You are currently browsing the monthly archive for March 2009.
Today marks one year since our first appointment with our fertility specialist. Four or five years of trying, depending on your definition or perspective.
One year, one miscarriage and one, so far, very successful pregnancy.
When we started this process I was devouring information in forums and infertility sites and had gotten so pessimistic about our chances given my personal reproductive challenges. Every day I read about multiple miscarriages and failed cycles. Every day I sat reading and trying to figure out how to get my head around the possibility of not having kids and the life I would create once that became a fact. Every day I belonged to a club I didn’t want to belong to along with millions of other women.
Well, this is for those ladies.
A success story. It worked. Four cycles and two pregnancies. This after being told that it would be nearly impossible since I was 25 and not concerned. Being told it would nearly impossible once I was concerned and wanted a family. I faced new issues every time I conquered an old issue. I had multiple D&Cs. I lost so much weight to make my body more susceptible to the pregnancy. The weight loss, as dramatic as it was, stopped all hormone manufacturing and never bounced back. Those hormones I stopped producing were the ones I needed to get pregnant. Fibroids, heart-shaped uterus, acute hyperplasia, uterine cancer, hormonal deficiencies, early on-set menopause. All words I would Google to try an assess my chances. All words that would lead me down the “it’s just not meant to be” path.
I had/have one doctor who would not let me give up and she gathered the best Germany had to offer.
I sit here and bitch about being uncomfortable and tired and sick and unable to have a cocktail that I so desperately want right now. But I bitch because I can. I am very grateful for this pregnancy and all the work my team of doctors did to get me here. Without medical intervention, Loki would never have been and I wouldn’t be worrying about birth or his head size or how cute his little paws are when they push out on my stomach even though its really uncomfortable.
Even though I’m scared shitless, even though I complain incessantly about not sleeping or sore hips or gigantic boobs, I’m just so grateful I can’t express it in words. I get all choked up. It’s not the pregnancy hormones, its the depth in which I feel so lucky, like I missed a bullet, like I was good enough. I never feel good enough.
Today, as I sat with the midwife going over how breathe through the pain, I reflected back one year and thought, “Wow. I never would have thought I’d be here, planning the birth of a kid, my kid.”
Well, I am.
I know, surprise, surprise. I’m talking about the scheisse again. Only I’m not. I’m talking about shampoo.
I conducted an experiment for the last 14 days. I went “no poo”.
If you have ever met me or perhaps used my bathroom and perhaps opened my medicine cabinet (for which I would not hold it against you because who doesn’t look in medicine cabinets, I mean, except for me. I never do that.) you would see that I own every hair product known to man. Especially if it costs a lot of money and promises volume or shine. It would drive Sparky crazy if he had any clue as to how much I spend on hair care products. But then again, I am married to a marketer. He knows what a sucker I am for good advertising.
So, no shampooing. Egads, it must be the pregnancy. It must be cabin fever because why on earth would I attempt something so, so radical?
It sounds filthy and it sounds yucky. According to the believers, it’s none of those things.
As I’m still quarantined, I figured I’d give it a go because well, I wasn’t going anywhere. If my hair looked awful, only the cats would notice. I’m not happy with my hair right now. I want a change, but as I’m not going to lighten my locks until Loki requires a babysistter, I figured I’d shake up the hair tree. (That sounds gross too. Hair tree? Not quite a hair pie, but close.)
This started with an article I read on SFGate. Something about the chemicals in shampoo causing cancer. One would think that with my familial history of cancer (currently the family dog in California has the cancer ball with some sort of butt cancer. We’ve passed it around and that damn loopy poodle is the next up in our hot spot) I would have focused on that part. I didn’t. I’m a vain creature.
I just wanted to see if my hair would look and feel better.
It didn’t. I cleansed my hair with baking soda, apple cider vinegar and lemon juice. I did the conditioner wash. I followed all the advice looking for that perfect combo, but I lost patience before I found the holy grail of no poo-ing.
Fourteen days is all I’m willing to give the experiment. Frankly, not only did my hair look and feel worse, it was too much trouble. Why do all these natural things have to be so time consuming? I’d save the planet if it weren’t so damn inconvenient.
This morning I lathered, rinsed and repeated. God, it felt good. No, really. Nothing feels real good these days, but man, that shampoo, heaven. Seriously, it was close to orgasmic. And now that my hair is almost dry, I can’t stop touching it. It feels like silk again instead of rough, coarse and bristly. I have somewhat fine hair. It shouldn’t have felt like a broom.
The entire time I kept asking Sparky’s opinion. Asking Sparky to notice the subtleties of my hair is like asking him to notice if my toe nail polish is too red-red and if I should tone it down. He doesn’t care as long as they look good in stilettos.
So I had to go it alone and alone I decided that wearing my hair up in a pony tail for 6 days was indication that the new system wasn’t working.
Kudos to the people who can work it without succumbing to Patchouli oil. I’m going to stick with my Cat Walk, MOP products, Alterna and Pureology.
I eat cookies in bed. Sometimes crackers.
Usually on Sparky’s side because cookies always lead to crumbs.
Then I blame the cat for bringing litter into the bed.
Kiska never gets in trouble with Sparky. She’s his cat. Why not have her take the heat?
I just did this. His side has a few crumbs and rather than brush them off, I just brush them down.
He won’t read this post until tomorrow.
Tonight he’ll grumble a bit. I’ll smile and shake my head.
Cats? What can you do?
It might sound passive-aggressive, but it’s not. It’s my way of ensuring Sparky enjoys his life to the fullest.
Without a little discomfort, one cannot know comfort.
I’ve been trying to figure out how to start this post for a day now and the best way seems to just come out with it. This post is about vaginas and not in a sexy way. If this could possibly offend you OR you’re just not that interested in vaginas, come back tomorrow, although I might not post tomorrow because all my words could have been sucked up by my vagina.
We went to the Elternabend (Parents Night) at the hospital where Loki is registered to make his appearance. I was a 12-year-old boy the entire time. I don’t know why, perhaps it’s my angst, perhaps I’ve just never matured. Even Sparky was more mature. I don’t think he had one inappropriate thought the entire time. Well, there was the one “Boom Chica Bow Wow” song he sang when confronted with what I assume was a birthing chair. It did look like it could be a really interesting piece of sex furniture.
It could be the Uni-Klinik’s way of weeding out those who aren’t mature enough to be parents from those who are. In which case, Loki will be taken from me at birth and given to the somber couple sitting in the row in front of us.
It started with the auditorium or rather the Hoersaal. You see where this is going. All I could think and say was “Whore-Saal, Whore-Saal.” I mean really, it was like I had seen the word Ausfahrt for the first time. I just couldn’t stop giggling. All those knocked-up women in one room, the whore room. How appropriate. Is this a German regulation – ALL PREGNANT WOMEN TO THE WHORE ROOM, PLEASE, OR WE WILL CALL THE SCHWANGERSCHAFTSAMT.
Once we got to the uh, auditorium, it was filled with about 40-45 couples. More pregnant women in one room than I’ve actually ever seen. The first thing to enter my mind was “Oh my god, so many vaginas. And they are all going to be stretched out.” I really could only picture vaginas. I’m sure the women had faces, but it was like a Woody Allen movie for a few minutes. There were no women. Only vaginas and baby heads.
My next thought was that Elternabend at the local maternity ward is probably the worst place on earth to pick up chicks. Everyone was coupled. This led me to the men which led me to the obvious conclusion that everyone in the room had had sex. Then I pictured all these couples having sex. It wasn’t real pretty. It might sound all sexy, but it wasn’t. It’s like making your own porn. Sounds all sexy and stuff, but in reality, watching it might take you months of therapy to get over the trauma.
My third thought was about how much flatulence could technically be released over the three hour period with 45 pregnant women in one room.
I should not be allowed to pro-create.
I understand the vagina part. Up until now, I have equated childbirth with the ruination of my vagina. Yes, I think about the pain, but as that part has been addressed to my satisfaction, I am more worried about the after effects.
I have the Heidi Klum of vaginas. Not only is it naturally gorgeous, fit and friendly; it is the only body part I have ever worked out regularly. I learned about Kegels when I was 19 and Heidi and I have been fast friends ever since.
Some may think I’m shallow. Hell, I feel like it might be a little shallow, but you know what, I’m worried. I fretted over my blow job skills when I had my tonsils taken out, childbirth is a way bigger deal than tonsils (they were extremely large tonsils).
Sex isn’t the biggest part of my life, but it is important. I’m 36. I’ve had years to focus on it and let me tell you, when I focus, I FOCUS. I worked hard when I was younger to become the master of my own domain, exploring sex in its many different forms and functions, getting to know myself and others, learning how to explore this arena in an emotionally healthy way. I never felt inhibited by anything but the limitations I placed on myself and frankly, I have few of those.
I ‘ve been reproductively challenged and worked hard to get and stay pregnant. Does it feel wrong to worry about something as trivial as my vagina? Sort of, when I look at the bigger picture. Then I remember that even though I’m going to be a mother, I’m not giving up being a sexual woman. Or perhaps that is the fear. Then I get defiant. My vagina is not trivial.
Things work really great right now. Perfectly even. After Loki, aka Big Head Todd, comes through that door, will it all work properly again or is this it?
No one can really say. I have girlfriends who still have problems. I KNOW women who have had vaginal prolapse and incontinence, permanently. I also know women who are just fine, a couple of weeks and a lot of Kegels and they are good to go.
My doctor promised me a healthy baby and swore up and down I’d be fine, but I’ve had root canals go horribly wrong. Childbirth is a bit more complicated.
Is it a problem for me if I have a healthy baby at the cost of a healthy sex life? How does one answer that? I want both.
The truth is this probably isn’t really about my vagina. It’s that I know, in my guts, that life as I know it will cease to exist and this terrifies me.
*Spell check did not like the word “vaginas”. There is a different spelling for the plural, but I 1. Cannot bring myself to use it and 2. Cannot bring myself to say it, without giggling.
Tomorrow I’ll wake up with bad hair, four pounds of water weight and the biggest zip known to modern man. I know this, but since I’m going to have to pay for this day anyway, I’m sure as hell going to enjoy while I can.
I woke up almost refreshed to a vocal cat and a very affectionate Sparky. I found a cute outfit that is oddly flattering. My hair looks great even thought I went to bed with it wet. My face doesn’t even look so pregnant puffy. My cheek bones are almost visible. I finally look more pregnant than fat. My favorite socks were clean and the much smaller maternity jeans are too big everywhere but my tummy, yet don’t fall down. I had a terrific breakfast burrito and delish pink grapefruit juice.
I’ve been depressed lately at how fat I feel, looking down and being unable to see the difference between morbid obesity and pregnancy. Having lost so much weight only to gain girth really fucks with a girl’s head. But today, for some reason, everything worked. It was like overnight, my fairy godmother came down and gave me perfect hair, narrow hips and a perfect complexion. I even have a waistline. That part is really is a function of a uh, porn-sized boobs, but I’ll take what I can get.
In this last trimester I’m losing weight rather than gaining. I have yet to experience any sort of water retention. My ankle bones are still highly visible. Other than a compromised immune system keeping me house bound, my body seems to really dig this pregnancy thing. It could be that I finally have hormones and all the systems are finally balanced. Even my blood pressure is lower than pre-pregnancy. If only I could breath easier, but that is just a function of two feet sitting in what used to be the space dedicated to my lungs.
I’m not complaining, mind you, it’s just odd. I’m getting smaller everywhere but my tummy and my boobs. I’m not dieting, I’m just losing. I’m hoping this latest weight development will help me fit into my Calvins soon after the delivery. Technically, at this point, I’ll weigh less after the birth than I did pre-pregnancy. Loki is gaining weight and getting bigger. I’m told as far as they can tell from the current perspective, he’s as healthy as can be. And judging from his activity level, I tend to believe them. Dude, the kid is fit as a fiddle.
We have the Parents Night at the hospital tonight. I’m sure I’ll pick up a cold from some mom there with kiddos in a kindergarten. And the visuals of actual birth will have me reeling along with phrases like “Ring of Fire” or terms like “crowning”.
Well, again, I know I’ll pay for this goodness tomorrow, but until then I’m just going to enjoy the day.
See those cats? They’re tired. See those toys? That’s why. I found all those toys behind our living room TV furniture. I also found two MAC eye shadows, body shop lip butter and an egg.
An Egg. A real bock-bock chicken egg.
It took me about 2 minutes to figure it out. A few months ago I had three eggs on the counter, hard-boiled, waiting for egg salad. At some point three turned into two. I figured Sparky had eaten it. He figured I’d used it. I got mad he used my egg. We even commented to each other about it.
What we should have realized is that Olli’s sense of “Something new has been placed on a counter top when I was not looking” kicked in and he took it. Olli’s superpower is knowing when something new has been placed on any surface in the house. He’ll sniff it our within seconds to attempt and show it whose boss.
I have no doubt in my mind it was HIM. He played with it, cracked it open and then he lost it behind the TV furniture.
This damn cat is the cuddliest, snuggliest, most loving rat bastard I have ever known in feline form. His little Orphan Annie button eyes completely belie his deviousness. He insists on nose kisses and face rubs then he steals eggs to be found later.
This egg stinks. I have no idea why we didn’t find it sooner. It could have been there for ages.
His punishment was swiftly dealt. I made him stand in for Loki this morning as I practiced with the baby sling/wrap/15-feet-of cloth-thing. He’s not thrilled with the laying position, but his claws really like the grip when we’re chest to chest.
I might need some band-aids.
I’m getting so boring what with baby on the brain all the time. Sorry if you need something other than baby talk. I gots nothing else in me. Perhaps because I’ve got a huge baby in me.
I gave him his 3 week eviction notice last night. It’s not like he’ll have to scrounge around looking for a couch to surf or anything. I’ll wait until he’s at least 18 for that type of eviction.
We’ve got two great sleeping areas for him. His great Auntie Patricia is coming to stay for a few weeks to help me figure out this whole kid thing – that is if she doesn’t get lost in the Heathrow airport looking for Terminal 5 in which to shop. And three feline siblings to watch over him. Life is good here. He’ll like it.
And frankly, he’s too big. And he’s definitely Dancer. My bladder is tired of it. I can feel those little fingers scratching away “Loki wuz here” and his toes are definitely from my side of the family, all wiggly and fidgety rubbing up against my ribs.
I’m tall. I can still shave my legs (barely). I can pick things up. It’s not comfortable, but I can. I can only do this because I have the torso length not to be all baby. How do shorter women deal? I’m waddling because he’s so low these days, back and forth like Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dum and I’m thanking my mother’s genes and nutrition for all 5 feet 9 inches.
Tomorrow Loki’s room will be painted. His room and the hall. The peanut butter stain in the hallway will finally be a thing of the past and Sparky won’t have to remind me that when angry, adults do not throw things. I won’t have to remind him to learn to catch.
The red room will no longer be red, it’ll be cream with bright white trim. And we’re even going to get his floor polished – BONUS! Next week everything will be installed and perhaps I’ll feel ready to go.
My MIL is coming over in 30 minutes. I’ve made the bed, vacuumed and straightened up. I’ve removed all sex toys and picked up my underwear. I’m just not interested in doing more. Like the windows or dusting the shelves or emptying the garbage. My windows are filthy. If I just pull the curtains, perhaps she won’t notice.
Does it even matter? Really? I’ve gotten comfortable in my role of a Schlampe or is it Schlümpf? I always get those words mixed up.
We have an appointment with the electrician tomorrow.
What are the chances that he’s actually going to show up?
Update: March 18th 8:21 am
Electrician arrived at 8:05 am. I feel like there is something I should do since he actually showed up. I know, we’ll pay him for his work.
Friday – Painters are here and Loki’s room just might be ready on time.
So, let’s see, when we last left our heroine, she was knee deep in snot and snuffle rags. Oh wait, that’s where we’ll find her now, but now there is no fever or delirious thoughts.
I had one really weird fever-induced dream where I was doing something I never I thought I’d do to Rush Limbaugh. And let’s just say I wasn’t all that picky in my former glory days, but Rush?? A girl does have standards.
In less lascivious news, all Loki’s current furniture is constructed and clothing, blankets, diapers, and bedding is washed and put away. In between bouts of sickness Sparky and I put together his crib, bassinet and changing table. Can I just say that when I looked at the instructions for the changing table, I said out loud “I want my Dad.”
The thing was so complicated I just wanted my Dad to come and take care of it because it hurt my brain. There were more types of screws than in the Kama Sutra with only a vague idea of the differences in length. This might have caused a slight mess up that no one will see because that side will face the wall.
He’ll need a dresser and perhaps a bookshelf, but that can wait until after next week when the room actually gets painted.
The red room will no longer be red. It will be cream. What will we call it? The cream room?
Next weekend, Loki’s room will be completed. And all will be right with my world.
Meanwhile, the cats have gotten very used to the baby stuff. They don’t seem to understand that none of this is for them, but rather for a screaming, drooling onesie of fun that will be coming round the mountain soon. Boy, will they be surprised to jump into the bassinet and find a squirming creature.
This “cat issue” has thrown my mother-in-law into a tizzy. One time a cat jumped into Sparky’s stroller and it tried to steal his breath and that is why today he’s a little dumber today than he was in the beginning. If that damn cat hadn’t jumped into the stroller for the 1.6 seconds it took her to fully freak the fuck out, Sparky would have been tapped to be a Gnome of Zurich and thus changed the history of the world. Oh, if only…
I have explained, at length and in German, how the cats are Nannies (like in Peter Pan only cats not a dog or in The Cat’s Eye – not like in Lady and the Tramp) and will sleep with him and around him, suckling from his bottles and licking his face clean. Cat spit is way better than Mom spit, I hear. I even offered to get more cats if the three we have are not enough. Mother Mutti does not know if I’m joking or not. I kind of like that.
Here they are, asleep on the job. I guess the job hasn’t started yet, but they are not concerned with impressing the boss.
