Some clarification

My sister's congratulatory gift for the 'bean'. She painted it in oil.
It's called 'Shetland in Grass'. She knows my weakness for ponies.

I’m surprised. I provided a good clue in my last post as to what my ‘news’ is. It’s right there in the text. The first letter of each line spells it out. And it says: OMG I AM PREGNANT.  Nobody figured it out!


Yes. I am pregnant. It happened. How, I do not know. Running on one ‘cylinder’, with odds of <20% WITH Clomid, never mind without Clomid to help me ovulate. Back in January, my doctor decided not to renew my Clomid prescription. I’d taken my last ones in December and failed to get preggers. I was pretty depressed to say the least. But I found her decision to stop easier to accept than I thought. I was sad, granted, but I was also relieved. Not thinking about it all the time, not stressing myself out about it... it is probably the reason why we were received this incredible surprise back in March.

I’m sure the loss of 30+ lbs had something to do with it too.

Yes, I will not lie. I heard this story OVER and OVER and OVER again when we were struggling with the whole fertility thing. “You shouldn’t worry about it... it’ll happen. My sister/friend/cousin’s best friend’s brother’s coworker was trying for years and years. They gave up and boom, as soon as they did, she got pregnant.” Or “My brother in law and his wife tried for years, and then decided to adopt a baby from China. Two months after the adoption went through, she was expecting.” I heard these stories ad nauseam these past seven or eight years. Now we’re one of them.

My last Clomid treatment was in December. After Doc cut me off the Clomid, I said “screw it” and finally decided to give in and turn the spare room into a sewing room. So the bed went into the attic, and it was reorganized so there was room for a cutting table, and my sewing table, the shelves, my trunk for costumes... and I won’t lie, the room is AWESOME. So of course, of COURSE, the moment I do this, I find out I’m pregnant.

Finding out was sort of an exercise in convincing myself. I was feeling awful during the middle of March—I took a day off work for being extremely ill. Weeks back, out of habit, I’d marked the first day of my cycle in February on my calendar, but I’d forgotten about it. I had no need to track it anymore, I wasn’t taking Clomid. So I just flipped the next month on the calendar over and didn’t pay it any heed.

My birthday rolled ‘round (I’m marginally sure that this child was conceived on or near my birthday), and somewhere along the line, my one working ovary popped out an egg, and somewhere along the line, a horde of eager swimmers swarmed it and one tenacious little bugger punched through and got the whole thing started. It happened. Holy crap!

I was about weeks on when I began to suspect something. For one, my ‘girls’ were MEGA sore. They get sore as a mean when my cycle rolls ‘round, but they were super-extra-grandé-sized sore. They are ‘don’t even look at my boobs or THINK about looking at my boobs’ sore. I was also getting really bad tension headaches EVERY day, suffering from light sensitivity, I had to pee constantly and I just wasn’t feeling well. At some point, it occurred to me that maybe I should see if I was late. So I looked at my calendar, and thankfully, I marked the date of my last cycle. At that point I was close to 9 days late.

I’ve been late before, and after all the constant years of disappointment, I refused to give up the idea that I was fooling myself. I convinced myself that if my cycle didn’t start by the 12th day, I’d get a pregnancy test.

When you struggle with infertility, getting a pregnancy test is a torturous thing. You are filled with hope every time, and when it comes back negative, you are so crestfallen, no matter how well you’ve convinced yourself not to get too excited. Over the years, I used to sit and plan all the ways I’d tell my husband if I came back with a positive, I had all these elaborate ideas, like a treasure hunt with baby-items, or whatever. Stupid stuff. But this time, I was too afraid to believe it. So I called my husband and warned him; I was late, I wasn’t feeling hot, my boobs hurt, so I was going to get a pregnancy test. He also had a little trepidation about it. He knows how disappointed I got, and didn’t want me to be crestfallen again.

I left work during lunch and zipped up to Walgreens and bought a 2-pack of EPT tests. I had to swing by the bank, and I was so anxious about it, I actually did the test at the bank. I sat in their restroom staring at the positive with complete incredulity. I thought I was reading it wrong. That maybe I did the test wrong. I read the instructions several times to insure I was reading it right, and feared I’d held it in the stream too long, or at the wrong angle, and got this false positive. I rushed back to work to confer with my coworkers. I spread the instruction sheet over the table and the three of us studied it like a bunch of generals in a war-room studying a map. We looked again and again and the consensus was; positive. The line that was faint was the one that was supposed to indicate negative. The line that indicated positive was not only quite blue, it was heavily darkly blue.

I still thought there was room for doubt. Go figure.

But doubt still filled me, so a few hours later, I did the test again. Once more, the test was positive. It was a fast-positive, immediate. No waiting time for the line to darken, it was a strong, vivid blue line. You’d think after getting positives on two 99% accurate tests would be proof enough, but for someone who has lived with disappointment over pregnancy over and over again, I STILL required convincing. So the next day, I went to a pregnancy resource center, and because I made the mistake of telling the lady I was an atheist, I had to endure long-winded faith-based lectures about the pitfalls of abortion (::oy::) and was then subjected to attempts to coerce me to find faith-based support groups for parenting. Their intentions were respectable but wholly unnecessary. In general, Atheists are not evil fetus-ejecting jerks. We can be decent, respectable, loving people (with an occasional streak of cynical snarkiness of course). I smiled and thanked the lady, and proceeded with the test. She set a timer for five minutes but I got a positive within 20 seconds of my urine being dropped onto the test. This was my first clue about my HCG levels. They are SKY HIGH.

At that point, I accepted the fact that I was pregnant, and I totally lost it. I burst into blubbering tears while clutching the hand of the center’s volunteer lady. She was so sweet, and she even gave me a pair of knitted booties. I texted my husband. Mind you, it’s hard for a young, healthy young woman to hold onto her baby for the first three months.

I wanted a blood test (further confirmation perhaps) and to talk to my OB. That was when I found out she retired without telling me, and I had to hunt down a new OBGYN. I found one, had my first appointment the next week, and our first ultrasound the week after.

Surprise, motherf**kas, I iz here.

I’m now at 10 weeks. Only two more weeks and I’m through with the first trimester.. scary huh? I’m almost a third the way through the pregnancy. The baby is due November 20ish if all goes well.

This first trimester has been HORRIFIC. My HCG levels were 10x what is considered normal. I’ve been violently sick for weeks. I’ve lost six pounds in two weeks, in fact, I’m at the lowest point I’ve been on the scale in many years, and have broken my WW plateau. I am quite sure I’ll gain it back and then some if I get through this colossally horrid pukey phase and am able to eat anything besides bagels, bananas and rice crispies.

So I’m on my way, and the little lima-bean in my tummy (now about the size of a kumquat and looks disturbingly like a teeny-tiny Voldemort) is still there (at this point...) we’re about to embark on our next appointment today, and hopefully we’ll have a new ultrasound soon enough. Because I’m of ‘Advanced Age’ I will need a specialist doctor who is used to geriatrics with babies and more monitoring to ensure a healthy pregnancy.

As I get closer to the end of the first trimester, the chances of the baby sticking around to full term become much better.

This is how my husband chose to announce it on Facebook.
Yes, those are my toe-socks.

So yes. At 41 years of age, I’m about to have my first (and last) baby. I still can’t believe it. But last night, when I turned onto my tummy in bed, I could actually feel the little nugget in there pressing against my pelvis. Pretty soon I’ll be showing. How weird is that, to imagine there’s a tiny, wriggly little ‘skwerm’ inside me. It is already so loved, and it’s only 10 weeks old and an inch and a quarter long. Hubby is on cloud nine.

I will have to find something to do with my horse for the rest of the year. I was hoping to pasture him; I don’t want to lease him out to an inexperienced or bad rider. I have that to figure out, and the sewing room now baby-room. I’m trying not to panic. :)

Thank goodness I didn’t get rid of all that baby stuff. Who knew?

Surprise.

First office-special in a long time. :)

Oh man,

My head is about to explode.

Give me some air!

In the span of a few weeks

A lot has happened.

More than I could have imagined.

Probably more than I can handle.

Really, everything will be okay.

Even if everything is going to change.

Granted, I wasn’t expecting all this.

Not when I had already resigned myself.

And given up.

Now that’s usually when it happens.

To tell the truth, I’m terrified.

~~~~

Maybe this will explain my silence and cryptic posts of late. It was an eventful birthday indeed. :)  I'm treading softly, it's a delicate time. Things could change.

Big Pony Club.

Photos courtesy of Sassy Shots' Stephanie R.

Life has been super-full and busy these past few weeks. My weight hasn’t moved since the 34lb mark, except to go up or down by a few pounds here and there. It's probably due to my being a complete hog and eating like a savage, but I could be wrong. I’m keeping an eye on it though, and trying to discipline myself (while trying not to think about the sack of Orange Milanos in my cupboard behind me). I can only say that I guess, maybe with the prettier weather, or whatever it is, that I am coming out of the weird low-grade fugue that has been hovering over me for almost two years. I’ve been inordinately grumpy, and I know this. There have been moments of better moods here and there, mostly when I’ve been intermingling with people in my comfort zone.

I haven’t been able to spend much time with my horse this past month, which is awful. He is my therapy, and being away from him makes the fugue harder to overcome. But these past few days have been kind of nice, I have to admit.

It’s strange to say this, but giving up on the whole pregnancy and adoption thing, as sad as it is, has also eliminated a surprising amount of stress. It’s weird, but not having to worry about it, and think about it makes the whole thing easier somehow. We’ve decided to let the chips fall as they may for the next couple of years, and when things get better for us financially, we can look into adoption again (hopefully with a kinder, more human caseworker on our side).

That doesn’t mean it’s not still on my mind every day. This past weekend, for instance, I spent time with two adorable girls who reminded me how much I love spending time with children, and how fulfilling it can be to be around them.

My BFF Stephanie II asked if her boyfriend’s girls could come and meet Tag, so we arranged for them to come to the stable to meet him and have a little ride. Once upon a time, when my family owned a riding club, I used to instruct. I enjoyed it immensely in spite not always being reliably committed to it during my teens, but hey, I was a teen! I’m a pretty good riding instructor, and I taught Pony-club for a long time too, working with kids and ponies. So it felt natural to work with the kids and help them feel confident around horses. Tag being a big stampy boy also helped them develop a bit of confidence too in his own way.

Tag is doing what he's known for; attempting
escape from the purgatory of grooming. He is good
at undoing knots.

When we got there, Tag was in his dirty stall looking bored. I hadn’t ridden him for a MONTH. He was pretty mellow though, thanks to the warmish day, and he behaved on the most part. He does however, look like a massive scraggle-muffin with his winter coat and uneven roach. I’ve been cutting down his mane with scissors lately because my clippers just aren’t strong enough to make it through the broom that is his mane. Nonetheless, I set out the brushes and the girls helped me brush him down (Alizabeth could only do his lower half, but she managed well enough).

Then I threw the saddle on him and let him run on the longe for a few minutes to make sure he wasn’t in one of his moods that might endanger the girls, but Tag is a pretty good horse on the most part, and usually only misbehaves when he’s challenging me and I'm making him do things he doesn't want to do, which is good because he seemed to like the doting attentions of the two girls.

Invariably, we hucked the small one into the saddle. I started by leading them. I had to twist my stirrup leathers ‘round twice for Alizebeth’s teeny legs. Her heels barely cleared the edge of the flap. LOL. Then After a long time leading, I eventually let them take the reins (when they were confident enough to let go of the pommel), and ‘steer him’. They both did wonderfully, so I unclipped his lead rope from his halter and let them ride him without my help, but with me at their side all along. They were in the saddle combined over an hour.

I did not ride myself, but I confess, I didn’t mind. I forgot how much fun and how gratifying giving riding lessons can be. And teaching them the proper way, right from the start is the way to go. I too often see new riders being taught the wrong way by instructors that obviously have been taught the wrong way themselves; stirrups too short, back too arched, stiff seat, strange positions, toes sticking out like Charlie Chaplin... it’s hard not to stick my nose in and say something, but I have to curb my tongue and let things be. I’ve gotten dirty looks at my barn several times for correcting people, which is obnoxious on my part, but when I see those bad traits being taught, I see only danger. There’s no connection when a rider is too stiff, when the back is too arched, they’re not ‘sitting deep’... it’s frustrating.

A little sitting on him bareback does wonders for balance and confidence.
It also teaches riders to relax their legs and ride long.

Both girls took to Tag’s long strides quite well, and were riding all by themselves (with me nearby of course) by the end of each lesson. They were quite proud of themselves. I was quite proud of my big boy, who behaved like an angel, as if he knew that the little people on his back were in his special care.

When the other wasn't riding, Stephanie II put them to work cleaning
Tag's stall. Nothing says lovin' like child labour!

We ended the day with a fatty dinner at the Huckleberry Inn at Government Camp. It was a nice day. When Alizabeth snuggled on me, and used my markers to colour pictures, all I wanted to do was tuck her under my arm and take her home. Get her a pony and tiny Jods and paddock boots. Sew her regency dresses and elaborate Halloween costumes.

Oh well. :) A good thing is that I went into Marshall’s and bought myself some jeans on Saturday before I hit the stable. They were on sale for $10. Two, almost three sizes down from what I wore before. That was a great feeling too.

Yeah, we’ve had some stress these past months. We were named in a lawsuit along with our insurance company (but we’re protected, they tell us), we have tight bills as usual, new boss at work, my computer died (which is AWFUL!)... but I’ve been feeling okay. Managing to muddle through.


Oh! I nearly forgot. Before all the horse stuff on Saturday, I followed my husband on his motorcycle so I could bring a new tire to the dealership for him to install on his bike. I went home via downtown Portland and stopped at Zupans to discover that they carry the Lars Belgian Sugar Pearls. Methinks some waffles are in order soon!

34lbs lighter and really grumpy.

December, Saturday Market. Portland's homeless
find creative ways to tug at the heartstrings.

So it’s been a while since I’ve talked about weight. And that’s because I was plateauing again for months, vacillating between 29 and 30lbs from the end of August all the way to December—so there wasn’t much to talk about. After the holidays, I finally began to see movement again. I have now lost a total of 34lbs as of this morning. It’s good to see movement again. My husband suspects that the Lupron and the Clomid might have had something to do with my weight not moving at all, who knows? I’m just relieved it’s happening again. If it was the fertility stuff, I suppose my renewed weight loss is a positive consequence of being ‘cut off’ of the fertility stuff by my doctor (I’ll elaborate upon this later). The fact that I’ve plateaued for months doesn’t mean I was going to give up—I wasn’t gaining weight during those months, but I *was* definitely was getting annoyed with my husband hitting 55lbs lost. He’s the incredibly shrinking man.

We were both exposed this weekend to the typical defensive attitude towards our weight loss, which really fired me up. A friend of ours, who has been struggling with his weight these past four years, made a comment upon seeing the incredible shrinking man, and basically told us that our efforts will inevitably fail. Wow. Thanks a lot d-bag. He then proceeded to give us advice on how to better lose weight. Looking at his unchanging weight, I was dubious at best. The whole thing sent me into a Facebook rampage. It’s annoying when the people you care about are not supportive, even though they somehow think they are being so.

Every time I post something about diet on Facebook, there’s this woman who invariably will go on some windy litany about the types of food she eats and how much they’ve helped her and blah blah blah. No offense but I don’t care! We’re doing Weight Watchers, it’s working for us, we’ve lost almost 90 lbs between both of us, shut up! We get all this unsolicited advice on diets that supposedly make you lose weight faster and blah-de-freakin’-blah... We are not interested in hearing about trend diets that don’t work. No carb diets, Atkins diet, gluten-free diet... There’s no long-term habit-changing on these deprivation diets, just momentary results that, if you stop or change, will go away and bring you more weight back in the end. Don’t tell me you skip a meal, or eat only a little bit and claim you’re losing weight, that’s just plain stupid. Nothing makes a body hoard fat more than depriving it of food when it needs it to function. Starvation mode is not dieting, and it doesn’t work for weight loss, except for maybe for anorexics—but that could ultimately result in lovely extras, like binging and barfing and sometimes a sad, rickety, always-cold, hairy body death. Oh, and death-campers and Ethiopians--starvation works for them too.


This is what weekends usually look like at home. I'm under all that.

Keeping track of what goes into your mouth every day is a good way to put your diet into perspective. Try it for a few days. Write EVERYTHING you eat down. Trust me, it’s mind boggling if you’re 100% honest with yourself and you don’t change your diet for the duration. It’s amazing, now that I look back on the last twenty years, how much I deluded myself about how much and how badly I actually ate each day. I would skip meals, pick at my food for one meal, and then gorge on another, and it all equaled out to BAD, although somehow my brain was really great about fooling me about exactly how much I was actually eating, and what horrid foods I was eating. My god, the justifications too! Thinking I was eating healthy when I was eating all the wrong things—eating a healthy meal but then eating ice cream (OMG so, so bad) or a chocolate bar, drinking lattés every day. It’s a recipe for disaster. I see it now. Don’t try to convince me, now that I’m losing weight, that there’s a better way. This way works, and I’m sorry to say, contrary to your statements Mr. D-bag, that it works for EVERYONE. Hundreds of thousands of people who stick with this program lose tons of weight and keep it off. Hundreds of thousands! The only people who are failing in my husband’s WW group are people who gave up and didn’t stick with the program, the people who always make excuses and lose no weight, or the people whose family and friends are not supportive at all, exposing them to bad foods daily, and enabling them to fail at every turn. D-bag’s attitude is, well, I don’t want to stop doing what’s easy and comfortable—but I don’t want it work for you either 'cause then I'd have no excuse, so I’m going to sabotage you as best I can and try to undermine you. Some friend. D-bag! ::argh!::

Portland's usual overreaction about a few inches of snow. This was last week
There was no snow on the ground, yet there was the reporter, preaching doom & gloom.

Anyway, other than that diatribe, nothing much else has been going on. I’ve been ‘cut-off’ on my fertility meds by my OB/GYN. So that’s the end of that. ::sigh:: I can’t afford a specialist so we will probably be a childless couple, since we are apparently not good enough to adopt from the state either. I’ve been pretty upset about the whole deal, but dealing with it. There’ve been lots of distractions at work to keep me from really getting mired in the whole ‘wah-wah-call-me-a-wahmbulance’ part. The whole thing is exhausting so I’m kind of relieved that I will no longer have to be poked and prodded anymore or put through an emotional wringer for no good reason. This whole odyssey has been such an exercise in wretchedness. Feeling like less of a woman for being unable to conceive, the devastating monthly disappointments over and over, and not being able to stop hoping every time, a day or two late, and I’m looking at cribs at IKEA... then bam... surprise, no baby for you ::said in soup Nazi voice:: The adoption process gave us such hope, only to dash them in one ten-minute home-study with a case-worker who obviously couldn’t give a bigger f**k anymore about her job. She is the honeybadger of caseworkers.

Oh well, at least the crafts and storage can stay in the spare room for the time being.

Our septic tank has been abandoned and in its place is the costly bottomless sand-filter that has completely changed the landscape of our back yard, and removed all of our shade trees, not to mention the cute river-stone retaining wall and my giant, beautiful ferns. BOO! The garage now must be entered from another direction, and next to it, where the driveway used to be is a big raised pillow of sand the size of an in-ground pool. We tried to salvage some of our other trees, and replanted them, but honestly, the cedar and Special Ed (the Christmas Tree) are not looking too pleased by the whole upheaval. And Sherry, my co-worker was talking about how backhoes can often compress soil around roots and kill trees, so I’m watching the maples closely to see if the backhoe murdered any more trees. Our backyard looks like the trenches of WWI. It’s disheartening.


This is Dan screwing in the new ply on the floor.
That is Simon, 'helping'.

We also redid our bathroom. Our toilet started sinking into the floor because of a gasket leak that had been surreptitiously going on for a long time, eating through two layers of ply (but not eating the subfloor thank God). Hubby tore it all out, we had to huck the sink console and the toilet and we redid everything. Of course it’s not perfect and that hideous bath is still there (I want a nice corner stand-up shower unit) but it’s a start.

That’s what we’ve been doing. I have hardly seen my horse at all this past month. I’m a bad mommy. I’m going to try and get some riding time in tonight. I could use the therapeutic effects being around my horse provides. Ai ai. Anyway... that’s it for today.

Options like adoption? Happy Friday!

Most of you who follow my blog regularly know the stuff I’ve gone through to achieve pregnancy. It’s been a lot. We haven't explored every single option available to us fertility-wise, but we are neither drippingly rich people (or even moderately moistly-rich at that--we're more like a dessicated-desert-lizard-corpse rich) with disposable income to hand over to fertility specialists for a shiny new baby. I’ve had to go the conventional road, go with the medical options that come along with remediating my horrific endometriosis and somehow trying to control my raging PCOS. I spend a good part of each month stalking around in a fugue of pain and discomfort and I probably look like this:

Get the !#%*&^ away from me.

The surgery has cleared the way in some cases... but my fallopian tubes have been open and clear all this time, which means something just isn’t working, and it’s suspected to be the endometriosis doing something chemically. My doctor now says I have only one last conventional method left to me. That is to take monthly Lupron injections for six months to ‘dry out’ the endometriosis, and then go back on Clomid to see if I can ovulate & finally acheive the pregnancy thing. At age 40, your chance of getting pregnant in any given month is just 5%. So I confess, I haven’t been feeling too hopeful about the whole thing, but I figured I’d give it a whirl. HOWEVER, Lupron is a drug that will put me into a false menopause. That means I will enjoy all the symptoms of the condition I get to look forward to in ten or fifteen more years; the mood-swings, the brain-short-circuits, the hot flashes... the full gamut for six solid months. Yay?

I WANT SOME GODDAMN CHOCOLATE!

THE PUPPEH COMMERCIAL SO SAD
AND KYUUTE BWWAHHHHH

Do we have to keep the thermostat set at
'Turkish Steambath' for &;^#$!*'s sake?
Owait, now I'm cold!

My poor, poor husband, that’s all I have to say. So, he endures these horrific mood-swings, and everything else with me, and there’s only a 5% chance of my getting pregnant each month that follows treatment that I’m on ovulation medication; chances are pretty slim. I’m not saying I’m giving up hope entirely, but I’m not going to start walking through the baby-clothes section at Old Navy, or make the full circuit of IKEA so I can look at baby furniture like I did when I was on Clomid from June until December. Every month I’d end up bawling on my husband’s shoulder while he lovingly smooched the top of my head and said it was okay. I won’t get myself all worked up only to be crushed with disappointment each month when the evidence arrives that the Clomid wasn’t working.

I’ve decided to focus in another direction. I know I have complained that adoption is too expensive, but there is a woman at my barn who has two adopted daughters, Amy & Jade. She adopted them from the state. She explained the program to me, and I was astonished. I’ve always steered away from fostering because I don’t want to get attached only to have the child ripped away from me so they can go back to meth-mouth mom who is only tenuously clean at the moment. I worked non-profit many years with at-risk kids, diversions kids, troubled kids, and god if it didn’t take everything out of me. It became increasingly difficult to take these kids home each night to abusive and neglectful households, to see them with bruising and old eyes, and to be powerless to do anything about it. I eventually had to quit that job because I would just go home crying every day. I also watched my aunt provide short-term fostering for troubled kids, and that was a whole other ball of wax. I certainly don’t want to deal with a hostile, violent teenager.

So as tempted as I was to set up my little spare bedroom into a kid’s room and to invite a foster child into our home; I couldn’t quite do it. But the state adoption program is completely different. You foster your prospective adoptee before the adoption is complete, and by the time they actually come to your home as a foster child, their parents have already given up parental rights—so chances are, if you fall in love with the kid and they settle in, you won’t lose them. So I’ve signed us up for the required seminars for people who want to foster and adopt from the state of Oregon. I’ve registered us, and we think it’s okay if the kid is a little older. I think 0-4 maybe. I’m not sure about older, honestly. I feel awful saying it, but as a guardian of a developmentally disabled adult, and the overseer for a completely crazy senior demon (aka Satan/Mother), I don’t know if I can handle a really angry, troubled kid on top of all that. I know, it’s selfish... but growing up with my brother taught me a great deal, and I’m not sure if I want to replicate that kind of stress and destruction in my household for the rest of my life. It was enough already taking care of him well into my twenties. And I saw what it did to my parent’s marriage (which already sucked to begin with).

It’s an option, I guess. I know me, I’m completely soft-hearted and I’m going to get all invested in it. I have been excited thinking about it, and there’s no guarantee we’ll even be granted adoption to anyone. But yes, I’m already looking at tiny patterns for pea-coats and dresses... adorable mary-janes and toys... books... I have to stop. But I can’t. I have this idea that I might finally have someone specific to paint all these office specials for. The thought of it makes my eyes burn with tears of anticipation, and we haven’t even gotten to the first step. I guess I selfishly just want to be a mom SO bad. To teach a child to ride on a pony, to sing them songs to sleep, to read them ‘The Velveteen Rabbit’ and to finally have a someone to give all the Beatrix Potter collection, the miniature silverware set, the handmade wooden rattle to that I’ve collected over the years in anticipation of becoming a mom.

We shall see. I’m trying not to get excited about either option. I hear all these stories of women who go through all this, and then they get their adopted baby and find out they’re pregnant... that would be inconvenient, but it wouldn’t suck either, but there’s a possibility neither of those things could happen for us. No pregnancy, no adoption. So if you happen to see me swooning over huge stuffed bugs in the IKEA kids section, smack me upside the head and send me to the kitchen department.

Warning: TMI and Lady Bits.

For those of you who subject yourself to the punishment of following my blog, you already know I’m trying to get pregnant. I’ve been trying since about 2004. I know, I was trying before we were hitched, but I don’t care... I don’t ascribe to any moral teachings that demand that permits are required for manufacturing wee ones. Wee one manufacturing should happen whenever it’s possible.

We really want a mini-us. Of course, we’re not rich enough to afford the swanky methods, like in-vitro fertilization (about $12,000 a pop with no guarantee to work and requires multiple tries x $12,000 ea [there goes the kid’s college fund!]) I suppose I can set aside my bitterness that people with lots of money (or who are willing to put themselves into hock up to their eyeballs for it) are the ones who can try all types of fertility treatments, and afford to adopt if they never get pregnant... and my health insurance won’t cover stuff if they decide it has to do with fertility. I suppose I can swallow my ire that fertility specialists charge $300 just for the initial consultation appointment. Instead, I have to go with the standard treatments to remediate all the other problems caused by the PCOD, and hope that the Clomid will work after all the other stuff has been done.

So for over five years, I’ve been a human pin-cushion. It started with a massive cyst (endometrioma/tumour) on my right ovary and some smaller tissues on my left ovary. The surgery sliced my belly from side to side, and I can barely recall Simon’s first days in our home because I was in a drug-induced haze. After that I’ve been subjected to clomid, pelvic examinations every six months (EEW!), medication that made me vomit almost every day and turned my tummy upside down, emotional rollercoasters and scares. Oh, and somewhere along the way, one of the few guys I’ve been with in my life gave me the HPV (men are jerks). Now, since the latest six-month run of clomid; and my latest exam, I got an ‘abmormal’ result. ::urgh:: My OB wants to roto-rooter my fallopian tubes, and so on top of that, they’re doing a Colposcopy and Cervical Biopsy to boot. So four days before my birthday, I’m scheduled for surgery. Yay? I am hoping that if she tames that uterus of mine, that the next round of clomid will be successful. I am hoping. I suppose the upside is that I am less at risk of giving birth to a litter of babies as those in-vitro women do. I’d rather just have the one. I’d be happier than anything with just one wee baby.

I will be turning 40 on the 22nd of February. I don’t know at what point we will decide enough is enough... but as time wears on, and still no success, I’m beginning to feel like that time is coming soon. Just the thought of giving up makes me want to just cry... but the flip side is... no more of ‘all-of-the-above’ BS. Maybe they can just cut out the whole uncooperative and useless kit & caboodle that is my non-functioning baby maker and I can be done with it. :::sigh:: I dunno. I’m so tired. Wah. /whining.

Taking Inventory

Found my knives, lost a few things. :0(

My mother is going into assisted living. It's the best possible thing.  There's a kind of strange irony that she will be going into the same facility we were going to place my father.  She will be in the same facility as my husband's grandmother.  Placing his grandmother there over the July 4th weekend has taken a huge weight off of his shoulders; and reduced the 20 calls a day to a couple of times a week.  She's occupied, she's supervised, she's still independent, and she's got more freedom.  I'm hoping that this will encourage my mother to do better as well.  She's actually stoked to go too.  She saw the little notices for special activities, like a cruise on the Portland Spirit, and a day visit to Timberline Lodge... she saw the adorable apartment, she saw the dining room and chitty chatted with a couple of residents.  She can bring her gross dog, and I can be assured that medicine will be taken, appointments will be attended and that I can pick the time and level of attention I am able to offer her without festering rage as usually happens. Tomorrow, I take her to visit my brother for the first time since June.  She only asked because my aunt asked her about it; otherwise she didn't care.

Anyway... that's the news of the mother front. You wouldn't believe the cost of these independent living communities; holy cannoli. But they do everything, so the price to all of us is reasonable. If they do her laundry, and even help her clean her house, so we don't ever have to worry about squalor repeating itself.

Well, on less depressing notes (LOL), I'm on cycle 2 of my Clomid treatments... cross your fingers, send positives vibes, prayers, good wishes... anything you can muster to send our way for baby-makin' mojo!

I sat down on Saturday, and opened up my teeny tea-box/minis storage, and started inventorying the teeny things in there. I'm missing a few stoneware pieces... a jug that you can see in the kitchen images on the previous post, and a few other unmentionables.  But I did find my precious knife-set. Hand-made, with real metal blades and wooden handles, intricately put together; six pieces.... unbelievable.  My stoneware is largely complete save for a few missing pieces, my silverware is there, my custom-made dining set for four that includes chargers, plate, salad plates, dessert plates, bowls, service dishes and a soup tureen. My ceramics from Alsace are there... the teeny handmade baskets.  There were lots of fimo veggies I made and other sundries; but the better part of my collection is there. ::phew:: you wouldn't believe how much money is in that little collection.  It's not a cheap hobby.  There are no cheap hobbies, I guess.  Now I'm thinking of doing another house.  I'm crazy.

Two little pills....

...could be answer to it all.

My fertility specialist prescribed me Clomid last Friday. I'm to take a half pill for four days during days 3-6 of my cycle. It's supposed to help me ovulate as I am supposed to (as my body normally refuses to do).

I won't get my hopes up too much; the disappointment otherwise just kills me. But I can't help but get just a little bit hopeful. Wish us luck.

Fear of Foster Care.

I’ve considered it. My childlessness has sometimes made me want to divert all these unused motherly instincts to someone who could use it.

But I also fall in love very hard. And having a child removed from my care after dumping all my love into them may be too difficult for me to bear.