That was the plan

Here's Where the Story Ends

2011-07-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the very reason this blog was conceived told me that she - and I quote - "needed her privacy" (ahem) - while using the bathroom.

Her younger sister - the "baby" is pulling herself up to stand at nine months and crawled at seven.

Life with two young children, a thriving business, a solid marriage, frequent jaunts into the mountains and a sputtering-but-still-alive yoga practice has a decidedly chaotic hum to it. A much different hum from when I started writing here after suffering miscarriages and wanting so desperately to start a family.

I've meant to start another blog but haven't found the time and inclination. I still may concoct something and, if so, will post the link here in case any one of my former blog friends stumbles upon it and cares to see what we're up to.

Until then, it is time to close this chapter.

In closing I want to let all those who I connected with on this journey - in this medium - how much that connection meant to me. How grateful I was and am to have it in my life. I think about many of you on a daily basis.

I once counseled a friend who was trying to conceive that she had to believe she would be a mother one day. How everyone I knew - and there were many of you! - who was struggled is now a mother.

But how hard that was for me to do. I believed the worst would come from my failure to hold on to a pregnancy. And now only the best has come - well, mostly the best. (I will try to remind myself of that the next time both girls are going off simultaneously.)

Those were some hard lessons learned. But I truly believe that those very lessons of belief, trust and patience - mostly the patience! - are helping me in my journey to become the mother I want to be for my two lively girls.

Speaking of, to close is the photo of Missy (Piper) at 3 and Sissy (Sammie) at 8 months on Independence Day 2011.

Many happy days to each of you. All my love and support to you on your momma-hood journey.

xoxo,

Ms. Planner

I promise. It is coming.

2011-03-15T21:42:00.000-07:00

The new blog, that is.

I've been designing it over and over in my mind. I hope to find more inspiration from some upcoming trips to the mountain. Yay!

Sammi is 4 months and ready for mountain daycare. Piper has taken the big chair lift up several times already this season with Cowboy. Momma is ready and chomping at the bit to get up on snow.

An aside, when not planning my new blog in my head, I am planning how I will manage getting two wee ones up and out to mountain daycare by myself since daddy has to boot up for ski patrol at 7 AM sharp. Goes something like, "Nurse Sammi in camper at 8:00 AM. Haul both girls and their stuff to mountain daycare from camper. Give self 30 minutes. Could take an hour. Drop off at daycare. Return to camper. Get my gear. Ski until 11. Nurse Sammi. Get Piper. Take a couple of runs with Piper. Get requisite hot cocoa. Pick up Sammi at 1. Wait! How do I get a baby in the Ergo, a three year old, their gear, my skis and Piper's skis back to the camper? Frick!"

I haven't had the balls to calculate how much we will pay in daycare fees so that I can ski for about an hour-and-a-half. I think it comes down to a dollar a minute.

An investment in the future, I guess.

In the meantime, here is a blurry photo of Sammi at 4 months. Snot dripping from nose (oh, the poor second child - no time for carefully crafted photos) included.

Milk does not do this body good

2011-01-03T14:31:00.000-08:00

What is that old saying?

Something about making a plan and giving the Universe or God or whomever a laugh.

So after smuggly congratulating myself that I put up tons of food for the birth of my second child, it appears that said second child has a dairy intolerance. Not an allergy (yet) but she vomits copiously and has troubling digesting, and therefore expelling out the proper end.

Of course, nearly everything last thing I put up has cheese or milk in it.

But it is so heartbreaking to watch her struggle after I eat a serving of chicken linguine casserole - and I am committed to breast feeding her until two - so I am off the cow for now.

If anyone has suggestions for vegan cookbooks or resources or ways to replace items like butter with something else, I am all ears and eyes.

Cowboy is going to have fun eating all those lasagnas and chicken pot pies himself!

The only upside is how quickly the baby weight is coming off.

Random Market Research - please participate!

2010-12-20T14:48:00.000-08:00

One of the things I love most about this blog is my blogroll on the right hand side. I have enjoy immensely watching (and reading) the new blogs that everyone creates as they leave the world of IF and get on with real life.

It's like the IF blog was only just a glimpse into the otherwise diverse and multi-dimensional lives we all lead. And my life beyond IF belongs to the mountains.

When we're not in the mountains, we pine for the mountains. The rhythm of our year revolves around snow season. Our friends know not even to call us for weekend dinner plans until May. Others can count on us to jump into the car at a moment's notice for a quick road trip for some good skiing - even with kids in tow.

So I want my new blog to be a place for mountain mommas, even if you're just going to be one for a quick weekend trip to the Rockies. Because being a momma in the mountains takes gumption and planning. And usually a lot of gear.

What you will find there are gear reviews for the best kid's outdoor products. And tips on introducing kids to the mountains. And musings from the momma of mountain girls and the wife of a ski patroller.

What you won't find are fleece jester hats for kids. Because those are just plain wrong.

And because the mountains demand that you never take yourself too seriously in them, I want to call my new blog "Mountain MILF."

What do you think?

Honestly.

(And if you don't know what a MILF is, please email me.)

"Adorable Little Boys"

2010-11-23T12:48:00.000-08:00

It's already snowing in the Pacific Northwest.

I took the girls up to Mount Hood for Sammi's first snow this past Saturday while Cowboy was on ski patrol at Timberline.

I didn't take a photo because - good lord! - hauling around a wee baby in a front pack in a still-too-big down suit AND a toddler in all her snow gear AND all their diaper gear AND assorted practical gear is quite the logistics feat that I haven't cracked the code on yet.

But there I was practically short-roping both girls up the stairwell: Sammi in the Ergo front pack and Piper on my hip ("Momma, carry you," she said). Both girls are in blue snow suits because I flat out refuse to buy pink outdoor gear. REI and the Patagonia store in Portland - regrettably - don't leave me many options. I don't wear pink in the outdoors. Why should my girls?

"Oh, look at those adorable little boys," a women remarked on her way down the stairwell.

I guess I should expect as much when I dress them in blue.

But it pissed me off. So I am starting my one-woman mission to rid the outdoor industry of gender color stereotypes for children's gear. I'm tired of choosing between pink and blue when I drop a shit-ton of money on quality kid's outdoor gear. Because I will ALWAYS choose blue. Just to make a point.

For this and so much more outside fun, please stay tuned. I finally have figured out my new blog "voice" as I transition from family-building to family-managing. Just haven't had time to execute yet.

Story of my life these days.

The Newest Little Mountain Girl

2010-11-07T10:49:00.000-08:00

Samantha Mohr J.

Tuesday, November 2, 2010 @ 10:07 AM

8 lbs (!), 21 inches

Sammi is our Buddha baby. She's big and chunky and calm (so far). Nursing with no problem and is almost back to her birth weight.

Born the traditional route although I caved and requested (begged for) an epidural when I stalled out at 8 cm for 2 hours. For days following Sammi's birth, I would look at her and marvel at her size and still can't quite believe I delivered such a strapping baby.

We are home now and are navigating how to manage it all. Ever so grateful for my parents and Cowboy who are holding down the ship with Missy and household while I get my bearings.

Despite the trepidation and the stitches, I am so happy and blessed. When I started on this journey, I had no idea it would turn out so wonderfully. Now it is my time to just serve my family in gratitude for it all.

End Date

2010-10-30T14:09:00.000-07:00

My due date is Nov. 5.

Despite being at 3 cm dilated, daughter #2 has not dropped. My OB estimates that the baby is 7 lbs and she does not want her to get much bigger.

I have a narrow pelvic opening courtesy of 2 lousy tailbone mishaps and there is a genuine issue of a "bigger" baby not making it through.

As such, we've been asked to come up with three dates next week to schedule an induction. Which means the "p-word" (pitocin), which I had hoped to avoid.

My OB says there is little risk of a c-section using pitocin on a 2nd baby when the first was delivered via the traditional route. I just really, really, really want a natural childbirth this time around and know that pitocin amplifies the contractions for momma and can stress out the baby. Leading to all sorts of rash decisions in a clutch.

I know this sounds incredibly silly and maybe a bit selfish. However, I am the kind of person who often sets physical goals for herself though, so the desire to deliver naturally is not entirely surprising.

I have vowed to keep a mental image in my head of the obscene amount of the money I wrote in the check to the doctor who performed my epidural the last time, which essentially cost $10 per minute of pain relief.

In the meantime, I have tried acupressure and acupuncture on the labor points to no avail. In fact, I have tried all the Old Wives methods, save for castor oil. Just can't go there.

Anyone know a good astrology source where I can find the best birthday for my little Scorpio-to-be?

No action yet (sigh)

2010-10-23T15:31:00.000-07:00

The moon is full tonight.

The barometer has dropped so that now it is cold and raining. The first snows are predicted in the Cascades.

I have nested to the enth degree: floors cleaned and re-cleaned; rugs rolled up, sent to the cleaners and returned; blinds vacuumed. I even re-arranged the furniture in the living room in an attempt to bring on some labor action.

The freezer (and we have one that is big like a full-size refridgerator in our garage) cannot absorb one more food item. It is stocked to the gills with homemade chicken potpies, lasagnas, and - Missy's favorite - 70 lbs (!) of frozen blueberries from a local orchard. (We go through blueberries in this house like some toddlers roll through string cheese.) That this baby's due date coincided with the final harvests of the season is somewhat to blame. I think I have 12 full chickens and our Thanksgiving turkey in there, too.

The pantry is likewise: shelves of pasta, boxes of Annie's bunny crackers, bags of flour and sugar along with dozens of quarts of applesauce, nectarines, peaches and roasted tomatoes put up in the past 6 weeks.

Everything for baby has been (a) pulled out, (b) laundered, (c) put in its place. All the momma necessities I didn't plan for with Missy - breast milk storage bags? wtf? - are under the counter in the bath.

My bag is packed. But its contents are much different than the first time. Gone are the ipods, magazines and books. In their place is a breast pump, sterlized bottles for collecting colostorum and warm shirts and hats for the baby. Did I ever mention I forgot to pack clothing for Missy the first time around?

Everything that I wasn't prepared for with my first baby has been checked off the list.

Everything except for how agonizing and physically painful those last few weeks of pregnancy can be. I am generally not a whiner, least of all about physical pain, but - Good Lord Almighty!

By being born at 36 weeks, Missy spared me this final assault on my body. Her little sister, however, seems intent on picking up the slack.

I guess this is a precursor of life to come: what one doesn't teach and prepare me for, the other one will.

Bring it, girls, I think with a mixture of pleasure and ruefulness.

Waiting, Waiting, Waiting...

2010-10-14T10:52:00.000-07:00

I am in my 36th week.

There is dilation and effacing and all sorts of random OB-speak going on.

Unlike the days before Missy arrived - and I wanted to spend time doing all these things by myself - now I want to spend them as mother and eldest daughter.

As such, I am insanely jealous that my nanny is outside blowing bubbles with Missy in the early fall sunshine (we still have some sun in the PNW...and it is October!), who is shouting "Bye-bye bubbles. See you next time!," as each one floats over the back fence into the park.

Working from home is pure bliss. And pure torture sometimes.

Looking Back

2010-09-23T12:54:00.000-07:00

What a lame title.

Yesterday I had lunch with a potential partner for my business. She's younger than I, but our lives track in so many ways. She admitted during lunch that she left a monolithic Portland-based sports company in order to start her own company so she and her husband could have flexibility when they started their family.

Only trouble is they have just discovered that they are having trouble starting one.

Sound familiar?

For the first time, I - at 34 weeks pregnant with my second - was clearly on the other side of the IF fence.

I tried to commiserate. I am an open book when it comes to our struggles. How timed sex sucks. How hard IF can be on a marriage. How lonely it can seem. How, yes, I too wanted to kick people in the shins when they asked us, "when are you having kids?"

But I wanted her to know that - although it doesn't seem so now - if she really wants to be, she WILL be a mom someday. How every last person I "know" who struggled is now a mother. (I did not explain the blog and blog friends and how many of you there once were). How she has to believe in this. Even though it is so very hard to do so at this point in their journey.

Her situation broke my heart. I so clearly saw myself four years ago reflected in her.

Like many of you, I want to close my door on IF and miscarriages and white-knuckled pregnancies. In all likelihood, I will in a few short weeks when our second daughter arrives.

But I don't want to foresake all those who are beginning to struggle or who are still in the trenches.

So this blog is at a crossroads. For once, Ms. Planner finds herself without a plan.

Gus

2010-08-12T14:14:00.000-07:00

Five weeks ago, sweet Gus, our almost-16-year-old golden retriever was diagnosed with bone cancer. It is spreading to other parts of his body. He cannot use his back hind leg and is in pain. He has lost 15% of his body weight in a month.

Tomorrow, Cowboy and I will make that woeful trip to the vet for the inevitable.

In his younger days, Gus used to run next to my mountain bike, trail run and backcountry hike - he once chased a black bear away from our camp.

He kissed plenty of tears from my face. After break-ups in my single days. And BFNs and miscarriages during my married ones.

He is in our wedding picture. The one we have on our wall.

He loves snow. And swimming. And bread. Not necessarily in that order.

I cannot decide which is sadder: seeing him hobble around in pain or not having him around.

Are You Happier Now That You Have Children? Duh.

2010-07-20T12:29:00.000-07:00

I have had no less than three friends either email or mention this article from last week’s New York Magazine to me.

The article is about parenting and happiness. Or, really, a purported lack of happiness among parents. My first reaction was: why did they forward this to me? I know I have been sick, so very tired and a little bit angry about it all, but do I really seem that unhappy?

Reading the article got me thinking.

Of the friends who mentioned it to me, none of them experienced infertility, miscarriages or had even the smallest amount of difficulty conceiving their children.

I’ve had to stop myself from blurting out or emailing back that the hardest day parenting is way easier than a day of dealing with infertility or the aftermath of miscarrying a very-much-wanted pregnancy.

Since most of you still reading this blog also dealt with some form of infertility, how do you feel about your role as a parent to young children? Are you happier now than you were before kids?

As a market researcher, I have a lot of issues with the methodology employed in many of the studies and anecdotes cited in this article.

Chief among them are the New York City- and Los Angeles-based examples that nearly all NYC writers use. Authors who cite only examples in two of the most unique markets in America need to get outside of their bubble. I cannot take their articles seriously. Every researcher knows that you have to temper the vibe of such cultures with milder ones. There are many extraneous variables in those markets that can muddy the waters of the parent-happiness-index: (1) lack of easy access to natural spaces (any place where you can still hear traffic, such as Central Park, does not count); (2) extreme costs of living that all but demand dual-income parents; or (3) a parenting culture that encourages overscheduled and micro managed children, to name just a few.

Granted, the author employs Texas-based and Danish-based studies, but, again, every good researcher knows that you can’t draw broad assumptions based on data from just one population, unless you are, say, focused on only Danish parents or Texan mommies.

The article also cites the theory that unhappiness caused by a shortened amount of leisure time that parents have today versus 1975 – a whole 5.74 hours less per week! Which, if you do the math and adjust for 8 hours of sleep per night per week (she hypothesizes optimistically) means that parents today have 4.8% less leisure time than parents in 1975. Are you seriously going to blame rampant unhappiness on less than a 5% loss of leisure time?

I have my own theories about why these parents are unhappy. I am sure you do, too.

Raising babies isn’t easy. But – in my opinion – it is not the chief culprit in why these parents are unhappy with their lives.

When I reconsider of my most unhappy, challenging days as a parent - the days or nights when I was the most frustrated with Missy - it wasn't at all about her. If I was honest with myself, it was always about something else or myself. And she was the most accessible person on whom to lay blame.

With that in mind, I’d trade with these unhappy parents a day during my past IF slog – say, a two-week-wait day or the day after AF arrives - any day.

They might have a little more perspective.

Big Girl Bed

2010-07-19T14:06:00.000-07:00

We transitioned the nursery into the girls' room this weekend.

I always seem to wait until we pass the 24-week gestation mark to take such bold steps.

Missy and sleep has been one of the biggest challenges in my evolution as a parent. The one that blew my confidence out of the water. Which also made it so gratifying when I could put her in her crib awake and she would fall asleep on her own without crying. It took us nearly two years to get there, but we made it.

So it was with much trepidation that I approached THE BIG GIRL BED.

We kept the crib in the room as back-up - also because Sissy will occupy it in a scant few months. And gave her the option between the two. Big Girl Bed won, although there was a moment of hesitation.

We listened on the monitor last night as she chatted away, obviously quite pleased at the new freedoms such furniture allowed. I checked on her at one point to find that she had deposited every last book from her armoire onto her duvet.

Apparently she likes to read in bed.

Rain, Rain, Go Away

2010-06-16T12:13:00.000-07:00

During their 7-month tenure at Fort Clatsop, Ore., in 1806, Lewis & Clark endured a winter where it rained all but 12 days. They saw the sun just six days in that 7-month period. No surprise that they were eager to leave.

I know how they feel.

By yesterday - halfway through the month - Portland recorded its second rainiest month in history (the record was set in 1888) with record low temperatures across the state. Until last Saturday - when the sun finally shone for a brief 24 hours and we all crowded onto the sunniest spot on our deck, eager for a Vitamin D fix - it had rained 18 days. in. a. row. This is the longest time on record that it has taken Portland to reach 80 degrees. These days, we are happy to reach 70.

I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the moon or stars.

I shouldn’t complain. A nearby friend’s father is dying of cancer and – until last weekend – he was despondent that he would leave this earth without ever seeing the sun again. Imagine that. Never seeing the sun again. Ever.

I called our vet in tears yesterday because poor, old Gus is having a hard time using his back legs. He needs help getting up and then gimps around when he does. The vet urged me to hold out for warmer, drier weather before making any rash decisions about his fate. All his “senior patients” are having a rough time with arthritis this spring, he said.

Please warm weather. Come. Now.

For Mr. Knight, so he can sit on his porch during his last days. For Gus, so he can use his back legs and live a few more months.

For this momma, who yearns to see some sun-kissed cheeks on her sweet girl.

Missy and Boo head outside during a break in the rain. Thank heavens for our hand-me-down raincoat - a wardrobe staple this spring. Oh - by the way - did I mention that Boo blew out her knee and is having knee replacement surgery today. Happy first birthday, Boo! Hope you like you new knee since it cost 4 large and now we can't afford to vacation to someplace warm. When it rains, it pours!

Beautiful Baby

2010-06-14T22:15:00.000-07:00

Those were the exact words both the technician and the perinatologist used to describe Sissy at our 18-week ultrasound.

Those heady words still can't stop me from feeling guilty for feeding this baby more anti-nausea meds than food during her first four months in utero.

The nausea is mostly gone but I am still exhausted. I guess some recovery from a three-month long sickness is to be expected. Unfortunately, I put off a lot of client work until this month and now I am slammed. Don't know how I will do this with 2.

Retail Therapy. Check it out.

2010-05-29T20:26:00.000-07:00

For those of you out there who are (a) still reading and (b) pregnant or breastfeeding. Have I got a find for you...

Jakfish - clothing for active, knocked up or breast feeding ladies

I just ordered some goodies and can't wait for the cozy fleeces and skort to arrive. It is still rainy and in the 50's in Portland, so I anticipate living in fleeces for the next several weeks.

(Note to the weather gods: we Northwesterners generally prefer our la nina's to commence in winter, when the ski areas are actually open. Otherwise we just get bitter and depressed when it is June and is still rainy and cold).

But back to shopping.

When I was pregnant with Missy, I stretched the living shit out of every single one of my Prana yoga pants - even to the point of holes in some of them. I still haven't replenished my stock.

And there is nothing more depressing - for you AND him - than wearing your honey's XL sweatshirt from college. Again.

So treat yourself!

I know this post sounds all chipper, but I am nearly 17 weeks and still sick for fuck's sake. My OB is going to put me on predn1sone next week if the nausea doesn't abate by then. It is hard to drive (motion sickness) so a little online retail therapy was in order as Cowboy does the evening bed time routine with Missy.

I am supposed to be working. Shhhh.

Who Needs Pony Rides...

2010-05-17T12:45:00.000-07:00

...or bouncy houses when you have a helicopter at your two-year-old's birthday party.*

Looking forward to putting, "First helicopter ride: Age 2" in Missy's baby book.

* In our defense, we are so low key we would have never really commissioned a helicopter for Missy's birthday. But we celebrate her birthday at a local vineyard with friends and it turns out that the winemakers were offering helicopter rides as a special event that day. How could we not give it a go?

Missy's Sleep Saga

2010-05-11T15:54:00.000-07:00

And a saga it is.

When I first became a parent, I naively thought that – if you were a proper, disciplined parent, ahem! – your kid would sleep when it was supposed to and, more importantly, when you wanted it to. That such a routine would happen overnight. At your will and bidding.

Oh, how karma works! Chuckle. Chuckle.

So of course I was blessed with one of the worst sleepers. Ever.

Missy fussed. Had to be held to sleep. Had to be held all.the.time. Nursed to sleep. Rocked to sleep. In defense of my daughter, the kid sure had the deck stacked against her. Reflux not properly brought under control by the proper medicine until she was 7 months old. (If you have a baby with reflux, demand Prevac1d. It is the only thing that works on infants). And then sleep apnea diagnosed and treated when she was 18 months old.

Through it all, she never learned to soothe herself. Never latched on to a thumb, a binky, a favorite blanket or other transitional object. Oh, though we tried! I did the evening routine with blankies and other assorted lovies for weeks on end.

One evening I succumbed to the realization that Missy’s journey into big girl sleep would be a looooong one. With maybe no end for Momma until she could read herself to sleep with a head lamp under the covers.

And then I began to relax about it. I had faith that it would come. If we were compassionate but consistent, I knew that one day she’d get there.

Oh, but it wasn’t all that pretty. There were some nights when I got frustrated. When she got frustrated. Where we both sobbed in the rocking chair as she tried to sleep and I tried to understand what I was doing so wrong.

But we moved gradually. Mastering each new transition over months at a time. She weaned from the Amby bed to the crib for naps. She weaned from co-sleeping at night to the sleeping by herself in the crib. Weaned from nursing to sleep to rocking to sleep. And then it stopped.

My dirty little secret was that, at 21 months, I still rocked Missy to sleep for her nap and bedtime. She still had not learned to soothe herself. So – if she awoke in the night, which still happened from time to time – she needed Momma or Daddy to pat her back to sleep. (Thankfully, we had earlier weaned her from being picked up and rocked during the night.)

Her pediatrician – the new one who specializes in sleep issues – counseled me that this was OK until she was about 2-1/2. And then he wanted us to get more aggressive about her soothing herself. His rationale is that as children understand more language and object permanence, they understand that Momma and Daddy also go to bed. Children begin to understand that parents aren’t just in the room and then not in the room. And pissed about it because they want “Mom-ma!”

So we planned on rocking until this summer. And then I got pregnant and so very sick.

Rocking in a dark room with nausea was out of the question. Unfortunately Cowboy’s job doesn’t allow him to be home consistently by bedtime. But as luck would have it, the pregnancy coincided with a rapid development in Missy’s language skills. So I went for it.

A little rocking, our nightly made-up prayer, some singing and then into the crib.

The first night, Missy wasn’t having any of it. As directed by our pediatrician, I comforted her briefly every 5 minutes, where I was met by demands to “Yock!” and “Pat!” followed by dramatic screeching and big crocodile tears when I left.

The beauty of it: I just didn’t care. I was so sick, I was completely dispassionate. Every five minutes, I would haul myself out of the guest room bed, which is closest to Missy’s room, go into her room and explain that it was time to sleep. I gave her a hug, handed her the baby doll du jour, laid her back down, gave a few “shhh’s” and left.

Then I collapsed on the guest room bed. There was no hand wringing or second-guessing. It was time. It was Missy’s first hard lesson as a big sister that the world no longer completely revolved around her.

Two months later and we’ve made it. We have a little crying on occasion, but more often than not, Missy chatters herself to sleep for night time and naps.

When she wakes in the night, which is rare, we only go to her if the crying gets out of control (again, rare) or if she directly calls for one of us (also, rare). Usually, she puts herself back to sleep.

Good Lord. It is a beautiful thing. I know it won’t last. There are new baby transitions, big girl bed transitions and potty training on the horizon.

But I’m gonna soak in all this liberating, hard-earned sleep while we have it.

Exhale

2010-04-26T11:54:00.000-07:00

Normal, healthy baby.

Bring on the fights about sharing clothes and a bathroom... another GIRL!

I am so relieved. I just about cried. I would have been happy with either gender but I secretly really, really, really wanted two girls.

Let's be really original and call her "Sissy."

Post- (Almost) Everything Update

2010-04-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

My most sincere thank-you's to all of y'all sweet gals who left birthday (and Earth Day) wishes for me. It brought me to near tears - all of those wonderful well wishes. I sure needed them. And they did my heart so much good.

The CVS went as well as such a thing can go. I wasn't nervous. Just stoic. There is still a fetus. I don't know if it is measuring on schedule because I just plain forgot to ask. It has all appendages. And apparently likes to wave its left arm around a lot.

Or maybe it was just trying to shoot me the finger for some days giving it more drugs than nutrition. Safely, doctor-perscribed drugs that is. I haven't resorted to medical marijuana (legal here) to quell the nausea. Not really thinking my OB will consider mary jane such a good idea.

The preliminary results will be in on Monday morning. Which - I think - is the third anniversary of That Was The Plan.

I am not an overly religious person but I do converse with God, Buddha and a small cadre of my favorite saints when the going gets tough. I've been praying a lot that this unrelenting nausea and near constant urge to vomit depart soon. My family can only take so much of it. And I want the old me back. So very badly.

My protocol is 8 mg of Z0fran 2x per day. I've developed evil headaches from it - a side effect. Some days I try to get by on one dose. I take 1 Un1som at night, which is about the only thing that works. Though it knocks me clear out so taking it during the day with Missy is a no-go.

They tried Phenegran(sp?) but it didn't work. The Z0fran prevents me - for the most part - from vomiting but it does not help the nausea one bit. Have you ever felt so nervous or scared that you were on the verge of throwing up? That's the feeling I walk around with from about the moment I sit upright in bed until I lay down at night or during Missy's nap.

Hence, I have a lot of trouble eating. I have lost 3 pounds this month. It concerns me because I'm three months pregnant and nearly at what I consider my "fighting weight" for my not-pregnant body.

Nothing glamorous for myself post-CVS or on my birthday. I don't have the energy to plan anything. And surprising the wife with a spa gift certificate is, apparently, in Cowboy's estimation, sooo first pregnancy. (Well, I mean, so first non-miscarried pregnancy).

As for Earth Day, my goal this year was to begin baking our own bread. But since the only thing my oven has seen in the past three months is frozen pizza for Missy and Cowboy, I've failed mightily at that goal.

Stay tuned for Monday. I will post the results as soon as I process them. If all is well, we will find out the gender, too.

Thank you again for your love, support and bearing with me through yet another post about nausea.

Day by day

2010-04-19T12:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes hour by hour. That's how roll these days.

And this week, in particular.

It is week 11. CVS week. On Thursday. I should have the results by this time next Monday.

I am so not connected to this pregnancy. (I know this is a horrible sentence to put on an infertility and miscarriage blog so I write this with much gravity). Perhaps I am staying unconnected so I can control myself through the spectrum of outcomes - one of which is certain to happen - both good or bad - that the CVS will bring.

The sad thing is that I will not even feel relief with a positive outcome. Because it means I will still be so sick for who knows how long. God, what another horrible thing to write. Even to think.

I try to keep the big picture in view. I really do. But it only lasts for about 15 minutes as I lay in bed before Missy wakes up. Then I get up, the nausea kick starts and I try to make it through another day.

The only thing I look forward to is when I take a Un1som tablet and drift to sleep at the end of the day - sleep being my only refuge from the extreme fatigue and nausea.

Which is a third horrible thing to write when I have a life full of things in which to bestowe much gratitude.

Gratitude but precious little joy. Is there such a thing?

5 Years Ago...

2010-04-08T10:59:00.000-07:00

We eloped. And went to New Zealand and Australia for three weeks. Then we came home and held a backyard reception replete with hay bales, watermelon and homemade cupcakes. We served BBQ on china. The day after, I rinsed out and recycled every single one of those red plastic beer cups (yuck), which held Shiner Bock Beer from a keg ordered from Texas.

It seemed like such a simple time.

It was.

Before miscarriages and infertility, then a baby, then another on the way and crashing into bed at 8:00 in the evening because you are so sick with nausea.

From where I sit today, five years seems almost like a lifetime ago. A different life entirely.

But with one constant. Cowboy.

Your Feedback Solicited Here

2010-04-01T14:54:00.000-07:00

We have a CVS scheduled for April 22 during week 11.

The CVS was originally scheduled for April 19 (Monday) but then my lovely husband asked me to please change it because he has to prepare for his company's annual shareholder meeting also that week. I need him to take the day off to care for Missy post-procedure as I am supposed to rest and not lift anything for 24 hours following.

Changing the CVS by a few days is no big deal. Unless you count my nerves. And that I will now have to wait through an entire weekend to get the early results, instead of getting them a mere 48 hours later. And that April 22 is the day before my birthday.

So what do you think that kind of trade-off warrants?

It is so not like me, but a posh hotel room by my lonesom, room service and in-room facial spring to mind.

Sorry to sound like such a whiner. But I'm sick of feeling sick and so very tired. I just needed to vent.

Several IV Bags Later

2010-03-21T14:22:00.001-07:00

Good Lord. I just spent a good spate of time in the L&D ward where I delivered Missy. Hooked up to an IV dripping several bags of delicious hydration into my body. The Z0fran wasn't bad either. Took the edge off.

Nausea hit hard and fast late last week. I managed well for a few days but then it just accelerated. I couldn't keep anything down. Which put me in a downward spiral, dehydrating me further. No energy. Dry heaving the nothingness in my gut. Lying awake at night with gnawing hunger, dry mouth and so much nausea I could barely leave the bed. It was a very desperate feeling.

My OB admitted me right away. And the kind nurses pumped me with fluids. I feel almost human again.

I also had an ultrasound, which showed a measuring-spot-on embryo with a heartbeat of 124 at 6.5 weeks.

The daily Z0fran and the nightly Un1som tablets keep the harshest nausea away. I still have a constant low-grade nausea that hangs about me like a robe but I now I can manage it.

The whole experience has left me feeling like such a hypocrite. Here I try to be all natural-like but when push comes to shove I'm the one begging for the extra 2 ounces of Z0fran and am popping my nightly Un1som like it's Pez.

At least the wee one has cleared another hurdle.

Not so sure about momma.

First Day of the Season

2010-03-08T09:53:00.001-08:00

For every parent who loves the mountains, this has got to be one of the most anticipated, most celebrated days on snow. Equal to (or, dare I say, better than) those bluebird powder days.

We'll consider the emphatic "Mo' ski! Mo' ski! Mo' ! Mo' ! Mo' !" as verdict that she loved it as much as we did.

First Hurdle Cleared

2010-03-04T09:59:00.000-08:00

Second beta = 783

Up 139% from 48 hours earlier. Well over doubling.

They didn't test my progesterone again. Damn. Sometimes I want my RE back. I begged the nurse for another progesterone test. Told them it dropped with Missy the first few weeks of her gestation. So I am waiting to hear what they say.

They want me to schedule an ultrasound in the next few weeks. I LOVE my OB, but - again - am missing Dr. Stretch, my old RE. With him, I had a very set protocol: (1) initial beta, (2) second beta, (3) beta, (4) u/sound at 6.5 weeks to look for a heart beat, (5) follow-up ultrasound at 9.5 weeks to look for heart beta and fetal movement.

And you know how much I love a good plan.

Now I just feel left to wing it. So I am wondering: should I schedule an u/sound for 2 weeks out, which would put me at 7.5 weeks, where we may see a heart beat (please, please, please!)? Or should I wait (can I wait it out?) another week and hope to see a heart beat and maybe some movement at 8.5 weeks?

Thoughts and suggestions gladly accepted.

I know this all sounds a little bit desperate. Especially in light of my misgivings just a few days ago. Bottom line: I'll take another baby any day over another miscarriage, even though I have very little say in either matter at this point.

On a related night, I finally told Cowboy last night. That man's optimism never fails to inspire me.

"C'mon...aren't you just a little bit excited?" he asked after digesting the news.

"You know, honey, it just doesn't work for me like that anymore," I replied, "I have to take it one day at a time."

We read in silence for a few minutes.

"Okay, but what about some more girl names?"

That man. He never fails to make me smile.

But of course...

2010-03-02T10:05:00.000-08:00

So the story goes: Last Sunday it was a gorgeous spring day skiing. Missy was in "ski school" and for the past two weekends has not even cried when I dropped her off. She's like, "See ya, Momma. Gotta go play at the snow table." (Well, she doesn't talk in sentences yet. But if she did, the look on her face indicates that this is what she would most likely say.)

Cowboy and I are taking a break in the deck chairs, facing the late winter sunshine. I think I'm cool with this one kid thing, I thought. My child is in day care. Date day with my husband.

Which means of course that on Monday I get a BFP.

Beta for 12 (?) dpo is 327. Which seems kind of high.

Well, it might be 12 dpo. I wasn't even using CBEFM this month because I ran out of pee sticks and somehow couldn't muster the time or energy to go to the pharmacy across town that carries them.

Progesterone is 37 without prometrium. Bagged that the back half of this cycle, too.

Trying not to be freaked out.
Trying to play it cool.
Trying not to get any hopes up, despite my post from yesterday.

No one knows except for my OB and the few of you still reading this blog. I haven't even told Cowboy yet.

I don’t even know what to title this post as I can’t believe I am posting this on an infertility blog

2010-03-01T00:40:00.000-08:00

It is late. Or early. Depending upon how you look at the clock. I should be working or sleeping. But I can do neither. My mind is stuck. It has wrapped itself around a compelling feeling. Something that feels life altering to me – the proverbial fork in the middle of the road, if you will.

The thought is this: What is Missy is my only (live) child?

What if we choose to have her as an only child? Of course, my body may decide that for me. But what if we consciously hold up our hands and say, “That’s it. We’re done”?

Please don’t think this is frustration talking. We’ve been TTC#2 for just a few months.

It may be a little bit of fear talking. I don’t “do” pregnancy well: daily vomiting and extreme tiredness for the first four months; white-knuckled scans; a knee-knocking CVS due to my advanced maternal age and other factors; more daily tiredness for the last 2 months; and the biggest fucking swollen ankles you can imagine, which is not a good look on someone who just barely tops 5’1”. All worth it now that Missy has blessed our lives but…

…that was when I didn’t have a willful, spirited toddler and a growing business that needed constant tending. Just thinking about the prospect of keeping those balls in the air makes me heave a deep sigh of how-the-hell-will-I-manage-it-all-?

Then, it gets even more selfish. The skiing. The mountains. The latent yoga practice I yearn for desperately. The local, off-the-grid food movement that I ascribe to. The will to travel internationally as much as possible to experience different cultures. Could I do it all with two? Do I want to go back to baby-baby mode when my “baby” has already started to potty train?

Granted, my past experience with an infant was with that of a high-maintenance one. Missy is one of the great loves of my life. She has a sparkling personality and a wonderful spirit. But, good Lord, that child is strong willed. “Like her mother,” cowboy - and my parents - would likely say. It is true the apple does not fall far from the tree. But between the sleep – she still takes over an hour to get down and that is after bath, milk & books – and the I-must-be-attached-to-momma-at-all-times first year… I just don’t know if I have it in me.

Yes, I am sure #2 would be quite different from Missy. But I feel like I am still recovering from her babyhood and staring down the barrel of raising a spirited toddler. And my high-needs baby recovery time and biological clock are nearly at an impasse. Trust me on this.

I did a quick survey of my acquaintances & friends who share similar interests: skiing, travel, etc. Having a single child occurs at a pretty high rate. I look at their lives and how we want to live ours. I do the mental math of adding one more seat on an international flight to Portillo or Wanaka and I do a reality check. I KNOW! It’s horrible to quantify a child like that. Really. How fucking cold. But still. I do.

I don’t know what to do or how to tackle this or where this strong feeling even came from.

So, on this one…on this major one. I think I am going to turn to my yoga teachings and my infertility training: I’m just going to sit with it for a little while. Even though it is mightily uncomfortable. I need to sit with it and try to feel it both ways.

It seems like too big a decision not to.

Cougar

2010-02-19T14:39:00.000-08:00

Have you ever asked a psychic about your reproductive future?

I haven’t and while I both have a hippie streak and live somewhat close to California, I am not sure I will fork over some hard-earned cash for a glimpse into my future.

But Cowboy did. Kind of.

A few months ago – before AF had even reappeared on the stage – Cowboy ponied up to the bar at the mountain and was lured into conversation with a (in his words) cougar. Who ended up telling him she was a psychic who earned close to 200 G’s telling people around Portland what was coming. She had just bought a ski house nearby with some of the proceeds.

Cowboy – as cowboys are wont to do – played his cards close. He says he alluded that he had a child but didn’t tell cougar-psychic-lady that Missy was a missy. Over the course of their conversation, cougar-psychic-lady gave him a bunch of freebies, including:

1. Your daughter (right) is a fire cracker (right, again).

2. Between ages 16 – 17, she will be hell on wheels. (great. Then again, what girl between the ages of 16 and 17 isn’t?)

3. Then she will right her ship and become very successful. (really?)

4. Between this December and April, you will conceive a boy. (you don’t say?)

5. He will be the opposite of his sister: mellow (thank God).

6. By the way, is there someone close in your life named, Mark? (WTF! Cowboy’s dad with whom he is very close is named Mark).

Maybe I should be obsessing about the kind of trouble my daughter might get into commencing with her Sweet 16, but really the whole son-conceiving-between-December-and-April thing is what sticks in my head. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t pop into my head at some point every damn day.

Why!? Why am I willing to hang on to a thread of bullshit free advice given to my husband by a cougar-psychic-lady at a bar (when, by the way, he should have been out skiing)?????

Is this really how low I’ve sunk of the reproductive confidence scale?

What do you think? Should one ever believe free psychic advice? Have you ever seen a psychic and were his or her prophecies true?

Or am I just fucking nutty cakes?

More patience required

2010-02-03T20:53:00.000-08:00

I think that in the past 3-1/2 years of miscarriages and infertility and then a baby who wouldn't sleep, I might have gotten semi-decent at one thing: being patient.

Which was never, ever my strong suit.

Patience rules the day again. Chart Day One again, that is. Sigh.

A Decade of Fun

2010-01-26T13:50:00.000-08:00

Last week Cowboy and I celebrated the 10 year anniversary of our first date. A decade of fun, I referred to it.

I remember the day as clear as a bell. We went snowboarding at Mt. Bachelor on a Friday when we didn't have classes. It was a bluebird powder day (there are not many of those in Oregon in January). And he was an incredible rider.

I used to use snowboarding, mountain biking or climbing as my filter for dates. Back in Washington, D.C., from whence I came, I would meet lots of guys at parties who professed to being snowboarders, bikers or climbers. So if asked for a date, I would suggest one of the above. Cowboy was the first guy in a long time who was better than me at one of the aforementioned sports. To this day, he's better than me at most outdoor sports. But I can still kick his ass rock climbing.

We ate a lunch of brought-from-home soup and sandwiches on the tailgate of Old Blue (his pick-up truck). Gus sat between us in the back, begging pets and sandwich crusts. I instantly saw a future with this man.

Just by coincidence, 10 years from that excellent day riding fell on CD14.

Cowboy's New Gig

2010-01-19T11:42:00.000-08:00

I have some very big news - well, we think it is big news - about Cowboy that I'd like to document here:

He was accepted as an apprentice patroller on the Mt. Hood Ski Patrol.

For a man who loves to ski and whose favorite show (when we had T.V.) was "Cops," this is truly a dream come true.

He printed out the application for ski patrol every year since before we got married. This was the first year he followed through with the try out. Because they only take 20% of the applicants and because everyone at the try out was - in his words - either a medic or an ex-ski racer, neither of us had much hope he would make it. And then he was drafted to slot #9 in a class of 70 apprentices for the 2010 season!

I am so proud of him.

This means a lot for our family because his being a patroller is truly a family commitment. He has to pledge to patrol 20x per season, which is a lot of Saturdays and Sundays at the mountain for us (yay!). The apprenticeship also means he is gone every Saturday from January 'til June from 5 AM until 9 PM. This is in addition to the dawn-to-dusk hours he keeps at the office during the week. Yikes. Which means momma and Missy have another extra day to adventure together. It's the rainy, snowy season here so we've gone sledding, snowshoeing and to a local indoor pool so far. Other suggestions gladly taken!

We are also hoping that we find a new mountain "family" with the patrol crew. The sports company I used to work for came with a built-in crew of like-minded skiers and snowboarders but we've scattered to the four winds in the three years since my employer moved to Utah. So far, we haven't connected with other families who are dedicated enough to hit the mountain on a frequent basis - and pay the heaping cost of daycare. It's something we miss in our lives.

Speaking of mountain daycare. Missy loves ski school (as we call it because it sounds cooler). She yells "key cool - yeeeee!" with clapping hands when we talk about it. We have her ski boots, skis and goggles out for her to play with and get used to. She will start skiing this spring, just before she turns 2. When we go to the mountain, she MUST play in the snow and skis down in Cowboy's arms to the car from the day care center with a huge grin at the end of the day. Will have to get a picture of it soon. Camera is broken.

Fuck it & Wing it

2010-01-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

While perhaps a good strategy for DIY during the holidays and a ski road trip, did not pay off in the end. Sigh.

Today is CD28. I greeted this morning with a sick, whiny toddler and a BFN after hoping, hoping, hoping that actually making it this far meant, well...very good things.

Patience is my mantra today.

Three years ago I would have been devastated about this morning's main event. Today my attitude is more keep-calm-and-carry-on. There was breakfast to be made, doggies to be walked and the cutest nose on earth (hers, not mine) that needed wiping.

I can only hope that I remain this resolute in the coming months.

All You Need to Know about Road Tripping with a Toddler

2010-01-04T13:07:00.000-08:00

Sorry not to post while I was on the road. Between all the mountains and friends we wanted to visit across Idaho and Utah, we ran a tight ship. Organizing, hauling, packing and unpacking all that gear was quite the feat. And we didn't even pack that much. Five pairs of baby socks for 10 days of travel, for instance. My secret: Smartwool socks turned inside out and dried by the heater. (No laundry this time. I can only imagine spending a few hours in a laundramat with an active toddler.)

Cowboy ended up being quite the sherpa. That man is amazing. We only lost one snack trap during the entire trip, which included moving into and out of five different temporary residences with the port-a-crib, ski boots, boxes of Annie's bunnies and an assortment of gloves for each of us.

I am so grateful for the mountains, for the fresh air, for the snow. I am grateful we've chosen to have the mountains define our lives as a family. I am grateful that we do this for Christmas instead of presents. Each year has its own memories and learning experiences.

This year we learned to pack more of Missy's favorite music CD's for the long hours on the road. In an effort to bring as little as possible, we only brought TWO.

Both of which will be ceremoniously burned one night after Missy goes to bed.

In an effort to conserve space, I didn't even bring the CBEFM. I got to CD15 without an indication of peak fertility before we left. I considered bringing it briefly but in the end decided to fuck it and wing it old school style. I guess we'll just hope for the best this cycle.

Of course, to ensure a little good luck, I made sure to drink some beer and wine, sit in a few hot tubs and eat shellfish in the back half (I think?) of this cycle. Should make for some good babymaking karma, eh?

Wishing you a yummy holiday

2009-12-22T21:27:00.000-08:00

Happy holidays everyone. May all of your wishes come true. May you have a winter filled with many snow angels...

Blah, blah, blah. OK. I just want everyone to get pregnant, stay pregnant, have a healthy baby(ies), sign the official paperwork. Whatever. Whatever it takes to get you where you want to go in this world of motherhood.

I'm feeling a little weird this holiday. Grateful for such a full life. A little embarassed for wanting more. Trying to play it cool on the outside while inwardly desperate for another child in our family.

We leave soon for our annual ski trip. To Utah this time. I'll try to find something funny most days to post from the road. Stay tuned for stories of one horse towns, laundramats and toddler antics as we snake our way through Eastern Oregon, Southern Idaho and Northern Utah.

Above is our holiday card photo of Missy at 1-1/2. Like the good Northwest girl that she is, she loves apples.

Peace, love & powder, Ms. Planner, Cowboy & Missy

My Work Here is Done

2009-12-14T22:47:00.000-08:00

Kind of.

During the past 2-1/2 years of keeping a blog, I amassed a small list of other women in the throes of infertility whose blogs I followed. Today is a happy, happy day. Because – with only 2 exceptions – and I don’t know what is going on with those two writers because they haven’t posted in many months (Carrie? Where are you? I miss you.) – every one of the bloggers I follow regularly has made it through to the other side.

Last fall I wondered if I should end my blog as a way of closing the door on infertility for me. I decided, however, that I could not leave all my comrades who hadn’t closed the door themselves.

All are now mothers. Many are on a successful second journey. It makes me exhale a deep sigh of relief. Of contentment.

But a few are still struggling for a second shot at pregnancy. Myself included. So I’m not giving this space up.

Cowboy and I decided that while we are late in the game, we want to give it another shot. My cycles are finally back now that I am nursing only once a day.

So I fired up the CBEFM and set it to CD1.

Holy shit. Here we go again.

$5

2009-11-27T22:04:00.000-08:00

There are many, many things I love about living in the West. One of my favorites is that you can buy a Christmas tree permit from the USDA for $5 and cut down your very own tree from one of the nearby national forests.

We head up around Mt Hood for ours every year during the Thanksgiving holiday. This year was especially poignant as it was our pup's first tree hunt and - at 15 years old - most likely our golden retriever's last.

Sweet Jesus! She Sleeps!

2009-11-12T22:25:00.000-08:00

"Some women's husbands buy them plastic surgery enhancements," I joked to Missy's Ear, Nose & Throat pediatrician post-op, "Instead, mine gets my daughter's adenoids removed so I get the gift of sleep."

So that's what it was. In the weeks following surgery to remove her ginormous adenoids, waking during the night has become the exception not the rule for sweet little Missy. She regularly goes 11 to 12 hours. Miracle upon miracles.

I won't gloat, because I hated people who gloated that their kid slept through the night when mine was waking every three hours. But, I mean, c'mon. I might be a little bit due. She didn't sleep for more than four hours at a clip for 18 looooong months. Until now.

Sigh. So blissful. Sleep. All six, seven, even eight (!) hours of it. I can remember phone numbers again. I can walk into a room and remember what I came in there for. I can put her to bed and - shocker! - actually go do something without her waking in an hour or two.

To quote the t-shirt: Life is good.

I honestly have to credit my nanny and the book, "The No Cry Sleep Solution," for my good fortune. The book got me seriously thinking that Missy might have sleep apnea. And my nanny galvanized me to act on it.

As for our regular pediatrician... She can suck it. When I brought up the no-sleeping-through-the-night-yet issue at Missy's one year appointment, all I got was 10 pages of cry-it-out and the Ferber Method protocol. As it happens, she could have asked me three basic questions: does she snore? what does it sound like on the monitor just before she wakes up? have you or your husband had your tonsils and/or adenoids removed? And referred me to an ear, nose and throat pediatrician for further review. Sleep apnea in children - and especially in babies - is vastly underdiagnosed. I now know why.

The best part though is Missy when she wakes up. She is all rosy cheeked and bright eyed. Like a baby should look when they wake after a long night's rest. Gone are the dark circles and pale visage.

Yes. Life is good.

2009-10-27T10:39:00.000-07:00

This is Bullshit

2009-10-26T00:04:00.000-07:00

This whole H1N1 vaccine thing is bullshit.

In the state where I live, it is illegal to give a shot that contains the preservative thimerasol (mercury) to a child under the age of 3. Except for within the next 6 months. Our secretary of health lifted the mercury ban in response to getting more H1N1 vaccines to the population.

I get it. The single-dose preservative-free shots are more expensive, take longer to manufacture and are - by virtue of being single doses - less economical. The drug companies can respond faster with the larger dose vials that get more vaccines to more people. This is a good thing.

However, the momma in me - and specifically the hippie momma in me who is already skeptical of THE MAN and so many of his vaccines that we now give our kids (chickenpox, Hepatitis B to infants, you don't want to get me started) - is like, why the fuck would I give my baby something that is illegal to give her in any other circumstance?

Don't get me wrong. We vaccinate. Mostly. We are on a slower schedule. Missy did get her regular influenza vaccine this year. And I totally would give her the H1N1 vaccine except I cannot find a thimerasol-free version. Apparently I don't have the hook up.

Our friend's pediatrician in the next town has a few precious vials of the perservative-free vaccine but she is doling them out to her patients who also happen to be invited to her young son's birthday party next week. Alas, we are not on the guest list.

So what we've been doing instead is being social pariahs. We go to the park a couple of times each day for fresh air and a change of scenery but I chase Missy around with CleanWell hand sanitizer like a complete germ-a-phobe. Otherwise, no children's museums, no shopping, no zoo, no library.

Of course we are taking Missy into the lion's den tomorrow for her surgery. The staff have assured me they are on heightened alert for the flu and have very strict procedures. Still, I worry.

So I guess what I'm admitting - and I apologize and beg your pardon and all that - but until I can find someone who will give us the mercury-free version, I will be one of those people who relies on other kids getting their vaccinations to keep mine safe.

I really don't like playing it that way. But I like injecting my daughter with mercury less.

Sleep is for the Weak

2009-10-20T12:52:00.000-07:00

Or for those with normal-sized adenoids.

We have endured nearly three months where we have not co-slept. Two months of no more night nursing. One month of no more early-morning momma "snacks" with the hope that doing so at 4:30 a.m. might give me a few more precious hours of sleep.

I use the word endured because that is what we have been doing.

"Sleep training, my ass," I think as I stumble down the hall for the third, maybe fourth time that night. Out of sheer desperation after one particularly brutal night, I looked up a local pediatric clinic specializing in sleep disorders. I suspected...well, I mean, you start grasping at straws when you haven't cobbled together more than 4 hours of sleep at a time for a year-and-a-half.

Then our new nanny commented to me that Missy stops breathing occasionally when she goes down for a nap. I had noticed this, too, but it took an objective perspective to make me realize that it wasn't just me looking for something else to blame other than myself for completely fucking up my kid's sleep. Something that could cause my daughter to still wake so much in the night and look in the morning like she hadn't slept a wink, even after 12 hours in the crib.

"Oh, yes," said the doctor, "Just as I thought." A tiny camera is up my daughter's numbed nose. She is handling it - like she handles everything - like a champ. Her chin out, jaws clamped, narrowed eyes but no crying.

The nasal passage 98% blocked by an oversized adenoid.

Her brain isn't going into deep sleep because it may need to react quickly to not enough air. When she gasps for air, her body moves as an involuntary response and she wakes. Missy, it turns out, has been subsisting on light REM sleep for who knows how long.

It's not a huge issue now (except for if you are the mommy who gets up to comfort her each time she wakes) but school-aged kids that have undiagnosed sleep apnea have trouble focusing, get frustrated easily and are often improperly diagnosed with ADHD because they are wired from being chronically overtired.

With that in mind, day surgery to have the offending body part removed will be scheduled shortly.

"I can't guarantee she will sleep through the night," said the pediatrician, "But I can guarantee that she will get better quality sleep when she does sleep."

Yes Ma'am

2009-10-16T01:01:00.001-07:00

I can't sleep again. I think my body just got used to Missy's every-other-hour-night-wakings stint (I kid you not. It sucked. Sigh.) and now my body is like, "Uh-uh, sister. We are so not going to sleep only to have that g-damn baby monitor wake us up in 45 minutes."

So, we don't have T.V. but we still watch T.V. Thanks to Net*flix, I get to revisit all sorts of gems I never could stay up for in a previous life. Now I have a major crush on Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights.

I know. Major hotness.

I think it is the Texas girl still in me. I mean, I now live in a place where I hardly wear make-up or jewerly and my ever-present Patagucci fleece vest actually looks cool instead of frumpy - like it would in Texas. I love where I live but I sometimes get nostalgic for big skies, serious football and men and boys who say, "yes, ma'am" and "no sir." So hot.

Save for Cowboy, no one calls me "ma'am" here. And I am at the point in my life where I kind of want them to. Maybe that is yet another reason I married him.

Harvest Season

2009-10-07T21:49:00.000-07:00

I am exhausted. I should be sleeping. But I can’t. Every time I get close to falling asleep, I hear a "thwock" coming from my kitchen denoting that another jar of delicious, organic applesauce from Eastern Washington has sealed itself. And I get all proud and giddy.

So far we’ve put up:
- 15 quarts of peaches (see above)
- 16 quarts of pears
- 10 quarts of apple sauce...with more to come
- 15 pints of roasted tomato sauce, which is no small feat when you consider that it takes 10 lbs of tomatoes roasting for 6 hours to make 3 pints of sauce.

It is my first foray into canning. I am quite hooked.

This year, our family Earth Day goal was to join a CSA. At a local meet-the-farmers night, I got hooked into a locavore food network run by a young farmer wife who networks with other farms to bring local products to market. It is major off-the-grid grocery shopping. In addition to our weekly veggies & berries, now we now eat local cheese, yogurt, honey, grass-fed beef, pastured chickens & their eggs, pastured pork and have access to the yummiest organic pears, peaches, apples and nectarines for a fraction of what we would pay in the store.

It takes a bit of extra effort sourcing all this stuff and organizing it into meals but it is worth it when I watch Missy devour half a peach that we canned and then sign "more please."

Indian Summer Sweet

2009-09-20T23:04:00.000-07:00

I am incredulous at how fast they go from baby to child. The only thing baby about her is that she has yet to sleep through the night. I totally jinxed myself when I publicly asked the Universe (on this blog) for a baby that slept through the night sooner rather than later.

Trifecta

2009-09-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

Exactly a month has passed since my last post. These 30 days feel like an eternity to me. So hectic are the days that I drop into bed each night, grateful for a few moments of stillness.

The beginning of August brought Missy’s accelerated weaning and transition from our bed to her own crib. Both shook her – and me – up a bit but we managed.

Right when we got our footing with only one nursing session at bedtime and a few nights of only waking once (pure heaven), we welcomed a new puppy into our home. Yeah, I am crazy. A toddler and a puppy. Some hours, it is great. (My favorite hour is when pup and babe nap simultaneously). Some hours, it sucks. The timing for Miss Black Butte Swift – a.k.a. "Boo" – is not ideal but she came into our lives and is here to stay. So I’m dealing with it.

She wants – oh she so very wants – to be a good dog. You can see it in her. But right now she is just all, well, puppy. And needs to learn the ways of our house and what we expect from our dogs. After the rocky first days, she is settling in a bit. Of course, right when she started to form a routine and stopped stealing the baby’s toys at every turn, we received a visit from THE VIRUS.

Frick. Missy caught a viral infection that has bestowed us with constant yellow ribbons of snot, pink eye, irritated ears, fit-full sleep and general crabbiness. It’s been around for more than 2 weeks and she is finally on a mild course of antibiotics to abate it.

I cannot help but wonder if the onset of the virus is a direct correlation to our diminished nursing sessions. And from the two-steps-forward-two-steps-back camp, I increased nursing sessions to combat her dehydration and to provide some extra comfort and, hopefully, more antibodies. I mean, the night before the snot started flowing, the kid was pulling down my t-shirt and trying to crawl in while crying. I think she was trying to tell me she needed some nursing to level things out a bit. But I will certainly be known to our dinner guests that night as the-woman-who-was-still-breastfeeding-when-her-kid-could-pull-down-her-shirt-how-gross. Sigh.

Now that she is on the mend, I am slowly backing her nursing sessions down. But you can bet that she is not pleased. Not pleased at all. I feel like we are back at square one.

So I try to see each day as a blessing. How lucky to have such a full life. Sometimes though I just take it hour by hour and try to get through each day without yelling at my husband, grabbing the pup too hard by the scruff of her neck when she does something ultra-bad or being exasperated with my daughter. My daily incantation: this too shall pass. I try to go easy on myself in terms of what I accomplish each day. But going easy of myself was never my strong suit.

Big Girl Time

2009-08-05T12:17:00.000-07:00

The few months since Missy turned 1 (from May until now) have rocked my world. Not in a bad way though.

Missy has rocketed from a baby to a little girl seemingly overnight. First she started to understand what I was saying. Then she started walking. One day, you wake up and jokingly tell her to go get her shoes so you can go to the park. And she does!

I am a bit wistful. The baby time is nearly gone.

Also this week we are transitioning from co-sleeping to crib sleeping at night. AND dropping the night feeding(s). That is a lot for one little girl to handle. Apparently so for her momma, too.

After a week of little sleep because Missy kept waking up and wanting to play in the middle of the night, Cowboy was kind of over the co-sleeping. And, after months of watching parent-after-parent in our library group – not to mention several bloggers who I follow – get knocked up with #2 while I pine for AF like an 8th grader, I am kind of over the night nursing.

Rule number 1 with co-sleeping is that if you resent it, change it. So last night Cowboy rode pole position in the nursery chair while I tried to sleep. It was lonely without Missy snuggled up. No Cowboy either. Sigh. I still woke every time she cried. I was impressed that Cowboy got her back to sleep without too much of a struggle. Impressed and incredulous. He managed to do in one night what I have been putting off for months.

I was also a bit sad during the night: my baby no longer needed just me.

This morning, however, thoughts of liberation are seeping in. She no longer needs just ME. I can go on a business trip or a girl’s weekend and know – confidently know – that she won’t fall apart.

I might. But she will handle it.

Just like she handles her own spoon. It is a little messy but she gets it done.

It Walks

2009-07-20T11:12:00.000-07:00

Perfect Moment Monday

2009-07-06T08:04:00.000-07:00

She's tired - awakened by the DIY fireworks along the otherwise quiet lakeshore - and wants her momma.

In her striped jammies, clutching her blanket and bunny, we watch. Snuggled close, cheek-to-cheek, we gaze up at the sparkles and booms.

A long-held dream come true.

Kill Your Television

2009-06-30T11:30:00.000-07:00

I’ve always secretly admired those bumper stickers.

It is estimated that 2.5 million Americans have not made the switch to digital TV – and therefore have no TV. Meet three of them.

Cowboy and I had cable and then satellite TV for a long time. About four years ago, we got rid of pay-for-TV after we realized that most of the programs started to seem the same (we never had the premium channels like HBO). We went from hundreds of channels to 5-and-1/2. I say one-half because ABC was always kind of fuzzy.

During my first year as a mom, I came to loathe TV. I don’t watch it during the day. And it always seemed that if there was some random program on I wanted to watch, Missy obliged her momma by waking up as much as possible during it. Or, I would wait all day to watch "The Office" and then fall to sleep 10 minutes into the show. (Um, we don’t have TiVo.) Often, I would get pissed if Cowboy kicked backed and watched TV while I was soothing Missy. How dare him watch "Two-and-a-Half Men" after working 13 hours at the office!

I know. Completely irrational.

Aforementioned shows and Oregon Public Broadcasting notwithstanding, it just seemed to us that free TV got worse as we got closer to the switch.

So we purposefully opted out. And life is good. We honestly aren’t missing much.

These days I get super-annoyed with commentators and people-with-opinions who assume that folks who have not made the switch to digital cannot figure out how to do it. As if – GOD FORBID how un-American – your life is not complete without TV.

We still watch TV occasionally by renting shows we actually want to watch from Netflix. We get our news from NPR or The Economist. We don’t let Missy watch TV so she’s not missing anything.

Instead, we do projects around the house. Or bake. Or read. Or other fun things you can do when your kid is asleep.

I’m beginning to like life in the slow lane.

I wonder how many more of us are out there.

Missy and the Girls

2009-06-17T11:59:00.000-07:00

Or I guess another apt title would be: you reap what you sow.

I live in a region of the U.S. that has one of the highest rates of American breast-fed babies. It is just as common to breast feed in public as it is to shake up a bottle of formula. No one bats an eye. Until your kid can walk up to you and nurse, that is. That still seems to skeeve people out. Even if they do sport a "Keep Portland Weird" bumper sticker on their Prius.

At 1 year, Missy doesn’t seem close to walking. Which is great. Because she is so not close to weaning either.

I don’t mean to suggest that I would raise my child based on what I perceive are the perceptions from total strangers – or even good friends. But after 1 year of age, it seems like the scale goes quickly from "my, what a healthy thing for your baby," to "good lord, when is that kid going to get off the boob."

Don’t get me wrong. I really, really, really wanted breast feeding to go well for us. So much so that I forbade the nurses in L&D to give Missy a pacifier in her early days for fear that she wouldn’t develop a good latch.

Where my body failed me with pregnancies, my girls made up for it in spades. Nursing was easy as pie for Missy and me. Now it has gone so well that I fear that Missy won’t be inclined to give it up too soon.

She still insists on nursing to sleep for naps and night-night. We are working slowly at dropping the nursing session for her morning nap. But she also nurses in the night a few times. I can count on one hand the number of times she has slept through the night since her birth. Over a year ago. Sigh.

When we go out – which is almost never because we spent all of our money on day care at the mountain – I leave a sippy cup of expressed milk for the sitter and Missy won’t touch it. She goes to sleep for Cowboy and the sitter with no milk and only a little fussing before putting her head down on their shoulders. But for me, she literally shoves her way down to the girls and gets seriously pissed off if I don’t oblige. Which I resent. Just a tiny, tiny bit.

During the day, I comfort her with hugs, kisses and distractions -– thank goodness it is so easy to distract a toddler. At night, however, it is just easier for everyone to let her have a little nursing sesh and we all go right back to sleep. Besides, I can see my refusal becoming a battle of wills. And with a mother-daughter Taurus combo, I don’t anticipate a fabulous outcome in that scenario.

But – and this is so Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret – but I really want my period to come. I am seriously jealous when I hear about other new moms getting AF. Nursing - specifically the night nursing - is preventing my auntie from returning for a visit.

On the other hand, I want to have my cake and eat it, too. Because I don’t want to force-wean Missy when she (I?) is clearly not ready. What if I wean her and give up the close bonding we have and then I piss her off and she needs years of therapy as a teen? Only so that we can try again before my eggs dry up (and, trust me, that window is getting very, very small). Yeah, because all that timed sex and thermometer-induced rage was super positive for our marriage. Maybe we won’t even have another successful outcome.

Gosh, I sound like such a chicken shit.

But at least I have a great looking rack.

365

2009-05-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

My baby turned 1 today.

We celebrated at a vineyard with a picnic of cupcakes and wine.

The day was lovely. Perfect weather. The still snow-capped Cascade Mountains in the distance.

So on this gorgeous day our baby turned 1. And we toasted our first year of parenthood.

I have so much to say about the past 365 days that I don't know where to begin.

Earth Day 2009: You, too, can do this

2009-04-21T20:08:00.000-07:00

Happy Earth Day everyone! It seems like everyone in bloggerville has a favorite holiday where they do something fun on their blog. So I claim Earth Day.

Last year, I wrote how every year we try to do something better for the environment. One year we stopped using papertowels. This coming year we are investing in a CSA so our produce will come from a local, organic farm. The goal is to make our change a habit, so we continue to live more sustainable existence.

It occurred to me that I never wrote much about our 2008-09 Earth Day resolution: to use cloth diapers.

To be honest, I was afraid I would do the first load of poopy diapers and fail miserably at keeping the resolution.

And then we found the holy grail of cloth diapering your kid: the bumGenius 3.0.

Of all the products and brands in Missy’s life (and there are a lot), one of my hands down favorites is her bumGenius 3.0 cloth diapers.

The bumGenius is truly genius. It makes cloth diapering a cinch. Show a BG to your mom and watch a wave of jealousy roll across her face. You can practically see the thought-balloon over her head: why didn’t they have these when I had my kids?

I joke about being a hippie. I have a hippie streak in me that runs a mile deep. But you do not have to even be marginally hippie to cloth diaper your kid. Especially not if you use BG diapies.

My goal is not to pontificate. By gosh, if you have a diaper brand or system that works for you, by all means, keep at it. Life is complicated enough. But if you are reading this and have even an inkling that you’d like to try cloth diapering, then consider the BGs.

You can visit the BG website to check out all the product attributes, so I won’t bore you with details. The things I really love about them include:

(1) We are not clogging up a landfill with diapers.
(2) There are no chemicals near my daughter’s body (I don’t actually know what is in the diaper lining of disposables that becomes a gel-like substance when babies pee on it. That’s because manufacturers don’t have to list the contents. But I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it is non-chemical).
(3) BGs are super easy to clean. You literally toss them in your washer. 2 cycles of wash and they come out white as snow. I shake out the solid poop in the toilet, but Missy was almost 8 months old before I had to start doing this. As a side note, before I had a kid, I super-skeeved out on all the poop stuff. With your own baby, however, it is kind of like scooping your own dog’s poop. It doesn’t bum you out too much.
(4) There is very little smell from the diaper pail because we "do the diapies" (as we call our diapie washing exploits) every other day. Which sounds like a lot, but the practice has become rote.

Doing the diapies adds approximately 6 loads to laundry duty per week because you wash the BGs once on cold and then again on hot. Trust me. 4-6 additional loads of laundry in the scope of how much your laundry will increase is nothin’.

Some may point out that it takes more energy to wash diapers over and over as opposed to simply throwing away disposables but that argument fails to point out how much energy it takes to produce & ship three years worth of disposable diapers per kid. Our 20 BGs were made once. And shipped once. Because they adjust to sizes from 8-35 lbs., we’ll use these until Missy is potty trained. Or if we have another kid. Or we’ll re-sell them. The going rate for used BG 3.0s in Portland is 50% of what we paid for them.

We started out using a diaper service with our own set of diaper wraps. And this was a super way to get on the cloth diaper train. But then the service raised its rates and Missy outgrew the wraps, which cost nearly as much as each BG. All of a sudden being a hippie wasn’t so cost-effective. You can be sure Cowboy did the math.

The BGs have only 2 drawbacks. First, they are spendy. We invested $350 in our set of 20 diapies but we consider it a capital investment. Depreciated over the cost of 2-3 years (not to mention kid #2 should we be that lucky), it is a pittance of what disposables would run.

Another side note, a trendy thing in Portland is to hold a baby shower where every guest brings a small gift + one BG diaper to help the parents-to-be complete their diaper stash.

Second, most cute baby pants, especially constructed ones such as jeans or corduroys, do not work well with cloth diapers in general because the rise on the pants are too short to fit over the baby’s bubble butt. So we do the cute one-piece rompers instead. A small sacrifice in my book.

Anyway, I hope that this post convinced at least one person to try cloth diapering. There is so much information and a plethora of products out there that it is daunting to figure out. I did a lot of groundwork to arrive at the BGs as a solution. Just thought I’d pass on the good word.

What have you done this year to minimize your impact on the environment? Please post your cool ideas in my comments section. I'd love to hear what everyone is up to.

Or you can just call me a flippin' hippie. It will make me laugh.

Happy Easter

2009-04-12T20:43:00.000-07:00

I don't know why, but I love Easter. I love the bunnies. I love piecing together the perfect basket. I even love Peeps. When I was in graduate school and was so broke that I routinely had, like, only $12 to my name, I still managed to pull together a little basket for Cowboy when we were dating.

This year was Missy's first basket. Since her new skill is removing the entire contents of anything resembling a container, she was in heaven. And, of course, for all the sweet, carefully procured items bestowed on her by the Easter Bunny, she liked the 65-cent plastic eggs the best.

My delight in assembling my daughter's first basket was only slightly marred by my inability to eat heaps of chocolate eggs and bunnies this year.

Despite nearing the ripe ol' age of one, Missy still suffers from reflux. Her meds help but if I even look at a piece of chocolate, a cup of coffee or a bottle of Pinot, she projectile vomits.

Once I discovered that these items set her off, I stopped having them for months. Then, one day I discovered a teeny, tiny stash of chocolate chips in the cupboard.

Throw them away. They make her reflux act up, said the good momma angel.

Oh, c'mon, she's almost a year old for chrissakes. Maybe it no longer affects her, said the bad momma devil.

Naturally, I went with the bad momma devil. I mean, there was chocolate involved.

And poor Missy vomited the night away. That'll learn me.

So I'm off all the good stuff. Until I wean her.

Then I'm gonna bake the biggest, baddest chocolate cake and eat the shit out of it.

Hola!

2009-03-30T14:46:00.000-07:00

We have just returned from the forbidden land of

Which is equal parts beauty

And sad desperation

But the sand tasted fabulous

Lest you think I am nutty-cakes for taking a baby to Cuba, we traveled there legally to visit family who are in the foreign service. Taxes, teething and travel have taken all of March. I promise to post more in April. Really.

Leaving me to ponder, is a blog really a blog if you don't write in it?

Mid-winter

2009-02-08T21:52:00.000-08:00

Snapped while Missy learned to stand in her crib as we played peek-a-boo. Apparently - according to Missy - the only thing her crib is good for is learning to stand.

When we painted the walls this color, I had no idea it would match her eyes.

On why I don't want a new blog

2009-02-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

My MIL just left our house, heading back to the Lone Star State. Before she did, she mistakenly called my husband by his older brother's name about 50 times and asked me at least thrice when we are going to have a little boy.

As if I have a choice in either of those two matters.

When I have a few spare minutes, I sincerely enjoy popping over to some of my formerly-IF friends' new mommy blogs. I lurk and more often than not find myself chuckling or nodding in agreement at posts. I've thought about starting a new blog myself. The only thing stopping me is karma.

See, according to my fucked up karma logic, the minute I leave my infertility blog for another space is the minute I will start obsessing about having another baby. And then I won't be able to. And then the whole vicious cycle with begin anew.

I'm already plotting. Let's see. Hmmm. Missy will be 1 in May. I can wean her over the summer and be pregnant by fall...

Riiiiiight.

But the saddest part is that I actually think these things. Nothing like a victory to make you think you are impervious.

Anyway. So that's why I haven't started a new blog. That and because being a full time mom and working part-time running my own business, I feel a serious lack of time and creativity. Instead I will just admire all of the other creativity out there.

First Season

2009-01-19T22:16:00.000-08:00

After an unseasonably warm and dry fall, which kept the mountain from opening earlier, storm after storm has rolled in off the Pacific. The most recent one has coupled with a trough of Arctic air fresh from Alaska. Feet of very un-Cascade-like fluffy snow are piling up.

I am crouched in the camper with my helmet and goggles on, listening to the avy bombs go off, furiously working a hand pump because the electric one draws too much power. The folks at Arc’teryx should know that their garments are just as good repelling breast milk as they are at repelling the elements. I am waiting for our 7-month-old to wake up from her morning nap so I can haul her, 2 blankies, 6 diapers and 8-ounces of freshly-pumped milk to the mountain day care and still be near the front of the lift line when it opens.

This is not a complaint in the least. Just a testimony to the extra dedication it takes to get the goods when you have a baby in tow. But skiing is what we do. Nearly every weekend in fact. Pick up the camper on Thursday night. Pack it on Friday. Drive to the hill Friday night. Ski Saturday and Sunday. Spend 48 hours with two grown-ups, a baby, a golden retriever and all our gear in less than 100 square feet. Drive home.

The first few times we do it, it takes immense effort to inventory, pack and keep track of all the baby essentials we might need while camped in the mountain parking lot. Add to that the general list of gear we normally take with us: Gloves, goggles, extra lenses. Check, check, and check. A case of PBR, cans of soup, oatmeal packets. Got ‘em. Sippy cup, thermometer, Good Night Moon. Sheesh.

You begin to understand why some people drop out for a few years when they have young babies. But our first date was to the mountain. So it makes sense that – for us – having a kid after years of grown-up playtime wouldn’t change what we do.

We find a rhythm as the season progresses. Powder days mean springing for a full day of care. Typical conditions equal a half-day of care. Not-so-sweet days mean we do the hand off in the camper, trying to time feedings and naps with which parent has her.

We used to enjoy apres drinks and a big plate of nachos at the lodge. But now that cash goes to the mountain day care center. On the way home on Sunday afternoon, I gaze at the down-swaddled bundle with the toothless smile nestled in her car seat between us in the cab of the truck. I eat my tuna sandwich and wouldn’t have it any other way.

The countdown

2008-12-17T11:05:00.000-08:00

Less than 10 days to go before Christmas. And Missy is scanning the sky for Santa.

Actually, she's looking for snow. Until this week, we had only trace amounts throughout the West. Today it is snowing on the valley floor in Portland, which is a rare thing indeed.

Next week we leave for 12 (gulp!) days in our ski camper with a 7-month old in tow. I am both happy beyond belief and a bit nervous.

Every year we do a holiday post card. This is ours from this year.

Flashbacks

2008-12-10T23:16:00.000-08:00

Now that we are in the thick of the holiday swing, I find myself having vivid flashbacks to this time last year – Missy’s first trimester – and the fall prior – my first miscarriage.

I rarely wrote about how sick and terrified I was in this blog because I feel like I went through my first trimester with Missy in full-blown bunker mentality.

You would think that my beautiful daughter, harried life and, well, time itself might have dulled the angst-ridden memories. Still, I find myself visiting a random place like Costco and remembering vividly how it felt to walk down the aisle on the verge of puking. Or standing at the check out line at New Seasons Market on a rainy Friday night in November with a pint of ice cream and a box of pads as I lost Junior #1. I went for a doctor’s appointment in the same building where I had my CVS almost a year ago to date and could almost feel my knees knocking in fear again.

The fall of 2006 was filled with so much sadness and searching after my first miscarriage. The fall of 2007, so much anxiety and sickness. While I selfishly long to add another child to our family, I am not ready for the potential re-visit to such dark spaces.

In the initial months after Missy’s birth, I was too busy – or just plain too tired – to remember the pain of IF and miscarriages. This living, breathing, fiery little bundle consumed every spare second. I thought the pain might have gone – poof! like magic – the moment she emerged.

Now I have a bit more precious time & energy to think as well as the context of the holiday ritual to remind me how I felt last year and the year before. I am simultaneously sad and so very grateful. I can’t even fathom how much inner resolve it took to get through it so stoically. Was I ever that strong? I didn’t feel so at the time but in retrospect I am in awe that I made it through.

Shortly after we got the thumbs-up from the CVS results – and knew Missy was a missy – we received our first baby present from Mr. & Mrs. Super Planner: a subtle pink-striped swaddle blanket from PBK.

I found the gift receipt for the swaddle blanket the other day. Ever the glass-is-half-empty, I had saved it throughout the pregnancy just in case we had to return the item (for obvious, unspeakable reasons).

So I took that receipt…and shredded the shit out of it.

So Long

2008-12-01T20:20:00.000-08:00

It has been so long since I've posted.

I know, I know. I suck.

I feel like there is so much to say, to write about. But the reality is that I barely have time to get online. I am so immersed in, well, life. Just life. The everyday nuances and rhythms. The good. The bad. The spit up. The everything.

No offense, internet, but if I have a spare 30 minutes, I am more drawn to making a batch of baby food or cleaning my shower. Suzy fucking domestic that I am these days. (That's another post entirely.)

I've also been struggling with what this blog is now that Missy is here. Sure, I could post all of her achievements: sitting up (check), rolling (check), drinking water from a sippy cup (check), sleeping through the night (pipe dream).

I could post our daily life stuff: waterbabies on Tuesdays; library on Fridays; her first season pass.

Our favorite things: bumGenius 3.0 cloth diapers, the Ergo baby carrier, the California Baby line of natural babycare products, the REI down infant suit, our bunny blabla.

Or the things I've learned: how to get dinner ready & feed a baby simultaneously; how to deal with a reflux kid; how not to put a baby with a dirty diaper in the jumperoo.

The truth is that I have an adorable baby who I took Thanksgiving food shopping and Christmas tree hunting. I am happy. But I can still feel the pain of infertility and the first trimester sickness and fear of a repeat miscarrier like it was yesterday.

It is a dark place in the span of my life. So dark that it threatens to block out the sunshine-y days. So sometimes I just need to put it back there, in the back of my mind. Which is why I'd rather clean the shower than blog.

But then I feel like an ass who has left so many relationships behind. Relationships that developed right here. That I don't want to leave behind. Because I enjoy those relationships. And because I made a promise that I intend to keep: to see everyone through.

I never want to be that blog that just ends. A random post and then no more. A promise to keep writing and then nothing.

But I am struggling about what to write.

For those of you still reading, what are you interested in regarding this journey from miscarriages to infertility to a successful pregnancy and now motherhood? Anything is fair game.

Here are some pictures of Missy at 5 & 6 months old. She is more fun with every passing day.

We love our bunny blabla. He matches our eyes.

First meal. Rice cereal is the bomb!

Go to Sleep Little Baby

2008-10-08T18:44:00.000-07:00

Or maybe I should title this, I’m-Glad-I-Didn’t-Spend-a-Fortune-on-a-Crib.

The old saying is "People who live in glass houses, shouldn’t throw stones."

Cowboy pointed this out to me when I requested a complete 180 on the subject of Kid Sleep 101.

Before I had a kid, I had all of these theories about how I would raise mine. As if.

Behind their backs, I used to criticize some of my good friends’ parenting choices. Oh, the karma of it. I believe this karma came back to bite my ass a few weeks ago when Missy went several days in a row where she woke every 2 hours at night demanding to nurse and catnapped no more than 45 minutes during the day. At one point I recall literally staggering down the hall as if I were drunk on my way for another episode of soothing.

Exhausted, I decided it was time to teach-this-kid-a-lesson.

I’ve been mostly reading "Healthy Sleep Habits" by Dr. Weissbluth when it comes to sleep parenting. It’s taught me valuable tidbits, such as when to recognize the sleepy signs so I could get Missy back into nap mode to prevent over-tiredness. Basic stuff, such as infants should be up no longer than 2 hours at a time.

But I was so frustrated because according to the book, if I were an observant parent, I would see the sleepy signs, jump into bedtime action and my baby would snuggle into sleep by herself after a short bit of soothing. And then unicorns and rainbows would fly out of my ass.

Anyway. I watched. Like a freaking hawk. I spent days focused on just Missy’s yawns.

To no avail. If I laid her in her crib awake, she’d cry. If I laid her in her crib half-asleep, she’d wake up and cry. The only way to get her out for an hour of naptime was to rock, nurse and shush her into oblivion.

This day, however, I was determined to get my child to sleep on her own. How contradictory and absurd that sentence seems now.

At naptime I sprung the old ‘graduated extinction’ method on Missy:

She cried for 5 minutes. I soothed.

She cried for 10 minutes. I soothed.

She cried – a persistent, panicked cry – for 15 minutes. I went in to soothe and saw that the little person I love and had wished for all those months had spit up all down her chin and swaddle blanket.

This time, I cried.

I just couldn’t do it.

See, almost 14 years ago, I brought home a shiny, yellow-gold puppy. I had read in some dog training book that you were supposed to crate a dog for safety and put his crate in the same place where you would keep the dog when he was older. So the crate went in the kitchen, since this is where Gus would spend his young days while I was at work.

Poor Gus. He cried and yelped all night. And for several nights after.

Finally, I was, like, fuck this. I need some sleep. Besides, poor little guy, it must suck to be used to sleeping all warm and cozy with your littermates and momma, and then all of a sudden you are alone in a crate in a dark kitchen.

So I hauled the crate up to my room. And put it next to my bed. I snuggled baby Gus in my bed until he fell asleep and then I slipped him into his crate.

After each potty run outside, I would snuggle him back to sleep in my bed. Sometimes he went back into the crate and sometimes he slept in my bed with me.

He ended up being the best damn dog ever.

So if I’m willing to sleep with my dog, why not my kid?

With this in mind, I bought Dr. Sears’ Baby Sleep Book. Even though I promised myself no more parenting books. Even though I knew what this particular book would recommend.

When I was pregnant with Missy, a friend loaned the Sears’ breast feeding book to me. After reading it, I felt so thoroughly educated and empowered – and breastfeeding has gone so well for us – I thought I might get a repeat performance with the sleep gig.

I read up. Called some trusted friends. It’s staggering, really, how many will admit to it when asked point blank. Ran the plan by Cowboy.

And then brought the baby into bed with us that night.

Everyone got the best sleep we’d had in months.

So we kept at it. The best part is that we are bonding more as a family. Cowboy is gone for most of Missy’s waking hours but now he gets the chance to have her close by all night. She no longer fusses when he holds her as if she doesn't recognize him. At night, we are no longer dividing and conquering – both of us feeling increasingly alienated as we did. By side-lie nursing, I get so much sleep I feel like a rock star. Most important, Missy is getting all the snuggles and closeness that she needs. Because, really, it’s about what she needs and not what I need her to do.

I never thought this would be me: freaking hippie bed-sharing momma. I never wanted to nor thought I would ascribe to nearly all the tenants of attachment parenting. But that’s the thing about this trip. It forces you to open your mind and humble yourself in ways you never thought possible.

Step inside my new glass house. May I get you something to drink?

Perfect Moment Mondays

2008-09-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

I wrote this in my journal last Sunday after our neighborhood picnic. It was a quintessential moment. I had really become someone's mom:

Today while sitting on someone else’s lap, Missy began looking around – agitated – and then began to whimper. I moved into her view. She calmed and smiled.

Later, in her evening bath, she looked up at me and I could see - I mean, really see - love in her eyes.

Make New Friends...

2008-09-15T14:39:00.000-07:00

...but keep the old.

Some are silver and the other gold.

Remember that cheesy song from summer camp?

I rarely do this, but it is high time for some shout outs to my bloggy friends. For the few of you still reading this blog, please go and spread the love.

The VERY first blog I read regularly was The Oneliner. Now known as Apron Strings, she brings home the improbable Cate from the hospital. I have tears of joy in my eyes for her.

The dearest Lori at Weebles Wobblog is a bit blue. This to shall pass, but for those of you who have light to spare, please go shine some her way.

My new friend Lxox from Sydney, AUS is waiting for her betas to fall as she experiences her second miscarriage. Those of you who know this special kind of hell - or those who have empathy to spare - please go lend her some support.

Namaste

Home

2008-09-14T22:08:00.000-07:00

The bright morning sun bounced off the statue of Buddha.

The baby was at home, fed, diapered and asleep. Her daddy watching over her.

My guruji enveloped me a warm hug as I stepped in the door.

The yoga mat practically sighed as it unfurled against the hardwood floor.

"Ahh. So there you are."

Wading into the fray

2008-09-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

Lordy. Where did the summer go?

Oh, that’s right. I spent the summer from a chair in the nursery. Trying to get little Miss High Maintenance to sleep without someone having to hold her during the entire nap. That's an entire other post that I'm too tired to write.

Instead, I’m going to join the politico fray because I have so many thoughts on this subject ruminating in my head. That’s what I do. See, I’ve taken to walking. Me, Missy and Gus. And since it’s generally a one-way conversation with a dog and a three-month-old as I ramble down some trail, I get to think and talk to myself. A lot.

Sarah Palin. Sigh.

Wonderwoman Hockey Mom? Hmmm....

To be clear, as someone who spent 15 years busting ass on the corporate ladder before jumping off, I am totally stoked that we have a woman on the ticket for vice president.

But I’m just not buying the Hockey Mom thing. I seriously don’t believe that Gov. Palin manages the state affairs of Alaska, has a new baby and finds time to chauffeur her 4 other kids to hockey practice and games. If she does, it is the exception not the rule.

I have a feeling that Gov. Palin doesn’t really have much in common with me as a mom. The fact that she went back to work when her special needs baby was 3 days old is case in point.

I’m advocate for more maternity leave. Paid maternity leave for that matter. As such I don’t think I could see eye-to-eye with a woman who takes a three-day maternity leave when I think that three months is too little. I certainly don't feel comfortable having a woman like this as the representative of what is the "all-American mom" simply because I think it is all spin and little substance.

My bet is she has abdicated a lot of the day-to-day rhythm of parenting to her husband or another caregiver. Which is cool. But doesn't make her Hockey Mom.

Even if you are on your fifth kid and the parenting gig is old hat, there are parts of it – like breastfeeding or pumping - that just take time and can’t be done by dad. Time where you have to focus on what is right in front of you. Time when you have to give your body over to the process of nuturing – whether it is holding, or bathing, or rocking, or simply talking to your children.

And there just aren’t enough hours in the day to do that and run a testosterone-crazed state like Alaska and run on a presidential ticket.

I used to think of myself as a feminist. But if Gov. Palin is the standard bearer of modern day feminism (e.g. I take a three day maternity leave) then I don’t want any part of it. That’s just not reality for 99.9% of women out there. Feminist or not.

I admire her pluck, of course, but I have to seriously question the judgment of someone who is back behind her desk before her milk comes in.

And – my God – I’ll just say all snarky and all because no one else in the mainstream media will – and you know everyone wants to – but how’s THAT for abstinence only sex ed?

Oh, and since when is having to deal with an unplanned teenage pregnancy considered a "everyday problem that normal people deal with," as one woman convention goer was quoted as saying. Sheesh. Are we a nation of PWT?

Poor Bristol. Thrust into the spotlight like that because of her mother’s ambition.

Poor Trig. Who will have to do without his mother around much during his critical first year of life.

Sometimes when mommy wins, the kids lose. That’s just not a victory worth anything in my book.

Now we are 3

2008-08-18T14:55:00.000-07:00

...months, that is.

Missy at 3 months:

Giggles.

Screw tummy time! She'll last for about 5 minutes. (Above photo taken within the first minute of "tummies" hence the smile.) Also shows zero interest in rolling from back to tummy or vice versa. She'd rather STAND. I am not joking. She's stacks her little hips over her little feet and balances. We call it ski conditioning.

Weighs 10 lb 10 oz., 22 inches. She's in the 15th percentile. Poor kid got her mama's build.

Hair is turning auburn. Blue eyes and auburn hair? Even though I am totally anti-gun and refuse to allow them in my house, am considering buying Cowboy a 12-gauge as as "push present."

Pimp My Ride

2008-08-13T15:03:00.000-07:00

Even though I am a West Coast girl at heart, I have this compulsion for New England-y paraphenalia: Nantucket decals, Black Dog t-shirts, Boat-n-Tote bags and Shaker furniture.

When I lived on the East Coast, I got a kit to make a Shaker ladder back rocking chair replete with taped webbing seat. I lovingly put the rocking chair together while imagining that I might one day rock my children in that chair.

So nostalgic was I for this image of rocking a baby to sleep in the rocker on a hardwood floor that I hauled the chair from the Atlantic to the Pacific when I moved West for business school.

Right after grad school, I went through a phase where I wasn't sure kids fit into my life. I tried to loan the chair to some friends who were starting families but got no takers. In retrospect, that should've been my first clue. So I hauled said chair again to another home. I swear, I moved that chair at least 10 times.

Once we settled, the poor chair sat lonely in The Room while we waited to start a family. It sat lonelier still as we failed to sustain a pregnancy.

When it finally became clear that Missy was coming, the chair figured prominently in the nursery design plan. Other friends had their gliders and cushy rockers. I considered getting a new ride briefly but when you get ready for a kid you feel like you are hemorrhaging money. So I worked the nursery around the beloved old rocker.

However.

It was only after that I spent several very uncomfortable nights nursing and rocking and rocking some more that I learned that the Shakers are FREAKIN' CELIBATE! Which is why there are like only four real Shaker people left in the U.S. And which is also why their rocking chairs suck. They were never designed to withstand long, lonely nights with an infant in arms.

So after one loooong night when Missy fought sleep after each feed, I announced to Cowboy that we needed to pimp my ride. And I went out and - money be damned - bought one of these cozy, comfy behemoths from PBK.

My ass has never been so thankful.

Missy's not convinced. She still takes much cajoling to drift off to sleep. But at least we're comfortable while we debate the issue.

For those of you who are planning The Room, my assvice to you: do not skimp on a chair. Buy the best, most comfortable one you can afford. You have no idea how many hours you will spend in the thing.

As for the dear Shaker rocker...I'll be posting it on Craigs List as soon as I rid it of any evidence of breast milk and spit up.

The Zen of Ms. Planner

2008-08-07T14:04:00.000-07:00

Many, many thanks to everyone for the kind support offered after my last post.

Y’all must have known how desperate I was to put up a post whining about early motherhood on an IF blog fer chrissakes.

I know, I know. Had I read that post on someone else’s blog last summer, I would have rolled my eyes. The outpouring of support from this community was a clear demonstration that every single one of you are way better folks than I.

I have a new motherhood strategy (since clearly the old one was not sustainable):

No more parenting books. Save one. Read below.

And

Take it one hour at a time.

Seriously. This works. I only anticipate and approximate two activities for her: she seems to feed every 3 hours and gets tired about an hour after waking. Some days she naps like a champ. Other days like a high-strung cat. Other than this, I’ve let go of my desire to have any semblance of a schedule.

I go into each night expecting her to fuss and cry. Not hoping that she won’t. She’s beginning to surprise me. She’ll go a few glorious nights without fussing one bit and then – bam! – we’ll have another full of the fussies to put me back in my place. Consistent, she is not.

The good news is that once she is down for the night, she’ll go a full four hours without waking. My major problem now is that she is starting to fight sleep during the day. Since I have always soothed her to a deep sleep (mommy is a sucker) because her reflux meant I couldn’t just lay her down after nursing, now I have to commence with the soothing routine before every freakin’ nap: swaddle, rock, bounce, pace, hum, sing, shush. It is a major endeavor in itself.

Missy does not go quietly into the night. Or nap.

I’m about ready for a little cry-it-out (I know, I know. I’m horrible) but my pediatrician said she is too young for CIO.

I also read Momma Zen, which was recommended by Megan. Thanks, Megan! I echo Megan’s endorsement of the text. Even if you eschew all books on parenting, please read just this one. It's a fantastic book for any first time mom - or exhausted mom - in early motherhood.

It reinforced even more that I need to just be in the now. To not battle between the life I once had and the life I have now or the life I desire to have since the baby arrived. To let go of it all. And just be in each moment. Good, bad or just plain exhausted.

The other thing I stopped doing was attempting to have dinner ready for Cowboy. Letting go of my need to provide this for him has really helped the evening. Now I watch her closely for signs of sleepiness and swoop into the night routine at a moment’s notice. Plus, having it be all about her – and not about her, dinner and a tidy house – makes the evenings not as exhausting just in case they end up stretching into the wee hours of the night.

Lastly, I do have a sitter. While she is here, I am mostly working but steal a few minutes to write in my journal or go to the grocery store sans baby in tow. On Friday, however, I have our sitter scheduled in the evening so I can enjoy a girls night out. Just without my main girl for a spell.

Life gets better with each day.

Ms. Super Planner

2008-07-28T15:42:00.000-07:00

My parents left today. And I am a mess.

Ms. Super Planner has been here for most of July. It’s been a Godsend. I don’t think I’ve done Missy’s laundry all month. Ms. Super Planner did it. She did my laundry, too. And my husband’s. She also unloaded the dishwasher as soon as it stopped. Reminded me to run the dishwasher. She dressed Missy every morning. And took over the soothing process at 10 PM every night so I could get some rest until the 2:30 feeding.

She even cleaned the guest bathroom before she left.

I tried to have it all together. To run the household and care for the baby while Cowboy brought home the bacon. So 1950’s, I know. With Cowboy’s new job and a new baby, we knew we’d be in boot camp for awhile. Then I took on a part time gig, which was stupid, but I really, really wanted to work for this client.

Cowboy’s dream job is still his dream job, but he quickly figured out that "we’d love to have a fresh set of eyes on things," during the interview process is code for: please come in and clean up this mess that someone else got us into.

He leaves the house at 5:45 AM and often doesn’t come home until 7 or 8 at night. He’s exhausted and stressed. I feel so bad handing a baby with the evening fussies off to him so I can get a break. That’s not fair to him. Or Missy.

Missy isn’t colicky. But she is moderately fussy. She’s also past the snuggle-on-the-chest-while-you-zone-out-in-front-of-the-TV-phase. She wants to move. This is not a baby that likes to hang
out by her lonesome. Take her to a coffee house and she’ll sit quietly and gaze in wonderment at everything for an hour. But she’ll fuss mightily after 5 minutes in the baby swing while you try to get some semblance of dinner together.

We’re also still doing the dream feed at 9:30 or so, which means she’s not soothed until 10, 10:30 or 11 and later. And it’s that last hour that is soooo exhausting. I’ve almost lost it a few times. I’ve had to put her in her crib crying and walk away.

In the process, I learned that you can do it all.

But only for about six weeks.

And then you start to fall apart.

Which is just about when Ms. Super Planner showed up and saved my ass. But now she’s gone.

I started crying in bed last night. I don’t want to go back to where I was the beginning of this month: exhausted, barely functioning and not enjoying my new daughter. I begged Cowboy to please come home earlier and manage his day at work so he’s not so exhausted at night (like eating lunch or working out). If I can leave the house for an hour to work out or run I am sure I would have enough endorphins to get through the late night soothing routine. Just for a few weeks until Missy is old enough to go to the gym day care.

He promised and I hope we turn over a new leaf.

Why is it then that I can’t stop crying today?

Missy is 2 months old

2008-07-18T17:51:00.000-07:00

Missy at 2 Months

Smiles. Finally.

Weighs almost 9 lbs (4 kg). Yeah, she’s a peanut.

Is cloth diapered. We cheat and use a fabulous diaper service along with Thirsties diaper wraps. It is as easy as using disposables, esp. since I don’t launder the diapers in our home.

Still loves her Baby Art Cards. These things are like baby pot for Missy. She just stares at them forever with an intent, faraway stoner look. Maybe she’ll be an artist?

Has her first eating disorder. She likes to throw up after eating. My friend says you either get a poop baby or a spit up baby. I must have the latter because Missy just recently went one full week without pooping.

Favorite accessory: a bib

Ms. Planner at 2 Months

Has nursed in the backseat of the car several times. Good thing public nudity is legal in Oregon.

Once went to a client meeting and realized she forgot to put nursing shields in her bra. A big no-no because I leak like a freaking sieve. So I stuffed each side of my bra with plastic bags from Gus’ poopy bag stash I keep in the car. Not one of my prouder moments but my shirt stayed dry.

Unknowingly went to another client meeting with a large spit up stain on her jacket.

Has 8 lbs to go before reaching her pre-Missy weight.

Is not eating dairy because it jams up her daughter (literally). Hello, my old friend, coconut milk ice cream.

Favorite accessory: a burp cloth.

# # #

I apologize for not being up-to-date on blogging, reading and commenting. I am working for a client part-time plus hanging with an 8 week old. It is crazy. I have so much admiration for those moms who work full time with babies. Seriously. I don't know how you do it.

More lessons learned

2008-07-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

Just you.

The day is hot and beautiful. The kind of day you dream about in the throes of winter. Warm east winds create a rushing sound through the firs. At mid-day the back porch is shaded by a massive black walnut tree. Sunlight sparkles through the tree canopy on to the white Adirondack chair where you sit for hours.

With the baby. She’s nestled in her favorite spot. Asleep. Her cheek on your clavicle. Her hand clutching the ringed collar of your scooped neck tee in the center of your chest. The collar, you reckon, is splattered with spit up.

You believe that as you close your eyes in the moments before your eventual death, your memory will flash a series of scenes from your life. You will your brain and body to reproduce this very one.

There are chores abiding. But they can wait. Trading this moment for a basket of matched socks and a clean floor seems wholly unjust.

There was a time in your life that you would have put the baby in her crib and rolled through the list of chores. You worried about the future too much. And dwelled over the past. You slaked through the hard times by pushing your body to its limits. You never lived in the now.

Then life made it hard. It set you on a path that forced you to sit with the now and accept how hard it was to just be with unfulfilled desires. It demanded that you not escape into tough physical pursuits to exhaust yourself just so you didn’t think so much.

You don’t want to say life made you lose things you loved in order to teach you a lesson. But maybe you needed to learn something. Maybe you needed to learn to be present during the hard times so you wouldn’t miss being present during the so-very-good ones.

So you learned. Now you recognize the gift of these moments as they happen. You have learned to just be.

Just Say No

2008-07-02T14:00:00.001-07:00

I have this thing about little girl clothes.

I can’t stand most of them.

This past weekend I went to mecca – Babies R Us – for the first time ever to buy a monitor. I did my tour around the store and saw some cute shirts for little boys with "Surfer" on them. But on the little girl side of the store, the pepto-pink -- God everything there was so pink -- shirts read simply, "Surf Club." The message was subtle but clearly there: as a girl, you are not a surfer. You are just part of the club. On the sidelines.

We’ve all seen Blue Crush, right? We know that girls surf. I have no doubt that my daughter will surf one day.

Apparently the product line managers, graphics designers, merchandisers and buyers who source the little girl stuff are from the backwaters, where girls still sit on the beach and don’t surf. I am ashamed that most of these people in charge now are of my generation (X) and were lucky enough to grow up with Title 9 and everything else that girls can do now.

Same thing goes with the appliqued onesies that read, "Daddy’s Princess," or "American Sweetheart," or "Beauty Queen" (I swear I just saw a shirt like this today in size 0-3 months at Target – sick I tell you!).

You don’t find little boys’ t-shirts that say, "I give out hugs and kisses." In my view, by putting these slogans on a little girl, we are enforcing the stereotype that a female is only valued if she is affectionate. Only if she uses her little body does she gain favor with others.

Using cheesy onesie logic to explain it: if Missy is a princess, that makes me the queen. And the queen says no apparel that subjugates females will be worn in her household.

As such, I have two (!) bags full of onesies, dresses, etc., thoughtfully given to us by well-meaning neighbors and relatives that I simply won’t ever put on my child. They are headed for Goodwill. Tags still on them.

Shame on Babies R Us and Targets of the world for sourcing these stereotypes of little girls. In the meantime, I’ll stick to the consignment stores and boutiques to look for more appropriate clothing for my daughter.

I know I probably shouldn't even be bitching about this. That I should consider myself lucky to have the privilege to buy such clothes. But is this seriously the kind of world we want for our daughters?

BELIEVE

2008-06-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

Birth Story (the final chapter)

2008-06-20T08:04:00.000-07:00

Within minutes the room exploded with people and carts.

Cowboy said later that it didn’t really hit him that we were having a baby TODAY until he saw them wheel in the baby-warming table. Do you think the poor guy was in a bit of denial up until this point?

The standing OB was brought in to give me my last ultrasound. Missy was face up. (They have to be face down to easily pass around your pubic bone). I don’t know how I lay still for the ultrasound. The contractions were coming hard and fast. I was still pain-med-free although I began regretting my decision to wave off the epidural.

At this point, Nurse Nicole crouched down and addressed me inches from my face. "There is no shame in getting an epidural at 8 centimeters," she counseled.

Cowboy was still counting to 30 once a contraction began. I imagined that I was running up a long hill in Forest Park as each contraction peaked. The mental imagery helped but the news that it would take 30-40 minutes to turn Missy before I could even start the real pushing just broke me.

I’m a wimp. I want an epidural.

Still, Nurse Nicole – following my birth plan to a tee – made me ask for an epidural three times before bringing in the anesthesiologist. Who did a fast and fabulous job. I could still feel my pressure in my legs and pressure where Missy was, but the epi totally took the edge off.

Someone snapped a picture of me post-epidural and I’m all smiles. I kind of wish I had a before and after-the-epidural pictures because it would have been hi-lar-ious. Then again, I probably would have snatched the camera from their hands and smashed it.

As the epidural kicked in, I received two surprises that made the delivery so special:

First, our doula arrived from Seattle and got us into position for optimum pushing. She quickly became legend in the L&D ward when the nurses found out that she had driven three hours in the wee hours of the morning to make it to the birth.

Second, my OB, who was not on call that weekend, arrived in the room in her scrubs. We were prepared to have another OB in her group deliver Missy but my OB happened to stop into the hospital on her way to the farmer's market with her family. She saw my name on the board and ditched her family in order to deliver our baby. I can’t say enough good things about my OB. She is wonderful.

Then it was time for the big show. They had me start pushing mildly as a contraction started. I could still feel pressure when a contraction came. After three rounds of pushing, the OB would REACH UP THERE and TURN THE BABY ever so slightly as I relaxed. Yowsers. Did I mention how glad I was that I caved and got an epidural? I was thanking my lucky stars that Nurse Nicole checked my cervix when she did.

The doula was holding me on one side and Cowboy ponied up on the other. He was supposed to stay uptown and instead he was getting the full meal deal. While I am very proud of him, it will probably be a looong time until we do it with the lights on. Men being so visual and all.

I pushed for a little over an hour and then she was here. Full head of hair. Just crying up a storm. Skin as ruddy as a lobster. She had a little fluid in her lungs (part of preemie status) but they just had me keep her crying for about an hour before she had her first nursing session. Our hospital has such great new baby policies. Missy remained in either Cowboy’s or my arms for the first hours after her birth.

Nurse Nicole holds the lobster baby. Seriously, this was the color of her skin.

And like that, I was no longer pregnant. I was officially a mom. Only then did I start to tear up when I realized that she’s mine. All mine.

The very thing that had consumed me and our marriage for so long was wailing up at me in my arms. Feed me, damn it, was all she said.

IF and all its baggage went sailing on down the river. I had no more time to dwell on it. There was work to be done.

We had a little come-to-Jesus – mother to her daughter – before our first nursing session. Earlier in my pregnancy, I had adopted the same stance on nursing that I had on having a baby. I hope I’ll be able to nurse, was my train of thought.

A few weeks before I delivered, however, I was overcome with this re-borne confidence in my body that had ebbed with each pregnancy failure. With my confidence anew, I decided that the maybe-I-could-nurse protective stance just wasn’t an option. Of course my body would do what I needed it to do.

OK, we can do this. Rookie mom and rookie baby. But we can do it.

I took some deep yoga breaths and relaxed. With that, Missy latched on like a little barracuda.

I felt like I had arrived.

1 whole month

2008-06-18T20:33:00.000-07:00

It's fixin' to be time for my third nap of the day.

I loooove my baby art cards. The worm is my favorite.

I'm very concerned about the prospect of off-shore drilling for oil.

...We interrupt this birth story to bring you pictures of Missy at 1 month. Gosh, I can't believe it has been a whole month.

I fit into a pair of my pre-baby jeans yesterday.

But there was some serious muffin top going on.

Ick.

Birth Story (chapter 2)

2008-06-16T11:37:00.000-07:00

It was 2 AM by the time we got settled into our room at the hospital. Sadly, we had not stopped at the bar.

The night nurse took my birth plan – and actually began following it. I was offered no pain meds. They hooked me up to the monitors only briefly to check on Missy and my contractions. I breathed a HUGE sigh of relief when we heard Missy’s heartbeat. I hadn’t felt any movements from her in awhile. I guess she was sleeping in an effort to conserve her energy for the morning’s big event.

The nurses did not check to see how dilated I was. They did not want to risk infection. Instead, they were waiting on the on-call OB. Contractions were coming every 7-8 minutes and didn’t feel that bad to me. So they instructed us to hunker down for the night and try to get some rest. I guess they figured: first time mom = long labor = no rush.

About 3 AM, my contractions got intense and started coming about every 4 minutes or so. I think. I didn’t have a watch. Cowboy was asleep. I went into the bathroom and sat backwards on the loo, gripping the plumbing post. I just gripped the shit out of that pipe and rode out each one like I was on a surfboard as a set of waves blew in. I didn’t call the nurse. I didn’t wake Cowboy. I just thought this was what labor was and I was being a wimp if I got everyone riled up.

I woke Cowboy up at 5:30 AM. I couldn’t do it alone any longer. The contractions were more intense and coming much closer together. We calculated every 2-3 minutes. No one had checked my cervix yet. I had a bath. The warm water helped a bit.

We started making calls: my mom, yes you are getting another grandchild today. The doula, who was hung over in Seattle but pulled the major rally and drove back to Portland. The salon where I was scheduled to get a brow shape that day – um, I have to cancel the appointment because I’m, like, giving birth today.

I thought I would be much more modest in the labor room. I brought yoga shorts and a yoga top to wear. Instead, I couldn’t stand to have anything on from the waist down. There I was straddling the ‘loo or sitting in child’s pose in the bath – full on commando. And so not like me. I just didn’t care at that point.

At 7:30 AM, the nurses had a shift change I was given the BEST L&D nurse. Ever.

Nurse Nicole summoned me from the throne to monitor Missy. She wanted me to let her know when my contractions started to feel like I had to poop.

"They’ve been feeling that way since 3 in the morning," I told her.

Her eyes widened a bit and her eyebrows arched.

"Okay, I’m going to check your cervix. Now."

She did. Then said she wanted to get a second opinion.

Nurse Nicole brought in the head nurse. Who also checked. And – for the record – having someone shove her hand up your lady garden during a contraction is majorly NO FUN.

Because I was in the middle of said contraction, all I heard was: "Oh, yeah, she’s at 8. Maybe 9."

Birth Story (chapter 1)

2008-06-14T09:23:00.000-07:00

"You might want to get the car seat in the car this weekend."

That was from my OB on Thursday, May 15 during my 36-week check-up. Turns out I was 75% effaced and 2 cm dilated.

A friend assured me I could stay like that for a few weeks. I immediately began cranking on all of that last minute stuff: a birth plan (yeah, I caved), a post-birth plan for Missy’s care, a list of what to pack for the hospital. I cleaned. Looking back, it should have been a sure sign of imminent labor that I was scrubbing my shower with a half of a lemon dipped in baking soda.

Friday, May 16 was freakishly hot in Portland. My cankles responded super well to the heat. My mom was in town for the baby shower and we spent the day shopping in this hip section of town, enjoying the sun. My back ached a little bit. I chalked it up to hauling my huge belly around in the heat. I was having BH contractions throughout the day but thought nothing of it.

A little after midnight, I was lying in bed and woke from a dead sleep. I felt a trickle. And got mad.

I can take the fat ass. And the swollen face. And the cankles. I haven’t complained about them all one bit. But to have this pregnancy make me pee the bed is just downright insulting.

I jacked myself up and barely made it to the bathroom before more "pee" came out.

I wonder if my water just broke?

I woke up Cowboy who, after imbibing in nearly a bottle of wine at dinner earlier in the evening, was none to happy to be awake.

I think my water just broke, I said when he appeared in the doorway.

He looked like a deer trapped in the headlights. Seriously. I wish I had picture of his face.

Go wake up your mom.

I am not waking up my mom, I hissed. This is our deal, not hers.

Instead, I woke up the answering service of my OB. The OB on call rang back immediately. She wanted us to get the hospital sooner rather than later.

She asked if I had felt the baby move since the "pee" incident. I had not. And immediately I was terrified. We hadn’t come this far to have something bad happen to Missy. I begab praying that she was still okay in there.

We packed in a jiffy (good thing I had written up a list the night before) and headed off. On our way to the hospital we passed the Old Lompoc Bar. We joked about going in to have a beer since it was 30 minutes before last call.

Besides, it might be our last chance to do so for awhile without hiring a babysitter.

Let's Go to the Highlights

2008-06-08T17:38:00.000-07:00

I have managed to write my birth story – in three parts nonetheless. I’ve thought long and hard about publishing it to this blog. I mean, this is a blog about miscarriages and dealing with infertility. Does Missy’s birth story – the conclusion of this part of the journey - really belong here?

Or is it just for me to remember?

I don’t know. I just can’t decide about publishing it for now.

Here are some highlights though:

#1. The 10-hour labor. My water broke spontaneously at 12:30 AM and Missy arrived by 10:43 that morning.

#2. Our doula – who I neglected to let know I was 2 cm dilated because all of my friends assured me I could hang out like that for weeks – was in Seattle. We called her at 5:30 in the morning to give her the heads up. She could have called in a reserve doula, but she got up and drove back to Portland. Hung over. (She admitted she’d had a bit too much wine with her family the night prior). She arrived just when I started to push. We heart our doula.

#3. Despite all of my tough talk, I caved and got an epidural when I was 8cm dilated. "There’s no shame in getting an epidural at eight centimeters," our labor nurse rationalized, "It’s the women who come in and beg for an epidural at 2 centimeters that we kind of roll our eyes at." Our doula wasn’t there yet so Cowboy and I had managed 95% of the labor sans drugs and sans any assistance except for some pointers from the labor nurse.

I got spooked when they told me that Missy was face up and that we’d have to spend about 30-40 minutes of "gentle" pushing while the OB turned her face down for the delivery. Yeah, "gentle pushing" in between roller coaster contractions that we coming every other minute. I don’t regret it. I went from the fetal position to complimenting the anesthesiologist on her fantastic snakeskin heels within minutes.

#4. I labored through most of the night by myself in the birthing room bathroom. For those who have had spontaneous miscarriages, there is a scary point in labor when the contractions intensify and begin to feel exactly like cramping that happens during a miscarriage. I had to face my demons here. It took a lot of mental strength to remind myself that this was good. That these contractions would result in a real live baby. That I was okay. I started to panic at this point, but am proud that I talked myself back from the ledge and relaxed into the contractions rather than fighting them by tensing up in fear.

#5. Cowboy was a rock star. He even cut the cord! He didn’t stay uptown like he was supposed to, but I didn’t care because he helped me with the worst of the contractions by letting me know when each one was half over. Contractions only last one minute each. Believe me. Those are some long ass minutes. So it helped mightily to have him time them. It is kind of going on a long run. Somehow it seems easier to handle the fatigue if you know where you are in the process. Once each contraction hit the 30-second mark, I could breathe deeply knowing that the pain would subside soon.

#6. The only bummer about a labor that comes before your due date is that – or at least for me – you’re not prepared to say good-bye to your pregnancy. Don’t get me wrong. I did not relish the whole pregnancy gig. But one day you have this fuzzy little kitten moving around in your belly and the next day the feeling you got so used to is GONE. Like that. During our first night in the hospital, I so missed the feeling of Missy squirming in my belly as I fell asleep that I moved her from her bassinet to my bed and we snuggled like the old days.

#7. These days I stare as much at my ankles as I do my daughter. My (c)ankles swelled to epic proportions post-delivery. The day my old slender, athletic ankles appeared again was a banner day in our house.

And because no one is coming to this blog these days to read the blah-blah-blah from me, here is a photo of Missy at three weeks old.

Our part-time-for-the-summer nanny starts this week so hopefully I will have time to catch up on the computer and all of your blogs. I apologize that I have been M.I.A.

Introducing...

2008-05-25T17:39:00.000-07:00

Piper Austin J.

May 17, 2008 @ 10:43 am

5 lbs. 14 oz.

19-1/4 inches long

Many thanks to everyone for your wonderful comments and your patience! Sheesh. It took us long enough to post the details.

Because of her preemie status, Miss PJ stayed in the hospital an extra day under the tanning bed lights trying to rid herself of jaundice. We came home for a day-and-a-half but then ended up in the pediatric unit for another spate of tanning.

We are now home and on a strict every 2 hours breastfeeding schedule, which is working wonders on the jaundice (and her weight) so far.

Labor came fast and hard. I will post the birth story soon. Cowboy rose to the occasion and in true Cowboy fashion had tears in his eyes when she let out her first wail.

She's a very mellow baby (part of this is preemie-induced mellowness). We have to wake her to feed her and she mews like a little kitten. She has her dad's eyes. Brown hair with blond highlights. Her mom's petite frame with the beginnings of some serious yoga shoulders.

I am beyond smitten.

It goes without saying, but she is well worth every single heartbreak, pee-stick throwing, prometrium-induced headache and tear shed in frustration.

The Best Intentions

2008-05-20T13:15:00.000-07:00

I had planned on posting this past Sunday, when I would have hit 36 weeks (9 months) that I had had my first - ahem - internal exam heading into the home stretch.

"You might want to get the car seat in the car over the weekend," my OB had suggested. I was 75% effaced and 2 cm dilated.

I had planned on driving out to a spot on the Columbia River on Saturday so I could snap a picture of a very snow-covered Mt. St. Helen's for Miss JJ's birthday on Sunday, May 18. Happy belated birthday, JJ!

I had planned on attending a second baby shower in my honor on that same Sunday. Mrs. Super Planner had flown up from Texas to attend as well.

That was the plan...

Instead, I spent the weekend giving birth to a gorgeous, healthy little girl.

Proving - once again - that nothing, I mean, nothing ever goes according to plan. But somehow life always turns out beautifully in the long run.

Pictures, name, birth story, etc., all coming soon.

And she already has Cowboy wrapped around her tiny little finger.

Score one for Cowboy

2008-05-14T15:16:00.000-07:00

Cowboy got the job! The dream-with-a-capital-D job.

I am so happy for him. I remember us taking Gus for a walk one February night in the college town where we lived for grad school. We had just started dating and he was discussing the three job offers he had received.

"But what do you really want to do?" I asked.

"I want to be a CFO someday," was his reply.

"Well then choose the job that is going to put you in the best position for that future," (oh, I thought I was such a smarty pants first-year back then.)

For the first 7 years of our relationship, I can definitely say that my job came first. We chose the town we live in based upon my job offer. He transferred his job with the bank so we could be in the same city. I traveled extensively. Usually over weekends. For long periods of time. Always surrounded by a cadre of guys. He had the local job. At the bank with its regular hours. And took care of the house, the bills, the dog, etc., while I galloped around mountain towns. He never gave me shit or grief for any of it.

Um, honey, I know we just bought our first house but I need to go live in Park City for 6 weeks during the Olympics. Where will I live? Oh in a townhouse with the rest of the marketing department. I guess that’s right. They are all guys. Hmm. That will be strange. As an aside, that townhouse became affectionately known as The Delta House. I coined the name the night I slept on the couch because some unplanned visiting big wig was staying in my room. I had counted well over 2 cases of empty beer bottles on the coffee table and thought, "I am so too old for this shit."

Heck, we almost moved to a freakin’ backwater Mo’ town in Utah for my job. (Not PC. We so would’ve moved to PC.)

Now it is his turn to have his job put first.

First because the commute is a wee bit longer. And the job is his first in the executive-level ranks = long hours. Long days. Stretches of days where – once she gets on a schedule – he will likely not see Missy awake. Please Lord, let her be one of those babies that sleep through the night sooner rather than later.

Did I mention that they want him to start before June 16. And we have that pesky little thing in June called a DUE DATE, which, falls on June 15.

Which is code for "Of course you can have some time off when the baby arrives. Will three days be okay?"

New baby. New job. Now we just need to buy a new house to completely stress us out. Actually, the new house will probably come next year when he gets sick of the commute and wants to move closer to his new gig.

We looked at each other this morning and nodded, "Yep, we'll both be in boot camp for a solid year."

And, we decided, all of this puts me in a new job, too: stay-at-home mom.

Wow.

Part of me is secretly pleased with this new job – I already bought a book on making homemade baby food. Title of mom is one of my dream jobs. I just never thought "stay-at-home" would come in front of it. That I would be on this side of the Mommy War.

But the reality of it is that any new job I get will require those long, pay-your-dues hours, too. And it is just not fair to us, to the new baby and to our employers. Everyone will lose under that scenario. Something had to give.

I don’t want this to come off as whining. Please. Dearly wanted baby scheduled to arrive in a month. Husband with his dream job. We are beyond lucky. And I am beyond grateful.

I’m just a little freaked out about this radical change in my career path. I have to have faith that I will figure something out so I can build a bridge between two sides of the divide.

That and trying to manage the web of changing health insurance coverage so close to the end of the pregnancy.

Thoughts on yesterday

2008-05-12T12:39:00.000-07:00

Hope abides; therefore I abide.
Countless frustrations have not cowed me
I am still alive, vibrant with life.
The black cloud will disappear.
The morning sun will appear once again
All in its supernatural glory.

- Sri Chinmoy

# # #

I copied down this poem off the blog of another (who no longer blogs and has removed her site so I can't even point you in her direction). I've never had the urge to get a tattoo, however, if I were to get one, it would be this poem. But maybe in Sanskrit or in some other beautiful-fonted language.

I think this poem is so appropriate for the ambivalent feelings many might have towards Mother's Day. For whatever our reasons.

Maybe it reminds us of what we are going through now.

Maybe it reminds us of struggles we've conquered. Or are in the process of conquering.

Maybe it reminds us of someone who is no longer there and the sadness that enveloped us after their departure.

I thought this poem should live on in this circle.

I look at my hand-scribbled version on the back of my notebook everyday.

95% there

2008-05-08T12:51:00.000-07:00

...With the room.

I hemmed and hawed over bookcases and then found this antique pine armoire, which was marked down for a song. I have a thing for old pine armoires. This is the 4th one in our house. It holds toys, books and a pile of clothes that have yet to be washed and hung. Next weekend.

Here is the vintage secretary's desk I painted. The attached changing pad can come off when Missy is out of diapers and then we'll use it as her desk. We still need to hang the Shaker rack over the changing table.

Those effing curtains - lined and all - are 9 freaking feet long. Each.

Sorry I haven't been posting or commenting. As you can see, I've been on a mission this week.

Coming Soon: The Room

2008-05-01T10:07:00.000-07:00

May 1. In most Western cities, May Day is reserved for workers' rights protests, strikes, parades, etc.

In our house, this May Day really means, "May Day!" As in...oh-my-god-I-have-less-than-six-weeks-until-this-kid-comes-and-I-am-so-not-ready.

Like most who have gone through pregnancy loss, I didn't even accept that I might actually have a baby until about halfway through the pregnancy. As such, no planning happened until 5 months in.

Then - I confess - I made a spreadsheet. (Hangs head).

It was the only way my linear mind could grapple with all the stuff we needed to source, buy, research, do. Most people think of spreadsheets for finance, but when Micr0soft launched its Excel program, it used famed mountaineer Ed Viesturs' need to manage supply logistics for an upcoming expedition to Mt. Everest as a marketing story in how to use Excel for planning purposes. If it worked for Ed and Everest, I figured it was good enough for me.

Only back at 5 months when I developed our baby logistics plan, I had all sorts of 2nd trimester energy and failed to incorporate the 3rd trimester brain drain into the plan.

As such, I am behind on the nursery. The ROOM. The room that has so much significance in our journey. The room that I visualized decorating. For years.

The room that has been alternately cleaned out then had the door shut on it with each pregnancy and subsequent loss.

The room that caused a huge fight between us when I refused to move my new work office into it because just in case we might get pregnant. (Ironic but we ended up finding out about Missy a few weeks after that fight).

The room that has sat empty and undecorated since we bought our house in 2001. I referred to it as the "mayonaise room" due to its off-white walls, off-white wooden blinds and off-white berber carpet.

Here, take a look.

I can't believe I'm behind on it after I have pined to decorate it for years. I mostly need to sew and hang the curtains. And sew the crib skirt. And a duvet for the down quilt (even though I know you aren't supposed to use such things until Missy is much older).

The fabric has been sitting in the room for ages. Again, damn that 2nd trimester energy kick making me think I could put this off until now. I need someone to seriously kick me in the ass and get my sewing machine cranking.

You'd think the six-weeks-to-go countdown would be motivation enough. Or just the sheer satisfaction that - finally - THAT room would be done.

Now, I'm locking myself into the house this weekend until all that sewing is accomplished. I don't care if it is sunny outside. My loss for procrastinating.

And because pictures of a boring-ass-white-room are so what no one wants to see on a blog, here is a fun picture from Missy's first shower.

I ate 3 of these.

Blogoversary: In the Course of One Year

2008-04-25T10:36:00.000-07:00

Below is an excerpt from my journal entry of April 25, 2007 – one year ago today. I was 6 days post miscarriage #2. I had just posted my first blog entry on That Was The Plan. I kept this entry private at the time because I did not want to start out my blog with too much negativism. Clearly, I needed an outlet. Big time.

April 25, 2007

My whole freaking soul hurts. I am scared. I have that sick feeling in my stomach. I look at my future and it seems so bleak and scary. I want to punch something so hard. I want to throw my laptop out the window. I mean, hurl the damn thing. (I never thought I would have anything in common with Denise Richards, but there you go).

And with this feeling, I am supposed to be networking and being helpful to might-be-influential people and looking for a new job. Oh yes, did I mention that the job I have had for 6 years and love is going away in September because my company is moving to Utah. I mean, UTAH! WTF!

And – guess what, because life wasn’t fun enough – that Cowboy had $4 million in deals fall out of his pipeline yesterday, which means that all of the hard work and long hours he has put in recently, that despite all valiant efforts, his job is in jeopardy, too.

Which puts the anxiety level up to here. And the sadness level up to there. And all of a sudden I can’t see so clearly.

I feel like Cowboy and I are in boat looking at each other like, "I thought you brought the freaking life preservers!" I seriously don’t know if we will survive this: his job, my job, IF. Somebody, please. Somebody cut us a break.

# # #

Whenever I go through hard times, I try to remind myself of their impermanence. "Life will look so much different in six months," I’d say. I said that back in December 2006 when I was still sad about my first miscarriage and the jury was still out as to if we would be moving to a new state with my job.

Cowboy had stepped up to a vacant position in the bank that needed to be filled. We didn’t know if it was going to pan out either.

Flash forward to late April 2007 and boy how things had changed. Only now they were worse. Where before we had uncertainty, now seemed to face a series of dead ends. I'd turned down a promotion with my company in Utah and would be out of a job come end of summer; we realized that Cowboy's new gig at the bank was of the churn-and-burn variety; not only were we not pregnant, but we were staring down the barrel of recurrent pregnancy loss testing and whatever those results might bring.

For the first time in my life, the 6-month rule hadn’t worked in the positive way I’d always meant it to. I felt duped. And terrified. The above journal entry clearly reflects the space we were in.

Last night, a full year later, I woke just before the alarm. Cowboy was asleep with his bedside lamp still on. The Birth Partner book lay open across the duvet. He had been reading it since waking at 2:30 a.m. (he always wakes at this time). I note this and smile because it is the first I’m-having-a-kid book that Cowboy has cracked.

He woke up because he is feeling guilty and nervous. I know this because he has just found out he is the front runner candidate for his dream job. I mean, dream with a capital D. This is the kind of job that he set his sights on back in business school. This is the kind of job that kept him hanging on at the bank for 8 years. Because of some bank regulations that govern his dealings with three new clients, today he has to face his boss with the news that he may be leaving. If nothing, Cowboy is a loyal employee. He has only worked for 2 companies since graduating high school.

I woke up because I have to go to the bathroom. Again. Because while last year I was reeling from m/c #2, now I am 8 months pregnant with a by-all-accounts healthy baby. I, too, have just found out that a local creative agency is interested in hiring me for freelance marketing consulting, which means I can continue to work from home for the remainder of the year.

The word grateful springs to mind. But it feels so inadequate. This is so beyond simply being grateful. This almost feels like a different life. But it is not. It is our life. Our life last year replete with all of its sadness and worry. Our life this year at 180 degrees opposite with breathing room to spare.

I try to be perfectly content. But I am on edge. Because I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. Because we don’t deserve this much good fortune. The fates will surely punish this much good fortune by taking something we counted on away.

Which, I know, is both completely paranoid and glass-is-half-empty.

That I have such thoughts shames me. It leaves me to ponder how can I ever pay this much good fortune forward. How can I pass it on so I don’t hold it too tightly and lose it.

This is what can happen in the course of a year.

Week of April 21: 8 months, 8 weeks to go.

2008-04-21T13:10:00.000-07:00

Busy, busy week ahead.

Sun: L&D tour at the hospital. Hang head when Cowboy asks if we can bring Gus into the waiting room. In his defense, the lady giving the tour made a big deal about our ability to invite as many family members and friends into the waiting room as we want. Find out that they have flatscreens in the labor/delivery/rest rooms. And cable. Neither of which we have. Is it wrong to kind of hope that Missy will oblige her mama and come late in the week so I can watch "What Not to Wear" on TLC?

Mon: Interview pediatrician. Decide I like her when she says she doesn't mind if I space out vaccinations so Missy won't get several in one day. Bonus points for her saying that she believes that rising rates in autism are probably linked to bad things in the environment.

Mon: Texas Independence Day. Hang out Lone Star flag. Check.

Tues: Earth Day. For the past several years, I celebrate by adding one thing each year to minimize our impact on the environment. This year it is going paper towel-less. We've been paper towel free in our house since January and it hasn't been that hard at all.

Wed: My birthday! Last year I celebrated by recovering from miscarriage #2. Am hoping for a much better day this year.

Thurs: nothing.

Friday: My one year blog-a-versary! What a difference a year makes. I've been thinking a lot about how changed my life is from last year to this year. Will post my thoughts as soon as I suss them all out.

Would love to hear from others as to how you celebrate Earth Day. Do you celebrate it? What, if any, are some things you've done this year to contribute in a positive way to the environment.

Or you can post a "shut up, you hippie" comment if you want to instead. It will make me laugh. I love that word. Hippie. It's funny.

Dear Diary

2008-04-13T08:57:00.000-07:00

What the fuck am I going to do? I am going to mother a daughter. And recent events have made it quite clear that I am in way over my head.

Current exploits to acquire childhood toys and books from my parents' storage shed also yielded not one but two diaries.

The first, started when I was 8. Here is an excerpt from the second entry: Today in school Bryan M**** atted (sic) very serious about kissing me. You can tell when he feels like kissing you. When he runs around and atts crazy, that means he loves you and wants to kiss you, BUT he doesn't.

WTF!! I am 8 and writing about boys already. Kissing boys. I can't even properly spell "acted" (for some reason, however, I can spell "serious" correctly). Although I should point out that I didn't technically, really kiss a boy until I was like in the tenth grade. It was all wishful thinking up until that point.

Oh, it gets better. Every few entries begin, "Dear Diary, Now I think I have a crush on so-and-so." Sheesh. I was an 8-year-old jezebel.

The second diary - with Hello Kitty on the cover - gets even better. Started in junior high, it goes all the way up to my senior year in high school.

In it, I went through my mean phase with harshly written critiques about everyone and everything. Although I had just read Harriet the Spy and I remember deliberately trying to copy the prose from the book.

There is the awful, awkward phase of comparing myself to other girls: the pretty, popular ones and the not-so-pretty, not-so-popular ones. It is hard to read now. There is the ridiculous, trying-on-other- personalities phase whereby my friends and I referred to each other by names and persona other than our own.

There is the entry written toward the end of my junior year that begins, "Dear Diary, I think about sex all the time..." Mind you, I hadn't had sex yet either, but still. Oy.

Does anyone else think it ironic you can find a sentence like that one in a diary with Hello Kitty on its cover?

I AM IN WAY OVER MY HEAD.

The most disturbing entries are in the back of the awkward-years-Hello-Kitty diary. It is a food and weight diary, which I began in 8th grade and kept up sporadically during times of *crisis*. Daily, I listed my current weight, my desired weight and everything I ate that day - along with supportive comments like, "pigged out" and "gross. must eat less tomorrow." In the 8th grade, at age 14, I weighed 79 lbs but wanted to get down to 72.

Okay, I should point out that I am short to begin with and was from ages 7 to 20 involved in a sport that dictated small-ness. But desiring to be 72 lbs. as a 14-year-old ?!? WTF?

Old habits die hard. I still keep food diaries from time to time. Although I have not done so while pregnant (too dangerous for me to do). I can't even keep a scale in my house as an adult. I am totally not in the position to pass along good body issues to my daughter. Or, for that matter, equipped to handle the crushes of an 8-year-old or god knows what else of a teenage girl. Holy frick!

Good Lord. I AM SERIOUSLY IN WAY OVER MY HEAD.

I 've got to save these diaries, although kept under lock and key, so I can refer to them when Missy is 8 and then in junior high and so on. That way I can remember what I was going though. It's the only way I can think to put them to good use as a mom.

Any ideas for a terrific hiding place?

It's not all bad

2008-04-11T10:46:00.000-07:00

Just when I was bitching about the cold and the rain, today and tomorrow are calling for sunny and warm. Finally, a taste of spring up here.

I feel like the countdown has begun. And even though I still have days of doubt and terror, each day finds me feeling a wee bit happier about Missy’s arrival.

Last week brought it all home – literally and figuratively. I went to Texas to visit my parents. It was wonderful. Great food. Good weather. A fantastic pedicure. My brother visited, too, and we spent an entire day going through my parents’ storage shed, which contained 40+ years of family history in the form of scrapbooks, baby books and favorite story books and treasured toys from when we were young.

My mom, Mrs. Super Planner, had each large box labeled by child. Inside each box was a list of the contents. Items were carefully wrapped in paper. I don’t call her Mrs. Super Planner for nothing. Our goal was to purge items: keep things we wanted for our children or prep items for a mega-collectibles tag sale my mom will hold in the fall.

It was like going through a time capsule of your life. There were the two baby dolls I received as gifts when my sister and then my brother came home from the hospital (replete with entire wardrobes of doll clothes sewn by my grandma). A Depression-era handmade doll cradle used by my grandmother when she was a girl. My first kiddie rocking chair. Hardbound Dr. Suess books (do you have any idea how much those cost now?). A vintage – at 30+ years old, they sure are vintage now – Fisher-Price barn and schoolhouse with all the non-toxic, Made-in-the-USA plastic animals and wooden people intact. My collection of Little House on the Prairie books.

Missy scored.

I love that she’ll be playing with some of the toys and reading some of the books that we spent hours with. And I appreciate that my family is re-using these toys so we don’t have to buy new. Some people might freak that they are older toys but I feel safer having a few pre-made-in-China pieces around.

Missy received some of her first gifts as well, including a pale pink felt cowgirl hat. By a few days into the visit, I actually felt happy and confident enough for Missy’s Nana (that would be Mrs. Super Planner) to buy a sweet little coming-home-from-the-hospital-outfit from Janie & Jack. I went into Pottery Barn Kids for the first time since I started trying to become pregnant. It was a new me, for sure.

I guess my point in all of this is that I am glad that I’ve let those who love and care for me into this process. At first, I was so paranoid and scared about everything. I put off every kind of celebrating. I didn’t want to lose another pregnancy and then be ashamed to face everyone with my sadness.

But the more I open up and let others celebrate – where sometimes I still cannot yet – is absolutely healing to the soul and affirming to my spirit.

The Crabbiest Month

2008-04-09T10:32:00.000-07:00

After living in the Northwest for 8 years, I've come to realize that April is the crabbiest month. It's still cold. It's still rainy. The beginning of April is like Ground Hog Day for us - minus the ground hog. We don't need one because we flat out know to expect shitty weather for the next 6 weeks.

The cold and damp imbue every living thing. It makes Gus sulk. It makes people crabby and rude.

Or maybe it is just that I returned from a trip to Texas, where people call you ma'am (and not because they think you are old) and hold doors for you. Unlike the airport parking security asshole at PDX who threatened to write Cowboy a ticket because he left his car for 5 seconds to help open the door to the airport exit for me as I struggled with 2 suitcases, a carry-on and a big belly. Sigh. Because no one else offered to help hold the door.

For as much as I love where I live, the everyone-is-free-do-to-his-own-thing-and-I'm-content-to-be-in-my-own-world ethos is one thing that gets me down when it takes the form of aloofness.

I am just being old-fashioned that I think it is simply a nice gesture for men to hold doors for women? Or that it bothers me that our friends and neighbors let their kids call me by my first name. I do not like a five-year-old calling me Ms. Planner. I prefer Miss Ms. Planner or Mrs. Ms. Planner.

Poor Missy. She'll be the only freak in the neighborhood referring to grown-ups as Mr. & Mrs. and routinely using "Yes, ma'am" and "No, sir."

Now who's crabby? Hormonal, maybe?

In other news, you can tell how great snow season has been by how long it takes Cowboy to file our taxes. We still haven't done them yet.

Our snowpack is like 200% of normal. I didn't mind being the snow sacrifice this season. Really, I didn't.

I have ten weeks to go.

It was our third anniversary yesterday. Because the traditional gift for a third anniversary is leather, I hope Cowboy wasn't embarassed in front of the other restaurant patrons when he opened the leather riding crop I bought for him. Just kidding. I didn't buy such a thing.

But I thought about it.

7th Inning Stretch

2008-03-19T08:25:00.000-07:00

I don't know why I included a baseball reference in the title. Other than it is the only reference I can think of right now related to the #7. Seven being the number of months pregnant I will be on Easter Sunday.

As this blog is my journal and my blog, thought I would take a minute to jot down some recent stats (more baseball - and I'm not even a fan):

I've gained 24 lbs so far.

I'm still doing yoga, but mostly at home. When I was recovering from a miscarriage and trying to get pregnant, the yoga studio was my safe space. I'm sensitive about interjecting my obvious belly into someone else's safe space, so just in case, I explained to my instructor that I'd be practicing at home for the most part. I do a very slow, modified Ashtanga practice or a kick-ass prenatal yoga DVD. Bending over in yoga is getting tough, so I may be trying out a prenatal class soon.

I passed my gestational diabetes test.

Since I am Rh-negative, the antibodies test came back as predicted. Yet another shot of Rho-Gam.

I failed my anemia test and now must take 325mg (!) of iron a day. At first I thought this was no biggie, but then quickly realized that most iron supplements come in 25mg doses, which equals a heck of a lot of iron pills each day.

We signed up for a 529 college plan.

We have started working on "the room." Will post pictures when there is more to show than paint on the walls and pieces of a crib stacked in the corner waiting for assembly. Right now I am re-finishing a vintage secretary-style desk to use as a changing table. It is slow going because I cannot use any chemicals (hand sanding is so fun!) and wear a mask and gloves for safety. I will be pestering this blogger soon for curtain sewing tips.

Frienemies

2008-03-17T10:40:00.000-07:00

Do guys have frienemies?

I’m beginning to think that one of Cowboy’s close friends might qualify.

To preface, since pre-Ms. Planner, Cowboy has maintained a close group of friends from college. Many of them live nearby. I’ll come home to find one of them in the garage or drinking a beer in our kitchen after a round of golf. I like this about Cowboy and his posse.

All have wives and children. As such, we congregate every so often for birthdays; summer holidays at someone’s cabin or lake house. We are the youngest and last couple to add children to the mix. Some of their children are old enough to babysit ours.

I would not have chosen to be friends with most of these folks were it not for Cowboy. We get along. They make me laugh (mostly). But we don’t have much in common save for our love for Cowboy. That being said, I respect his bond with his friends and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.

HOWEVER…

He has one particular friend – a stay-at-home dad – who is starting to drive me insane with his negative comments about child rearing. Here I am, trying - after a long time of sadness – to be genuinely happy. And he seems intent on imparting on a steady stream of "let’s get a rise out of Cowboy and bring down the pregnant lady" with his sage stories about raising his only child, a girl, now 7.

Let’s see. There are endless stories of baby excrement. Especially related to changing the diapers of little girls. The story – told on several occasions - of when his daughter puked and it got in his mouth. Don’t ask. Stories about leaky swim diapers. Scoffing when Cowboy and I bring up the concept of maybe using cloth diapers. Badgering me as to when are we getting a playpen for the boat. Although he knows Cowboy absolutely doesn’t want a playpen in the boat (I know you had a playpen in your boat but I prefer to hold my baby in our boat – thankyouverymuch). Generally how our lives will suck after having a kid.

Our theories and desires (and, admittedly at this point, they are just theories) are met with the proverbial: ha-ha-ha-oh-you-new-clueless-parents-just-you-wait attitude. Yesterday, his unrelenting spew took me to a point I hate in myself: I let loose a snotty and indignant comment, something to the effect of, "yes, I believe I’ve heard that story from you ten times," which brought the conversation in a large group of people to a complete halt. Nice one.

I don’t want to surround myself with people like him. I prefer positive-thinking these days. I need positive thinking. There is so much stacked against a new mom what with the hormones, the questioning of one’s self confidence, the inevitable sleep deprivation, the changing body, etc., that I need those who will build us up not bring us down.

Stay away from this guy is the easy answer. Except that he and Cowboy go water skiing once a week. Water skiing season is just around the corner. I watch his daughter while the guys go out on the river after work for a ski session. No one can figure out why his wife can’t leave work at 5 pm just one night a week so the guys can have guy time. So I watch the child for Cowboy’s sake because he is annoyed to no end by her behavior on the boat. Sigh.

Any ideas on how I can stem the tide of negativity without impacting my husband’s long standing friendship?

You know, writing about this seems very self-indulgent when there many out there close to me who are suffering in ways that are so much more poignant and real than this. I guess with all the sadness afloat, I am just feeling a tad more sensitive these days.

There once was a cowboy from Nantucket...

2008-03-10T12:39:00.000-07:00

There once was a Cowboy from Portland.
Blood, needles and gore, he could not stand.
So imagine his chagrin,
When his knocked up wife said to him:
As I see it, you will be in L&D holding my hand.

# # #

I am bit late posting my limerick. Oops. This limerick was inspired by our recent hiring of a doula to assist with Missy's birth.

It may sound like I am picking on my husband at bit. And I am. For as rough and tumble as he is, Cowboy does not do messy, medical stuff well. The guy doesn't watch Grey's or ER, and House - forget it. He doesn't even like to take Gus to the vet.

Although we both know deep down that he would regret not being in the delivery room, he is downright terrified of it.

In fact, part of him would be secretly happy to play out the 1950's father-to-be in the waiting room, handing out bottles of local microbrews that read, "It's a Girl!" instead of cigars (smoking anything but mary jane is so not PC in Portland).

I confided this to my OB during my first pregnancy. Oh how naive of me to be thinking of such things in the first trimester, as I learned the hard way. Anyway, she said you'd be surprised at the number of dads who excuse themselves from the room during the sketchy parts of birth. She suggested hiring a doula, as much for Cowboy if not for myself.

I had never heard of a doula. My informal canvassing for those who have had a doula assist at their births turned up a slew of local friends and acquaintances who have used them with success.

While I was doing my canvassing, turns out Cowboy was doing his. He began offering some of his male friends who are firefighters (and therefore must have been trained to deliver a baby, right?) cases of beer to be our doula.

Nice.

No way, I told him. Besides you'd probably have to at least buy them a fifth of whiskey to make the offer even remotely attractive. But, I reasoned with him, if we had a real doula helping out, it would free him up to take ocassional jaunts down to the restaurants on NW 23rd if it all became too much and he found himself needing a break. (Conventiently, our hospital is adjacent to one of the hottest restaurant and bar streets in the city).

He spent an afternoon mulling this over and then announced he wanted a doula - and not the firefighter kind. Whew.

So we found one that I think will be a good match for our style. She comes to our house twice before the birth for personal birth classes. If I want, she will come to our house when I am in early labor. She will advise us when to head for the hospital. And will stay there for the entire birth. She then does two more visits to our house to help with breastfeeding and any other post-partum issues immediately following the birth.

Sounds like a party for her.

The point of us hiring a doula is not to abdicate our responsibility in the process, but to create the best odds of having a positive experience. Again, this might be our only chance to have it. I don't want to snap at Cowboy and make an already tense situation worse. I don't expect him to get all mushy and cut the cord and look in the mirror (good Lord, no mirrors, please). I just want him to never regret that he was in the room when his daughter arrives. As much as I don't want him to regret that he wasn't in there because it got too intense.

And if that means he stays "uptown" only and gets the random PBR break, I'm all for it.

Tagged: 6 Non-Important Quirks

2008-03-05T10:38:00.000-08:00

My new friend from Still Passing Open Windows tagged me to share "Six Non-Important Quirks" about myself. After last week's imperfect-day post, it is high time for a light-hearted antidote.

Below are the rules for the meme:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Six Non-Important Quirks About Me

#1. The undergarments I wear on a given day must match in color. No beige bra / black panties combo. All black or all beige.

#2. I pre-wash the dishes and silverware in soapy water before putting them in the dishwasher.

#3. More dishwasher anal-ness: I load it a certain way and have been known to re-arrange dishes if they don't pass organizational muster. Insane, I know.

#4. I cannot stand litter and pick up pieces of trash in my neighborhood as I walk Gus.

#5. I own more pairs of trail running shoes than street shoes.

#6. I always buy a package of Swedish Fish when I shop at IKEA. I know they sell them at Target and other stores, but - for some reason - they don't taste the same to me.

I realized after reading the first four quirks that I sound a lot like Bree from "Desperate Housewives." Oh well. It is what it is.

Now I tag:

Precious Little (hopefully this will provide momentary respite during your 2WW)
Waiting Amy (to see how well she is going to fit in with life in L.A. - ha!)
Weebles Wobblog (because I am sure they will be entertaining to read)

Now I am off to work on my St. Patrick's Day limerick. Pity I can't use "Nantucket" in it.

Of loss on this imperfect day (Feb. 29, 2008)

2008-02-29T12:15:00.000-08:00

Back in late October 2006, I planted daffodil bulbs in our front yard. I’m actually a tulip-kind-of-girl, but daffodils bloom earlier in the Northwest. After months of grey, rain and cold – and even during spring when it is still grey, rainy and cold – the flowers provide a welcome harbinger of the warm weather to come. So I picked a species that would come up early.

I was just barely pregnant with Junior #1 at the time of planting. As I planted, I imagined what I would look like when these daffodils bloomed.

A few weeks later, I miscarried. My OB confirmed this at my ultrasound after seeing a barely-there heartbeat.

I miscarried naturally and had nothing left of this so-very-much-wanted pregnancy. So I wrote a letter to "Junior" (our code for the embryo) and buried a copy amongst a nest of daffodil bulbs right by our front door.

As I buried the letter as one would a pet hamster, I said a few prayers. My first prayer was for Junior the Embryo. My second was that I would be pregnant again by the time those daffodils bloomed in spring.

By March 2007, the daffodils were up and the sun was starting to shine again every few days. I was not pregnant. At first, the blooms sagged and then the stalks grew strong. The daffodils flourished and looked delightful in our front yard.

March came and went. No such luck.

By mid-April, the blooms started to wither. "Great," I thought, "There goes that prayer." Yes, I am a horribly selfish person when it comes to religion (which I know is terrible and is something I have promised Him I will work on).

A week later I was out for a walk with a friend’s 6-year-old. She’s a flower fanatic, quite knowledgeable for her age about all kinds of flora. Returning from the walk, we surveyed our lawn and sighed over the dying daffodil blooms.

"But Ms. Planner!" screeched my charge, who has a habit of invoking really high little girl pitches in her voice, "Look, there are two flowers still blooming!" And indeed there were.

She desperately wanted to pick them for her bouquet of weeds we’d brought home, but I wouldn’t let her, because then Junior’s daffodils would be no more.

And, although it sounds mean, I am glad I didn’t let her pick the remaining blooms.

Because a few nights later, I got a positive HPT:

Junior #2.

My wish had come true. I was pregnant again with the daffodils.

Shortly thereafter, the remaining two daffodils faded. Almost as quickly as they faded, so did the pregnancy. My RE called it a chemical. My sweet OB said that any pregnancy is a pregnancy. And gave me another shot of Rho-Gam in my ass.

Late winter 2008 has brought a spate of warmish, sunny weather in the Northwest. Hence, Junior #1’s daffodil stalks are again pushing their way to reach what little sun is to be had during the day.

This year, I waddle past them every morning and say a thank-you to whatever powers that be that I am pregnant yet again. My wish did come true. Just a little later than I wanted. But it came true nonetheless.

For fleeting moments, I sometimes wonder about the almost ones. Junior #1 would be a chubby 9-month old today. Junior#2, an infant, who had hopefully just gotten into a schedule.

Today perhaps I will go to the store and buy a bouquet of daffodils for their little sister-in-waiting. My prayer these days is that I will have the chance to let her pick as many of those blooms as she wants from the yard.

Housecleaning

2008-02-18T08:36:00.000-08:00

I've done a little organizing on my blog.

When I first started reading blogs in the late fall of 2006, only one blog author that I faithfully read was pregnant. And she was just newly so.

By the time I started That Was The Plan in spring 2007 - after my second miscarriage - there were a handful of ladies, maybe three or four, who were on their way.

Undoubtedly I initially connected with blogs where I "felt" I had more in common with the author. Sometimes our commonality was recurrent miscarriage. Or maybe I sensed an author had similar life experiences to my own. Oftentimes, I just enjoyed the way a person wrote and could feel a personality that jibed with my own from her posts. Hence, I read more blogs of people still struggling than those who had already hit the jackpot.

Sometimes the disparity between those with success and those still struggling seemed downright futile. But I loved reading the success stories. It gave me hope.

This past weekend, I realized that almost one-third of the blogs I read are written by women who have stared down the barrel of IF and have come out still standing on the "other" side. Another third are well on their way.

What amazes me, too, is how different their paths are.

My college roommate (who does not blog) struggled with IF for 5 long years. The birth announcement she sent out last Christmas heralding the arrival of her son read simply, "Believe."

Trust me. Believing is hard to do when we've been conditioned through our experiences to not believe. I still struggle with believing.

Another friend asked me the other day if I was more relaxed now that I am in my second trimester. I told her I was starting to become more chill now that I was getting closer to the point where they would try to save my daughter if I delivered early.

You mean, you are still thinking that way? She wanted to know.

Her rhetorical comment made me realize that she just didn't understand. But I was okay with it.

So here's my deal:

For those who feel they have made it to the other side, I will continue to rejoice with you and help heal the wounds by understanding what you've been through.

For those still struggling, please know that I will stick by you until you reach your other side. On the days when you can't, I will continue to believe for you. Because I know in my soul that everyone will make it one way or another.

The rock and the hard place

2008-02-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

I realize that this blog has morphed from tackling loss, infertility and now pregnancy after loss/infertility. This past weekend I reached 22 weeks (5-1/2 months) of pregnancy. As such, I find myself making that inevitable transition between the this-one-may-also-not-work-out and holy-shit-I-better-get-my-ass-in-gear-because-it-looks-like-this-may-happen lines of thought.

Yesterday, I saw The Business of Being Born documentary at a community screening. (Warning: the link flashes to a trailer featuring pregnancies and babies, but you can quickly click off the trailer page to get more information about the film without seeing this.)

I don’t intend to write a review of the film – because it presented so much opportunity for discourse – other than to say that I am SO glad I saw it. I highly recommend those of you approaching a birth see it, too.

It really got me thinking about my journey thus far and the direction I want the remainder of the journey to take now that I’m midway through it.

If you had asked me a year ago, I would have been happy to have a child in my life by any means necessary. But now that I am actually knocked up with support of modern medicine – read: progesterone, early ultrasounds, CVS testing, etc. – I find myself wanting to reclaim a bit of "natural-ness" in this whole process. Seems a bit two-faced to me. But part of me wants to make up for the horrible, shitty anxiety and poking & prodding of the first trimester. And the other part of me wants to test myself physically and emotionally with the birth process, which may be my only opportunity in my life to do so.

I’m not going for a midwife-assisted home birth in a bath. But I am leaning toward trying to accomplish this by more natural means than pitocin and an epidural.

A few years ago I rock climbed the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney with a friend. At 14,800-feet, Mt. Whitney is the tallest peak in the Lower 48. The ascent and descent took 16 hours of long, physical effort. It snowed on our first pitch and proceeded to get colder and grayer as we ascended. The weather kept the handful of other teams off the rock. But both my friend and I hate rappelling with a passion and by the time the weather got bad enough to make it miserable, we had climbed too far to warrant a rappel.

My friend forgot the guidebook and we got lost en route. We found our way back to the right pitch but it took over an hour of route finding while I sat on a tiny belay pitch at 14,000 feet. I was tied in, legs dangling over a sheer face. I couldn’t communicate with my partner. It was freezing. Every part of my body hurt as I alternated between feeding out rope and holding the rope in brake position. I felt utterly alone, scared and beyond sore. Climbing big walls is a lesson in isolation and self-reliance. You see your partner for a handful of minutes as you make the transition onto the next pitch. Mostly it is all about you. And your demons. And your effort. And your confidence in yourself. And your pain.

We finally made it and the clouds cleared miraculously to give us a grand view of the Southern Sierras. We took a few minutes to eat a Clif Bar and re-rack our gear for the descent, which was a 2000 foot hike down a craggy 50-degree route comprised of small granite boulders that required us to scramble. Getting lost earlier on the wall meant we were losing sunlight fast.

And I had forgotten my headlamp.

The descent sucked more than the climb up. I dislike downclimbing. Period. The sun was almost completely gone as we made it to the steepest part of the descent. My only light was a tiny hand-held LED light in my bail out kit like the kind you keep on a key ring, which lit up when I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. We descended slowly. Partly because we were exhausted and sore. And partly because it was so dark that our lights only illuminated the next 10 feet in front of us and we didn’t want to head over a boulder with an 8-foot drop on the other side.

A few teams at base camp saw our lights blinking down the route. They lit lanterns so we could find our way back to camp. It should have been gratifying to see those lights, but they were so tiny and seemed so far away. My fear got the best of me and I found myself between a rock and a hard place – literally and figuratively. I was scared to go on and thought seriously about parking myself on a rock ledge about 2 hours above base camp, shivering all night long while I waited for the sun to come up. That would have taken hours. The other option was to keep going through the cold ache, the exhaustion and the utter fear of a painful or deadly mis-step in the black darkness. Keep going just 2 more hours to base camp, with its bliss of a cup of warm soup and my zero-degree down sleeping bag.

I kept going. And it sucked. But I made it. And had one of my best nights of sleep ever that night. The high I had for the next several days didn't fade either. Even when we hoisted our 50-lb. packs on our aching backs for another 5,000-feet of steep singletrack to the cars.

Climbing that bitch – and making it down in one piece – is one of my proudest achievements to date (forgetting my headlamp notwithstanding).

So while the pain of labor is sure to be more intense than the pain I felt on this climb, I think the emotional response may be similar. I’ve pushed myself physically – on more than one occasion – to the point of the rock and the hard place. Scared to go forward. Scared to go back. It is that space of utter isolation, fear and pain that I think women are most scared of when in labor. That and that something might happen to the baby.

But, as this movie points out, for the vast majority of women who have the confidence that they can get through labor without drugs, everything works out okay for them and the baby. And the result far outweighs the pain they went through.

I know the premise of this film is not for everyone. And we all know there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to family building. But – for me – I really think I can do this without drugs. And I want to give it a go.

Coming Out

2008-02-06T15:12:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite business trips of the year is a trade show whereby all the retailers of outdoor gear come to buy next year’s products from the manufacturers – a veritable "Grown Ups Toys-R-Us." In my ten + years in the outdoor sports industry, I’ve made several lifelong friends most of whom come to this show. It’s like an annual high school reunion.

A few of the women in this circle knew of my struggles to start a family.

I kept this pregnancy under wraps from most of them. I just didn’t want to write those emails if it didn’t work out. This past trip, however, their genuine joy over my obvious belly was a wonderful thing to see.

Except for one woman. I met her last year. Over the phone. She wanted to hire me for a great job in Colorado. She wanted things to move fast, explaining that she just really needed a break from the pace she was keeping.

I knew from a colleague that this woman had struggled with miscarriages and a failed IVF. She is a few years older than me. We are similar in that we believed wholeheartedly that we could easily start families in our late-30’s only after netting the grad degree, the spouse, the house and paying it all off with a management-level position. (Suckers).

In one of our final conversations last fall, she had all but hired me and bought our plane tickets to Colorado when I put on the brakes.

"The truth is, I’m a stirrup queen," I admitted over the phone, "And I don’t think I can fairly commit the time and energy you need for this position right now because I’m struggling to start a family."

With that, we launched into an hour-long discussion about our fertility struggles.

She admitted that she had scheduled IVF #2 for the fall and wanted to reduce the stress and the level of hours she was keeping before embarking on round 2. She cautioned me not to wait to try IVF and even offered up a referral to her RE in the Denver-area.

It was the strangest and most satisfying interview I’ve ever had. It was also the first time I publicly put my personal life before my work. I declined the offer. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant with Missy.

Flash forward to January. I would see her face-to-face at an event where it would be too difficult to dodge each other. I hoped that she, too, would be pregnant.

I knew her cautious and detached "congratulations" all too well as she stared at me in disbelief. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I know I would have behaved somewhat similarly. I felt so bad. I wanted to give her a hug. And apologize for getting pregnant when she had not.

After a bit, she warmed up and then peppered me with questions. What had I done? Had I used acupuncture? Herbs? A traditional Chinese medicine diet?

When asked, I’ve always been open about my journey. But this conversation really forced me to think about and articulate why this time might have been different from the others. Aside from whatever mystical connection to the universe or God’s "Plan" or whatever, what had I done or not done to contribute to this pregnancy’s success?

In a nutshell:

Yoga. Each of my BFPs was preceded by a spate of dedicated yoga practice. Even after "experts" told me that Ashtanga was contributing to my lack of progesterone issues, I never got pregnant when I wasn’t practicing Ashtanga yoga regularly.

Progesterone Supplements. Even with Missy, who by all accounts is healthy, I had falling progesterone levels. My thoughts on low progesterone and pregnancy are so long-winded that I will save it for a separate post, but I firmly believe that the three suppositories a day saved this pregnancy.

Diet. I did follow a TCM yang-deficiency diet for several months before this pregnancy. And after I got pregnant and was weaned off progesterone, I nearly ate a pint of ice cream to make up for it all.

Chinese Herbs. I ditched using these 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. I think they were hampering my emotional state.

Acupuncture. I ditched this 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. However, I did resume acupuncture for recurrent pregnancy loss right when I found out I was pregnant and continued weekly treatments until the end of my first trimester.

Work stress. While I don’t advocate quitting one’s job if you truly love it, but it is pretty ironic that we achieved a successful pregnancy on the first cycle where I wasn’t imbibing in a daily dose of sadness and stress as my company prepared to move to another state.

Letting Go. Yeah right. Someone with the blog moniker "Ms. Planner" can never just let go. But I had resigned myself that this was our last month of trying before moving on to IVF or adoption. We would never have timed sex again, I promised us.

Clear Blue Easy Fertility Monitor. Fuck those OPKs and obsessing if I was one of those women who ovulated 12 hours or 48 hours post-positive stick. I brought out the big guns and discovered that instead of being a CD 13 & 14 girl, I’m a CD 14 & 15 girl. Now that I think about it, we always got pregnant if we timed things for the evening of CD14 instead of morning. I never was a morning person anyway.

That is my journey. But everyone’s journey is different and uniquely their own. I borrowed a little from my intuition, a little from Western medicine, a little from Eastern medicine, a little psychotherapy. And crafted my own little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang of a fertility vehicle. Thank heavens it didn’t sink this time.

At the end of our conversation, the woman who wanted to hire me held out her hand and asked me to pass some baby vibes her way. I don’t believe in that baby dust hooey but I extended my pinky finger and gave her a pinky good luck shake. I wished her all the luck in the world on her journey. I hope she finds what will work best for her, physically, emotionally and spiritually soon.

I hope that for everyone.

Back home

2008-02-03T09:59:00.000-08:00

I am back from my work travels. Tired and with a bit of a cold. I worked 14 days straight at two back-to-back trade shows in two of the U.S.'s most diverse cities in which to be pregnant: Salt Lake City, Utah (the nation's most fertile state with its youngest population) and Las Vegas.

Being 5 months pregnant in Salt Lake just means that most people assume I'm on baby #6. Pregnant women (umm, really girls - they all look so damn young) and small children abound here. Infertility sucks in itself but to be infertile and living in Salt Lake would be a double burden to bear. Fertiles are everywhere.

Las Vegas. A completely different story. Being obviously pregnant in Sin City is tantamount to being a circus freak.

I don't even like Vegas. It is so opposite my style to begin with. Suffice it to say that being pregnant + Vegas = majorly no fun. For instance:

Men obviously staring at my chest and then my belly. I felt like I was on display.

No sushi at Nobu. Sigh.

No Maker's Mark and ginger ale at AJ's Steak House.

No Hard Rock Casino for people watching - as a general rule I don't gamble. Too much second hand smoke.

One night I attempted to rally and go to the Mix, a fabulous nightclub that looks out over the Strip on the top floor of the Hotel with some colleagues. Okay, it was crowded but I swear the bouncer took one look at my pregnant belly and informed us it would be at least an hour before we would even be let into the bar.

Apparently no one wants to disturb the carefree vibe that is the very lifeblood of Vegas with a visible reminder of a knocked up gal.

Thank goodness for the Bathhouse spa and pedicure. And room service.

In the end, I am glad that I was fortunate enough to be dealing with those minor inconveniences. Missy handled the long days like trooper. Now, we rest for a few days. And do the laundry.

18 week ultrasound

2008-01-18T17:42:00.000-08:00

"You two do good work."

That was the report from the doctor at our 18-week anatomical scan today. I technically hit the 19-week mark this weekend. Can you tell I want time to fly?

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Although I realize that things can turn on a dime, this felt like one of those big hurdles cleared.

Missy was moving all over the place but ended up cooperating for the important shots - including what I called the sitting-on-the-photocopier-shot, which proved that she definitely is a little girl. "Don't EVER do that when you are big," I admonished her, eliciting chuckles from Cowboy and the male ultrasound tech. I feel slight movements nearly every day, which is the most reassuring pregnancy "symptom" I've had so far.

Our ultrasound tech was terrific. He told us at the end of the ultrasound that he was glad he had us as patients and that everything was okay. He had had two patients earlier in the day that he discovered "really bad news" on their ultrasounds. My heart just went out to those women and men. Cowboy and I went to a late lunch afterward and I felt guilty sitting there all happy with my prospects when there were two couples out there who were staring down the barrel of one of the worst weekends of their lives.

I wish them some peace wherever they are in P-town.

On Monday I leave for a two-week long business trip (apologies in advance if I am not posting or checking up too often). I've promised myself that the real planning will begin when I return: 529 college plan, a will, crank up the life insurance policy and - maybe - some nursery furniture sourcing.

On another cute note, Cowboy is definitely prepping for the baby in his own cowboy way. He was the one who researched ALL the 529 plan information so now we just have to decide on which route we will go. And last weekend - when I was at the baby shower - he went to the mountain where there happened to be a junior ski competition. He made sure he watched the girl's race.

Welcome to the other side

2008-01-14T10:17:00.000-08:00

Back in June, you might remember that I co-hosted a baby shower with a friend for our third friend. The three of us went to MBA school together and ended up in the same town post-graduation. We just happened to get married in the same year. And in a moment of silly, pre-IF glee, pledged to co-host baby showers for each other when - not if - the time came. Stupid, stupid girls-night-out, second apple martini.

This past weekend, I co-hosted a shower with the third friend (the new mom) for our second friend – who is due end of March. It was much more fun for me than the first baby shower because (a) I wasn’t recovering from a recent miscarriage and (b) I was well on my way to being a real live pregnant lady.

But life on the other side is still so weird to me.

There is nothing like sitting around a dinner table full of 8 new moms to make you want to slink into the kitchen to load the dishwasher and soak the wine glasses.

I felt like a bona fide fraud. And nervous, like I was going to be punished by losing Missy if I behaved as if I was a normal pregnant woman at the shower.

On one hand, I am angry that I have let my past experiences so negatively taint my expectations toward this pregnancy. On the other hand, I remain grateful for my experiences. With them I feel like I view this pregnancy with much more objectivity and realism than almost anything else I have faced in my life.

I guess it is true that failure can be a wise instructor.

My friends are starting to ask me about the nursery (don’t I have it decorated yet!?) and my birth plan. WTF! I wanted to state in a loud, emphatic voice: “Look people, I am JUST finally accepting that I might actually have this kid.” So, no, I haven’t decorated the nursery and absolutely do I not have a freaking birth plan.

As a side note, of all the people who I know who have given birth recently, only ONE has had the birth go according to her plan.

My other baby foray this weekend was to take dinner to my friend who was pregnant with twins on my same due date for Junior #2 around Christmastime. She was originally carrying twins but found out one of them had anencephaly, so she had a reduction toward the end of her first trimester.

The new baby only sleeps while on someone’s chest. I am sure this would eventually be no fun to a new mom whose husband is gone on a 48-hour shift and who has a rambunctious 3-year old. Consequently, my friend seemed annoyed with the new baby and wanted to spend more time with her 3-year old.

So I got to hold the new baby for hours. It felt fabulous. At first, I remembered Junior #2 and felt a little sad. But then I couldn’t wait for Missy to get here so I can hold her.

I know I shouldn’t be wishing my life away but a big part of me just wants it to be June already.