getting any younger and I just kind of want to finish the whole reproduction thing sooner rather than later. The first necessary step is this surgery, which I know from experience is not a big deal. And then maybe, just maybe that will be all the help I need. I'm not banking on it, but a girl can hope.

The Summer Wind

2010-09-06T15:00:00.000-07:00

I love this time of year, early September. It hangs delicately between the unfinished business of summer and the softer light and air on its way in. It makes me want to soak everything up, to linger a bit.

The past couple of months have been wild, and I feel like I've done no lingering at all. Where the summer used to be about moving from pastime to pastime between the anchors of Memorial and Labor Days, this one has been about moving from baby milestone to baby milestone. About figuring out the essentials like eating and sleeping, and keeping up with my boy, who is already two steps ahead of me -- all while keeping the rest of our lives afloat as well.

Let me bring you up to speed:

-Baby H is crawling. The real deal. This began almost the day he turned six months, followed quickly by his learning to pull himself up on all manner of surfaces -- coffee table, crib, upholstered chair, and especially anything unstable or pointy.

-We're trying to sell our house, and on the hunt for a new one. We currently live in a very nice, close-in suburb of Boston that I would like to remain in for decades to come. But I'd also like more of the trappings of suburban life, many of which were once anathema: a huge family room, with (horrors) carpeting -- somewhere to put H down and let him roam safely. A huge yard with a swing set. Room to grow. So we're looking in the real suburbs, where these things come more affordably. And let me tell you something about trying to sell a house when you have a baby: It sucks. Please, please, please let it sell soon.

-My freelance work has taken off in ways I never anticipated when I got up the nerve to walk in and quit my full-time job after one post-baby month back. I work pretty much every night and weekend, and sometimes long for a little downtime. But it is well worth it to continue to contribute to the household income while relishing every day at home with my boy.

-My husband left on July 25 for a business trip to Tokyo and Canberra, Australia. When he walked back in the house 12 days later, I knew instantly that something was seriously wrong. Gaunt, pale and weak, he looked like death warmed over; I learned that after dinner in Tokyo nearly a week prior, he went to the bathroom and essentially hadn't been able to stray far from a toilet since. I won't bore you with the full rundown, but the rest of the story involves a fever, four nights at Brigham and Women's Hospital, a CAT Scan, finally a diagnosis (campylobacter infection) and enough antibiotics to open a small pharmacy. I'm not sure I can put into words how stressful and surreal it is to have your husband on the infectious disease floor of a hospital (the docs suited up and everything) after a long business trip while you care for a fussy baby and keep your house clean for showings by your realtor. I'm grateful, in more ways than one, that he's back in fighting form.

-To prove further how much we seem to love doctors and hospitals, I learned last week that the foot that's been throbbing for two months since an ill-fated walk through the mall (in Jack Rogers sandals whose loose fit, I knew, would one day cause me pain) is actually broken. So I'll be hobbling around in a big, black boot-cast for two months. How do these things happen to me? Seriously, if you see me on the street, run the other way. I have redefined the notion of "shop until you drop."

-Other H updates: Solids seem to be going well -- he's enjoying them more and more, though still only the jarred variety (Earth's Best), as he seems to have an aversion to chunkier foods and I can't smooth anything out to his liking with the Cuisinart (which is fine with me). He's more social now, loves other babies and smiles and laughs nonstop. He still loves his Baby Bjorn -- I spent the whole summer carting him around open houses, supermarkets and other destinations strapped to my middle, a tiny madman grabbing at packages and laughing spontaneously out loud. He instantly became the mayor of anywhere we went, loving the attention. We're still working on sleep -- that's a long story worthy of a separate post. We did manage to get away for a few days in Maine, an exhausting but fun trip that included H's first time at the beach.

All told, it's been a good summer, though I can't help but feel that it slipped away too quickly. It's amazing to me that this baby who took so long to arrive is now growing and changing so much, so fast. It's hard not to remember that this time last year, I was expanding by the minute and registering for baby gear, most of which I had only the most abstract idea how to use. Now, as I watch H become more and more independent, I want to somehow bottle it all up so I can relive it someday when I need the warmth of these moments. I am trying to focus on the fact that he's still only seven months old, still just a small baby. That someday this time that I'm in, right now, will be the longed-for memory.

I didn't know it would be this fun, that I would be this happy. Didn't know that a voice inside would whisper: This is the time of your life.

Released from Duty

2010-07-23T16:07:00.000-07:00

H and I would like to announce that we have officially stopped nursing. Like completely done now, finito. Returned the breast pump rental today.

As I said here before, it had been petering out for quite some time. The last couple of weeks, though there were a couple of feedings with better volume, had started to feel sort of sad, as if the whole thing was past its expiration date. On Wednesday, he looked up at me and made this face, like give it up, mama. I'm good. So I decided to hang up my nursing bra. I had hoped to coast to six months, but was sort of easier to decide like this, in real time, based on signals from him, than decide going into it that this was The Last Nursing Session.

I think before I had him I would have thought that getting sentimental about ending nursing was sort of creepy. But it's hard to let go of it for a couple of reasons. First, I still, even up until the bittersweet end, wished somewhere in the back of my mind that somehow I could be one of these earth mothers able to satisfy all her baby's dietary needs at will. Yeah, not so much. I need to get over this. Sometimes, my body doesn't do what it's supposed to. It didn't when I was trying to get pregnant, and it didn't when I wanted to nurse exclusively. But it did when it needed to carry my gorgeous baby for nine-and-a-half months. So I think all is forgiven.

Of course the other reason is that for the first time since he was an embryo, he doesn't depend on me for anything life-giving. He's on his own now, fully. He's growing up. All is as it should be, but that doesn't stop it from being a little bit sad.

I would say overall, I feel pretty positive about the whole nursing deal -- more so than I expected going into it. I will never forget the scene in the recovery room after my c-section, me still a complete disaster, recovering from anesthesia and hopped up on anti-anxiety meds, shivering uncontrollably, how he looked up at me and latched on like I'd been nursing him for years, like okay lady, you're a mess -- let me handle this. He got enough in the weeks that followed, all the positive benefits. There's nothing to feel about the whole thing except great. And all the militant breastfeeding pushers who think I totally failed because I give my son formula can totally suck it.

Meanwhile, I have my body back for the first time in over a year. Which means I'm free to poison it as I please. Bring on the cabernet, the caffeinated lattes and the pale-skin curing self-tanner, please.

Random post-script: I just caught up on this week's "Boston Med," and lo and behold, there was the ob-gyn resident (the one my husband affectionately called the 12-year-old doctor) who handed me the fateful prescription for misoprostol during the third installment of the Longest Miscarriage in History a year and a half ago. I was still on the fence about taking the drug when I went to the IVF clinic to make a plan that day, but found her manner so reassuring that I decided to go ahead with it. Which, as some of you may remember, turned out to be an unequivocal disaster. But that wasn't her fault, so I hope she keeps plowing ahead with this medicine thing despite the thoughts of quitting that she expressed on the show. Meanwhile, this town is getting to be too small. You'd think I could turn on a show about medicine in a town overrun with doctors without seeing one that's familiar with my vagina.

Reason #719 Why I Am a Bad Mother

2010-07-19T07:25:00.000-07:00

I am a bad mother. Today, the reason for that is: I just put my baby down for a nap. On his stomach.

Before you go all it's-back-to-bed-lady-don't-you-know-anything-about-infant-care on me, I need to state my case. I never would have done this in the early weeks and months, obviously. But H has been rolling onto his stomach since 12 weeks, so after getting over the initial anxiety of it, I have become accustomed to watching him roll over immediately after I put him down in his crib. His favorite sleeping position is belly down, butt in the air. The pediatrician told me that we can't keep vigil over his crib all night, so once they can move around like this you really can't do anything to stop them. So after a couple of nights of keeping vigil over his crib all night (oh, doctor, you underestimate my anxious powers) once we transitioned him out of the bassinet, where he'd been held back from rolling by a sleep positioner, I finally accepted that I couldn't do anything to stop it. H officially became a belly sleeper.

For the past few nights since we got back from our first mini-vacation with baby in tow (more on this later), he's been all out of whack, and putting him down to sleep has been a knock-down-drag-out ordeal (the parents being the ones knocked down and dragged out, natch). He's been so upset when we put him down on his back that he can't even muster the wherewithal to roll over as he normally does. So I? Rolled him over for him. And he was out like a light.

I know he normally sleeps like this and the pediatrician has given us the green light to let it happen. Putting him down on his belly intentionally still does give me pause, which I suppose is a proof point to the success of the back-to-bed campaign. This message is drilled. But I'd like to see the leaders of this campaign to come to my house, witness my poor tired baby screaming his head off then instantly calm down when I put him on his belly, and not do the exact same thing.

Incidentally, though I hope it read ironically, I feel I should add the following disclaimer: I don't actually believe that I'm a bad mother. I'm not even explicitly looking for comments that exclaim, "You're not a bad mother!", though they are always welcome. I actually know I'm a pretty good mother -- in fact, I've never felt so confident about anything in my life. Oh, I make a ton of mistakes, all the time, and some days I feel like I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing, as clueless and nonplussed as if someone handed me a scalpel, put me in an OR and asked me to perform lifesaving brain surgery. But for every mistake I've made, I've done something right. I get up every day and try my best to keep him fed and happy. I give him crazy love. All you have to do is turn on the local evening news to realize that, sadly, that's a lot better than the BS that far too many babies in this world must accept as mothering.

We do the best we can. We consult the experts, but in the end, in the final translation from the latest parenting advice book to the day-in-day-out of real-life parenting, we make the best decisions we can for our babies in the moment. That is all we can do.

Worse Than Mom Jeans

2010-07-10T10:00:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you something: If you start to feel that you're living too charmed a life, that you could use a little grounding, a little humbling, do the following. Have a baby. By c-section, just for a little added pain. And then go bathing suit shopping.

I realize my last post was along the same lines: a long, whine-y rant about my new body. I promise this will not become a blog all about my "weight loss journey" or whatever you call this post-baby search for my waistline. But I went to find a bathing suit the other night, because although I think wearing a hazmat or space suit to the beach would be really awesome, it's possible that it would just draw more attention to me and my very un-beach-worthy body.

So I dragged myself to shop for one. I decided to look at the discount stores (Filene's Basement, Marshalls), because I believe, perhaps naively, that this particular suit will be a one-season investment. My days of wearing anything ending in the suffix "-ini" long behind me, I scanned the one-piece racks for something, anything, remotely palatable. What I discovered is that the line between modest and matronly is precariously thin. There were lots of bold floral prints in unfortunate colors that I can pretty confidently say aren't going to do anyone any favors. There were flouncy skirts and awkward belts. There were thick, molded bra cups. Much of what I saw just screamed "mommy who has given up."

Most of what I then tried on was obviously out of the question. Two seemed within the realm of the possible, but since I have no objectivity, I decided to take them both home and ask my husband's opinion. I have yet to work up the nerve to try them on for him, but I'm going to have to soon. One is slimming up top, with ruffles and a plunging neckline that is totally unlike me to wear but I'm hoping might wag the dog and keep eyes away from my lower half. I'll let you know what he says. At the very least, the lighting in my house has got to be better than what the fitting room lighting, which was definitely no one's BFF.

The other thing that happened was that I turned 34 yesterday. Which means, well, that I'm one year older. And it's also the last year before 35 and that invisible line of demarcation they've created between good and bad eggs. Since we already know my eggs aren't great, and we have to get science involved to find a good one that makes a baby, this is a bit unsettling. I'd love to have all kinds of time to figure out whether we want to try again -- would love for it to be as easy as deciding to throw away the pill pack. But it's not. It requires lots of planning and processes, and we simply don't have the luxury of waiting if we want to optimize our chances of ever having a sibling for H. So, even as we still have a baby young enough to wake once a night for feeding, we're debating the pros and cons of going for #2. Stay tuned for more on this unfolding saga.

Meanwhile, though my husband disagrees, I declare that 34 is still officially early 30s. Mid-30s is 35 and 36. Everyone knows that.

Weighty Issues

2010-06-30T13:30:00.001-07:00

Here's what I hate: post-baby belly fat.

It's not a pretty sight. The other night, as I lay awake working way too hard to succumb to sleep (it seems those weeks upon weeks of being up with a newborn have rewired my brain to require less of it, and lately I'm an insomniac before 1 a.m.), I reached down to feel my abdomen, which I admittedly do from time to time to assess the state, size and scope of things (and maybe discover the baby fat has magically disappeared?). It felt like a topographic map of childbearing. I imagined a hushed, official-sounding voice (would Ben Stein do it? James Earl Jones?) narrating: Here is the deep canyon formerly known as her bellybutton. To the north, an overhang of loose terrain; to the south, the permanent fault line of the c-section scar. To the east and west, the shallow crevasses of stretch marks she thought she'd never have. This is treacherous territory.

I admit that going into the whole pregnancy thing I didn't think much about the effects it would have on my body; when you work so hard for a baby it's just not the priority. I figured I would be one of those women who was "all baby," and for the most part, my arms, legs and derriere didn't suffer much. My face exploded in that pregnant-lady swollen way, and my nose looked like about twice its size, but that went back to normal almost immediately after giving birth. But the thing is, "all baby" isn't code for Heidi Klum. All that baby fat has to go somewhere once the baby is no longer in there holding it up, so you better be ready to starve yourself and train for hours daily a la Ms. Klum if you want to rock it in a Victoria's Secret fashion show mere weeks after delivery (note to Ms. Klum: please don't give us that nonsense about the pounds falling off due to nursing and kid-chasing. We're pretty smart.).

What I've done so far to try to put my body back together is, admittedly, sort of lame. After the requisite six-week rest period, when I finally felt my bearings return and the weather began improving I started walking again. I felt my muscles start to stir from their more than a year-long IVF/placenta previa/bedrest/c-section-induced slumber and I knew it would be a long road. I'm just now starting to feel normal in that I can go for a long, athletically rigorous walk and not be totally wiped out after it.

I also picked up the Tracy Anderson Method Post-Pregnancy Workout. I put it in the DVD player, turned it on, tried a few of the isolation exercises, threw my back out and collapsed. So that went well.

As for eating, what I expected was that the party would be over when I got home from the hospital after H arrived. I did my fair share of indulging during the pregnancy, although I suspect that what I consider indulging would be standard fare for lots and lots of people. But when I got home, what I found was that the nursing made me even hungrier than I was during pregnancy, which I never would have thought was humanly possible. So while I tried to make healthy choices, I still consumed shockingly large volumes of food.

The sum total of all of the above is that it's taken me longer than I would have guessed to lose the weight. I haven't really spent a lot of energy trying -- frankly, I've found sleep and other vital activities to be more important ways of spending my free time -- so I can't really complain about it. I have noticed that the pounds have started to come off more quickly over the past few weeks (coincidentally, as the nursing has dwindled down to about one feeding per day. Which supports what I've heard about your body storing extra fat to make milk, and pretty much flies in the face of the whole nursing-as-weight-loss-panacea theory.), and that is encouraging. But my closet is still a mish-mash of a few older clothes that now fit me, the handful of things I've bought to fit my new voluptuous (read: chubby) figure and the few maternity things that still are the only items in their category (jeans) that currently fit.

So I'm hoping for more, hoping to get closer to the thin/healthy body I had, even if it's not precisely the same body -- even if it's a new landscape. And it looks like I'm going to have to step it up and use some elbow grease if I want to get there.

Where are you on the whole postpartum weight loss thing?

Like a Racehorse

2010-06-25T10:44:00.001-07:00

This one falls squarely in the category of oversharing. But I've got to talk about it, to see if I'm alone and to bring this important issue to light. Here goes. Don't be frightened.

Once upon a time, I would go to a public ladies room, pick a stall as far from the others as possible and get down to business. Now, I have a shy bladder anyway, and always have a hard time getting things going if someone else (particularly someone I know who, God forbid, is trying to talk to me at the same time) is in an adjacent stall. Invariably, though, as I would be trying to pee, someone would clomp into the stall right next to me, sit down (did they even put toilet paper down, I would wonder in quiet horror, so quick it all sounded) and start peeing.

And at times, the sound of that stall neighbor's pee would be so forceful and so loud that I would actually be sort of afraid for her. Good grief, I would think, what is wrong with her. It was no stream -- it was torrential rapids. The truly frightening thing is that I noticed this happened quite a lot. It seemed to me there was an unspoken epidemic of aggressive female pee-ers. I would shake my head and silently applaud my dainty urethra for taking its sweet time and tinkling like a lady.

Well, clearly I should have been more charitable in my consideration of these women, because sometime in the last weeks of my pregnancy and first weeks postpartum, my demure urethra turned punk. And now? Now if I drink one drop of water too many and there's any urgency behind the need to pee, it is off to the races. And the crazy thing is that I seem to have no control over the speed and force of it when this occurs -- I'm either peeing loudly enough for my husband to hear outside the bathroom door (I am not kidding: He asked me if it was me in there or a 300-pound man) or not peeing at all. There is no in between, no happy medium. And oh my goodness, how embarrassing.

I'm sure there is some perfectly reasonable medical explanation for this. Something about the pressure on the bladder or shifts in the other plumbing down there. All I know is that my polite peeing ways are, at least for the moment, resting in peace along with my former bellybutton and my ability to recall information five minutes after I hear it.

And now I know what was "wrong" with all those women: They've given birth.

Milking It

2010-06-23T12:41:00.000-07:00

The other day, I went to a breastfeeding drop-in group at my local maternity resource center (or as I call it, the pregnancy/baby theme park). All around me were brand new mothers, still glowing, all nursing their quiet little newborns. And I? I whipped out a bottle and a container of powdered formula when H started clamoring for it. It felt gleefully rebellious.

It also felt a little sad. The breastfeeding thing has not gone the way I'd hoped. But since I was also prepared for the worst -- I fully expected, given my body's propensity to never do what it's supposed to do, to never make a drop of milk at all -- I haven't been devastated by our inability to exclusively breastfeed. I really can't even think of one friend who hasn't had some sort of issue when it comes to nursing -- undersupply, mastitis, you name it.

So when they encouraged me to start supplementing in the hospital when H began to exceed the allotted ten percent loss of body weight, I felt like I was already primed to make that decision. I mean, it's not hard. Your baby is fading away despite your feeding him 24 hours a day, and the doctors are actually concerned. Digging in your heels about exclusively breastfeeding sort of seems like missing the point.

At first, I followed what the nurses and lactation consultants advised and tried to breastfeed him first at every feeding, followed by an ounce of formula. And then pump. So basically? I was feeding the boy around the clock. I don't care how much you love your baby -- if you're human and have a human need to rest and eat and pee, this kind of schedule is unsustainable. And also, all the nursing and pumping wasn't doing anything to build my supply and H was still really fussy. What ultimately ended up working for us was to do whole feedings with formula, as my supply would build back up with the passage of time. So we'd nurse in the morning, do formula late morning and sometimes early afternoon and then nurse again for the next couple of feedings. We were on a roll and things were going well. And then I went back to work.

All kidding aside about the weirdness of taking your boobs out at work -- and it is weird -- I found pumping to be a real pain in the neck. I know I'm should have had a happier attitude about it, because it was for my baby's well-being, but I found that by the time I got into work, got settled, grabbed my coffee, read a few emails and then pumped, it was already 11 a.m. And frankly, nursing is a lot less gratifying when plastic suction cups take the place of an adorable baby. It's hard to feel maternal when you're staring at office supplies and servers in a tiny office closet.

So all of that added up to my being very bad about pumping on a consistent schedule. And even when I would pump, I think I was so wound up about being at work that I hardly got anything at all. Which means that now that I'm back at home with H and able to nurse again, I hardly have anything left. Which led me to the nursing drop-in group, where I committed the blasphemous act of feeding my baby Good Start formula from a bottle. The lactation consultant leading the session tried to act nonchalant about it, but I could see she was horrified.

The advice I got was to try pumping again a half hour after every feeding. I'm also trying to drink more water and considering trying fenugreek as a last resort. Because, while I think I have a pragmatic view of the benefits of nursing (my Harvard-educated and -trained pediatrician says the literature is grossly overstated on this), my goal was to get us to six months. And I don't think we're ready to be fully done just yet.

Anyway, I would love to hear any experience/advice along the same lines.

Finally, a word about lactation consultants. It is amazing to me that two of them can possibly share the same title, because in my experience they can vary dramatically. I had two while still in the hospital; the second came to me only in the last hours I was there. But I think if she had come first (because her colleague? Oh no. No good.), I may have had a different experience. That's how influential these people can be. You're a new parent, you're vulnerable, and let's face it, you've never done anything like nursing before. So you're at the mercy of their advice and approach. If they tell you to stand on your head and sing "Surrey with the Fringe on Top" while nursing, you'll try it. So pregnant/soon-to-be-pregnant girls, if you take anything from this, please take this: Get yourself in touch with a good lactation consultant before you even deliver. I don't have to tell you what makes a good one. Talk to a couple and you'll soon see that a good LC is like pornography: You'll know it when you see it.

It's Not My Bag

2010-06-22T19:27:00.000-07:00

When I was in my nesting phase, researching and gathering baby gear, I smugly decided that people who bought more than one diaper bag were misguided. Clearly, if you chose right, you could get one perfect bag that would hold everything and go with everything, and call it a day. So I did my requisite research and determined that the Skip Hop Studio bag was the end all, be all.

Two things ultimately sent this theory to the same place as my pre-baby theories that pacifiers are for wimps, you shouldn't send the baby to the nursery while in the hospital and newborn care can't be that stressful since they sleep most of the day. First of all, the bag is too mushy. It lacks structure, so basically all the myriad stuff you need to carry -- diapers, wipes, burp cloths, hats, bottles, your own wallet and keys, clothes, etc. etc. ad nauseum -- sort of ends up all smashed together in the bottom of the bag and you have to take everything out to find anything. And second, the thing is already ripping. I'm definitely not carrying anything inappropriate in it, like, say, the baby himself, but after just a couple of months of use the seams on the pockets are already shredding and it's starting to fall apart.

So. I'm in the market for a new bag. This new one still needs to look like a semi-normal bag that your former self would not be embarrassed to carry. It has to have interior pockets and some structure to it, to keep things in their place. And it has to be reasonably priced. I'm no longer working and I don't really want to spend a ton on a bag that will carry gear associated with poop and spitup.

Do you love your diaper bag? Do tell.

If This Isn't Multitasking, I Don't Know What Is

2010-06-17T12:39:00.000-07:00

If you came here from Good Egg Hunting, you know I quit my job after four weeks back following my maternity leave. I'm continuing to do freelance work, which is proving more challenging with a four-month-old than I would have previously thought (those visions of productive afternoons spent quietly working, iced tea nearby, while the baby napped? were the visions of someone without a four-month-old still not on a schedule). I had a conference call this afternoon, and while I prayed very hard that the baby would be asleep by then, no such luck. So here's what I did while I was on the call:

-Finished giving him a bottle
-Tried putting him down for a nap
-Wasn't having it
-Changed the crib sheet after he spit up on it while I tried to get him to sleep
-Changed his diaper
-Comforted him after the nap attempt
-Pulled a piece of my hair out of his hand after he yanked it out
-Played with him on the floor
-Lulled him to sleep
-Put him down
-Crossed my fingers
-Breathed a sigh of relief when he went to sleep

I'm exhausted.

One of Those Days in Babyville

2010-06-16T11:29:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else noticed that when it comes to being a new parent, some days you feel like a genius who totally has this thing DOWN, and some days you feel like you know nothing at all?

Yeah, today is one of the I-kn0w-nothing kind of days. It's kicking my butt. I still don't have H on any kind of schedule, and what's worse is that I have absolutely no clue how to get to one. He does nap once in the morning and once in the afternoon, but they're at wildly varying times and have no consistent pattern in terms of length. He's been fussy for most of the day and I'm not really at all clear on why.

Also, the spitup? The spitup that no one warns you about before the baby is born but the constant cleanup of which basically rules your life for the first few months? It's back. With a vengeance. I'm wearing eau de Good Start formula today, and it's not a scent you'll find at Neiman Marcus. We need more burp cloths -- we never have enough burp cloths.

So yeah, the boy is giving me a run for my money today. I feel like I've mastered nothing lo these four months and it's a little discouraging.

Anyone else having one of those days?

My New Commute Is a Walk Down the Hall

2010-06-14T17:53:00.001-07:00

When you feel – right down to your fingernails and pinky toes – that you've never been more content than you are on this new little planet with your new, amazing baby (and still amazing husband) and also know for sure that the day job you just returned to is not making you anywhere near as happy (and, indeed, that you would rather work nights at Starbucks than be there, away from your baby), the thing that you do is, you quit.

So I did.

And now, just like that, I'm an at-home mom and freelance writer. Welcome to my new adventures in diaper management, spitup catching and a long list of one-handed feats. Hang onto your hats.