Oh Come Let Us Adore Me

My boy has had his share of love and affection these days. He's been passed from cousin to cousin to Auntie to grandmother to mother back to cousin. At first there was a bit of quivering of the bottom lip, which quickly turned into coos and smiles and displays of advanced babyness, you know, recitation of multiplication tables and the elements of various torts or tortes. He's a well rounded 18 week old. Truly.

A year ago I was pregnant. And today I have my happy, smiley, giggly boy.

Best Christmas ever.

What Kind of Mother Am I?

I've learned many things about myself in the last 14 weeks.

For example, I will put a furry reindeer hat on my child and take him out in public. Even though he looks like a Russian oligarch and in spite of the look you see at the right.

I will physically stop a stranger from touching my child. Hell, I'll even stop a nonstranger from touching my child if said nonstranger hasn't washed his/her hands and bathed in Purell.

Babies fascinate me. My own baby. Other people's babies. I had no idea babies were so interesting. I always liked older children...preferably at the age when they could do tricks. But babies have turned out to be fascinating. Who knew?

I could never be a stay at home mom. Too hard. Much harder than boardrooms and corporate intrigue and class actions. I am forever amazed and awed by the power and majesty of the stay at home mom.

On the other hand, I've never been so happy to get home from work and see my boy. That big gummy smile. Those chunky little legs (his, not mine). Those little squinty eyes so similar to my own. Boy oh boy, do I love this child.

It was almost a year ago that I began the IVF that brought us Adam. I went back and read through the posts and was struck through the heart of how immensely lucky we are. So, so very lucky. Lucky that the cycle worked, finally, and lucky that we were in a position to keep trying. And very cognisant that he almost wasn't.

We have much to be thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving.

A new woman

Two months.

Six hours.

A promise.

Two months.

Six glorious, splendiforous hours.

A promise kept.

Adam is two months old.

Last night he slept six hours straight. Merciful God. Six glorious, life affirming, eye bag reducing hours.

In exchange for those hours, I promised I would never again stuff him into a too small polo onesie, flip the collar and prop him up for a photo session.

He agreed.

I am a happy woman. Praise be.

Time Does Fly.

7 weeks tomorrow. I've started several posts...one about the birth, one about the first few weeks, one as recently as yesterday and, while time has flown, my words have fallen flat. I lack the talent to articulate how my smiling boy has changed my life. How his little self has sent my spirits and my heart soaring and at the same time brought me to my knees. Rejoice at the milestones, the first smile, the first coo (oh yes, "ma ma" will be the first word even if it isn't); frustration at his cries (all your needs are met little boy, what could possibly cause your tears?); worry for his well being which will surely plague me the rest of my days; and acute vulnerability...how is possible to feel so much so deeply? It's true, nothing could have prepared me for this. All of this. The love, yes, absolutely. Joy, wonder, awe. And at times the frustration, the dizzying inability to figure out his cries on top of crushing fatigue. (Trust me, you can have an army of help and you will still be tired.) But always, always, the pinch-me-it-can't-be-true, this child is mine.

It was all worth it. Every. Single. Step.

In the Beginning...Adam

August 18, 2009. 6 lbs, 12 ounces. 21 inches. Our Adam.

Sweet Time

I saw the ob on Monday. I get the distinct impression he's tired of pregnant women because he never wants to talk about, well, pregnancy. My pregnancy. He measures, he waves the doppler, he checks my cervix, all while talking about the state of health care in America today and his last 18 holes. Golf, people, golf. Then I interrupt and ask the pertinent questions, like my glucose levels, strep test, and, of particular concern to me, what's happening down there??!! Strangely, I really like the guy, he's funny as hell, he's purportedly the best perinatologist in the city, but, he's amazingly nonchalant. He fails to understand that Adam is not the result of a wild drunken romp, but the result of life altering good luck, plenty of science and the financial equivalent of a Porsche Cayenne.

All that to say, Adam's taking his sweet time. I'm not dilated, but my cervix has thinned since last week. I knew this anyway because my little Alien is playing hammer time with my bladder. My hands and feet are swollen and strangely, the bottoms of my feet hurt. I'm sure it has nothing to do with the four, 5 lb bags of potatoes I've added to my frame. My largeness is becoming painful, particularly as it affects my fashion sense. Tentwear is so passe. So, I feel relatively sure that I won't be giving birth anytime soon.

That's all I know for now. Other than it's 1000 degrees outside and if my feet don't go back down to a 7 1/2 after giving birth, I will be cutting off toes and expensing the Jimmy Choos I have yet to wear from Adam's college fund. I'm not kidding.

The Final Lap

I never believed I would be in this place. 37 weeks and 2 days pregnant. So very, very close to meeting my Adam. Like most people in a transition stage, I'm heart stoppingly excited to close this out and wrap this up, but also so very mindful of where I've come from, where I've been. The struggle, the heartbreak to get to this point has made me so very, very thankful for each day.

Many of the people I started out with got pregnant long before I did. Others lost babies. And others are still in the fight. There is no equitable treatment here it seems. Many times I have started to post and stopped because my joy must come across like sandpaper for many. I remember so clearly how difficult it was to celebrate and feel joy for others who succeeded while I stayed where I was, sometimes treading water, sometimes sinking under, but never making it to shore.

Who knows why or how this worked. For all the science, this is still mystery. We've learned a lot, but only a speck when you consider what we don't know. My greatest hope is that five, ten year from now, infertile couples will have more chances, more hope, and greater access. We were very fortunate to be in a place to afford the many treatments. Many can't, I know.

So I will say it. I have loved every minute of this pregnancy. Feeling him move, watching my belly undulate brought me tears and laughter and wonder and a secret kinship with my little Alien. I have been blown away by the wonder of all this and sucker punched with love, truly overwhelming love, toward a little human I haven't ever seen except in grainy ultrasound pictures. Could he really be mine? It has changed...everything. I am just awed. Awed.

I'm so very close. According to the doc, nothing's happening yet, which is good. I have an amazing amount to get done in a short period of time.

Almost there.

Failure and Redemption

About two weeks ago, I didn't just "not pass" my glucose screen, I failed it. FAILED IT. No equivocation, no borderline result, no "let's just prick your finger again, sweetie." My screen was a 183. Cut off is 135. Three hour test is Monday. Three hours. I was advised to eat less fruits, sweets, starches, carbs; in other words, enjoy to your heart's content everything you have grown to hate. Asparagus or dirt encrusted vegetable dipped in mud? Have at it! Carrots marinated in vinaigrette of cow pasture? Enjoy! I could weep. Oh, and the piece de resistance? You really should exercise more. Does walking to my car count?

The three hour test was fine until the third hour. I was lightheaded, nauseous, irritated, uncomfortable and borderline mean. I spent the last hour waiting for my blood draw in my car with the seat reclined and window cracked to get some air because the waiting room was atrocious. Small, uncomfortable and occupied by another 3 hour test dummy who went out for smokes after each blood draw. I. kid. you. not. A pregnant woman who went outside to smoke. Cigarettes. There's so much to say about that one that I'll pass. What I will say is that the after smell of the cigarettes tipped me over the edge. No exaggeration, the worst I have felt my entire pregnancy was during and after that third after.

The good news is that my results came back borderline. Of the four numbers, only one was too high. The last number was precipitously low, leading the nurse practitioner to comment "you must not have been feeling too well." On the nose, honey. So, I was instructed to cut out sweets (NOOOO), reduce fruits (NOOO), milk and yogurt, and eat only complex carbs. I asked if a time consuming recipe for pasta with cream sauce counted as a complex carb. Um, no. Oh and exercise. I get tired walking to my car.


Strangely, I continue to feel really well. Adam's room is done and I love it. Light blue, chocolate brown and cream. And the overstuffed rocker and ottoman -- chocolate brown with light blue polka dots--cute beyond cuteness.


Not long now. Not long at all.

Orthodontia

Meet my son. The son who removed his thumb from his mouth for exactly 20 seconds, which resulted in the above picture. The hand didn't move far from his face. I will be saving for his future orthodontial needs. My 30 minutes with him started with thumb firmly in mouth. His, not mine. Then fingers in mouth. Next, removal of hand and licking of arm. Then he spied his foot. I believe he thought for a few seconds about the possibility of foot in mouth, something of which his mother knows well. Finally, he smiled in the general direction of the ultrasound wand and his mother, father and grandmother melted. Thumb went back into mouth.

I now know why women are blind and dumb when it comes to their children. I think he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. And the smartest. And funniest....

MIA and TKO

Forgive me Internet, for I have sinned. Not only has it been weeks and weeks since my last update, I have no justifiable and excusable excuse other than WORK IS KILLING ME. Last week, I flew to Oklahoma City for a meeting from Tuesday - Friday, then Friday morning to Chicago, then home Friday night. Emergency at work right after landing. Home late. Pizza ordered. Alas, no pleasures involved in these excursions. No massages, pedicures, shoe shopping. No leisurely dinners in fine dining establishments and side trips to areas of interest. Work, yes just work. The girl is tired. Stress levels still ok (how is that even remotely possible???), but physically tired. Drained. Ready to take that brass ring and shove it up...

The good news is that my Little A is a trooper. He's kicking and punching and hanging out like a little champ. At one of my more contentious meetings last week, I swear he was giving me the universal sign of peace and humming "Give peace a chance." Tie dye onesies coming up. I have an ultrasound on Thursday and I'm over the moon to see what's happening. Actually, I'm more anxious to check out his environs. I feel certain that he's hung up a disco ball, playing twister and throwing back amniotic martinis. I like this kid. And I feel really good. No swelling, no real uncomfortableness, sleeping great. My only complaint is a week or two ago I had some slicing pain in my neck and shoulders, but heat wraps and hot showers have taken care of it. I attribute it to tension.

E and I went on the "Expectant Parents Hospital Tour." Our nurse guide referred to the group as "mommies and daddies." She demonstrated the squat bar and explained--in detail--the births of her five children at this very hospital, can you believe it, this. very. hospital. Oh, and all natural births by the way. My observation that a natural birth was any exit of a baby from a womb absent lures of baby ferraris and counterfeit $100 bills met with silence. We left shortly thereafter, but we do know where to check in. I haven't taken any birthing classes, which I was ambivalent about to begin with. I feel certain I can swing it without having to sit through class every Thursday from 5:30 to 8pm. Famous last words probably.

I am just so excited to meet this kid. I attribute a lot, most, all (?) of my relative calm these days to him and keeping him safe and protected. And knowing that my responsibility is his well being. It's put the rest of my life in perspective, I think. Work may be stressful and busy and maddening at times, but it's not the most important gig I've got going these days. I've got my Little A.

Almost 30 weeks and counting.

Best Laid Plans

My plans, giggle, for this pregnancy were to take it easy. Certainly to maintain the full load I always have at work, but also to take time for myself, take a full three months maternity leave, transition back in, etc. In short, to relish in my role as a #2 at work...to thank the lucky stars that my wildest professional dreams hadn't yet been answered and I'm not the key decisionmaker. My corner office dreams were relegated to the corner closet. For a while.

Ah, best laid plans.

Now it turns out the big job is dangling right there. In fact, I'm Acting Holder of Big Job ("AHBJ") for the next 30-45 days. Completely out of the blue, due to exceedingly uncomfortable circumstances, but nonetheless, I've got a 45 day dress rehearsal for the Big Job. In the interest of full disclosure, I'm a close second to the front runner, an exceptionally talented (and likable) woman who's been promised a top job for several years. I've got the advantage in other ways, but I've still got to stretch to get this. I'm exhilarated, excited, nervous and, yes, a little pissed off. Of all the %$#@ times in my professional life to have the opportunity to reach for the brass ring, I've got my miraculous, belly kicking love affair on board and my stomach makes stretching for that oh so ellusive brass ring a bit awkward and unwieldy. Yes, yes, it's true that I've already got the brass ring doing jumping jacks inside me, but the other part of me, a big part, a part that must be nourished and fed and cared for too, needs to see how far she can go because that's who she is.

I'm exceptionally blessed that I've felt really, really good this pregnancy. And I continue to feel good. Surprisingly, I haven't felt overwhelmed or stressed. I've felt, feel, energized. And I'm trying to put this all into perspective. That either way, it will work out. If I get the Big Job, I'll be the first woman to have reached that post at my company. If I don't, I'll still have a satisfying career, a shot at the Big Job later and more time. I'll be disappointed, yes, but the gig I've got now ain't a bad one.

I have very much simplified what's going on and have probably, well certainly, glossed over my feelings about everything. I haven't simplified my feelings of calm though. If this had happened a year ago, I would have been stressed to the limits of human endurance. I'm not. I have never been happier in my life. Never. And it's not because of AHBJ. In fact, AHBJ is significantly less of a miracle than my Little A. Maybe it's because of Little A that I think anything's possible and that everything's achievable, everything being, I hope, the grace to accept whatever comes.

Best laid plans.

P.S. I will save the story of assembling the changing table last weekend for later. The changing table with 14 pages of instructions in Spanish and 4 ziploc bags containing a motley assortment of metal and wood thingies. I will also skip over the slamming of part A into my tender head which likely resulted in a concussion of which I haven't yet recovered, contributing to my unusually calm state of mind. But I'll save that for later.

First Saturday in May

Around these parts, the first Saturday in May is a big deal. Fast horses and beautiful women. Fast women and beautiful horses. Mint juleps. Trifectas. And....hats. Big, over the top, match the dress to the hat, hats. My hat last Derby was so big I strained my neck. Because I'm a trooper (and my shoes matched my hat), I continued to wear the hat, just drank more to compensate. I love hats. Others' opinions notwithstanding, hats love me.


Until this year.


I will not be wearing a hat to the Kentucky Derby. I make this decision last weekend while posing in front of my mirror donning one of my favorite hats from yesteryear. I looked like a flying knocked up nun, a mushroom that had swallowed a dung beetle...I looked silly. I wonder if I will have to enter the track through the "non hat wearers" door, located so far on the backside that the powers that be hope you'll give up in frustration and go home to watch the races on TV? It's a sad story, I know.

In other news, the issue of "showers" has arisen. I'm very flattered and touched that dear friends and family have offered to throw me baby showers, but the thought of a shower makes me feel twitchy and itchy and rash-like. It would be different I suppose if I weren't 39 years old and not already scarred by the endless Saturday afternoons I gave up to guess the diaper containing the tootsie roll. E thinks I'm nuts, but this is the same man who wouldn't have to attend and count tootsie rolls and also believes that people give you cribs or free college educations at these events. Silly, silly man.

So, I'm holding firm. No showers. Especially the dreaded work shower, though for different reasons. I work with a bunch of male lawyers, and support staff and paralegals who are primarily women. The bunch of male lawyers part speaks for itself. And, as wonderful as the support staff and paralegals are, I can't bear the thought of them spending their money on me. Economically, times are tough and it's just not right to put people in the position where they feel compelled to contribute, so no work shower. I will take the bakery cake with lots of icing though. The men can pony up for that.

A typical visit to the Ob

Scene 1, Act 1.

Nurse: Please get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok, I will get on the scale, but I would like it noted in my file there that I just had lunch.
Nurse: Duly noted.
Melanie: So deduct 5 pounds. I've got on heavy clothing too, so better make it 6.
Nurse: silence
Melanie: And I mean it, I don't want you to tell me my weight. And don't write the number really big so that when I try to read it upside down I can't.
Nurse. Ok
Melanie: Oh, and don't leave the file where I can get it. Because I'll read it and I don't want to know.
Nurse: Get on the scale.
Melanie: Ok.

Act 2, Scene 1.

Pleasantries exchanged with doctor. Fetal heart tone identified. Fundal height measurement noted. Doctor prepares to leave.

Melanie: Hey, where are you going? You haven't told me anything...
Doctor: Everything looks great. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Four weeks? Well, wait. Let me see what you've written down there, but, eww, wait, I don't want to see my weight.

Melanie reviews chart with doctor's hand covering the weight section.

Melanie: You know I had a big lunch before this appointment, so that weight, whatever it is, isn't technically correct.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: Anyway, so fundal height's ok?
Doctor: Yes.
Melanie: Um, heart rate sounded a little fast. You know, kind of like the old Lone Ranger series. Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum Dum daa Dum Dum....
Doctor: Heart rate's fine.
Melanie: So what else do I need to know? Anything?
Doctor: Really, everything's fine. See you in four weeks.
Melanie: Wait, shouldn't you be scheduling me for an ultrasound before then?
Doctor: Why do you need an ultrasound?
Melanie: (thinking to herself, Why wouldn't I? Duh.)
Melanie: It's been awhile. What if he's grown another limb? He could have learned how to make obscene hand gestures since the last one ultrasound. It's best to correct these behaviors young, you know.
Doctor: silence
Melanie: We won't know anything until we take a peak.
Melanie: Oh, come on.
Doctor: (Rolls eyes) See you in four weeks.

The end.

Eww, eww, eww, call on me, I know the answer..

Q: When does the fear subside?

A: Never

Sigh.

I'm a devotee of milestones; a follower of "just get to point A" then, B, then C; a staunch believer in "just make it to X, then worry about Y." I haven't abandoned my cartography tendencies this pregnancy (yes, this, my only sustaining pregnancy). At first, it was the peesticks. Let them stay positive, double pink lines, a flashing "pregnant." Check. Then the beta. Let it be high. High and strong. Higher than my first failed pregnancy. Ok, next the ultrasound. Before December 2008, I'd never been invited to an ultrasound (my own, that is) which featured more than follicles, lining checks and ovaries. Let this one have, oh I dunno, a sac? Fetal pole? A beating heart. Oh please, a heartbeat. Two? Bliss.

Setback one. Only one beating heart at 7 weeks five days. It's ok. Little A is still strong. It's not unusual to lose a twin early on. I have my Little A. Now I need to get past that most magical of all pregnancy milestones...the first trimester. Much hand wringing. Multiple ultrasounds. And, on a wing and a prayer, we make it to 13 weeks. Whew. Next up: level one ultrasound, first sequential, triple screen, second sequential, quad screen, level two ultrasound. Movement, please give me fetal movement. Ah, movement. And then we got here...almost 22 weeks.
So at what point do I get to relax? When do I get to settle in with the certainty that this little life is going to keep on living? Will I be peeing on sticks as we drive to the hospital? Last night for example, my Little A was kicking up a storm. This morning, I've felt a few little nudges but no fetal gymnastics. Am I worried? Do I find myself poking my stomach and searching out month old chocolate to prod the child into action? Hell yes. Do I drive to the ob's office to have a visit with the doppler? Hell to the yes to that too. And what does my Little A do when I get in the car to go back to work...kicks up a storm. Sort of a "I am the boss of you, mortal" gesture.

On another note, I had a funny conversation with someone at work the other day. She said to me "so have you told your husband what present you'd like for giving birth?" I was stunned into silence. Not because the woman had asked something inappropriate, but because of the utter absurdity of the thought as it applied to my life. A present for giving birth? If I make it to birth, I will have been given the most astoundingly miraculous, magical bestowal of my existence. A bestowal that was over two years in the making and sheathed in tears and sadness and uncertainty and finally, unimaginable joy. And though it pains my soul to say this (as a girl who's inordinately fond of things that sparkle) no material object in the world is suitable to commemorate the, please oh please, birth of my Little A. Present, indeed. (I guess I need not point out that it cost a Mercedes to even get to this point.)

Hello Spring

Ah, glorious, happy, delightful Spring. Where have you been all my life? Yesterday, I sat outside on my cushioned lounge chair, felt the sun on my face, ignored the screaming children from two houses down (whose parents bought them a trampoline for Christmas. Grrr.) and thought, yes, this is good. Really good. Nothing in the world regenerates my spirit like spring. Except maybe sitting in my comfortable lounge chair in Spring feeling my Little A kick and punch my uterus like a little welterweight. Bliss.

Finally, I'm feeling some action in my belly. I've felt little this's and that's for a few weeks but nothing I could distinctly categorize as baby movement. Then, last Thursday, my stomach turned into microwave popcorn. Picture the old Batman TV shows...BAM, Kaboom, POW, BOOM. I can almost hear his little gurgling wail now, "I wanna speak to the warden. GIMME out of here" (in an underwater voice of course). I'm having so much fun at his expense. Dare I also admit that sometimes, not all the time, but sometimes I'll eat a cookie just to get a little feel of the fetus olympiad. I'm having way too much fun at the child's expense.

Though I was planning on waiting until, oh about 38 weeks before I bought anything for Little A, I broke down. I bought bedding. And a matching teddy bear. And matching mobile. Dear God, I bought flippin' pillows too. And somehow, a miniature pair of cargo pants and polo shirt showed up on my dining room table. And not that anyone other than me has any interest WHATSOEVER in the bedding I bought a few weeks...months early, but if you are, here's the link. http://www.rhbabyandchild.com/rhbc/catalog/product/product.jsp?productId=rhbc_prod142237&navCount=2

I am weak. Weak, weak, weak.

So here's my pledge. My next post will deal only with adult issues. I will not mention teddy bears, mobiles, adorable cargo pants or other infantile subjects. Really. Global warming, recessions and Somali pirates only.

Happy Spring!

Quad Screen Results...

...came back fine. Negative for neural tube defects, risk of chromosomal issues very low. My little A seems to be doing fine. I'm doing fine. Actually, I feel great. I always thought (back in the days when I thought I could go off the pill and *zippo* fall pregnant) that I would hate pregnancy, but I don't. At all. It's added a new dimension to my feelings about ART.

Frankly, title of my blog notwithstanding, I never gave much thought to pregnancy. itself. Sure, if you go the traditional route, you have to go through pregnancy to get the desired result. The desired result was what I wanted and why I endured the sado-masochism that is IVF. I always assumed that, well, pregnancy would suck, but it was worth it. I was wrong. There is a magic and a mystery and a joy to pregnancy I never could have imagined. I'm not sure if it's because it was so difficult to get to this point or because I truly came to believe that it wouldn't happen, but either way or neither way, I'm in awe of this process.

I wonder if my ultrasound addiction fueled this? Seeing my Little A stick his hand in his mouth and cross his little frog legs (tasty side of remoulade anyone?) and drape his little arm over his eyes just slayed me. I never expected to love carrying around this little, not yet a full beer in weight, soon to be human quite so much. I mean, we haven't really met or exchanged pleasantries or hugs or handshakes, but I would leap tall buildings for him. I would slay dragons to keep him safe. How very strange it all is. Very strange indeed.

We got our first two baby gifts the other day. One was a little onesie with ducks and a matching bib. So very tiny. My husband commented that "it wasn't very masculine." I reminded him that they didn't issue guns and camo until at least 18 months. Sigh. The other gift was a blue blanket, so incredibly soft with a satin edge. A little blue blanket for my Little A. At some point I will tell him about my blue blanket and Old King Cole blanket one day. I wonder where they are?

Pronounem correctus

It's a boy! An 18 week boy child who looks mighty cute on an anatomy scan. I have been out of town and up to my eyeballs in work so I haven't had time to update like I want. But I will, oh I will.

One concern is that the ultrasound tech mentioned I have "marginal previa," which sounds ominous and scary. Dr. Google seems to indicate that most instances of marginal previa correct themselves. But, as one never content to view the glass as half full when it comes to my tenuous grasp on fertility, I will be grilling my ob tomorrow for the real skinny. My hope is to avoid full scale freakout until then.

If anyone is still reading this, thanks for sticking around. More substantive posts forthcoming. (Oh, and it was fun to type the word "skinny" because I am officially out of normal clothes. After my four safety pins imploded and impaled my tender belly I broke down and bought some big girl clothes. Bliss.)

12 Steps

I post the above shameful display as proof of the destructiveness of addiction. And, as one who hasn't peed on a stick in months, as clear and convincing evidence that one can beat addiction. Yes, yes, it is true that I could have additional peesticks and pictures of peesticks I haven't shared, but I don't, so trust me. As I conquered the evil peestick, I will conquer the ultrasound. I will have faith that my Little A is growing and thriving and I don't need to eavesdrop every week.

I know I can. I know I can.

Next week, that is.

Below you will see my Little A, well the lower half of him or her, taken at today's ultrasound. At the upper left is a big fat tummy, measuring 16 awe inspiring weeks. And dangling below that massive belly you will see two plump, juicy frog, er, fetus legs, gently crossed...just screaming for some spicy chipotle dipping sauce. He looks just like his mama as she waits for Raoul her beach boy to bring her a beverage. Little A was uncooperative in the sex determination department...again. Tricky fetus! I did see him (so tired of typing multiple pronouns) put his little hand in his mouth, which made me giddy with joy. After the picture below, he scrunched his little legs and kicked off the side. Did I mention with natural grace and elegance?

Two roads diverged.

I remember so vividly a year and a half ago, after my first IVF had failed, how desperately I needed someone to identify with. Living in a sea of fertiles, I didn't know anyone personally who had undergone IVF; much less someone who had gone through it and failed. I stumbled upon this community and was buoyed by the positivity, the encouragement and the belief that, maybe, just maybe, it could work for me like it had worked for others. Then it seemed like it was only working for others, not me. I got pregnant with my frozen cycle a year ago and then miscarried. Many, many of the women who cycled with me then have children now (real live babies!). Same scenario, after my second IVF failure. And there I was, one of those women. Worse than a beauty school dropout, I was a late (really late) 30's repeat IVF failure.

I found that I couldn't read many of the blogs I'd started off with for many reasons; well, for one reason, because I couldn't identify, I was left behind. I hope that I said the right words and kindly expressed congratulations, of course feeling envy and "why not me's" at the same time. I was staring at the fork in the road, except it felt like a fork in my heart. Originally, E and I said that we would do two fresh IVF cycles, no more. If those two didn't work, plus any frozen cycles, that was that. We would go on, we have a great life, it wasn't mean to be. Then, after the resounding failure that was IVF #2, I told E in tears--not the gentle, flowing, you'd look good in pictures tears, but the heaving, red nosed, hiccuping kind--I have to try again. I can't live with stopping now. In my secret heart of hearts, I can't let go now because I would always wonder what if, what if. And he hugged me and agreed, because that's the man I married.

I don't know why this one worked. I don't know why after a year and a half of infertility treatments, at two months before I turned 39, I had the best cycle imaginable. Why, after countless failures and less than stellar results (that was tongue in cheek) I've ended up here, a few days shy of four months pregnant with what appears to be a healthy fetus. It's not that God answered my prayer, because to say that drives home how many other worthy prayers have not been answered. (I remember reading early on a post written by a newly pregnant woman who said "God knew that I was ready to be a mother" and how it stung me; I was the less worthy one apparently.) I believe God's intervention is not to change the outcome, but to help us deal with the outcome whatever it may be.

All of this to say that I grew to believe that I wouldn't be in this place. That at some point I would close up shop on this chapter and move on. At least as of now, it appears that the outcome could be different and I hope very much that it is. It is disconcerting the powerful emotions I have developed toward the little 5 inch creature wreaking havoc on my body (and fueling no doubt my evil longings for all things confectionery). So I'm here. And I'm very much aware that now I find myself in the same sort of place I avoided for so long. And if you're here, and you know who you are, you don't have to a say a word or leave a comment because I know, oh boy I know, how very hard it is to come to a place that has been so painfully elusive. I won't throw out any of the standardisms, like "if it worked for me it could work for anyone," because, having been on the receiving end before, it doesn't help. Not a bit.

So I will try this week to just accept that things could possibly work out ok and I will see if I can wean myself from the ultrasounds. (Cue anguished cry and hair pulling.) I make no promises though. I have my next "official" ultrasound two weeks from Thursday. I will also try very hard to be charming and win over the front office trolls, er, receptionists at the ob's office and I will also stop throwing around the "do you have any idea how many IVFs I've been through" when they treat me like a fertile. I will try. Really. I will.

First, there were pee sticks...

Now, ultrasounds. My name is Melanie and I am an ultrasound addict. Yes, I have had an ultrasound every week since I conquered the peesticks. When I try to wean myself off of the ultrasounds, I get the eye twitters and the body shakes and the 1000 thoughts of what could possibly have gone wrong since the last week. Then, hands shaking, eyes bloodshot, I pick up the phone, make the appointment and vow to be stronger next week.

Soooo...

Today's ultrasound revealed a fat fetus measuring 15 weeks, one day. Little A has a four chambered heart, a good looking, chain-like umbilical cord, a lovely spine and a huge stomach. He has really long fingers, one of which was in his mouth. No view of what we believe supports my continued use of the pronoun "he," but we'll know definitively soon enough.

I also learned from the ob that I'm anemic, which explains the headaches and shortness of breath. I just assumed it was a normal part of the process, but am thrilled - thrilled I tell you - that it's not. Though it takes away my excuse for lack of regular exercise, I'm pleased.

As for the nonfetus-carrying side of me, I'm doing really well. I still haven't told work but probably will in the next couple of weeks. I'm enjoying my little secret of secrets. We've widened the circle of friends and family who we've told, and everyone has been wonderful. Not, of course, that I expected folks not to be, but still. It just seems so new and strange and unexpected and foreign. I continue to live the infertile's mantra of hope tempered with realism coupled with "do wonderful things really sustain after so much heartbreak?" I hope so.

Good news

The nurse called today about the results of my blood work (the one I incorrectly called a quad screen - and I call myself informed!) and NT scan. Downs risk is 1:1300; Trisomy 18 risk is 1:680. I'm relieved. But I'm also not sure I understand the Trisomy 18 risk. The average risk for someone my age is 1:333. The average risk for Downs is 1:85. So why is my Downs risk so much more remote than my risk for Trisomy 18? Or is it apples and oranges? Or maybe the real question is why can't I just accept a little good news and roll with it??

Oh, in other news, I had my second ob appointment today. I've put on 6 pounds. I'm in a whole new hemisphere on the scale. It's a good thing I hid the cookie in my purse before I was weighed. They probably smelled it though, which is why they gently "informed" me that I really shouldn't put on more than 15 -25 lbs during pregnancy. Bitches.

13w6d

I had a visit with Little A this morning, which disturbed him greatly. He went from sleeping fetus to startled fetus, complete with hiccups and gesticulating hand motions, as in "buzz off, you." The bonus was the picture of his little face, complete with nose, eyes and mouth. Bliss, pure bliss. He continues to display his little protuberance, hence the many references to "he." No one is willing to check the "male" box in ink yet but they are willing to say they've never been wrong. Hmmm. Still don't have the official results from the NT Scan, quad screen, etc. yet, so I continue to feel the flutters of anxiety. My favorite nurse told me to get over it, I'll have those flutters for life now.

We still haven't shared the news with those other than some family and some close friends. Strangely, I really have no motivation to share our news with work or the world at large for that matter. I know they'll be happy for me, but I feel like the news will be incomplete, almost out of context somehow. Here, I've been working side by side, even traveling together in some cases with many of them and they don't know squat about the journey. It almost seems trivial to say "I'm pregnant," without also saying "we've been trying a long, long time, I've cried a thousand tears, I thought at many points my sense of self was in jeopardy, and you, coworker, bitched and moaned about trivial bullshit as I nodded my head and sympathized without hearing you, and then, on the Hail Mary pass, it happened, but not out of the blue mind you, but with lots and lots of science, and I'm scared to death that my hiccuping, gesticulating little apparently male fetus won't make it, so hell yes you should be happy for me because this is a flipping miracle."

I felt the same way when I got my ultrasound at the ob's office last week. Of course, I was just one of many, many pregnant women the ultrasound tech had seen that day, but I wanted her to know that this was different. Different I tell you. Special. I mentioned that this was my third IVF, fourth really. Did I mention that I'm 39 and this was my third IVF? That fetus you're wanding almost wasn't, but look, look, do you see how special, how amazing, how magical he is? No need to squint, it's there from the top of his too big head (lots of brain there) to his little kicking feet. See those fingers, linger a minute. Don't go so quickly. Really, when have you seen fingers like that on an almost wasn't to be fetus?

It's not that I want fawning and cries of joy and proclamations that my Little A is the second coming, it's that I can't get over the mystery and magic and wonder that my Little A is even growing and wiggling and hiccuping, here, in this place, at all. So I walk around with my little secret, my amazing Hail Mary pass.

The world just ain't ready yet.

12w5d

And Little A is busting off the charts at 6.8cm, measuring 13 weeks. Nuchal fold is measuring 1.12mm (!!!) and Little A has a pronounced nasal bone. (A little Cyrano de Bergerac-ish at first until the ultrasound tech mentioned the shadow. Yowza.) I'm beginning to breathe a bit easier. I had blood drawn for the triple screen and will know the results next week. I'm beginning to believe (dare I say it?) that there's a good chance that things might work out. Dare I hope?

In other news, the ultrasound tech said that they wouldn't even opine on the sex until 18 weeks. A few minutes later, she circled a very noticeable protuberance between my little fetus's legs and said, I quote, "you can draw your own conclusions from that." So, either my little A hoodwinked the ultrasound tech and somehow manipulated a very long arm between its legs or Little A could very possibly be a member of the penis clan. As one who still can't believe that at 39 she's actually pregnant, and with a human, I am again at a loss for words. A little boy.

I'm less in love with the ob's office. We sat in the waiting room for 35 minutes before I asked when I would be seen. "Did you sign in? (of course.) Oh, you're here for an ultrasound, that's across the hall (that would have been helpful....35 minutes ago). " After developing such warm relationships at the RE's office, I'm now just another face. A slightly bloated face at that. In the grand scheme of things though, I have not lost sight of how very fortunate I am to be sitting in an ob's office at all, so bitch I shall not.

Dare I say it again? All's well.

What if.

Today, February 11, I'm 39. Nearly 3 years ago, if someone has asked me (while I was popping a birth control pill no doubt) if I had any concerns about getting pregnant, I'm sure I would have quipped, "giving up wine will be traumatic." Silly, silly girl. When we found out we would need to go directly to IVF, I wasn't concerned. No tears, no hesitations, I knew it would work. And then it didn't the first time, or the second. My frozen transfer didn't work. My third attempt, when I became sure that my confidence was sorely misplaced, it worked. So far.


I'm having a tough time finding my peace with being pregnant. Anyone struggling with infertility or finding herself miraculously pregnant, particularly those of a certain age, feels that she's living with the "what ifs." I'm right there. Treading water in the what if pool. I'm nervous about the NT scan next week, the blood work. I'm nervous about having an amnio. I'm wondering if my little A has a pronounced nasal bone. I'm nervous about losing easy access to ultrasounds and wandering around the what if world for weeks at a time when I'm just another (hopefully) pregnant person in a huge office of obstetricians. I'm nervous in general because I eventually came to believe that I wouldn't be in this place. What if I'm found out? I'm not shopping for maternity clothes (I've just gone from 3 safety pins on the waist of my pants to four), I'm not looking at cribs, I have no opinion on burpees or bugaboos or bedding. Oh, but I hope I will at some point.


On a lighter note, I had another ultrasound at the RE's yesterday, after a long discussion about the ubiquitous octuplets. Enough said about that though. My stomach dropped when the dildocam was inserted because Little A was as still as a 2 inch mouse. Then, wham, Little A wakes up, spreads her/his arms and, like a mini Michael Phelps without the bong, pushes off with her/his little legs and extends his/her little arms, almost like pushing off from the side of a swimming pool. My heart swelled. I'm 11 weeks, five days today and everything appears to be progressing the way it should. And in another piece of gloriousness, I'm off the PIO shots!

It's turning out to be a darn good 39th!

Oh Baby.

My little jumping bean is measuring 11 weeks and 4.09 centimeters. Still cavorting and moving and, oh my dear, shaking that little bootie. We got one picture where she ("she" is necessary in this context) is lounging, legs akimbo, arms folded up behind her head like a centerfold, shaking what her mama gave her. E seems to get a little irritated with me when I refer to Little A with terms like "brazen hussy" and "jumbo lima bean," but it makes me giggle. And I didn't want to bring it up again, but 2 1/2 years and $50,000 later, I'm entitled to a little levity.

Winter, Schwinter

I was going to post a picture of the asstastic amounts of snow and ice peppering the area, but decided against it. Too lazy and too tired of this winterwonderland crap. I have every reason to be making snow angels and guzzling hot chocolate, sans Baileys, but alas. (Call me ungrateful, we didn't even lose power like so many others.) The winter blues have kicked me in my widely expanding ass. No sun and cold = lack of motivation and the blues. I'm embarrassed to even be typing these words considering the embarrassment of riches I'm experiencing in my abdomen area, please forgive me. (I'm seriously considering ordering those "light therapy" fixtures...maybe enough to turn my office into a grow house.)

Tomorrow is another ultrasound with the RE and then Thursday we meet with the ob-gyn for the first time. I feel fortunate that my RE seems to have no problem with weekly visits with the dildo cam, though I was told that as much as they enjoy having us, they couldn't deliver me. Seems a tad selfish. My bright spot is to see how Little A is doing tomorrow. (Seeing that little thing last week moved me to tears. Did I mention that we saw the blood moving through its umbilical cord? Unreal.) I hope twitching and growing and, well, existing, in a big way. It seems odd to even have an ob appointment and I continue to be afraid of jinxing things. (I find a healthy dose of obsessive-compulsive disorder works nicely with acute seasonal affective disorder.) For example, I won't put up one of those baby widget things because, well, first they creep me out a little bit and two, I'm afraid Little A will hold her/his breath indefinitely until it's removed, sort of like a hunger protest. I'm still thinking of this pregnancy in the abstract I guess. After two and a half years, it doesn't seem real or possible or explainable.

God willing, I'll be 11 weeks on Friday. There will be no belly shots on this blog, so trust me when I tell you I won't be one of "those" women. You know the ones that look hot and svelte and snappy, oh and they're pregnant. No indeed. I appear to be a bit jowly and paunchy already. Couple that with the string of safety pins I need to attach my pants and I'm sure my coworkers are snickering, Damn, Melanie's looking rough. Put down that bagel, girl! I also appear to be losing braincells. Yesterday I left E's keys in the back door overnight, after safely locking said door from the inside first. I also wore his scarf to work. Never noticed. If I show up in one of his suits, I'm going to check myself into a home for wed mothers to be.

Ok, enough. If you've made it this far, you must need light therapy too...come join me in the grow house.

Is it a Gummi Bear?

Nope, it's Little A, looking straight at the dildo cam, legs tightly closed (no porn star here), arms at the side, head slightly dipped. The protruding protuberance is the umbilical cord, not the eh, other protuberance. Thriving at 2.61 cm. Measuring 9 weeks, 3 days.

I feel a thousand thoughts and I can't express a single one. Not a one.

Another of many thank yous

A sincere, heartfelt, resounding Thank You for your many kind words. My RE mentioned at the first ultrasound that B's sac was disproportionately smaller than A's, which could be a concern, but that he had seen many successful twin pregnancies even with different sized sacs. I ignored the former part of his comment and focused exclusively on the latter, particularly because in my world, e.g., screw the bad news and give me a *%$& glimmer of hope asshole, hope is all I got going for me on the fertility front. I thought once we saw the heartbeat at 6 something weeks, little B would pull it together and thrive, notwithstanding the stress of having A, the undulating gargantuan fetus, showing off constantly. Alas.

I very much understand that B's problems were more than sibling rivalry, obviously, but I was surprised at how much I wanted, yearned, craved, hoped that they both would make it. Kind of seems silly to type that, considering how much effort has seeded my personal path of procreation, but still. It knocks me out that a little being with a heartbeat that resembled bad reception on an old Magnavox meant so much so quickly with so little effort. We have a pretty mighty capacity for love, wouldn't you say?

All that rambling to say that I'm ok, really. I'm thrilled to have A wriggling and cavorting away. And have to believe, with all my heart, that A will stick around for the long haul. On a lighter, or heavier note depending on how you look at it, I really must shave 1000 calories off my daily diet now (hello, two sausage biscuits and chocolate milk for breakfast, and goodbye).

Thanks again for your kindnesses.

The fickle hand of fate...

My little B twin didn't make it. I feel such disappointment and at the same time such joy that A is thriving. The two emotions kind of cancel one another out, huh? How strange to go from really wanting only one child, to becoming so invested and, well, in love with the idea of two. No limits to our hearts, I guess?

A is still measuring one day ahead and continues to twitter about in its little sac. Kind of reminds me of those seahorses you could order from the back of Archie comics. 2.16 centimeters. I'm hoping for hearty stock with that one.

Inner strength and Fortitude

Mine currently lasts 6 days. Let me explain. I can make it to day 6 after an ultrasound until I start "the process," which always involves a Dr. Google search consisting of [how far along I am], [twins] and [miscarriage]. (Last week I lasted 4 days, but let's discount that pitiful lack of will power while I move on with my story.) Dr. Google then produces 1,345,987,098 hits of women who have had miscarriages on [how far along I am], and grim statistics proving that women who have suffered infertility, who are over the age of 35, who have had a previous miscarriage and who have had blond highlights and split ends since age 16, a tendency to the occasional acerbic comment and a passion for shoes have a miscarriage rate of 79.8% at [how far along I am]. At which point I shut the office door (usually), fondle my breasts for any sign of tenderness and then feeling none, sulk until quittin' time and go home and sulk some more.

It is a sad, sad, sad story. I can completely understand why Tom dropped $50,000 on a sonogram machine for Katie.

Oh, one other factoid. I will be 39 on February 11th. It's actually quite a nice number until you start thinking about how old you are in dog years, analogous to fertility years, which makes me 273 years old.

Blame it on the hormones?

Last Thursday, I felt fantastic. Really, really good. No headaches, no hung over feeling. Still would rather eat a cheeseburger than do 30 minutes on the elliptical, but that's par for the course (actually that's an eagle). So, I called my husband and said "I'm a little worried I'm feeling so good, maybe something's not ok." Silence. I could hear the eye rolling. "Everything's fine. We have an appointment on Monday. You'll see then." Silence on my part. "You're thinking about going for another ultrasound aren't you." Denial. "No, I can wait until Monday."

Fifteen minutes later, I'm on my way to get another ultrasound. Amazing. I could see Twin A moving. As in jitterbugging. The nurse pointed out A's little arm. Wow. A's an overachiever and is measuring a day ahead. Twin B is still measuring a day or two behind, but has a strong heartbeat. I think I saw Twin A waving at B, as in "wish you had one of these don't you sucka?" I'm concerned that A isn't learning how to get along well with others.

So, no ultrasound yesterday; I have to wait until Thursday. I'm digging this ultrasound on demand action.

If you're looking for proof that there's more mystery than science to IVF...

Look no further than my infertility journey. Note to the Fates: This is not to suggest that this pregnancy is a sure thing, but rather to prove that you, Fates, have the control, certainly not me.

IVF #1 - November/December 2007
FSH - 6
BCPs, no lupron
150 units Follistim, 150 units Menopur
Ganirelix, estrogen tabs, estrogen patch
baby aspirin
No acupuncture
Retrieval: 14 eggs, 9 mature, 7 fertilized via ICSI
3 day transfer - one eight cell, one five cell, froze two blasts
Lining = 8
BFN

FET#1 January 2008
Cancelled due to thin lining (6)

FET #2 February 2008
both blasts survived the freeze, both transferred
lining 8ish
BFP, chemical pregnancy


IVF #2 August/September 2008
BCPs, no lupron
150 units Follistim, 150 units Menopur, after 4 days raised to 200 Follistem, 225 Menopur
Ganirelix, estrogen tabs, estrogen patch
baby aspirin
Acupuncture
Retrieval: 5 eggs, 4 mature, 4 fertilized via ICSI
3 day transfer - two eight cells, froze one blast
Lining = 8.7
BFN

IVF #3 (WTF cycle) December 2008 (Donor egg discussion until FSH came back at 6)
BCPs for less than two weeks
5 units lupron (during stim), 200 units Follistem, 200 units Menopur
No estrogen tabs until 2nd week of stims, no Ganirelix
baby aspirin
Acupuncture
Retrieval: 9 eggs, 8 mature, 8 fertilized via ICSI
6 day transfer - two AA blasts, froze 3 (all AB blasts)
Lining = 9 (WTF?)
BFP, so far at 8 weeks, twins (WTF)

I have no idea why, overall, my third IVF was so much better than the first two. Logically, it doesn't make sense. What it does prove to me is that if you have two negatives in a row, you have to change something. I don't know if it was the microdose of lupron that made the difference or if I simply hit the one good cycle of my life. No idea. I regurgitate this data only to point out that there really is hope even when it feels like it's all over.

Pass me a cold one.

I started a post a couple of days about how I felt fine. Really, really fine. So fine, in fact, that I almost typed "this pregnancy stuff is a breeze." Cheeky words from a woman who's only in her seventh week of pregnancy. Today, 7w6d, I kind of don't feel fine. I feel like I've been on a 3 day bender of vodka, cigarettes and cheetos. I feel hung over. Kind of ooey. Headachey. Sour stomachy. Nothing too dramatic, just out of sorts. Sad that the best way I know to describe it is hung over, but that's exactly how I feel. Don't rat me out, but yesterday, I shut my office door, closed the blinds, redirected my phone calls, spread my coat out on the floor and slept for 30 minutes. I'm fairly sure I've never done that hung over. Did it help? While napping, sure. Waking up sucked. Bed time at 8pm was a dream.

What concerns me is the headache part. I've had migraines all my life except for the last five years. Inexplicably, they just went away. No idea why. But last night I woke up with a headache on the left side of my forehead. It eventually went away with a cold cloth and Tylenol, but I so hope that this isn't going to be a trend. Particularly because Tylenol is not my drug of choice in situations such as these. Demerol, yes; Tylenol, uh no!

Even more odd than the symptom watch is how strange it feels to talk about it at all; like an impostor at a costume ball. In my deepest heart, this last IVF, my third fresh cycle, was what I needed to let go. What I mean is that I knew that I couldn't walk away from our efforts to have a biological child unless I felt that I had given it everything I had to give and then some. This 3rd IVF was that for me. Not even my harshest critic--me--could blame me from wiping my hands and saying I'd had enough. I didn't feel that after my 2nd IVF failed. I felt that I couldn't walk away. Yet. This was going to be my--dare I say it?-- closure, one way or another. Unlike with any of my other cycles, this one was just going to be whatever the hell it ended up being. I was just going to take the outcome, the good, the bad or the ugly, and deal with it. Sounds like "just relax and it will happen," huh? God, I hope not. IVF, no matter how many times you go through it, is anything but relaxing. IVF #3 gave me acceptance, even before the outcome.

All this to say, again and again and again, the fat lady (who is actually looking a lot like me these days) hasn't sung on this one. Tomorrow is eight weeks, which is excruciatingly early. No plans have been made, no decisions, no material objects dealing with maternity hood have been purchased. Just coasting. Coasting and hoping.

Week 7, which consisted of 32 days.

And still two little heartbeats, both around 170 bpm. A is measuring right at 7w3d and B is measuring 7w1d.

I asked the nurse practitioner how their cycles went this last time and she said they had an 85% pregnancy rate. Wow. As one who usually hangs around in that 15% "do not pass go" percentage, it's a happy day to be in the majority. (I single handedly ruined my clinic's stats for the 36-38 year old group for the last two years straight.)

So, we live to fight another day!

Knowledge Sucks

For obvious reasons, I've developed a hefty envy of fertile people over the last couple of years. No invasive procedures, no regular blood draws and weigh-ins (Weight Watchers is much cheaper, but I've heard they don't let you blame the stims for the weight gain and there's no dildocam), no daily play by plays of the inadequacies of your and your significant other's reproductive parts. Not to mention the significant cash savings the fertile enjoy. Fertiles can say just about anything and the rest of the population isn't offended. "There are millions of needy children out there and you're spending how much on fertilty treatments? Just adopt." Or "I can't even sit next to my husband without getting pregnant." Or "I'm sorry your 4th IVF didn't work out, or was it your 5th? Anyway, I can't wait to see you at my baby shower. I'm registered at Pottery Barn Kids."


What I really envy is their ignorance, and I say this--truly--in the kindest of ways. Fertiles get a positive peestick, then a bloodtest, then, ba-bam, they pop out a kid in 9+ months. Generally speaking, fertiles have no idea that a thousand things can go wrong. I envy that freedom. Infertiles know that it's touch and go, day by day, and to not even dare say the "B" word or plan a baby's room or, for God's sake, wander into a Babies.R.Us too soon. Infertiles know that a heartbeat is only as good as that day's ultrasound and that the next week can bring devastation. And we also know that no matter how many times we say "it's too early to get excited," "too much can still go wrong," our hearts get wrapped up in that little grain of rice sized life or lives exponentially more quickly than the timing of our next appointment.

Oh to be able to disassociate. To compartmentalize the joy that bubbles under the surface until the grains of rice become babies. To capture that part of yourself that knew you were going to be ok whatever the outcome before the outcome eclipsed your wildest expectations. If only those little heartbeats didn't make your own grow and swell and burst. There I've done it. Again, I've exposed my pale, vulnerable underbelly to the fickle hand of fate. Six weeks, five days and a million more to go.

I'm beginning to like 2009.

Two little heartbeats. Two adults sobbing like babies.

It's so, so early, but today I'm going to allow the joy to fill every nook and cranny and heartbeat. Like Scarlett O'hara, I'll worry about the next scan tomorrow.

My God, two little heartbeats.

And she waits.

Thank you for your kind words. I didn't get my blood drawn. I was actually putting on my coat and leaving work to slunk to the immediate care center for a blood draw when my phone rang. It was my practical husband who, after I explained my soon to be slunking activity, laughed out loud. He said, it will either devastate you, leave you scratching your head, researching on Google for hours or give you comfort for a short period of time. Let it go. We'll know soon enough. He's right. Really. I'm going out on a limb on this one and certainly tempting that sadistic bastard Fate, but I feel something's cooking where it should be. (A side note to the lovely Phoenix: I found some old OPKs and peed on those. I find I've developed an almost Pavlovian urge to pee on white plastic cylindrical objects. Hide the spforks.)

That said, I've found myself in a strange sort of world these last two weeks. Too soon and too many unknowns to be excited. Tinges of worry, concern. Superstition, um, yes. (Do not say 'baby" out loud because that will cause the fates to zero in on me and realize that I wasn't meant to get knocked up.) Yes, even ambivalence. Not "I could give or take this pregnancy" ambivalence, but the "if I end up having to pick up the pieces of me, I want them to be large and easily identifiable, not a million tiny shards" self protection type of ambivalence. I feel a bit like the proverbial deer in the headlights. Between us, I had come to accept that this wasn't in the cards. Disappointment after disappointment after disappointment. At some point you have to pick up the hopefully large and identifiable pieces of you and move on. Now I find that there's a better than average chance that this could work out and, frankly, I'm at a loss as how to react and act and think and feel. (I guess that means cocktails are out of the question at this point.)

So tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. If there is something there (note I did not say the "B" word because obviously it wouldn't be yet anyway, but still) can I justify a bit of excitement? I'm not talking Pottery Barns Kids or What to Expect when You're Expecting excitement, but maybe a tinge of this could possibly work out, who in the hell would have thought it, contained as much as possible joy? If there isn't anything there, well, I'll deal with that too.