The great 'Who Needs It' - Challenge #1

(The WHYs are coming. I promise. I have been thinking about it a lot).

Challenge #1 = Fessing up. Below is my version.

I didn't really know SRB. She was Bunny's friend and left great comments on her blog, but I had not followed her before. But then Bunny posted about the Who Needs It challenge, which meant I clicked over to SRB's site and you can imagine what came next. LOVE. Maybe hyperbolic, but STRONG LIKING.

SRB is inviting us, ever lovingly and peacefully, to join her on a de-cluttering adventure. She wants to start with her house (and ours) and move on to her heart. A woman after mine, I say.

It turns out, I have major issues with clutter. Major. And my husband is worse than me. So, we make a fine pair. The only thing is that he isn't bothered at all by his mountains of disorganized shit, and  I AM (by mine and his). And I have been acutely aware of how much the stuff weighs on my psyche. It's like a glom-filled alien that is sucking the life right out of me (maybe more like a zombie eating my brain). I spend so much time noticing the clutter and zero time doing anything about it.*

So this is my entry, just under the wire, of Challenge #1.

There are several areas of my home that are cluttered. My home is more clutter than harmony. I think I could create the world's most boring blog post if I tried to list everything here. I'll start small, with the two shelves flanking the window in the dining room.

Right side

What you see here: plants, cookbooks, plastic bag full of baby proofing stuff, a hot plate thingy, a soda stream (vital to our well being), a bunch of meds for Chicken that we didn't use hiding behind the soda stream, 2 shelves full of Gummy's formula/eating apparel (bottles, caps, nipples, formula, prunes!, spoons, containers, utensils), random candleholders, cypress oil used at Christmas to make it smell Christmassy, the candle-holder-given-to-me-by-Northern-Lad's-parents-a-million-years-ago-but-oh-my- do-I-love-it. Top shelf has vases, a few candles and a picture.

Left side

On this side, you see: world's messiest basket of teas, crappy coffee maker because our good one broke and mommy and daddy cannot get through the day without brown formula, Music Together Flute CD case, radio/CD player, pot overfilled with extension cords and rechargeable batteries, hot plate holders, wooden mortar and pestle, small bowls/tea cups, 2 extremely worn down teapots, one sauce boat (for people who mostly eat vegetarian at home. Don't ask why I put it on the wedding registry). On the 3rd shelf there is a wine jug that I use to make smoothies, a crystal decanter, 7 of the 12 riedel wine glasses we got at our wedding. On the 4th shelf lives a pottery bean pot given to us by the in-laws, a couple of beer steins that are used twice a year, 2 champagne flutes that my husband got at his high school graduation (1992) that he insists on keeping, 2 small wine glasses given to us by VIA Rail on the occasion of travelling by train for our honeymoon. Top most shelf has a ceramic flower vase and a great pottery salad bowl given to us by Oat's parents.

Phew! Even my description of the stuff is cluttered.

And then, there is this

Our kitchen is a great one if you happen to be a single person who hates to cook. Our family has two adults who like to cook, a cat who likes to hang out in the kitchen and a Gummy Girl who is just on the brink of being on the move. We would love to have a pantry big enough to put our food (we have endless jars of legumes and grains), but we don't. Hence, what you see above. Just 45 minutes ago, Gummy was bum scootching her way over there to inspect those different flours we have stored in bins. It is about to get messy and dangerous. I want all those things to either disappear or be stored on those shelves seen above. And somehow not look cluttered? Right.

To review:

1) The clutter is like a zombie - endangering my life
2) The clutter is tempting Gummy - endangering my child's life

So there's my motivation.

Other areas, in no particular order:

• Kitchen cupboards - all of them
• living room coffee tables
• front hall external closet and hooks
• bathroom shelf 
• bedroom closet

  

  Bunny, if you want to reconsider our
  friendship, I will understand.

• upstairs hallway linnen closet (the door barely closes) 
• The Study (Oh, the study - it is one inchoate mass of stuff in there, which is why I avoid it like the plague and only dump things I don't know where else to put. To prove this, here's my desk

• 

• And finally, the basement. The basement didn't get to be photographed because it is too ugly down there. If all the other areas/rooms in the house are chapters in a book, the basement is the Encyclopedia Britannica. 

So, I've fessed up. It's hard. I feel like you will read this post and like me less. My house is messy. I don't have my shit together (or my shit has me by the collar). But at least I'm real. I'll give challenge #2 a go in a few days. But I wanted to start here.  

*Because it's all Gummy all the time

Day care days - part 2

(If you want to read part one, go here. )

So, I'm going back to work in 5 weeks.

(I'm just going to let that hang for a second).

Yes, a year of maternity goes by very fast. I can't even begin to imagine 12 weeks of maternity leave. I feel like a cliché, but all that I've heard about how fast it goes is true. I blinked and here we are. But of course, it's paradoxical. There were moments, days, weeks that went at a snail's pace. Like when she had the flu and then had a cold and we couldn't go out for 2 weeks. That was slow. Or when Mr. A was working such long hours in the summer and I had to solo parent for big chunks of time.

I've been in touch with my boss and it appears that I've lucked out in the re-structuring of our department. This isn't true for every psychologist, but it is for me and I am grateful. I am returning to meaningful, challenging work. I am looking forward to returning to work. I've missed it and it feels time to go back already. I am so much better at being a psychologist than at keeping house. I actually suck at it. My house looks like hell and I am only a mediocre cook. I think I am a decent caregiver to my darling girl, but I've sucked at being a wife pretty much from the get go, and having a baby only worsened it. I feel like this sounds awful, but I am looking forward to doing something I'm good at again. My self-esteem is at basement levels these days, and it could use the boost.

This is a two sided coin, of course. I am NOT looking forward to the transition. I know that it will be the hardest part: going from taking care of Gummy one day to driving to work and returning when she's going to bed the other. I will miss her beyond what I can anticipate. I will cry when she takes her first step and I'm not there to see it. It will tug at my heart in 10 000 ways. But just like every difficult thing I've had to do in my life, I will just keep in mind the WHY*.

I like the transition plan we've got. In March, Gummy will be home with Mr. A on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays. I asked for every Friday off in March so that I could be with her on weekday per week. In April, she will go to day care 3 days per week, and be with Mr. A on 2 days. I like that I can go back to work for a month without worrying about her adjusting to day care. And I like that she will be home with her dad for at least the next 9 to 12 months. She is a BIG fan of her dad's. (I am too, as it were).

I still don't really like the day care where she'll be going, but I know that it is 'good enough'. I've also just heard this week that the French day care will be accepting younger kids as of September, which means Gummy can go sooner than 2.5 years.

But before this big transition, I plan on enjoying those last 5 weeks. We are still signed up for music classes and swimming, and loving it! And we have one last family vacation before I go back to work. I'm really looking forward to our winter trip up north, which will involve snowshoeing, skiing and teaching Gummy how to make snow angels.


*I started writing what the WHYs were, and realized it had the potential to piss off a bunch of readers and I'm not in the mood to piss people off today, so maybe I'll write about the WHYs another day. 

baby showers = still hard

During those difficult years "in the trenches", I declared a moratorium on baby showers. I made no exceptions. I tried to show women I loved who were having babies that I loved them and supported their entry into motherhood in other ways. But going to a baby shower, however much I loved the guest of honour, cost too much emotionally. I was already near emotional bankruptcy, and just couldn't afford it. 

This approach is not shared by all infertile women, and I respect people's individual choices. I think we each go through different experiences and figure out what we can do and what we can't. For me, a gathering of women celebrating the one big dream I wasn't sure I would ever get to fulfill was too much. That was an automatic no for me, so much so that I stopped being invited altogether. 

Then I got pregnant (again) (and this time for a longer time and it resulted in a living baby). 

My dear, lovely, generous friends wanted to have a gathering for me. I politely declined. I could not bring myself to go through with that, for many reasons. I felt guilty for not having shown up at so many baby showers, and not having supported many of my friends through early motherhood. I felt like at this point, I had grown to HATE baby showers and so why the fuck would I want one. I wondered if I needed to believe I was going to have a baby to have a baby shower, and unsure of the answer, I had to  forgo the experience. 

I don't feel like I missed out. 

(but tell me if you think I did)

I went to a baby shower this afternoon. My first one in....shit....I can't even remember. It was a lovely gathering of women for Lianne, this great woman I know a little bit and like very much. I wanted to be there especially because she has struggled psychologically with some aspects of expecting a child and turned to me for support. In turn, I wanted to show my support by joining in the gathering. 

It started early last week. I found myself complaining, complaining, and complaining some more to Mr. A about ALL the crap I had to do for this stupid shower. Bring cheeses and crackers. Bring a photo. Bring a bead. Bring a fucking affirmation. 'This is too much', I thought. 'The excessive meaningfulness is going to make me vomit' (and I did vomit, but that was because Gummy gave me the stomach flu by vomiting on me twice). 

But last night, as I was flossing, I thought "Augusta, what the hell is up with all your complaining about this shower?" I had to admit to myself a few things: 

1) I still felt anxious about going to baby showers.

2) I had nothing to offer a woman about to give birth on the topic of birth. 

3) I was scared for Lianne. In my mind giving birth is still scarier than meeting the Yeti. 

It was good to have an honest conversation with myself about these things. I could check my fears at the door today, and try to make this experience about Lianne and not about me. 

I went to the shower and it was mostly uncomfortable. The excessive meaningfulness did make me want to vomit at times, but I could also find it meaningful and sweet. Of course, when it came time to read affirmations, people had all these lovely wishes for the mother-to-be. I, on the other hand, pulled out a quote from psychoanalyst D. W. Winnicott* and sobered the mood right up. 

There was a game of trying to guess whose were the baby pictures on a board, and people talked about wether their babies looked more like them or their husbands. Always an interesting one for a DE mom. And then I tried talking to a friend I hadn't seen since April and she wouldn't even look at me. There were other parts too, good parts, but I left feeling like I just had been at a gathering of ornithologists and all I know about birds is that blue jays are blue.  

I'm not ready to reinstate the moratorium, but I would say these darn baby showers are still hard. I've got a few more coming up, and I probably need to spend less time complaining to Mr. A and a little more time shoring up the necessary inner resources to attend. 

 

*"I would rather be the child of a mother who has all the inner conflicts of the human being than be mothered by someone for whom al l is easy and smooth, who knows all the answers, and is a stranger to doubt."

Disposed

"You can get rid of those needles, Mom. I'm here now!"

Merry Christmas

I am a known disliker of Christmas. It usually involves going back to my home province, either driving on the dreaded highway 401 at the worst time of year or taking a couple of trains down the Windsor - Quebec City corridor. Neither options enchant me (although option 2 absolutely delights Mr. A). Then there is invariably my mother's craziness to contend with. In large fucking doses. I can usually manage two days, but inevitably, we visit for about five days, which is two and a half times my limit.

Last year, I made it clear to my mother that we would not be travelling with a baby. It did mean missing Christmas with her family, and not seeing my dad at all, but the thought of travelling with Gummy Girl at this point makes me want to insert sharp lead pencils into my eyeballs.

Hence, we are home.

And so far, it is a brilliant Christmas.

We declared the 24th and 25th days to ourselves, and so there is just the three of us. I have dreamed of this for years. A peaceful, simple Christmas at home with my husband and my baby.

We decorated the potted Norfolk pine and made pain au chocolat for breakfast. Later, I will make boeuf bourgignon. We might go for a walk in the snow. We'll listen to carols. We'll finish the Globe and Mail crossword. It's perfect.

I decided it would be good to attend the early church service at Mr. A's church last night (despite it overlapping slightly with Gummy's bedtime), and I was surprisingly choked up with emotion during the service. I thought about the grace symbolized in the birth of this special child, Jesus to all, and Gummy to me. How blessed we are.

I also feel like I am holding in my heart a very special place for those spending the Holidays with infertility as your constant, unwanted companion. I think of my friend Veronica, and of dear Suzanne who has just received very tough news. And Conceptionally Challenged, especially, who grieves for her beautiful daughters. May the years ahead bring you babies and happy Christmas morning.

Merry Christmas to all of you. May there be many moments of peace and joy for you during this time.

the fertility clinic waiting room: part 2

(see part 1 here)

I went back to the Fertility clinic a few weeks ago on December 5. The last time I was there was for u/s # 2 in August 2012. Earlier this fall, I called my RE's secretary to book an appointment. I needed to ask him some questions about my hormone replacement therapy and also, get his take on the birth and what he thought would happen with a potential second pregnancy.

I gave a lot of thought to the visit beforehand, starting with the waiting room. Was I even allowed to bring my baby to a fertility clinic waiting room? I asked the secretary, I called the nurse, and by all accounts, it was a-ok to bring Gummy Girl. But you know me by now. I still felt awful for the women/couples who would be waiting there and have to be subjected to the sight of my living, wiggling, super-cute reminder of their childlessness.

I also thought about how I would probably loose my shit and start bawling. Did I ever tell you about the phone call I made to our dear fertility nurse a month after Gummy was born? I got her voice mail and just said that I had given birth to a baby girl and....wah, wah, wah (I was unable to finish my message and just hung up, hoping she would understand). I found a parallel to the advice of not texting/phoning anyone while inebriated: Don't call your beloved fertility nurse within 6 weeks of giving birth. But now Gummy was 9 months, so more time had passed. Except that I would see my nurse and my doctor in person. So, I had real reasons to be concerned about lots of public crying on my part.

The three of us trekked down to Fertility Treatment Town on what happened to be a beautiful, warm late fall day. Gummy looked awfully cute in her green corduroy jumper with a mouse on the pocket. My heart was filled with pride and joy: I was taking MY daughter to meet the people who helped usher her into existence.

The fertility clinic where we've been treated used to be located at another hospital in FTT, but moved in the spring of 2012 to a different hospital in the same city. The funny thing about the new location is that it is directly 2 stories above where my office was as a resident. So going there brings back all sorts of memories. Overlaid are the memories of the early ultrasounds when I was pregnant with Gummy.

I got myself worked up about it all. As I do.

I stood outside the waiting room with Gummy after checking in. The nurse made a huge deal of how beautiful Gummy was and made us feel welcomed. But the waiting room was packed and my heart hurt for those couples. At the same time, I had a legitimate appointment for a legitimate reason. And the waiting room is where we would be fetched. Not the hall. So we went in, the three of us. I took Gummy to the end of the room, where there was a Christmas tree, and did what all good fertility patients do in the waiting room: avoided eye contact with anyone.

And it occurred to me: I was that woman.

That woman who brings a child to a fertility clinic waiting room.

But I couldn't/can't apologize for Gummy's existence. I am blessed beyond words by her precious life. I am just am sorry that there isn't a different, smaller, perhaps painted in brighter colours and filled with toys, waiting room for people who have kids and still need to go to the fertility clinic.

Strangely, I also could almost see myself sitting in that waiting room in years passed. At times hopeful. At times completely beaten down by failure. At times worried sick. And now I was sitting in the waiting room showing my daughter the Christmas tree ornaments.

A nurse called us in shortly after arriving to our seats in the waiting room. We got to see our dear nurse who was pleased to meet Gummy, and happy to see us. We waited a long time to see dr. RE. As always, I could hear the prosody of his speech, muffled through the walls of the exam rooms and knew he was taking the time he needed to consult with the couple in the other room. Hearing the sound of his voice through the walls always helped me wait. I knew when our turn came, he would give us the time we needed.

Dr. RE was pleased to meet Gummy, but wasn't really all that focused on her. It was the most striking thing about our visit: neither our nurse nor Dr. RE were all that focused on Gummy. Their attention was on Mr. A and I. They were happy to see us smiling, see us having become parents. It seems that when you have a child, everyone's focus turns so sharply to the baby, which is so wonderful. It really is. I'm saying that the contrast in this instance was noticeable.

It was a full appointment. The short version is that Dr. RE confirmed my fears that complications would be expected with a second pregnancy. He flat out said it would be a high risk pregnancy and I would need to be followed at the large University Health Centre nearest to Pleasantville. While I am worried about placenta accreta (what I had last time) or increta, Dr. RE went straight to worrying about percreta (where the placenta invades not only the wall of the uterus, but the adjoining organs). He did nothing to help me want to get pregnant again.

Despite that, I did agree with him that running some investigative tests right now while I'm on mat leave would be a good use of my time. He posited that my uterus might be in rough shape after what happened, and thought that I may end up needing one or two hysteroscopies, but that we should start with an u/s and a sonohysterogram. We also talked about interim and long term HRT strategies. I fell in love with him all over again. He's the only doctor whose ever really understood what's going on in my reproductive system.

He convinced me to come in for an u/s the following Sunday at 8 am (which means leaving my house at 6:30am). I did agree to it, and drove down that long highway at the crack of dawn like the good ol' days.

And just like that, on CD21 using my regular HRT regimen and nothing more, my lining was at 8mm. What. No coaxing? No del.estrogen shots? Just fluffed up to 8mm after 5 days of prome.trium!

That was a surprise. Crazy what having a baby can do.

I'll book a sono for the new year, and we will see how things look in there. But beyond that, I'm not looking to work up to a FET anytime soon.

I'm just thankful that we have one amazing little girl to call our own. And so grateful to everyone who helped us welcome her into our lives.
 

November

It appears I missed posting in November altogether. I squeaked one post in at the beginning, but then I had to temporarily abandon this blog and spend time writing elsewhere. I wrote a novel in November, thanks to NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). I could have stopped in to write about the experience of writing, but there was no time for that. Every time Gummy napped, I wrote the novel. And I made it to 50 000 words by November 30. I'm not sure how.

Well, actually, I do know how. I focused on the quantity instead of the quality. I had an idea of the plot and characters, and made a rough plan ahead of time, but then during the month of November, I just wrote. I did NO editing. And I stuck to that rule, which is why I got to the end of the month with my 50 000 words.

But let me be clear: the novel I wrote is a few neighbourhoods south of Terrible.

Seriously.

I don't think the grammar is even something recognizable as English (I know what you're thinking: that's not a far cry from these posts, which I do try to edit before posting. But at least I have the excuse of being an ESL person).

I did this to reclaim some of the pieces of my identity I felt have been far out of reach since Gummy's arrival. I needed something just to myself. Something contained, achievable, confidence-boosting, fun, engrossing. And it was all that.

When I asked Mr. A in October if he would support me in doing this, however he was able, he said yes. And he mostly did that. There were a few frustrating moments when I wanted to write but he couldn't take care of Gummy, but that's par for the course. He also pointed out when we talked about it in October, that doing NaNoWriMo might make me feel better than sitting on the couch watching shit TV every night. He didn't say this in a blaming or condescending way. He just wanted me to do things that make me feel better about myself.

He was right.

I like shit TV, but I like writing even more.

So, I'm trying to figure out the balance between relaxing while watching Girl (what a gem that is) and using what little free time I have to a) get shit done and b) pursue my interests. I figure I'll feel somewhat happy about my balancing skills the day before I go back to work from mat leave, and then I'll have to start over.

In and out: the nine-month mark

I have plenty of other material for blog posts, but this will be a short and sweet post. If you are struggling right now, this one is all about unicorns and butterflies, so feel free to skip. I will come back with angst later. Oh, I do angst really well, and I promise you more. But for now, let me revel in my beautiful daughter.


This is Gummy after 9 months in-utero (well, 38w2d)

Gummy Girl, what do you see over there?

And now, she has spent 9 months ex-utero

Sitting with her is Big Hoot, her favourite owl

They aren't kidding when they say 'kids grow up so fast'. Gummy is about 29 inches long already. She babbles with great intent, and wants to grab everything in her vicinity, including poor Chicken's fur and ears. She is happy as happy can be (except when she's not). And she still makes us cry tears of joy and gratitude when we put her to bed. We are so lucky.

questions answered: sunshine award

The lovely Suzanne, at Our journey to a baby bump nominated me for a sunshine award. Thanks, lovely woman.

I'm not really all that good at following rules around these things, but I did want to make an effort and answer the questions that Suzanne drafted. Otherwise, I nominate anyone still reading this blog for this award. And if you feel like it, you can answer Suzanne great questions, because my brain is apparently not coming up with its on (did I mention I was trying to do NaNoWriMo?)

Here goes:

1) Was there a particular moment in your infertility journey that made you realize that you wanted/needed to start blogging? 

We started looking into things in 2006. We knew we wanted children, but I also knew it would be a struggle. We treatments in early 2009. We already knew that the problem lied within my reproductive organs: I had never menstruated without the assistance of medication. We were told that a medicated IUI would be the first thing to try and so we did. The first one was in June 2009 and it was over almost before it begun. The menop.ur wasn't doing anything to my ovaries. Second IUI was in September 2009, after a long priming with estra.ce. After higher doses of meno.pur, still there was no waking up my sleeping ovaries. The cycle was a bust, and there was basically nothing the clinic could do for us unless we found ourselves a donor. I was in a grief-stricken state of shock for a few weeks. And was quite depressed for months. I felt isolated and I needed to talk about this experience. So I started writing on this blog. That was October 2009. 

2) What was your favorite vacation spot ever? 
I think my trip to the Yukon and Alaska when I was 25 was the most inspiring trip I ever took. I love hiking/backpacking and find myself at home in the mountains. It was awe-inspiring to be amidst the deep, northern wilderness. The highlight of that trip was a 7-day backpacking loop to the Donjec glacier in Kluane National Park. It was the most intense backpacking I've ever done, and it taught me much about my own strength.  

3) What food could you never live without? 
Yummy kitchen sink-type salads with my own dressing, honeycrisp apples, peanut butter, dark chocolate, coffee, club soda and red wine. 

4) If you could spend one day with anyone (dead or alive) who would it be? Why? What would you do? 
It sounds weird, but I'm thinking I would pick Carl Rogers. I'd want to talk to him more about how psychotherapy has developed since his client-centered approach was hatched. 

5) Favorite article of clothing? 
Right now it's my oat-coloured cowl neck wool sweater, but my preferred article of clothing changes regularly.  

6) We have so many tears through IF...do you have a REALLY funny moment that you've shared with your husband through all of this? 
That is such a great question, Suzanne, but I'm racking my brain and can't remember any funny moments. Just dreary dread and sadness. 

7) Your child's 16th birthday present...a new car or a nicely wrapped stack of fertility bills and  bus pass?? 
Neither. Probably we would want to host a dinner with her friends, and let them drink wine, and ask about what dreams they are holding for themselves. 

8) What one thing would you go back and tell your 20 year old self? 
Find a way to be on your own team, 'gusta. Seriously, you have to find a way to make friends with yourself and SOON. Figure out all the ways you are awesome and focus on that, instead of thinking about all the ways in which you are not enough. You ARE enough. Now, keep going and have a great life! 

9) You are going on a trip and lose your suitcase. What one item are you going to replace first the second you get where you're going!?
my estr.ace and prom.etrium 

10) What is the best part of blogging your IF journey? 

The amazing connections I've been privileged to have with other women, and the sense of being held in the warm care of an amazing community. I remember sometime after I started blogging going to our clinic to have some procedure. I was tense and apprehensive, and trying my best to hold myself together. I went to the bathroom and on my way there, I thought about all of my online friends who would be thinking of me and hoping right along with me. Just thinking about that gave me a huge boost on that day, and so many days after that. I stopped feeling so isolated in my IF journey. I also could borrow from other women's hope for me when I had none left for myself.  

Eat

Gummy is eating food. Not just delicious sim.ilac, but real, honest to goodness food. Much to her mama's pride.

We started in the summer, when she was 5 1/2 months old. The WHO tells us to introduce solids at 6 months, but she was ready 2 weeks early. I wasn't going to make her wait, seeing as she opened her mouth every time I took a bite of something and then looked at me quizzically when I failed to put something in her baby bird beak.

I took that gift certificate for a big chain baby store and ordered me a high chair. It arrived. I put it together the same day. And we started.

Well, I should say that Gummy had carefully been given fruits and veggies to lick prior to that. I would hold a piece of apple and let her put it in her mouth, without letting go.

But it was time to let her try things on her own. I decided that baby-led weaning (BLW) was our method of choice. I knew a number of women I admire use this with their babies, much to their delight. I looked into it, and it seemed to fit with what I imagined feeding would be all about.

My main concern was the potential for choking. I had to review the infant cpr techniques we learned last fall when we took the class, and watch some youtube videos to see what the difference was between gagging and choking (well, I didn't see any babies choking, but I saw plenty of gaggers, and could extrapolate what choking might look like). I was reassured to hear from moms who were doing BLW and had seen their babies gag several times, without dire consequences. One of my local mom friends did say she and her husband grabbed the tray of the high chair, ready to take their baby out expeditiously a few times, but never needed to, as it was always just gagging and never choking.

The fear of choking remains. Yesterday was the first time in 2 months where we actually pulled Gummy out of her high chair because her gagging was starting to look like choking. But she gagged and was alright. She continued eating happily thereafter.

There are several things I like about this BLW:

1) The three of us can eat together at the same time. Because neither Mr. A nor I has to spoon feed Gummy, we can all focus on eating and conversing, instead of only one adult and one baby eating, while the other adult plays open-the-tunel-for-the-choo-choo-train with the spoon.

2) The preparation of Gummy's food is minimal. I quarter an apple, and take off some of the skin. I steam some green beans. I slice a watermelon and take out the seeds. Done. We also sometimes feed her exactly what we're having. She had rice pasta the other day, and rice and beans last week. She loved it! In fact, she has tried EVERYTHING we've put on her tray so far (I know this can change).

3) I am not the one deciding what goes in her mouth: she is.

That last point, it turns out, is the most important to me. I want her to grow up trusting her own biology. I want her to know that her body will tell her when she's hungry and tell her when she's had enough. That sometimes she'll miss the mark on that by eating too much or too little, but that it will all even out if she keeps listening to her hunger and satiety cues. I want her to trust that if one day she is craving tons of fruit, that's fine. And if the next day it's fries, that's fine too.

I've been reading this book (recommended by Bunny*) and it is GREAT. The main premise is that there exists a division of responsibility in feeding our children. Parents are responsible for what, where, when their children eat. Kids are responsible for how much and whether they eat. And this is based on the fact that we can trust our biology, starting in infancy.

I think that's the ticket.

I say that as someone whose done academic research in the area of obesity and eating disorders.

I say that as someone who has treated adolescents and adults with eating disorders.

And, of course, I also say that as someone who had an eating disorder and recovered fully.

In other words, I say that I like this philosophy of feeding children based on the fact that I have spent A LOT of time thinking about eating. An obscene amount of time, to be honest. And after all that, the only thing that I'm truly convinced of is that trusting hunger and satiety signals, which are inherent in everyone but can be silenced by loudmouths like 'societal pressures to be thin' and 'your mother who thinks you need to have one more slice of pie', is the way to have a good relationship with food, and to have a healthy body. There are other important things for health, to be sure. Vegetables. Exercise. Etc. I don't disagree with any of those, but it comes down to eating when you're hungry and stopping when you're full.

It took me over 30 years to learn that. Closer to 35.  

I guess I knew it at birth, but I unlearned it. My poor 23-year-old mother was overwhelmed and figured out that dipping my soother in honey would shut me up (it was a different time in the early 70s). There is this family story about how I was such an overweight baby that my doctor told my mother to put me on a diet. And then there is my mom's own chronic eating disorder and it's impact on how she fed me. And seventeen thousand more layers on top of that, layers that made those hunger and satiety signals inaudible.

I want my daughter to hear her signals. I fear so much that she would ever go through the hell I went through. Bulimia. Anorexia. Cardiac issues. Suicidality. Psychiatric institution for months. I never want her to become familiar with any of those. I know that I can't stop society's influence on her in terms of body image (although there are things I can do to help mitigate its impact). But I can give her the chance to have a good relationship with food by following her cues. And right now, letting her decide what goes in her mouth feels like the best way to do that.
    


* Bunny who swore off reading parenting books, so when I saw that she was reading this one, I figured it must be damn worth it. And it is. 

Thanksgiving

Yours may be 6 weeks away, but today is Canadian thanksgiving. I have so much to be thankful for. We are spending a quiet weekend just the three of us, and I love it. Mr. A's parents did come over on Saturday, while I conveniently went to lunch with my good friends. We cooked a duck yesterday (which is saying something for someone who was vegetarian for 15 years). And today, we'll go on a little hike to appreciate the fall colours and each other. Life is very good, my friends.

What I'm most thankful for is my daughter. I was looking at her during breakfast this morning and realizing how quiet the house would be without her exuberant joy. I thought about how I would be going to work tomorrow morning, still silently carrying the heavy shroud of my infertility and childlessness, while I continued assessing and treating other people's children. I thought of how if she wasn't here, I would not know how much love my heart can hold. But she's here, and I am blessed beyond measure.

Tragically, my friend Conceptionally Challenged is not counting her blessings, but instead suffering an unimaginable loss. After years of infertility, she got pregnant with twins and lost them both this weekend at 20 weeks gestation. Please, if you have a kind thought to spare, visit her blog and let her know you care.

Both...and.

The responses to my last post reminded me (yet again) why I love this community. I appreciate deeply that I can write what I wrote in a community afflicted by infertility and come out receiving....support and affirmation. Also, I enjoy the conversation. I like that you told me your stories about the ways you struggle/d in your role as a mother. You said things that were good for me to read. Things that were good for you to express. And perhaps things you needed to hear yourselves when you were where I was when I wrote that. Thank you, women. You are full of beauty and strength.

The naming of things that float in the air nameless is useful beyond measure. Like a mom friend of mine who was having marital difficulties said to me last week: "we told each other that things suck in our couple, and since then, it's been a lot better. Sometimes, just calling it helps a lot." I think that's what it was for me. I needed to call it.

Since then, as the previous paragraph would lead you to believe, things have felt easier. Naming the thing was key: I'm not sure I know who I am anymore in this new, all-encompassing role. Receiving such amazing support and knowing I'm not alone was also key. And also,  it helped a lot not to be hated for saying that motherhood is hard after years of infertility. Somehow, I couldn't shake off the ungrateful bitch prototype. I know it is survivor's guilt. My friend and fellow Canadian DE mama N gently reminded me that it wasn't doing anyone any good to lug around my survivor's guild. She said I could just drop it. Point well taken, N.

Another thing that helped was Mr. A suggesting that unless otherwise specified, I should consider Sunday my day off. I can hang out with he and Gummy if I want to, but I can also spend time doing other things. We've implemented that plan for a few Sundays now and it has helped a great deal. I feel refreshed and ready to start the week with Gummy on Monday.

Talking about the struggles also helped me to start appreciating the metaphorical icing, the cake, and the amazing espresso that is served with it. Pleasantville is ridiculously perfect for raising children (and conversely, it is an infertile's worst nightmare, as I can attest to). It has great community programs, lots of parks and walking paths for strollers, an array of activities geared to caregivers and their infants. My weeks are organized around several activities, which are sometimes followed by lunch with lovely women and their cute babies. Like the other Augusta and her sweet girl. And many other amazing mamas and their sweet little bundles.

For the large part, I am enjoying this time immensely. It's been great not to have to drive anywhere out of my community, but instead to inhabit it fully. I walk downtown everyday for various reasons. Gummy and I walk up to the University to have lunch with Sattva. I talk to the neighbours, to the mailman, to shopkeepers downtown (except at the good coffee shop, where most baristas are surly and more ill-tempered if I try to talk to them).

What I love best is my time with Gummy girl. I actually have time to delight in her, and there is much to delight in. She is a barrel of monkeys. Yesterday, she figured out that her favourite little bird makes noise when you shake it. So I saw her on her play mat shaking it close to her ear. So sweet! And this morning, during the baby aquafit (where the babies are in little boats while their mamas do silly exercises in the water), she leaned back on her boat, entirely chilled out, and said with her eyes "come on, mother, swim faster." She holds on tight when I carry her in my arms, and has started to give wet, open-mouthed kisses. She is known as the smiley girl in our circle, but I'm glad I'm the one who gets to see her in all her different moods. She is miraculous, my little Gummy.

Full time motherhood is still hard in some moments. And thankfully, it is mostly wonderful. "Both ...and" descriptions are better than "either...or" when talking about humans and their workings. It seems that for me, trying to only honour one side only (i.e., motherhood is amazing) is incomplete. Motherhood is both amazing and difficult, rewarding and thankless, challenging and boring, mundane and miraculous.

Missing

Leaving the fascinating quandaries of childcare for a moment, I'll write about where I'm at personally. I get a little break on Sundays. A few hours. I waste some of it doing a torturing class at the gym, ascertaining that my body still doesn't look the way I'd like it to look, and my physical strength is a fraction of what it used to be. The instructor is at count 8 and I'm still at 5. I'm slow in all things, including doing pliés. But I keep at it, because I need my body for the long haul, you know, if I don't die of cancer before I die of old age.

If you are struggling in the trenches of IF, this post may be awful to read. You may hate me. I have warned you, so please stop reading. But, if you are in the trenches of IF and you need an account of what it's like on the other side, minus the unicorns and rainbows, then read on.

I love my baby. I love being a mom. There is nothing like getting Gummy Girl in the morning and seeing her excited little face when I appear above her crib. I feel like a teenage heartthrob. I like taking care of her. I like thinking about her care constantly and deeply. To think about what she needs, how I can meet her needs, and how to minimize my own issues getting in the way of meeting her needs.

I must admit, though, that it sometimes feels all consuming. And that can be uncomfortable.

I must pause here to say that even writing that it is uncomfortable IS uncomfortable. Complaining about my life with baby post years of heart-shredding infertility seems absurd. Yeah, you can hate me now. Or at least, I'm pretty sure I hate myself for it. It seems so hard to let those two realities sit together. 1) I longed, waited and worked so hard for this baby. 2) I am sometimes unhappy in my role of mother.  

I try to chalk this all up to adjusting. Which is fair enough. Every woman (and probably every man) who becomes a mother has to wrestle with a big shift in her identity. Who am I now that I change diapers, mix formula, sing the itsy-bitsy spider, run to the crib when I hear her cry, walk around town with a stroller for a living (thank you government of Canada for paying me to do so)?

Lately, I've been feeling like I've gone missing.

weird.

unsettling.

I don't really know what that makes me, but I'm afraid it might mean that my mother's deep-seated narcism was contagious.

There is a healthy part of me that chimes in, not too loudly, but says that it's ok. My gummy girl is still so little and needs me so much, and that I've gone from entirely looking after myself to looking after this precious daughter almost exclusively. I mean, I do the things to keep myself going at least on a basic level. I brush my hair, people. I even wash it sometimes.

But I've not figured out how to carve out some good time for me. Mr. A tries to give me some time to myself and that is appreciated. But it's not a lot (and that's ok. I'll take what I can get), and it is often unpredictable. But it's probably more than many of you or my Pleasantville mom friends get.

I am very good at keeping us busy and structuring the days for her and for me. We have yoga on Tuesday, swimming on Wednesday, and music on Thursday. There is a hike with my moms' group on Friday, and on Mondays, I sometimes go to the drop in at the Early Years Centre.

There are rhythms to the day. Ups and downs. Naps. Feedings. Floor time. Meal time. Daddy coming home time. And bed time.

And at the end of the day, there is time for me, and what I usually do with it is wasteful. I watch tv series. Instead of writing. Instead of reading for pleasure or doing professional reading. Instead of trying to connect meaningfully by writing emails. Instead of cleaning the house. Our very filthy house.

It seems like when there is a moment to look for myself, I don't. I just eat more chocolate. Scroll on the twitter feed.

And I feel angry a lot, which can be scary. Is she ever going to feel like I resent her? Because I don't resent her. I love her. But I also have to find a way to make room for my non-mother self. So that I don't ever resent her. And because I will die someday. And I have to make this life count. That's all I can do with these mere 80 years, if I'm lucky.

Mr. A gets the brunt of my anger. Unfortunately. He forgot to take the Brussels sprouts out of the oven while I was putting Gummy to bed last night and I was livid. I wanted roasted Brussels sprouts, not burnt Brussels sprouts. Is it too much to ask? You know you're in trouble when those words start coming to your mind. At least I didn't say them out loud, but I might as well have, since I was visibly upset. 

I wish I could wrap up this post with a satin bow by outlining the steps I will take to find myself again. But I'm slow (still on count 5), and I haven't come up with any yet. I have a few inchoate ideas of things I could look at. I think picking up my gratitude journal could help. And trying to get to yoga (a non-baby class) might help. And getting to the other side of harvest season will help, when Mr. A has more time on his hands and I can schedule time for myself every week. And finding a way to write a little bit every day. But that might be too ambitious.

Anyways, thank you for reading and letting me work this out. And please share if you will in the comments if you've also had these similar feelings and what helped you.

Day care days ahead: Part I

I'll start by a side note to say thank you for your comments on my last post. Gummy has, as I hoped, knitted her morning nap to her night sleep. We've been waking up at 7am in our house lately. How civilized.

Funny how life changes so much in one year. Last year in September, I was having all kinds of foreboding ultrasound detecting large SCHs and other possible horrible things that could kill or maim my fetus (amniotic bands, anyone?). This year in September, I'm awaiting the fall activities we've signed up for to start (next week!) and wrapping my mind around my baby's impeding participation in day care.

I'm going back to work in March. If only you lived in Canada and got a year of maternity leave. Yes. I too wish you lived in a communist country that supports child and maternal (and paternal) health. It remains, and I'm not complaining just stating, that 12 months is not the best time for a child to separate from her primary caregiver. Just as you're dropping off the little grasshopper, she is at the peak of her separation anxiety days. What fun that will be.

Having become aware of the aura of stress around day care from everyone who had babies before me (which, at 39, that's the majority of my friends), I knew to start the search early. So I called up the place where Sattva sent her kids when I was about 5-6 months pregnant. They wouldn't put Gummy's name on the list because Gummy is apparently not an appropriate name for a child*. Harumph. This meant that as soon as I managed to prop myself back up after the birth and ensuing circus, I got on the day care mission. I saw a couple and settled on one I didn't really love, but had a full time spot for Gummy starting in February, making a good transition time when she would start day care and I would still be at home. It was there I learned there are only 56 spots for infants (< 18 months) in our entire city (in registered day care centres).

So, that was settled. It wasn't great, but it was adequate, which I came to believe was the best I could hope for.

Three weeks ago, Mr. A started talking about staying home with Gummy. That sounded better than any day care centre. But I was against becoming the sole breadwinner in the family. 'I will resent you. And you will resent yourself', I told Mr. A, and he could see my point. Part time day care was now our focus.

The mediocre day care doesn't accept infants part-time, so we had to find something else. Also, mediocre day care is on my way to work, at the other end of town, but not a place where Mr. A could fetch Gummy on foot or bike.** And so for those days when I'll need to stay later at work, picking up Gummy would be a logistic tour-de-force, involving car seat transfers and taxis (or cross-country skis on a snowy day, Mr. A noted).

The day care centre 2 streets over had been on my mind. I never had a great impression of it, but our good friends sent their son there from 12 to 24 months of age. And they had many more positive things than negative things to say about it. We went for a tour recently. I liked it less than mediocre day care centre. But they can take Gummy in April, part-time. This means she can stay home 2 days with Mr. A and be at day care only 3 days, with some early pick-ups when her dad is available. And it would be for a year to 18-months at the most. After that, she would go to a different day care centre because there are many more toddler spots in the city.

I wish I had more choice in the manner, but it feels like we need to take what we can get given the dearth of spots.*** I have so many criteria in my head about what constitutes good childcare, and these places are falling short on many of them. And I know my expectations are pie in the sky, and that Gummy will do fine given some basic care. But she's my precious girl. I want only the best of the best for her.

More on day care later. It's all the time I've got for now. Yikes! Is time for my own interests ever scarce these days. More on that too, whenever I can write.



* They have a policy of only putting babies' names on the list and not fetuses. The nerve.
**I'm the only one with a car in our family.
*** There are many home day care arrangements, but I do not want her in a home day care for a number of reasons. The main reasons being that there are practically no regulations around home child care arrangements so if something goes wrong, there is very little recourse with the law or regulatory bodies.  

Sleep and the crazies

The crazies

I wrote this whole nasty post about my mother 4-5 days ago but didn't publish it. I knew I'd regret it. I'll give you the bare bones.

1) she visited over labor day weekend
2) she is crazy
3) I did my best to meet her craziness with calm and respect.
4) I failed sometimes and succeeded sometimes

You want a little content with that outline of the process? Ok. I will oblige. She has this unconscious fantasy. The fantasy is about how she wants my baby to be hers. She wants to have the baby and push me out of the picture. She made several comments about how she could have the baby and I would not be there. To the point where it completely freaked out Mr. A and he ran after her when she took Gummy out for a walk in front of the house.

See.

She is crazy.

I'm hanging by my fingernails for my therapy session tomorrow morning. Between her and the tedious in-laws who have major issues with overstepping boundaries*, Mr. A and I are both doing MAJOR work on our issues on setting boundaries with scary, authoritarian parental figures. And doing that work with the actual scary, authoritarian parents themselves. So far, neither of us have gone up in flames, but we keep expecting to be psychically destroyed by each our narcissistic parent.** So far, everyone's psyche is somewhat intact, although personally, I'm rattled.*** And to be honest, Mr. A is looking worse for wear.

Sleep

Bedtime routine is going swimmingly. I do it on my own all the time and it feels like a well rehearsed dance, with room for improvisation, but with the steps mostly defined. And my dance partner is well rehearsed.

We started sleep training the weekend my mother was here. That was a poor choice. But it had to be done and Mr. A was home. And Gummy (and Augusta) were ready. It was awful for at least 2 nights. But it's much better now. We do have a few things to iron out, but at this point, she is waking up infrequently, and when she does, a simple replacement of the soother in her mouth does the trick. Still, I want to get to the point of putting her to bed and picking her back up 12 hours later. Not always, but most of the time. I'm pretty sure she is capable of it.

But right now we are sticking with the expectations of 10 hours in her crib without being picked up. And after those few rough nights, she has been fine with it. But the window is 7pm to 5am, and most mornings, she, like the birds, is up at 5am. Back down from 7am to 9am, but there is a two-somewhat-difficult-hour window when she is up and one of us needs to be up with her. And it's mostly me.

I am hoping that she will soon knit those 2 extra hours of sleep into her night sleep, so that she can sleep 7pm to 7am. But I am not holding my breath. And frankly, it's easier for me to be up early than to be up late at night.

There are lots of pros and cons to sleep training. I feel like I can see why people are against it. And I also see why people would love to do it but it's just not something that they can do. It's emotionally difficult to hear your child cry and not respond (or wait 15 minutes to respond). You have to have a clear idea of why you are doing this. You also need to believe that your child is fundamentally ok. It is the right thing for us and I'm glad we are doing it. But please know that this is not a comment on your parenting decisions.

Ok, Gummy Girl is up from her nap and I  want to post this now. More on eating and day care to come.


* Mr. A's father stating that they would be coming over for a visit EVERY WEEK.

** My kingdom for psychoanalytical training.

*** I broke some dishes a few days ago in a fit of desperation and rage. Gummy was asleep upstairs and Mr. A was gone and the cat was outside. No one was hurt. Except the dishes. And my sense of being a sane person. 

Looking Pail: Bedtime

It has come to this, reader. Joyfully for me, and perhaps not so for you. But this is the juncture at which my blog veers off from infertility (and pregnancy after infertility) head first into parenting themes. I'm not apologizing. I'm stating it because it is so. If you need to stop reading, I understand and I'm not mad at you or sad for me. I write for me. You read for you. When what I like to write and what you like to read intersects, that's fine. When it doesn't intersect, that's fine too.

This is the extent of what I'll do for the transition. I'm not changing the blog, renaming it, changing the address, or whatever. It's a personal decision, and this is what I see as working for me. I want to continue blogging, but I may not be writing about infertility quite as much, and will be writing about parenting a great deal more.


Today, a boring post about bedtime; that magical time of day when your hands mildly start shaking because your glass of red is just so close, you can almost taste it.

For the first 5 months of life, Gummy didn't have much of a bedtime routine. It basically consisted of: 1) Going to Bed. As a newborn, sleep is the main activity all day/all night, with regular intervals of eating. Wakefulness was sparse at first, as is true for many newborns (but not all. If that's the case for yours, I'm sorry). But by the time she was 2-3 months old, she slept more at night and less during the day (and slept through the night at least one out of every two nights. You can hate me).

I had been harbouring some fears about my baby's sleep before she was born, admittedly not so much for her as for Mr. A and I. We work best with ample sleep. On my end, I tend to be a complete bitch when I'm deprived of food or sleep. Mr. A just becomes more absentminded than he already is, which amounts to forgetting more than remembering. And putting his cell phone in the washing machine.

Then Gummy arrived and she LOVED to sleep. Truly, she was an olympic sleeper. We never went so far as to have to wake her up in the first few weeks to feed her (since, you'll remember, she also LOVED sucking and ate very well), but I have on several occasions had to check to see if she was breathing because I expected her to be awake when she was asleep.

So as I said earlier, the bedtime routine used to be simple. Baby is tired. Wrap baby up. Put baby in crib* But it niggled at me. I have extolled the virtues of a proper bedtime routine for children (and adults) countless times in my job, and here I was basically throwing my baby in bed.**

Now, there were a number of things we were doing consistently that made for somewhat of a routine. Sleep works best if you can have a ritual around it, whether you're a baby, a kid or an adult. So, we always wrapped her up in a little pea pod with a zipper (I've just now learned those are called woombies). We always put the sleep sheep to the same setting (rain). We always put her on her back (of course). We put her to bed at 7pm, plus or minus an hour depending on how she was doing.

But I've noticed that with this parenting thing, one must have an idea of where things are going, so as to lay the foundation for it early on. I wanted her to sleep independently from us in her own room. That's not where I started (she was in a bassinet beside our bed), but I thought of the steps to make that happen and we worked our way to her sleeping independently in her crib.

In terms of the routine, I was thinking about her being a toddler and going to daycare. And that she would need to be bathed much more frequently than we bathed her as an infant. So, I knew bathtime had to make an appearance in the bedtime routine. We started feeding her solids 2 weeks ago, mostly at dinner time. Bathing no longer is optional when your child is squishing peaches and avocado slices between her fingers, around her mouth (what am I saying, in the general area of her head) and up her arms. This is when I started considering the eating bandana suggested by Bunny and endorsed by Bun Bun.

It seems a bedtime routine is emerging. Thus far we have:
1) Eating (and there's another post on that coming). This includes cleaning her with a washcloth afterwards where a tug of war ensues over the washcloth. She has the crack addict intensity need to have it in her mouth.
2) Bath (after several bathroom floor floods (because we were too chicken to actually put her infant tub in the tub), I bathed her in her tub inside the big tub. Nobody was injured. More eating of washcloths. Also, she plays with a plastic baby hippo, and more recently a pink pig.
3) Diaper and pyjamas.
3.5) If Mr. A is not there, this is when I go downstairs to fetch formula. If we are both home, one of us gets the formula while the other does step 3.
4) put her halfway in the pea pod (woombie) and start the sleep sheep.
5) walk around with her while telling her about all she did that day. In French. Very calmly. (this is where I would like to read her a bedtime story, but all she wants to do is eat the books. I've tried giving her a book to chew on while reading her another book, but then she wants to chew on all the books and I have nothing to read).
6) She drinks a vat of formula
7) She dozes off. I kiss her, wrap her up completely and leave her be.

The bedtime routine has been working well. Except when Mr. A tries to do it. Somehow when he does it, she freaks out from steps 3 to 5. I usually have to intervene for steps 6 & 7 to happen. He's feeling down about that. I'm not sure why she freaks out when he puts her to bed. When we talked about it last night, I said I thought maybe she likes dad for fun things and likes mom for comfort, and bedtime is a hard transition so she needs comfort. But who the hell knows? Infants don't talk***
 
Gummy Girl is now having a terrible time sleeping. But whatever. She has a great bedtime routine.

* We started her in the crib at 2 months. Some will say that's a bit early, but her room is close enough to ours to hear her and be cribside in about 5 steps. It was important to me to have her learn very early on that this is where she sleeps.  

** Before your call children's aid, I say that as a figure of speech. 

***although they shriek, as she started to do last week. 

Friendships: online and off

A few months ago, a friend who is struggling with IF said something negative about IF blogs during lunch. I can't say I fully understand the context in which she said this, so I won't elaborate too much. But the comment niggled at me for a while. It went something like "When you follow IF blogs, other women get pregnant before you and it hurts."

It rolled around my head like a marble in a tupperware. Why did it bug me so much?

A) Some of it has to do with where that particular friendship was at at the time the comment was made (really, English grammar, are you going to let me get away with a double preposition?). My dear friend, struggling with her own infertility was keeping her distance from me in my new role as mother*. Also, because she is so big hearted, she was keeping her distance so as to protect me from the drudgery of IF now that I have a delicious baby to kiss. And I, having spent waaaaayyyyy more time being infertile than being a mother, am still an active member of the IF club (and a hesitant member of the mothers' club at best, having skipped the pregnant club entirely since, you know, I hardly believed it was going to result in a baby), was baffled by the irony of the distance, the CHASM between my friend and I at a time when I REALLY knew something about how awful she felt. So our friendship was rocky. And the comment just pushed my I-want-to-support-you-but-you-won't-let-me button.**

B) It made me think about what happened for me when you all got pregnant. It was definitely not as difficult to handle as when women around me got pregnant. By orders of magnitude. I remember at times feeling left out when all of a sudden many women were successful in their treatments or adopted, but mostly, I was just relieved that they were finally out of the painful awful place I knew too well. It was a lot easier to displace my rage about my situation onto women I didn't know very well but with whom I was in direct contact. I despised pregnant women at work. Very secretly despised them. And this of course, confirmed my fears that I was a rotten person inside. But I cried tears of joy and relief when your babies were born. In a way, it was a chance for me to experience the normal part of being a woman in my 30s, and feeling happy for others who become mothers. It was easier to do with all of you.

C) I (mis)heard the comment as "IF blogs blow." That is not what my friend said and not what she meant. But there was already all that stuff described above and I bristled. I feel super protective of the friendships I have made here in blogland, and of the online IF community as a whole. I didn't know anyone going through IF when I started treatments and after the TERRIBLE day of October 1, 2009, I was gutted and alone. I did have some extraordinary beings in my life who supported me (including the the above mentioned friend), but very, very few who were in the same awful soup of infertility***

Blogging is not everyone's cup of tea. There is this whole putting yourself out there for anyone to find. There is the part about suspecting that you have an overinflated sense of self because you describe the minutia of your sorrows to an audience. There is the part about writing, and whether that's something you dig or not. There is a part about not knowing at first whether this will be a way to receive support or not. There is also a part about how everyone's situation is so much worse than yours, how can you even be entitled to your own sorrow, let alone spread it out like Christmas dinner for everyone to see.

When I started writing this blog, I did it because that's what I do when I'm lost: I write. Writing helped me turn the ugly pain into (somewhat) less ugly posts.  But as I started following other blogs and as you started following mine and leaving comments, it transformed into writing + an experience of social support/community.

But it don't stop there, folks. Not for me.

Many of you are my friends.That is how I think of you, in the same legitimate right as my Pleasantville friends or my friends in the Commonwealth. I think I did at first make a separation between IRL and Interwebs friends, but that line faded for me. You guys know more about my experiences than many people I interact with regularly. And I know more about you than you choose to tell a lot of people in your lives. Most importantly though, you are real to me. I think of you inside of your lives, with your babies and husbands and in-laws and jobs and dreams and fears and hopes and sorrows. You are not just words to me. You do not only live inside the computer.

If that's true, then it only stands to reason that I would want to connect with you outside the interwebs.

And so, I've been doing that.

First it was Pumpkin. She and I go way back to July 1, 2011. We met in Montreal, when Pumpling was just an embryo. And then again when coming back from our first consult at SG in January 2012, when Pumpling was a month away from arriving. And then I visited the Pumpkin family in late May, which was so entirely delightful. This time, Pumpling was 15 months and AMAZING! I loved hanging out with her, her mama and her dad. That Pumpkin family is full of zest and energy, full of love and warmth. They hosted me with great generosity. As a bonus, I got to meet CGD during that trip. And she is just as lovely in person as she is/was on her (now shut down) blog. She is a genuinely caring, warm person and even though I didn't spend a lot of time with her or follow her blog for many years,  I was very touched that I got to meet her. And also, it meant a lot to me that she was willing to hold Gummy Girl, given that she has not yet become a mother. I have this great photo of Pumpkin, Pumpling, CGD and Gummy together.

And then, I'm getting goose bumps, THEN.... I met Bunny.

And meeting Bunny was magical. Truly.**** In trying to process how wonderful I've felt our visit was, I've described it to myself as entering inside my favourite book and spending time with all the characters. Except that they weren't characters, they were real, delightful humans. Bun Bun was just So. Much. Fun. and Bunlet was a beautiful, contemplative little boy. And Mr. Bunny was kind and easy to talk to and so gentle with gummy girl. But I must say folks, sitting on Bunny's kitchen floor with her while feeding gummy a bottle and sharing together in our experiences as mothers, infertiles, daughters, wives, bloggers, women....well, that was priceless. It was like we had known each other for years. Because we have. I've harboured such great admiration for Bunny (which I realize left me so intimidated at first, I realize now that I read her blog for months without commenting), and meeting her in person only made that admiration grow. She is wonderful. And beautiful. And genuine. And warm. And such an amazing mother to those two Buns.


This meandering post has a point. Or several:

1) I love my friend even if her comment about IF blogs upset me. Also, we needed to work on our friendship. We did. It's better now.
2) IF blogs saved me from shrivelling up like a lonely, desiccated raisin.
3) Meeting blog friends = a gift I recommend you all put on your Christmas wish list.
4) Friendship in general is a pretty beautiful thing.


*which is entirely healthy and acceptable in my books, and which I have had to do in my awful years in IF hell.

**And in my own awful narcissism, if I can't support you, how do I validate my own existence. right? Shrinks have issues, people. Believe it.

***(except you, dear S from the East, if you are reading).  

**** So for all those who are jealous of me because I met Bunny in person, YOU HAVE REASON TO BE JEALOUS. Now, go meet her too.

the robin (part 2)*

There are two pillars holding up the roof to the front porch of our house. Robins like to nest there.

This spring, we had a mama robin who had 4 baby birds. The mother watched us carefully in our comings and goings, always avoiding us as much as possible, but also risking it all to bring food to her young. She nursed these 4 baby robins to a hefty size. Then one day, they all flew away.  

A few weeks later, another robin came to nest atop the other pillar. She was just as valiant as the last mama. She worked hard to eat well so she would produce warmth to incubate her young. She too avoided us as much as she could, but also risked it all to get back to her nest and lay on her eggs.

One day last week, I noticed I hadn't seen her for a few days. How odd, I thought. I haven't even seen the babies. Could they have been born and left already? After a few days of not seeing her, I got a stool and climbed up. I couldn't see inside the nest, but took a picture and then looked at it.

One egg. Never to become a baby bird.

I like to think that the mama had to leave and continue her bird life, and hopefully nest again soon.


Thank you for all the comments you left for my friend Veronica. Her baby bird also did not make it.      




*I wrote about robins way back when my blog was just wee. Here is the link. 

My friend needs YOUR help

Lovelies, my friend is in the dark land of limbo. A place most of you have visited once, if not several times. I need your help in supporting her.

Veronica is my IRL friend who has been struggling with secondary infertility. She is awesome. You would love her.

Here are a few details of her story:

• Had a successful pregnancy with OE, then Secondary IF
• Moved on to DE after failed infertility treatment
• Had first DE transfer of handsome 5-day blastocyst on 01/07. 
• Nice initial betas: 1000+ at 16dp5dt and 2300+ at 18dp5dt.   

Veronica went in for her first u/s today at 6w1d. She measured on target, but there was only a very small yolk sack, and no sign of a fetal pole. Beta was 12000+

My sense from what I've read is that it could go either way at this point. Her local doc thinks it could be a blighted ovum. But I'm guessing it could also be a slow start. She's due for another u/s next week, which will hopefully determine what is going on.

Friends, if you have stories of things going well after a similar start, it would help Veronica to read stories of hope. If you have a story like that or have read someone's else's blog with a similar start, can you please link it in your comment. She reads my blog regularly and will be so grateful to read your thoughts.

Thank you

Postscript addendum

Yes, I'm long winded. You knew that already. So,  seven posts for the birth story. It's a little much. I know.

I just had to illustrate point #9 on my previous entry