Happy Second Blog-o-versary to Me!

That's right!  Two years ago I started writing about my kids on my lunch hour as a way to keep a virtual baby book for them because I am fundamentally lazy and have handwriting that is beyond atrocious.  I can't even read what I've scrawled sometimes, let alone my poor children thirty years from now when they want to know when they got their first tooth.

I came out of the blog closet in January and, boy-howdy, has my life changed.

I have made some wonderful friends, women to whom I genuinely look up because they're amazing people and wonderful writers who have fascinating and engaging stories to tell. 

I have shared more of my life with people who have known me forever, family members who remember me when I was the age of my babes, cousins living too far away for real hugs, and friends with whom I have lost touch.

I have found a community where my voice fits in, harmonizing with others who write on the melody of motherhood.  And my voice has become stronger, more supported, more able to be heard through the crescendos and decrescendos of life.

I have had face-to-face conversations with people about things on my blog, shared with them the joys and pains of the last two years of my life as honestly as I can.  I'm not really sure how to do it otherwise.

And, because this is me, I can't get away from this post without poking fun at myself a little...

The Soup Nazi tweeted "No soup for you!" to me because my twitter ID is IASoupMama.  For real.  The real Soup Nazi.  Althoughm the joke's on him as he hasn't been here (as far as I can tell) -- no Soup for him!

And finally, not one but TWO friends have compared me to David  Sedaris.  Wha-what?  I'm flattered, but my humor is to David Sedaris's humor as a drop of tequila is to a swimming pool of margarita.  So hand me a lime so I can go swimming, already!

Here are a few of my faves from the last year.  If you like 'em, great, let me know!  If you don't, please don't tell me -- I don't want to cry at my on party...

• Humor: Socially Inept Mom Braces for Impact
• More Humor: The Text Heard 'Round KC
• Even More Humor: Muffin Top
• Infertility: Life Beetween Two Pink Lines
• Miscarriage: Not Again
• Motherhood: Rebirth

Life Between Two Pink Lines

My house is so quiet right now.  Scott and the kids are outside cleaning the garage, the dogs are lying on the back porch and I'm in here enjoying the silence, letting it sit on my shoulders like a cape.

Unfortunately, in the silence I start thinking, start dreaming, start wondering.  And, though I have not mentioned it here or really anywhere lately, all I think about in the silence is out current status of fertility, or, more correctly, infertility.  I try not to dwell on it and readily acknowledge that this miscarriage was far less emotionally devastating than my first one was -- back when we weren't sure that we'd ever have another child.

But in the quiet moments my mind wanders and I think, "Wow!  I'd be out of the first trimester by now!" and " might have started feeling movement soon!"  The thought is relentless sometimes, "I want a baby.  I want a baby.  I want a baby."  It rides on every heartbeat, following my blood as it reaches my fingertips and flows back to my heart.  It is so illogical -- my family is perfect as it is, really it is.  But I want a baby.  I want a baby.  I want a baby.

I have been feeling this way for so long, long enough to have lived through the excited planning phase (trying to conceive months 1-5), the jealous phase ( months 6-10), and the heartbroken phase (months 10-15).  I am now in month 17 and in the "I'm just so tired of trying, of monitoring, medicating, timing, stressing, worrying and waiting" phase.  Which means that every time someone announces a new pregnancy, I am just numb.  An online friend announced (on my birthday, no less) that she is expecting her third.  I was more annoyed that she announced it on my birthday, especially since she knows my history, than I was jealous or even happy for her.  Of course, I didn't tell anyone -- why would I? 

When you are struggling with infertility there is no obvious sign, no one makes a t-shirt that says, "Hey, I can't get pregnant and stay pregnant, so please stop asking me when we're going to have another kid!"  You don't have a black cloud following you around, raining on people for saying something insensitive because my infertility consumes only my waking thoughts, not theirs.  It shouldn't, either.  It is such a silent suffering, my battle scars are all in places that no one can see.

I had to force myself to use my ovulation predictor kit the last few mornings -- I had fallen out of the habit since the miscarriage and getting back into it just made me mad.  I hate that my life is currently ruled by two little pink lines, that so many decisions rest in the space between them -- should we start planning next summer's vacation yet?  What size bridesmaid's dress will I need to order for my brother's wedding?  We need a new vehicle -- mini-van to hold three carseats or sedan than needs to hold only two?

I have already had to release the daycare slot our sitter was holding for us.  If we were successful right now, this cycle, we would be having a baby close enough to summer that we wouldn't need daycare until the fall when Scott goes back to work full-time.  For some reason, speaking that logic aloud, relaying that choice to the sitter was so very difficult because we were admitting failure on an epic level.  There is such finality when you tell someone "We don't have a child for you yet, nor will we during this upcoming year."

Part of me wants to give up, so tired of the infinite waiting, the life held suspended in "What if?"  But I don't want to give up on a child, don't want a baby to feel like an after-thought, so I'll live life between those two pink lines for a little while longer.

Insomnia

Ah-ah-ah-insomnia-ah-ah!

I know why it's happening, but I'm not sure how to make it stop because it is all stress related.  When I type stress, imagine it with 60,000 lightning bolts arcing around it, the metallic taste of ozone creeping into your mouth.  Electric blue stress, with a side of last-adult-standing.

What's goin' on to make me stressed?  Eh, a couple of things.
1.  The miscarriage.  As it stands right now, another phebotomist rolled another vein in my right arm, so I had to attend a wedding on Friday night with a nasty bruise and some track marks on the inside of my elbow.  I solved this issue by always carrying a glass of wine -- brilliant!  Friday night, my poor hubby had to insert four pills of Cytotec into my girly parts to medically induce a miscarriage.  After reading horror stories online, I was too chicken to administer the meds myself.  No horror story for me, though, as it didn't work.  Well, it worked well enough that I had some crap-tastic diarrhea and was limp as a wet noodle all day Saturday, but I didn't finish the miscarriage, or maybe I didn't need to.  I don't know anymore.  I have an ultrasound scheduled for the 21st to see what's-a-going-on-in-there.  Yippee!

2.  Violet had a tummy bug.  And now, every time one of the kids moves at night, I hear it on the monitor and think someone's drowning in puke in their bed.  I jolt out of bed and tear into her room, searching for signs of vomit, then return empty-handed to repeat this ritual in 34 seconds.  This has caused me so much anxiety that I have actually spent part of the last few nights snoozing on the futon where I can't hear the baby monitor.  I'd turn it off, but Scott actually likes it.  Maybe I'll just turn it off anyway.

3.  Speaking of Scott, he's waist deep in a production, as he always is this time of year.  Tech rehearsals kept him out of the house on Saturday when I was winning the couch-parenting-mother-of-the-year award and will tonight and tomorrow night.  So now I've got to chase Violet around the playground during Milo's t-ball practice again.  Because that was super-fun last week.  And will be super-fun on Wednesday, too.

4.  Scott is heading out of town.  Yep, he'll be installing a set in Texas this week.  Yay for the rental fee, yay for the per diem travel, and yay for the wages to install it, but BOO to Scott being gone.  Boo, hiss...

5.  Milo's birthday party is approaching.  Which means cleaning and preparing for a party.  And hoping that kids come...  I've only had three RSVPs (two yes, one no) out of 10 invites.  They aren't due until the 10th, so hopefully a few more will come through.

6.  I'm gearing up to go to part-time status at the beginning of July.  Trying to get as much done before then.  And with classes out, the only living things in the basement of this building are me and the bugs.  Did I mention that spiders creep me out?  Well, they do.

7.  My garden and plants aren't responding and growing as well as I'd hoped they would.  Sure, some things are doing really well (corn, beans, zucchini, onions) but the ones I really want to eat (broccoli, tomatoes, and cauliflower) aren't.  Some of the peppers are and some aren't.  I got some organic fertilizer to see if that will make a difference...  Now to find the time to use it.

8.  I need to renew my driver's license and file for a homestead tax credit.  OK, not real big stressors here, but stuff that does need to be done.  Speaking of which, why hasn't my license plate renewal notice arrived?  Better check into that, too.

9.  Violet is trying to potty train.  Sometimes.  When it seems appropriate.  Or darn inconvenient.  Her little voice doesn't seem to carry the same sort of insistence that Milo's did when he was in that stage.  Sometimes it sounds like she's singing, other times it sounds like she's asking for a drink.  "My need tinkle" sounds a bit like "My need dwink!" doesn't it?

10.  My allergies and sunburn have left me feeling totally itchy.  And like I just don't want to be touched.  At all.  By anyone.  And everyone I know wants to sit in my lap, cuddle me, snuggle me, sleep on me, sleep with me, squash me, and climb on me.  I just don't seem to have any tolerance right now.  Maybe a few nights sleeping in my bed all by myself with the monitor off will do the trick?  Even if they don't that's still what's going to happen.

Not Again

I didn't want to do this again.  I didn't want to be the mother who dreads going to the OB, who jealously hides from pregnant women, who crumbles at the question, "When are you going to have another?"

I didn't want to have another miscarriage.  I just didn't.

And yet, here I am again, losing our surprise anniversary baby.  The baby we weren't supposed to conceive last month, the one who wasn't supposed to be made by husband and wife.  Our third child was going to be conceived at the doctor's office using a "sample" and a thin catheter.  And yet, somehow during the month where I detected no ovulation surge, I ovulated and one of Scott's sleepy swimmers managed to pass swim class, meeting my egg like two fingertips touching.

I tested on the morning of our anniversary, figuring that the fastest way to end a cycle is to pee on a stick.  It came up positive, and so did the test I took after I got to work and the two I took the next morning after I realized I'd started spotting.  I went in for a blood draw after pretty much giving the nurse my medical orders -- "I have a history of ectopic pregnancy, you'll want to order a quantitative hCG."  Nurse says, "Oh, yeah.  That sounds good.  When can you come in?"

At the blood draw, just as I was complementing the phlebotomist, she rolled my vein.  I've been wearing a huge bruise in my inner left elbow since then.   My kids kiss it because it is so hideous they are convinved it is quite painful.  It really isn't.  That was a week ago.

Two days ago, I went back for a repeat blood draw.  A different phlebotomist rolled a vein in my right arm, again apologizing profusely.  Great, matching tattoo bruises.  This isn't the worst pain, either.  No, that pain is reserved for the stubborn red blood I'm wiping angrily as if by wiping it would just go away, just leave me and my baby alone.

This morning I called in to get the official word that I am, indeed, miscarrying.  It appears that the score is now tied: two kids and two miscarriages.

I just didn't want to do this again.

Baby Goo

So tomorrow is my yearly "fun" exam. Well, I actually really like my gynecologist, but the whole cold speculum does nothing for me.

Actually, I am dreading this appointment. I'm as fat as I was last year, maybe even fatter. My blood pressure is likely to be slightly elevated because I'm moving on Friday and they don't use the fat chick cuff unless you remember to ask them for it and they remember where it is. Those are reasons enough to want to avoid the appointment, but I won't.

I'm mostly afraid that the doc is going to tell me that I won't be able to get pregnant with our third child. We've been working on it since April and have yet to conceive. My cycles have been crazy irregular since they resumed when Violet was 14 months old. Some have been easy, but half of them have been so painful that sitting up straight makes my uterus scream. I know that a diagnosis of infertility is unlikely, particularly at an annual exam with no additional testing, but that doesn't stop the fear from gnawing at my periphery.

I know that I am very, very lucky to have the two beautiful children that I have. I know that they brighten my every day and that their being a part of my life has made me a better person. I also know that my family doesn't feel complete yet. I have room in my heart for a third child.

I am very excited that tomorrow will welcome my little brother's first child into the world. She is arriving by c-section as she's a vain little baby and is keeping her head out of the birth canal because she wants to have a lovely round head for her newborn pictures (in other words, she's breech).

It is completely irrational to fear tomorrow, but in my worst nightmares, my sibling is welcoming the start of his family on the day that I learn my family will forever be missing something.

I think this ties back to the loss we had before Milo. I was pregnant, but not really with a baby and not really in my womb. The miscarriage didn't hurt, I just bled and bled and bled. I had a D & C, but the anesthetic was ineffective, so I remember every scrape. Even then things weren't right and I had to have shots of a lime green chemo drug, one in each hip. I was a quivering mess as I sat alone in the procedure room at the hospital waiting for those shots. I actually wasn't even in a procedure room, but a family hospitality room, so there wasn't a bed or a sink or anything - just two plush chairs and a TV. A rerun of "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" jangled on the TV, but I wasn't really watching it. The nurse who came in to administer the shots barely looked at me, asking me, "Was this your first?" as I leaned over a footstool with my undies pulled down so my hip was exposed.

"Yes." I said, barely audibly.

"Well, you're young! You'll have more children, I just know it!"

Of course I will, I thought, but I'll never have this child. I didn't know anything about it -- not gender, not age, nothing. That didn't mean that I wasn't in love with the possibility of my baby. I had a hard time even wanting to try for another baby until I got past the due date of that one. I finally relented to try a month before the other baby would have been due because I was certain that I wouldn't get pregnant on the first shot -- the other pregnancy had take 7 months to achieve. But I did, and I am so glad or I wouldn't have my beautiful Milo. Violet came along on the first try, too, albeit a long first try. Irregular cycles strike again!

I'm trying not to let my jealousy show, but I am getting increasingly frustrated, and now scared. I'm not getting any younger, I know that. I also know that I'm fat and out of shape. I swear, after this move I'm back to exercising at lunchtime. Please hold me to that promise, OK?

I am so very excited to meet my new niece! I hope that her arrival is safe and that her mommy's tummy isn't too sore after surgery. I hope that she nurses like a champ and gains weight quickly. And that she goes easy on her daddy -- he's a tenderhearted fellow and will likely be a puddle of goo wrapped around her little pink finger...