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.
Showing posts with label Randomness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Randomness. Show all posts
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Rain, Rain, Go Away
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!
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!Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Cowboy's New Gig
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.
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.
Monday, January 4, 2010
All You Need to Know about Road Tripping with a Toddler
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?
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?
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Wishing you a yummy holiday
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
Friday, November 27, 2009
$5
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.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Yes Ma'am
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.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Kill Your Television
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.
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.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Hola!
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?
Monday, February 2, 2009
On why I don't want a new blog
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.
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.
Monday, December 1, 2008
So Long
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!
Friday, September 5, 2008
Wading into the fray
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Pimp My Ride
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.
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.
Friday, April 25, 2008
Blogoversary: In the Course of One Year
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.
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.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Week of April 21: 8 months, 8 weeks to go.
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
The Crabbiest Month
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."
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.
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.
Monday, March 10, 2008
There once was a cowboy from Nantucket...
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Tagged: 6 Non-Important Quirks
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Coming Out
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.
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.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
On The Road Again
We are back from our annual ski road trip. It was quite the adventure.
DEC. 23
Junior #2’s due date. I miscarried – or chemical pregnancied or whatever – at 5 weeks with this one. As such, we never had time to bond. As we drove through the high desert plains of Eastern Oregon, I wondered how I would have felt had I not been pregnant on this auspicious day. Bitter? Probably. Sad? Probably. This was the pregnancy that sent me to the RE. That got me help on this third pregnancy. And it makes me feel like Junior #2 was a little bit of a sacrificial pregnancy. While I was introspective on this day, I could not help but feel as if I were looking at the situation with a much more objective lens than on Junior #1’s due date.
TOW TRUCK #1
Sunday, 4 PM, Dec. 23. Hoss (our Ford F250 diesel pickup truck that carries the camper) loses his transmission three-quarters of the way up the hill to Schweitzer Mountain in Northern Idaho. The truck is dead. It is dark. And snowing. We are on a one lane each way, winding mountain road and the snow banks are deep and wide so there is no where to pull off. No less than 10 cars stop to ask us if we need help. Idahoans are SO nice. A grandfatherly tow truck driver tows us up to the RV parking lot at the mountain. It is the night before Christmas Eve and no garages are open for the next 2 days. Luckily we have 3 days provisions: food, water, gas for the generator.
And besides it dumps fresh snow the next 2 days so what do we care!
Missy (our new, feminized name for Junior #3) skis her first double black diamond. But it was by total accident. I swear.
TOW TRUCK #2
We are towed down the hill – camper and all – on Dec. 26 by another nice tow truck driver and his 14-year-old daughter in pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt who is home from school on holiday break. Dec. 26-28 we spend 3 glorious nights at a cheap motel in Sandpoint, Idaho – a very cute little Western town where cars legally have to stop to let pedestrians cross (this is very rare in the West outside of West Coast towns; usually the bigger the vehicle, the more right-of-way applies). Our motel has 2 important amenities: hot showers and cable. We don’t have cable at home. So when we stay in hotel rooms we are prone to watch TV for hours – like zombies. One night we watched five hours of “Orange County Choppers” on TLC. That was the same night I threw up in the public restroom of a local diner. I don’t recommend throwing up in a public toilet. Ever. It makes you puke more. I wish I had run out and puked in the parking lot instead. Lesson learned.
SHOE SHOPPING WITH MY GAY DOG
One evening, I walked around shopping in said cute little Sandpoint town with Gus. Dogs are welcome in almost every store, so Gus had a blast being Mr. Social. I broke down and bought my first baby item for Missy. These things are indispensable for keeping warm in the camper. I bought the sandy color for her and have a pair just like them so we’ll match. Please don’t gag. I felt really weird buying them. Almost guilty. But they are so. damn. cute.
WHITE TRASH MOMENT
The day before we left Idaho, Cowboy dropped me off at the town Laundromat to do our wash while he retrieved the camper top. There I was, pregnant and being dropped off at the Laundromat by my husband in our pick up truck. Our dirty clothes were in Safeway plastic bags because I only had one tote bag and too much laundry. Totally country music cliché.
TOW TRUCK #3
Sat., Jan. 29, 4 PM. Three-quarters of the way up the mountain road to Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, the transmission line to the new $3,000 transmission blows. Hoss is dead again. It is 15 F degrees and snowing. Only 1 car stops to ask us if we need help. People in Northwestern Montana are not as nice. We find a Ford garage that is open so tow truck driver #3, replete with a mullet and a big wad of chewing tobacco, hauls us to the garage. We find another not-so-cheap motel with the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Seriously. Our camper bed is way more comfortable.
POWDER DAY
I don’t mean to complain. Really. I don’t. Normally I love powder days. I am not kidding when I say that I have had feelings akin to good-sex-satisfaction-feelings on powder days. However, skiing in deep powder + pregnant = not so fun. I’ll leave it at that.
NEW YEAR'S EVE
Hoss gets a fixed tranny line to go with his new tranny. We consider heading south to hit one more resort.
Cowboy tries to get on a cat skiing trip because Big Mountain is so freaking crowded with Alberta, Canada license plates. The asshats at Big Mountain reservations, however, don’t bother to pick up the phone when they say they are going to open. When we finally get through to them, they inform us that while the cats aren’t full, the time has closed to accept reservations for cat trips that day. In my opinion, the staff at Big Mountain suck! Don’t go there. Go to Schweitzer instead.
With this news on top of everything else, the wind finally goes out of our sails. Instead, we pack up and head home. We spend New Year’s Eve in a parking lot in Idaho. And go to sleep at 9 PM.
MANAGING EXPECTATIONS
We always start these trips with such great expectations. During last year’s trip, I was still recovering from miscarriage #1. While I was happy to escape into the mountains, I was unexpectedly sad and exhausted on some of the days.
This time, we just had so many mechanical and logistical challenges that - despite trying to be positive at the beginning - it ended up kind of breaking our spirits. I got stressed because I couldn’t get traction to find WiFi to check in with work – I had planned to work the week after Christmas – and we just got exhausted with how much money we were bleeding with unexpected lodging, food and rental car costs.
With gas, food and lift tickets, we usually spend $1,000 on this vacation. This year, we spent an additional $4,500 with the transmission, tow trucks, hotels, etc. Yikes.
I can only imagine what next year’s adventure will be like with a six month old in tow.
Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?
Before I start, I want to thank you each for your boundless comments of joy with our genetics and gender results. I cried so hard when I read what you lovely ladies sent to me. I could totally feel the love flowing. And I love each one of you back.
Maybe you've felt this kind of joy. Maybe you haven't yet. Here's what I know truer than anything: One day you will. And I can't wait to be there to pay it back.
I haven’t posted in a long while and I have all of these stories and thoughts that have been popping around my brain. Here’s a short synopsis of the major ones, the funny ones, the not-so-funny ones and the ones that seem to matter the most to me right now:DEC. 23
Junior #2’s due date. I miscarried – or chemical pregnancied or whatever – at 5 weeks with this one. As such, we never had time to bond. As we drove through the high desert plains of Eastern Oregon, I wondered how I would have felt had I not been pregnant on this auspicious day. Bitter? Probably. Sad? Probably. This was the pregnancy that sent me to the RE. That got me help on this third pregnancy. And it makes me feel like Junior #2 was a little bit of a sacrificial pregnancy. While I was introspective on this day, I could not help but feel as if I were looking at the situation with a much more objective lens than on Junior #1’s due date.
TOW TRUCK #1
Sunday, 4 PM, Dec. 23. Hoss (our Ford F250 diesel pickup truck that carries the camper) loses his transmission three-quarters of the way up the hill to Schweitzer Mountain in Northern Idaho. The truck is dead. It is dark. And snowing. We are on a one lane each way, winding mountain road and the snow banks are deep and wide so there is no where to pull off. No less than 10 cars stop to ask us if we need help. Idahoans are SO nice. A grandfatherly tow truck driver tows us up to the RV parking lot at the mountain. It is the night before Christmas Eve and no garages are open for the next 2 days. Luckily we have 3 days provisions: food, water, gas for the generator.
And besides it dumps fresh snow the next 2 days so what do we care!
Missy (our new, feminized name for Junior #3) skis her first double black diamond. But it was by total accident. I swear.
TOW TRUCK #2
We are towed down the hill – camper and all – on Dec. 26 by another nice tow truck driver and his 14-year-old daughter in pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt who is home from school on holiday break. Dec. 26-28 we spend 3 glorious nights at a cheap motel in Sandpoint, Idaho – a very cute little Western town where cars legally have to stop to let pedestrians cross (this is very rare in the West outside of West Coast towns; usually the bigger the vehicle, the more right-of-way applies). Our motel has 2 important amenities: hot showers and cable. We don’t have cable at home. So when we stay in hotel rooms we are prone to watch TV for hours – like zombies. One night we watched five hours of “Orange County Choppers” on TLC. That was the same night I threw up in the public restroom of a local diner. I don’t recommend throwing up in a public toilet. Ever. It makes you puke more. I wish I had run out and puked in the parking lot instead. Lesson learned.
SHOE SHOPPING WITH MY GAY DOG
One evening, I walked around shopping in said cute little Sandpoint town with Gus. Dogs are welcome in almost every store, so Gus had a blast being Mr. Social. I broke down and bought my first baby item for Missy. These things are indispensable for keeping warm in the camper. I bought the sandy color for her and have a pair just like them so we’ll match. Please don’t gag. I felt really weird buying them. Almost guilty. But they are so. damn. cute.
WHITE TRASH MOMENT
The day before we left Idaho, Cowboy dropped me off at the town Laundromat to do our wash while he retrieved the camper top. There I was, pregnant and being dropped off at the Laundromat by my husband in our pick up truck. Our dirty clothes were in Safeway plastic bags because I only had one tote bag and too much laundry. Totally country music cliché.
TOW TRUCK #3
Sat., Jan. 29, 4 PM. Three-quarters of the way up the mountain road to Big Mountain in Whitefish, Montana, the transmission line to the new $3,000 transmission blows. Hoss is dead again. It is 15 F degrees and snowing. Only 1 car stops to ask us if we need help. People in Northwestern Montana are not as nice. We find a Ford garage that is open so tow truck driver #3, replete with a mullet and a big wad of chewing tobacco, hauls us to the garage. We find another not-so-cheap motel with the most uncomfortable bed in the world. Seriously. Our camper bed is way more comfortable.
POWDER DAY
I don’t mean to complain. Really. I don’t. Normally I love powder days. I am not kidding when I say that I have had feelings akin to good-sex-satisfaction-feelings on powder days. However, skiing in deep powder + pregnant = not so fun. I’ll leave it at that.
NEW YEAR'S EVE
Hoss gets a fixed tranny line to go with his new tranny. We consider heading south to hit one more resort.
Cowboy tries to get on a cat skiing trip because Big Mountain is so freaking crowded with Alberta, Canada license plates. The asshats at Big Mountain reservations, however, don’t bother to pick up the phone when they say they are going to open. When we finally get through to them, they inform us that while the cats aren’t full, the time has closed to accept reservations for cat trips that day. In my opinion, the staff at Big Mountain suck! Don’t go there. Go to Schweitzer instead.
With this news on top of everything else, the wind finally goes out of our sails. Instead, we pack up and head home. We spend New Year’s Eve in a parking lot in Idaho. And go to sleep at 9 PM.
MANAGING EXPECTATIONS
We always start these trips with such great expectations. During last year’s trip, I was still recovering from miscarriage #1. While I was happy to escape into the mountains, I was unexpectedly sad and exhausted on some of the days.
This time, we just had so many mechanical and logistical challenges that - despite trying to be positive at the beginning - it ended up kind of breaking our spirits. I got stressed because I couldn’t get traction to find WiFi to check in with work – I had planned to work the week after Christmas – and we just got exhausted with how much money we were bleeding with unexpected lodging, food and rental car costs.
With gas, food and lift tickets, we usually spend $1,000 on this vacation. This year, we spent an additional $4,500 with the transmission, tow trucks, hotels, etc. Yikes.
I can only imagine what next year’s adventure will be like with a six month old in tow.
Good Lord, did I just say that out loud?
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