Many thanks to Liz at Missed Conceptions and Amy at So When Will You Have Kids? - 2 of my favorite daily reads - for nominating That Was the Plan for a Rockin' Girl Blogger award.

I always wanted to rock. Seriously. My younger sister was the cool, alternative rocker girl in high school. If we didn't live on different continents, I would still be stealing her clothes.

Instead, I've always been, hmm, much more

this.

But - at least for today - I rock!

And so do you:

Von at Murphy is a Bastard. Von has an amazing gift for articulating the emotional rollercoaster of IF via a carefully-cultivated collection of photos, poems and quotes that always give me a moment of peace and comfort.

Erin at The Vicious Cycle of Cycles. Erin is hilarious. Her posts and comments have an amazing combination of thoughtful honesty and delightfully-wicked humor. She once singlehandedly brought me out of a funk by commenting that has there is child out there somewhere for parents who met in a strip club.

The Oneliner was one of the first bloggers I read when I found this wonderful invention that is infertility blogs. Her posts are smart and sassy - just like I imagine she is. Though she is a veteran now, she started her blog kind of early in her journey, hence her archives are a must-read for anyone just starting to deal with this.

Carrie at Precious Little... poignantly writes about how she is emotionally dealing with her infertility struggle. Her posts reveal the awesome sense of fear we often face along with the quiet courage that helps us pick up the pieces and keeping going on with life and TTC.

Sarah & Andy at Sarah & Andy Go to Kaz*. After a failed IVF and lots of years struggling to start a family, this couple is currently experiencing insta-family as they internationally adopt a young brother and sister. Their blog gives me hope and a glimpse of what may be our path to parenthood.

*Unfortunately, their blog is password protected for the moment as they are - at this very minute - going through the final phases of their adoption and need to keep things on the down low as they go through the final waiting period. But, trust me, their blog rocks.

There are many other blogs that I love to read and connect with on a daily basis. If I leave comments on your blog, then you know who you are. I also noticed that some of you also received RGBs from other readers so I wanted to spread the love.

For those of you duly mentioned, go forth with your rockin-ness and nominate others. Because it feels kind of good to get a nod.

Oh No She Di' int

We went to the wedding of one of my very good friends from b-school and his darling bride on Saturday. It was a mini-reunion of sorts, as he is the kind of person who stayed in touch with a good many of our classmates. I, for one, was ready to celebrate.

Hair done up, channeling Audrey as Holly in the famous movie featuring an equally famous jewelry store, I was determined to make this a night of happiness. I feel so full of sadness and disappointment lately. I didn’t want to bring my baggage into the wonderful night of a lovely couple and their lovely ceremony. I was so over myself.

The wedding was a bit modern with a cocktail reception pre-func before exchanging vows. My second good friend in our triumvirate gal pals was there, too. She started TTC in July. In fact, I gave her my copy of How to Get Pregnant Fast (Naturally) a few months ago thinking I was being so helpful and all.

I haven’t seen her since a coffee date in July when she announced that she was, at that very moment, ovulating and that they had done the deed three days in a row. Ick.

I froze then and I froze again last night when she was freaking sipping on water at the cocktail reception.

My pregnancy radar went off.

Her excuse was that she didn’t want to drink while they were still trying. I get that. I didn’t drink for months when we first started TTC. I told her was sorry that it didn’t work out for her this time and by the look on her face after I made the comment, I just knew.

I get it. It is your pregnancy. Own it. Don’t let others force you to take it in a direction you aren’t ready to go. Like telling someone you are pregnant in the middle of a wedding reception filled with dozens of classmates.

So I would have left it at that. But then she had to say that she was “a little bit past the two week wait and I’ll leave it at that.” And if she has any announcements to make, she will be ready to do so when we have lunch at the third friend’s house in early October.

I went numb.

So much for my glorious night.

It wasn’t so much that I am bummed she is pregnant. I was just so hurt that she wanted me to play a part in her fantasy pregnancy announcement to her dearest friends. Over an intimate lunch. Just the three of us. And the other friend’s new baby. And the stupid smile plastered on my face hiding the bitter lump in my throat.

What disturbs me, too, is that this is the friend with whom I have shared some of my deepest, saddest thoughts with after both of my miscarriages. She’s been there for me. I should be happy for her. What’s wrong with me? I wouldn’t wish infertility on anyone, but why can’t I get it out of my brain that this is so not fair. Why can’t I be the one blessed with a baby? Why is it easy for virtually everyone around me? Just not me.

She says she has prayed for me and thinks of me often. And I believe her. But if she thinks I am going to be party to a public announcement after which I will wind up sobbing in my car on the way home, then once again, I’ve been let down by yet another friend who claims to understand what I am going through. But who very clearly doesn’t.

I HATE what not being able to have a baby has done to me. I absolutely hate the mixture of emotions that course through my soul at this moment. I can barely write this without seething at myself.

Then I detach. I go through the motions. I smile brightly through the wedding reception. I give her a hug. But I can barely look her in the eye. And I hate myself for that, too.

I have never been so thankful that I splurged on an up do for the occasion because at least I had fantastic looking hair that night.

The next day Cowboy asks me if I am upset. I lie and say no. Later on, he asks me if her husband is going to quit his job and stay home to take care of the baby. I say I don’t know.

The sad thing is that she is my friend but I don’t care to know. Because I just can’t care right now.

I’m afraid of the thoughts I might uncover if I think about it too much.

Left Behind

I have the acute feeling lately that I am being left behind.

It all sounds very melancholy and woe-is-me. Suffice it to say that this feeling – the one of being left behind – is not my style. I hate it, actually.

It’s not that I always have to run with the pack. That’s never been my style either. I’ve always felt like a bit of an outsider, even in the most tightly-knit groups.

Call it taking the long way. Or my own way. Whatever.

But standing still is not my gig.

I just completed a big work project. One of my last. Several of my old colleagues and new employees were involved in the project. I realized at its completion, that these people were forging ahead with new adventures, new lives, new jobs, new homes. And I was not.

Not that I wanted to be establishing a new life in that new location. But at least their lives had momentum. Mine feels like I’ve slammed on the brakes.

Same goes – and please, please forgive me for these sentiments, but this is a place to get out my feelings – with all of the BFPs. I do not begrudge anyone their success. God knows, there has been enough suffering and this good news is so hard won and so deserved. But each one represents the gift of forward progress. Actual, physical and emotional forward progress.

The same with the Cyclesisters out there. I cheer for you. I have my fingers crossed. I send positive thoughts your way. But I am a small person because I am a little bit jealous because at least you are doing something.

And all of a sudden, this blog, which was my safe place, is also making me feel left behind.

Left behind because we are just trying naturally. Again. For the 16th, 17th, 18th, 19th, 20th cycle. Rinse. Repeat. It is becoming clear I don’t have any momentum here either. And even once we get to the result of that 20th cycle in October, there is no plan as to what to do next. We agreed to discuss it when we got there.

I admire and am incredulous that there are folks out there who are in this revolving door with no acceptable exit for 5 or 6+ years. I couldn’t, I can’t do it. I so wish I could be that strong.

Instead, what I need is a break. A break from the acupuncture, the herbs, the TCM diet, the meditation and the no-rigorous-exercise ban. I’ve been trying it this way religiously for 6 months. If it hasn’t worked by now, I’m betting it isn’t going to.

I don’t know if this is giving up or just acceptance. I believe that it doesn’t matter what I do. I can’t expect that this is going to happen naturally for us. Or at all, for that matter. We’ll still be parents someday but it just won’t involve me getting pregnant.

If I can’t move forward, then I might as well go back. Back to important parts of my old life. This new one, quite frankly, blows.

My old life is the one where I took as many yoga classes a week as I wanted. And weighed 10 pounds less. And could run whenever I wanted. And wasn’t sad all the time, because I had faith that I was healthy and that this was something we could do.

There will be new things in my "old" life. Like contract marketing jobs where I can work from home. With my dog asleep under my feet. Keeping them warm because my kidney yang will re-surface and they’ll get cold all the time again. And being able to practice yoga whenever I want. And skiing on a good powder day, even if it happens to be Tuesday. And being so much closer to Cowboy after all of this.

Does going back (even a little bit) ever equal forward progress?

Investment Strategy

Driving home from the lake yesterday, Cowboy and I discussed where we were going to “put” my retention bonus. Retention bonus. Sounds like an oxymoron to me.

Cowboy is a commercial financier. From Texas. I have learned in our marriage that these things to him are as essential, as natural and as unemotionally discussed as if we were deciding what to have for dinner.

Too bad housing prices haven’t dropped much around here, he said. We could use it as a down payment on a rental.

How about we invest it in an adoption, I said.

Well, darlin’, that’s not really an investment. (Duh. We went to the same b school).

Yes it is. An investment in my sanity.

About that job thing

They packed up our office today.

I worked right through it. A lot of people, well, the people who haven’t moved on or haven’t moved to the new state where my company is setting up shop, left for the day. I worked at my desk with its gorgeous view of the Willamette River and Forest Park and tried to ignore the movers.

It has been almost a year since the governor of another Western state stopped into our booth at a trade show and announced, "Welcome to (insert state here)!"

Those of us who witnessed it had to keep our mouths from dropping open.

We’d been told in June of 2006 that our company, which was purchased by a new parent firm in 2005, was staying in our hometown.

The official announcement of our company moving did not come until Friday, Oct. 13. The day before the business section ran a front page story announcing the decision. And the day before I received our first BFP.

We all worked and waited diligently for the next month, wondering who would get move packages, what would they look like, when would the move happen, what would the severance packages be? It didn’t help that it was our busy season. After weeks of anxiety, we were worked in more ways than one.

I had BIG things on my mind. I didn’t breathe a word of my news to anyone in the office. My company is great. It is very family-friendly. If, by family-friendly, you mean that you are guy with young children and a cute stay-at-home wife. In sales and marketing, where I work, there are exactly two working moms. There were a lot of women during my six year tenure who became mothers. They just no longer work there.

I was petrified that they would put me on the severance package track if they learned of my news. That they would make my decision for me. Not that I wanted to move. But it mattered that I was invited to go.

At one time this job was my dream job. It is in sports. Very cool sports. A vocation that is as much about lifestyle as anything else. I couldn’t believe I had landed such a sweet gig right out of graduate school. More times than I care to admit, I put this job before everything else. Once, while on a flight to Europe, we started counting how many weekends we had worked that year. We had to stop at April because it started to make us bitter.

It was demanding and challenging and – more often than not – beyond fun. Until this whole move thing happened. And then it got all fucked up.

A month later, you are sitting in your boss’ office. The door is closed. He has been meeting personally with your whole department, one-by-one, all day long. It’s 5 o’clock on a Tuesday. It is dark out. He is glassy-eyed. You wonder if he is stoned. Or just holding back tears.

He is talking about how they haven’t made any decisions about what the marketing department will look like in the new structure. How they want to keep you in the organization. But they have no offer to give yet. He is sorry. He knows this has been a tough time for everyone.

You don’t really hear much, because you are having deep, painful cramps.

The day before you had gone to your first pregnant lady appointment. The OB asked how you were feeling. Cheerily you said, fine. "Sometimes I don’t even feel like I am pregnant."

With that she pulled out the dildo-cam. Junior was measuring small for the gestation period. At that moment, you have no idea how bad that is. What that means. She chalks it up to a last-menstrual-period calculation error. You told her you chart. You use OPKs. Your chart dates are spot on. She shrugs and orders a more powerful ultrasound for the following week.

And now you are cramping. In a chair. In your boss’ office. With your back to the river. And it is taking all that you have not to cry. To smile. To say it is okay, you are patient. You understand that these things take time. December for a definitive answer on your role in the new organization? Before Christmas? Sounds great. Thank you for explaining the situation so thoroughly.

You walk back to your desk. Calmly tuck the cell phone into your pocket. You walk quickly to the bathroom. There is red.

You take a free tampon from the dispenser in the women’s room. You wash your hands. Still you are not crying lest someone walks into the bathroom. You work in an office with mostly guys. In sports. Beyond everything, you do not cry in the office. Instead, you dash into the stairwell across the hall and call Cowboy.

I don’t have a move offer. No, I don’t have a severance package either.

When will you know.

I think I am miscarrying. (Begin crying.)

Hang up the phone, your husband says, and get home now.

Later that night you lay in bed cramping. And bleeding. And crying quietly so you don’t wake your husband. You don’t take aspirin or Advil for the pain because you are, after all, pregnant. But you know. Though they haven’t said it, you feel like you have lost your job. And though they haven’t confirmed it, you are pretty certain you are losing your baby, too.

In 3 days the cramps and bleeding stop. You go to work every day. You take Advil now to control the pain.

Four more cycles, Christmas, New Year’s, a month where you are home for only four days out of 30 and Valentine’s Day go by before you receive word of a promotion, a new job and a move package.

By then, you don’t really care anymore.

And so you elect not to get on the bus going to the new state. A majority of your colleagues decide the same. A new regime. A new mission. You stop getting meeting requests for next year’s planning sessions.

It feels awkward. You could leave. But the retention bonus and severance package are good. And, by the time it starts to really suck, you feel that you have earned every bit of them.

After the movers left. I walked around the empty office. The framed magazine covers of athletes are packed. All of the products scattered around that I write marketing plans for are gone, too.

I start to cry. But it is OK this time. Because no one is around to see me.

You're Bhutan!

With the body of a gnat and the mind of a dragon, you are a bundle of energy. You enjoy mountain-climbing, rock-climbing, stair-climbing, pretty much any kind of climbing you can manage. This has lifted you into the clouds in more than one way, helping you achieve some inner peace above the fray of madness all around you. People would seek you out for advice if they could ever find you.

# # #

This is a lame post after being gone and not posting all last week.

Both Cowboy and I enjoy mountain climbing, as long as we can ski or ride down. I loathe down climbing. And I freaking love rock climbing. Oh yeah, I am majorly short.

Wanna hear something funny. When I answered the question about temperature saying that I like it hot, (I like it hot but I like snow just as much) and followed the line of questioning from there my country was . . . Texas.

Hysterical.

If you haven't done so already, click here to join in on the fun.

I Told You So

Actually, it wasn't me, but LJ recently posted an article about chemicals in cleaning fluid impacting fertility - and not in a good way. And a few others (Exile in Kidville and Max's Mommy) have touched on the subject of familiar household objects wreaking havoc on both our bodies and the environment.

It's not like we're a bunch of crusaders. But we are highly tuned-in to our bodies and what we put in them.

Yesterday I received my Vogue subscription. I know, I know. What does someone living in the land of Danskos, Hunter wellies and Gore-Tex have any business reading Vogue? Not sure, but I have been a fan for years.

Anyway, the feature story in this month's issue (besides the re-surfacing of Winona Ryder, which reminds me to put Heathers into my Netflix queue. Again.) is "An Inconceivable Truth - the Link Between Infertility and the Environment."

Ha! I have long suspected that the messy, messy environment in the 70's -- when most of those reading this blog were either in utero or little girls -- and the fact that our parent's generation was the first generation raised on a daily diet plastic toys and processed foods is impacting both male and female fertility today.

I don't have proof. But when three of the four randomly-invited couples (all ranging from early to late 30's) at a dinner party I recently hosted has had some sort of reproductive intervention to start their family, I go, "hmmm."

The article in Vogue is okay. I wonder if the editors stripped out a bunch of facts in order to make it more like a Vogue-y observation/conversation. It is written by a guy who seems more concerned with his son's sperm count than anything else (who wouldn't be). It does give, however, some great jumping off points for Google searches on this subject. As if we all needed more reasons to Google. Unfortunately, the Vogue website is not linking to their feature story, so if you are interested, you might have to drop $5 at your nearest newsstand.

But the fact that Vogue is calling attention to this issue is amazing to me. Cheers to the editors. It is about time that this issue gets out beyond the natural living magazine section.

Here are some interesting facts gleaned from the article:

• There has been a 42% jump (from 1985-1995) in women in their 20's experiencing fertility problems.

• In the medical industry, medicines are tested extensively before they are approved to put on the market. In the chemical industry, compounds are considered safe until proven dangerous and only then are they banned. By the way, if you do PR for the chemical industry and happen upon this blog, please do not comment (this is a miscarriage blog afterall) and kindly go fuck off.

• An estimated 1,500 to 2,000 new chemicals a year are brought to market, rarely even listed as active ingredients on your shampoo bottle, lipgloss or floor cleaner.

From an organic diet to trying to buy as many food products in glass bottles to our household cleaners, we've made a lot of changes in our house over the past year. Won't Cowboy be surprised when he finds all the plastic tupperware and Nalgene bottles in the tag sale bin.

Actually, no, he won't be surprised at all.

* * *

Two other quick notes...

I am headed out of town on some busy work travel so I won't be blogging for a few days. I am attending a shoe preview trade show and promise to post some pics of next spring's hot numbers (as long as I don't get wrestled to the floor taking pictures at the Jimmy Choo booth).

Cowboy found a large frog on the side of our house yesterday. Aren't frogs fertility symbols?

I Scream, You Scream

In my effort to stay more positive (read: think happy thoughts), I am going to spend my 2WW-from-hell by posting a few of my favorite new finds. A girl has gotta find pockets of happiness somewhere and hunting, gathering and then sharing surely rank high on my happiness barometer.

In the past couple months I have made a serious effort to stick to my TCM diet as perscribed by my shaman (aka my acupuncturist). My indications are kidney yin and yang depletion with a little liver qi stagnation thrown in for good measure. Fabulous. Different indications are mitigated by different diets in TCM. An excellent read on the basics of TCM and IF & recurrent miscarriage is The Infertilty Cure by Dr. Randine Lewis, who is schooled in both Western and Eastern reproductive medicine.

Part of my diet is easy and fun what with all the organic and local food shopping - two tasks that are easily accomplished in my town where we practically have more organic farmer's markets than churches. But two of my most difficult diet restrictions are (1) no refined carbs (such as pasta, whole wheat tortillas, etc.) and (2) no dairy. No dairy in the summer - quiet frankly - sucks.

But, even my diet-restrictive shaman embraces this little gem: Luna & Larry's Coconut Bliss. Ice cream made from coconut milk. Brilliant!

I bought a pint of the Naked Coconut flavor expecting it to taste like crappy Rice Dream (ugh what a g-a-y name) and was blown away by how good it was. Seriously good. Like frozen Mounds bar good. Even Cowboy gave it 2 thumbs up after asking for chocolate chips to sprinkle on top. I swear, he eats like an 8-year-old sometimes.

And it costs about the same as the other more-nationally recognized designer ice cream pints (think hippies from Vermont brand). Plus, the label featuring Ganesh is super cool. Did I mention I am a sucker for great packaging?

The only bummer is that I just realized Coconut Bliss lacks distribution beyond Oregon, Washington and some random festivals in NoCal. However, for those of you TCM-ing and advised to eschew dairy and want to try this, I promise I will figure out a way to Fed3x a pint to you.

But you have to let me know before Aug. 31, so I can use my corporate Fed3x account.

Things I Try Not to Think About

That we are on cycle #3 of the 3-cycle-post-HSG-increased-pregnancy-rate phenomena.

That getting pregnant is only half the battle. My bigger battles will come later.

That the Sperm-Meets-Egg Plan – as fun as it was – and a very, clearly positive OPK will actually work.

That it won’t.

That my friend, who just started trying, will announce she is pregnant any day now. I will be happy for her but it will make me feel like such a loser.

That God and nature could be so cruel that I’ll have another miscarriage.

That Gus is almost 13 years old and is visibly slowing down.

That my job, which I have had for 6 years, will end on August 31.

That I made a mistake in February by turning down a promotion and move package to the new state where my company is moving mostly because I was afraid that we wouldn’t achieve a successful pregnancy along with the stress of selling our house, buying a house, moving, starting a new job and having Cowboy leave his job.

That now I have neither job nor elusive successful pregnancy.

Of course, after having written this, I completely realize that I am SUCH A WHINER. Tomorrow I will try to be more cheerful and hopeful and think of all the good things I should think about. Whatevs. But this is it for today.

Welcome to the hell that is the Two Week Wait

According to Plan

What’s going on? Kind of nothing.

On one hand, I am slightly jealous of all you Cyclesistah’s who are suppressing, stimming, transferring and two week waiting or ultrasounding. I feel kind of left out and old school as my Summer of (DIY) Love rolls by.

Actually there is something a bit sneaky and a bit, dare I say, dirty going on. Check it out.

I can’t go into major detail because (1) I’m not a good kiss-and-tell kind of gal and (2) Ms. Planner’s mom, Mrs. Super Planner, reads this blog occasionally. But I can tell you that it has been one heck of a follicular phase.

I’ve even taught Cowboy some new pony tricks, which left him waking up early this morning asking - no, wait, begging - to perform them again.

A huge shout out to Anns, who suggested this therapy instead of my incessant charting & planning. I *heart* this method so much more.

Life is better in the house with the very clean windows.

Room With a View

This Saturday, Cowboy and I industriously decided to pressure wash the siding of our house and clean all of its windows inside and out. We get so much rain and, hence, moss up here that the annual clean keeps everything looking fresh.

My job was the windows. I made it entirely around the outside of the house and halfway through the inside until I had to go into “the room.”

“The room” used to be my office/project room. When we first moved in, I jokingly referred to it as the “baby’s room.” This was before we even started trying. I did it mostly to freak Cowboy out every now and then. I can be such a bitch sometimes.

In one of the first weekends of pregnancy #1, I relocated the antique pine table that serves as my desk & sewing table and all of my belongings into the guest room. So now “the room” sits empty with the exception of an ironing board and a Shaker rocker just waiting to be used for its intended purpose. After 6 years in our house, nearly every room is complete with the exception of “the room.” It has white walls, off-white berber carpet, white wooden blinds. It looks like a jar of mayonnaise.

I avoid going into the room at all costs now.

My therapist thinks I should get it ready for habitation. “You’re going to have a baby in that room at some point, whether you have one or adopt,” she rationalizes. She thinks this will get me in a frame of mind to welcome a child into my life. Seriously. I know she doesn’t mean it this way, but I interpret that as I have had two miscarriages because I am not fully ready to have a child in my life. As if.

I don’t know how I feel about decorating “the room.” This is weird for me because I LOVE decorating: planning and pulling together fabrics and finding just the right furniture pieces and simple but meaningful accessories. I even have a few pieces I am saving for “the room”: a vintage French school flashcard of ducks with the word “duck” in various languages, a Shaker coat rack on which I can imagine a tiny little sweater and a quilt that my grandmother’s grandmother made when I was born. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t decorated “the room” in my mind at some point nearly every weekend. For months, if not years.

But I can’t bring myself to act on it.

It feels weird in some kind of if-you-build-it-they-will-come sort of way. But then, I don't want to jinx us.

Anyway, back to the windows. So I went into “the room.” Washed the window and stared out at its lush, green view. I started feeling sad. I didn’t want to be washing windows. It was a beautiful Saturday and I wanted to be playing on a blanket in my yard with a baby.

I cried for the rest of the time I washed the windows in my house.

Then the sadness went away.

I just want to have a reason to decorate “the room."

Think Before You Speak

Things I will NEVER say when I am pregnant or a new mom (notice how hopeful part of that statement sounded):


“My doctor said it would be hard for me to get pregnant with my endometriosis, but then we just had that one night in a hotel room without a condom…”

- SIL (not too mention waaaay too much information for family)


“I am so bummed because NONE of my jeans fit!”

- pregnant-with-twins who is now only pregnant with one (sad story but you’d think she’d just be grateful she didn’t lose the other one, too)


“Would you please send me the cheesecake recipe you made for my shower. I would like to a make it for So-and-So’s first Father’s Day”

- friend whose shower I hosted (thanks so much for reminding me Cowboy and I don’t get to celebrate these days, but YOU do)


I guess I’m just a tad bit sensitive these days. Sigh. After having experienced IF, what are some of the seemingly-innocent-but-ultimately-insensitive things that you will never say when you become pregnant? Or if you are currently pregnant or recently became a mom (lucky girls), how do you edit your comments post-IF?

Raise your hand if you’ve read any infertility book that suggested taking a break from exercising for a few months to see if your exercise regimen had anything to do with your fertility.

Yep, a lot of them say this.

Because I’m so fucking eager to do everything right, I took this suggestion. I stopped my Ashtanga yoga practice. I stopped trail running. It’s no longer ski season. I still do yoga-lite about 3x per week at our corporate gym and while it is fun and the instructor is a wonderful woman, it is not the same. I receive neither the same psychological nor physical benefits as I do with my beloved Ashtanga.

The result? I am flabby and unhappy. Not a good combo.

Ashtanga (aka power yoga) takes about 90 minutes to complete the full practice. It’s probably more famous for its famous followers, Madonna and Gwyneth. I started practicing in 2002 after my boss put “get some stress relief” as one of my professional goals for the upcoming year. I didn't even know that I was stopping in on an Ashtanga class when I went to my first yoga session. But now, I luv Ashtanga. I even missed it while I was on my honeymoon.

My acupuncturist also practices Ashtanga and has suggested I curtail my habit because it can deplete kidney yang (which is the Eastern equivalent of Western medicine's low progesterone). My Western doctors just hear the word “yoga” and say, keep exercising.

During pregnancy #1, I practiced nearly every morning, modifying the practice where suggested. But when I miscarried, I was concerned that my practice might have caused it. I don’t know why I thought this. Grasping at straws, I guess.

Should I become pregnant, the Guruji – who developed this type of practice in India - suggests that women with a history of miscarriage not practice during the first trimester. And I’ll take his advice. But for now…what do I do?

I emailed experts on Ashtanga and pregnancy, but the information is anecdotal, limited at best and mostly geared for when you are already pregnant. Is Ashtanga too demanding an exercise regimen for those trying get knocked up? No one can tell me.

I am so confused. How can something that feels so good be so bad for making a baby?

And then came these baby announcements: Click here. Click here.

Now, the first one, OK, she’s like 25 and at the peak of her fertility even though she weighs under a buck. But the second one? Come on. Look at these pictures, which given publishing schedules, were probably shot just before she conceived. She looks hot, no? And she’s in her late 30’s.

Seriously, how can demanding exercise and low body weight be that significant of a factor in a successful pregnancy if these 2 can get pregnant? Not to mention countless others (see above for just a few).

I feel duped. I am so over it all.

So, along with giving my BBT the buh-bye, I am resuming my Ashtanga practice on Thursday. Why Thursday? Because Thursday is CD4 (yeah, happy Monday for me – but I knew it was coming) and both TCM and Ashtanga principles suggest not practicing or engaging in excessive exercise during the first 3 days of AF. Looks like she is good for something after all.

Namaste.

Just the Facts, Ma'am

I stopped charting my BBT.

Cold turkey. I had to. I was becoming obsessed. Seriously. My mood for the day was predicated on what my BBT read. Days before AF’s impending arrival, I would wake up several times in the wee hours of the morning because I was so nervous as to my temperature reading.

And I am sure it was super s-e-x-y for Cowboy to wake up to the annoying beep, beeps of the thermometer at 5:30 A.M.

Good riddance I say.

Except, not really.

You see, I am an information junkie. I listen to NPR. Every day. Even on Sundays. My favorite class in grad school? Market research. My second favorite? Conjoint analysis. Which is kind of like market research squared. I heart facts and the more of them, the better.

When I first stumbled upon Taking Charge of Your Fertility, I felt liberated. I seriously wondered why this book isn’t mandatory reading for women (and enlightened men) in college. I became a TCOYF disciple and starting with the effing charts. I still have every chart since I started this process. They are kept in chronological order in a file folder. The charts for my first and second pregnant cycles have tabs on them so I can refer to them to see if my current cycle matches that of those past successes. Sick, I tell you.

I never questioned my charting exercises. And, in fact, was secretly proud of them. Once, my acupuncturist – who loves looking at my charts – noted that she had never seen a chart so thoroughly documented. Oh, I was rightly proud until my RE scoffed, yes he actually scoffed, because I told him I was not only charting but using OPKs starting CD8 or 9 twice a day. What kind do you use because I want to buy stock in that company, I believe were his exact words.

But his comment got me thinking. Maybe I was being a tad bit obsessive about it all (me? never!). In the past year, my body had become a quantitative study. And the more I tried to do everything “right,” the more frustrated I became when I didn’t get the data I was expecting.

So I quit taking my temperatures every morning. And then I decided that I would only use OPKs once a day starting on CD 11. My RE had asked if I ovulated regularly every cycle. I did. So he counseled me to start using OPKs in the middle of day on CD 12. He made it sound all so simple and straightforward. I decided to trust what he said.

Only then my freaking body decides to ovulate on CD 10! WTF! Who ovulates on CD 10?

And because I wisely stopped charting, I have no data to back me up. I can only suspect that I ovulated.

All I have are signs. Yes, other signs, which are sometimes reliable and sometimes not, because I couldn’t stop checking everything.

So on CD 10 I have these signs. And I have other feelings. Um, well maybe "urges" is a better word. These signs were pointing the “Call Cowboy up for a little afternoon delight” section of the decision tree. But did I heed them?

No.

The nerd in me pulled out my chart and said, “Nope, you should be ovulating in 3 days and since we just did it the day before yesterday, we want to give Cowboy’s ponies a little more time to refresh.”

And then my post-o signs showed up the next day.

And I was so freakin’ mad and disappointed in myself that I didn’t go with my gut that I literally gave myself the finger and made an ugly face at myself in the mirror (super mature, I know). Oh I was pissed.

To add insult to injury – or should that be to add ignorance to idiocy – I still started using OPKs on CD 11 and then wasted almost the entire box with exactly none of them going anywhere near positive. I gave up when we left for our camping trip.

So I blew this cycle by not listening, really listening, to my body. And decided that from now on, I am going to shut up and start listening. And responding to what my body tells me, not what the data says.

And I’m also ditching the OPK pee sticks. Fucking sticks.

I’m ditching them because I need the can-test-every-day-if-you-want-to big guns. Has anyone used the monitors or Ovu-lite (sp?) spit testers?

Sorry, but I can’t go entirely cold turkey on the 4-1-1.

Whew, I'm glad that is over

Saturday passed. In retrospect, I think the anticipation of what I would feel on Junior’s due date was much worse than how I actually felt once the day arrived.

Or maybe it was all of the kind thoughts of comfort sent my way by people who read this blog. I only cried once the whole day. Seriously. And that was when I read the lovely comments you left in response to my letter I wrote to Junior. Thank you – from the bottom of my heart – for leaving them. The kindness of those in this community never fails to inspire me.

Or maybe it was Cowboy, who while he didn’t speak about the significance of the day, knew about it and was extra sweet to me.

Or maybe it was this remedy, which my acupuncturist suggested to take the edge off. Amazing, but the gal who eschews pharmaceutical pain relief and allergy medications does not hesitate to drop some natural remedy down her gullet.

Perhaps it was the combination of the above. Whatever it was, it seemed to work in my favor.

About the letter. Many self help books on dealing with miscarriage recommend developing some sort of personal ceremony to mark the passing of the baby. Western cultures and religions, in particular, have precious little societal outlets for even addressing the subject.

I have read (mostly on these blogs) about some lovely and touching ways that people have honored a miscarried baby. And while I am not a big ceremony person, I felt like Junior deserved something more than a little notation on our calendar.

So I wrote the letter as a form of ceremony. It’s more my style anyway. I actually wrote it a while ago and it just sat waiting in my journal. Then I started this blog and noticed the immediate therapeutic effects. As the due date approached, it just seemed natural to put my letter to Junior out there as a way of being open and honest and creating some sort of simple public record of the event, which is so significant in my life at this point.

So that awful, anticipated day has come and gone. It wasn’t so bad. I wonder if the sadness and longing attached to it will fade from my memory. Will I always remember the day and wonder what might have been?

Closure (Part 1)

Dear Junior,

I knew you were coming before the test officially said so. That’s how quickly I fell in love with you.

Even though you are not with us now, please always know that we wanted you so badly. I was so thrilled and happy to be pregnant with you. We were going through some stressful times with my job but a lot of it didn’t matter because we had YOU.

I practiced yoga with you almost every morning. I used to wonder what you were thinking while I was doing a pose, "Hey, why am I upside down all of a sudden? Moooomm! I was sleeping because I need energy so I can grow arms this week!" I told you that all of this yoga now would make you a Buddha baby and a good athlete some day.

My favorite part of yoga with you was savasana at the end of practice. I would lie on my back on the mat and while I was supposed to be meditating I would talk to you instead. I’d tell you about all the fun adventures you would have. How we’d go skiing with your cousins who live in New Zealand and beach combing with your cousins who live in Mexico. In savasana pose, we are suppose to keep our hands on the mat, palms up as we lay flat on the floor. But I would place mine on my tummy, like I was holding you. I felt very close to you during those times.

You were the first thing I thought about when I woke up in the morning. And the last thing I thought about when I went to bed at night.

I was pretty sure that you were a boy. It was too early to know for sure, but I just knew. We talked about naming you Huck. Not sure how you’d feel about that when you were 35. But we thought it would fit the personality we imagined you might have. Huck Johnson. A good guy’s name.

I got to see your very early heartbeat. I’ll never forget seeing your picture on the screen. It reminded me of the tiny little butterflies that flock to Mt. Hood in late spring. Your dad called from his office and asked how you were doing. "Fighting like a champ," I told him. Your heartbeat was a bit slower than we all would have liked but you and I were doing our best to give it a go. To this day, I wish I would have asked your dad to come with me to the doctor’s. He would have been so proud to see your little heart beating.

The next day took you away from us. Before that day, I honestly believed you would make it. And was in denial that you hadn’t. I admit that I tried to rush past feeling sad for you. But the harder I tried to rush, the sadder I felt.

You gave me the gifts of peace and confidence. I am grateful for those gifts but ashamed that I have not let them shine recently. But I promise I will make them shine within me – in your honor.

I think about you every day. I miss you more than you will ever know.

With love,

Mom

Bring it On

Today I went to acupuncture as part of my official member of the pincushion club duties. I HAD to go to acupuncture. The qi stagnating all over my body was seriously bumming me out. This week has been a slog.

I explained the significance of this week, of tomorrow, to my acupuncturist. She understood immediately.

She worked points along the heart meridian. Acupuncture has never hurt me but this time, when she put the pins into new regions along my arm, pain enveloped the points and I yelped when she tweaked the needles.

“Your heart is very sensitive today”

Umm. Yeah. My heart is sensitive because it is breaking all over again. I swear I can almost feel the weight of the baby that is supposed to be in my arms tomorrow.

Seconds after she positioned the needles and the pain subsided, tears sprang from both sides of my eyes and ran down my temples into my ears. She said this was a common reaction.

Lying there on the table, alone, I felt wave after wave of sadness. The tears flowed uncontrollably. My nose stopped up. I tried to remember my new mantra, “my body can do this” but all I could think of was “Lord Have Mercy.”

For years, I used to recite this phrase faithfully every Saturday evening at mass. I didn’t realize the significance of those three simple words until recently.

Let us pray for those afflicted by war. May they live in peace soon.

Lord Have Mercy.

Let us pray for the sick, that they may be healed quickly.

Lord Have Mercy

Let us pray for those that are suffering…

Those three words kept running through my head. I clung to them there on the table, lying motionless with needles in my arms, legs and chest.

I took in a deep breath and felt – scout’s honor, I swear – a quick, almost electric, jolt roll over my heart. It wasn’t painful, just really intense.

And then the tears stopped flowing - almost abruptly. And I started to feel just a little at peace. And I was calm.

I’ve remained calm and centered for the rest of today (so far).

Who would’ve guessed that 18 years of Catholicism (which I don’t practice anymore) and a session of Traditional Chinese Medicine would help start the healing process over tomorrow. Not I.

It’s amazing what can happen when cultures diverge and share.

That being said, I’m still sad I am not pregnant. I so thought I would be by the time this date rolled around. But I am trying valiantly to get over it.

Bring on tomorrow.

Father's Day

Yesterday Gus gave Cowboy a father’s day card. This has become a bit of tradition in our house. Gus came with me into the Cowboy + Ms. Planner relationship. But we quickly assumed the roles of “Fun Guy” and “The Mean Lady,” as I became the dispenser of medication, baths and vet visits while Cowboy hosted trips in his truck to cool places, like the hardware store.

Our first summer of dating, Cowboy graduated and took a 6-week motorcycle trip around the Western U.S. This was before the days of blackberries, text messaging and wi-fi, so I gave him a stack of good old fashioned letters with instructions to open one every week. The stack included a father’s day card from Gus, which Cowboy said later was his second-favorite letter of the batch (the first being the porn letter for week #3 into the trip).

A tradition was born. The father’s day card. Not the porn letter. Although, am thinking I should bring that one back for the upcoming summer of DIY cycles.

So Gus “signed” his name on this year’s card, which is an amazing feat considering his lack of opposable thumbs. And I added at the last minute, “Baker, Junior and the second one, too.” Baker is our chocolate lab who we adopted and then had to put to sleep three years ago. Junior and The Second One, well, those are our human children.

I debated adding that line to the card, but I just felt like we should honor their short existence in our lives a little bit more. Of course, I bawled when Cowboy opened the card. But it was a weird cry, filled with a mixture of sadness and, oddly, a bit of relief. Cowboy reassured me not to be sad. We both love each of those kids, opposable thumbs or not and with us physically or not, with all of our hearts. It was comforting to think about. And to hear from him.

This coming Saturday is Junior’s due date. I have been dreading this day since last November. I can feel the physical presence of its coming like weight around my shoulders. I am tired. My head hurts. I feel heavy and sluggish. I cry when I think about it.

I just want to get it over with. But, somehow, seem to know that I just have to "be" for a moment in this grief. It's not making it any easier but I hope to encounter a lighter sense of being when this auspicous milestone has passed.

8 Random Things About Me

Way back in the day, the wonderfully eloquent Sticky Bun asked me to write 8 things about myself. My apologies to Mrs. Sticky for taking so darn long to get around to posting it. By the way, check out the recent news on her blog about inflatable storks. Hilarious.

Since nothing is going on - I am not pregnant and am just waiting around for AF's arrival after stopping progesterone - it is time to post my 8 things. By the way, did anyone else have to wait, like, for-ev-ah, before AF came after a cycle replete with Clomid and progesterone? This is crazy. I'm on CD30. I never make it to 30. Thank goodness I took the beta because I would have spent a small fortune on HPTs by now.

So to amuse myself while I wait. Below are 8 Random Things About Me:

#1. I have a specific way that I fold towels (in thirds). I will completely unfold and re-fold a stack of towels if my husband folds them differently. I seriously can’t stand it when towels in my house are not folded correctly. So much so that I took out all the towel bars out of our bathrooms and put in hooks instead. This way, I feel way less OCD about my towels.

#2. I am a sucker for jackets that have three-quarter length sleeves.

#3. I don’t care what they’re doing in Hollywood, I am completely old school when it comes to rules about fashion. As an example, I cannot wear white pants before Memorial Day or after Labor Day. I cannot wear open-toe shoes before the first official day of spring. (Not that this matters in the PNW because it is rainy and cold until the first official day of summer). My boots get packed away after Easter and don’t see the light of day until the first official day of fall. Patent leather is for summer and the winter holidays. Only.

#4. I use to suck my thumb at night until I was in the third grade. I don’t know why I had this habit so long or what made me quit. Once, when I was an adult and was really sad, I tried to give it a go again to see if it would soothe me, but it just felt really, really bizarre (I think I was drunk when I attempted this). Go figure, but I never had to have braces because of all that thumb sucking.

#5. I have a photographic memory. Unfortunately it doesn’t work 100% of the time. But I can often close my eyes and exactly see words, charts, etc., from an actual document or spreadsheet I have reviewed. This skill SAVED MY ASS in business school.

#6. I still have a crush on Simon LeBon from Duran Duran. I know, suuuper lame. Once, about 20 years past the purchase of my first Duran Duran cassette tape and when I was happily living in sin with Cowboy, I saw a VH-1 special on Duran Duran. They interviewed Simon’s now wife – some beautiful gorgeous model – and I was seriously jealous of her because she was married to him. I think this is oddly funny because I never was nor am I attracted to men who look like Mr. LeBon in real life. But, c'mon, a guy barefoot in a suit on a sailboat...how can you resist?

#7. I have a very dirty sense of humor and can curse like a sailor when the situation calls for it. Some of my favorites include "c*cks*cker" and "rat f*ck." I work with mostly guys in my line of business and they’ve referred to me as the "walking HR infraction" on a couple of occasions. Not that this matters where I work. At my first sales meeting, my company hosted a big to-do for a guy who was leaving the company that included a video featuring several clips of pole dancers from the "She’s My Cherry Pie" video. All of the guys (seriously a room full of guys) stood up and cheered when it came on.

#8. I do not drink soda pop. Even when I was little and having a Coke was a big treat, I never cared for the stuff. The closest I come to imbibing soda is mixing Maker’s Mark with ginger ale. Since I can count on one hand the number of times I have had hard alcohol in the past year, my soda intake is pretty much nil.

# # #

OK, so probably everyone in blog land has already done this because I waited so long to turn in my assignment. However, my nominees to share a list of 8 Random Things About Myself are:

Von @ Murphy is a Bastard - when you return from your holiday.
Megan @ Exile in Kidville - only when you feel like you are up to it, k?
Caro @ Third Time Lucky - when your in-laws leave.
Anns @ A Brief History of You - while you are waiting for your RPL tests to come in.

Apologies if you've already done this. You don't have to do it again. But I will be checking up on you! ; )

On Being Angry

Around this time in my cycle, when I am anticipating AF’s arrival, I often experience the emotion of anger.

My anger’s easy targets: me and Cowboy. The subject: being angry that we waited for so long to have children.

You will note on the right hand side of this blog that Cowboy and I met in 2000, did not get married until 5 years later and then, because that wasn’t loooong enough, took another year before I convinced him that it was time. Six years. Sheesh.

To be fair, the first two years of our relationship we were in graduate school and then lived long distance. When we finally ended up in the same city, we shacked up in a small walk-up. Saved to buy a house and paid back student loans with a vengeance.

We luckily bought a place right before the housing boom and continued to pay off our student loans.

For some reason (see earlier post about being raised Catholic in the South), it was important for me to be married before I started a family. So we had a serious talk about getting married and my plan (ha!) to start having children before I turned 35. There were lots of tears – mine. And rationalizations – his.

It went something like this:

ME: But it gets harder to have a baby after you are 35.

COWBOY: But we just bought this house and can’t pay our mortgage, our student loans and our bills on one salary*.

ME: But I really want this in my life.

COWBOY: Who says you can’t have that after we take care of some of our responsibilities.

ME: (Sigh). I guess you are right.

So that was the plan: pay down our grad school debt, manage our mortgage and get secure first.

I went along with it. Willingly.

And you know what? I did not regret it. We traveled. Took ski trips. I bought 3-figure pairs of jeans without blinking. My career propelled forward. I traveled internationally for business often and worked on some stimulating projects. We paid our student loans back in full. Early.

No, I did not regret one bit of it.

Until now.

Actually, I don’t regret all of it. While I would gladly give back every pair of Sevens, the ski trips and other things if I could trade them for a baby, I do not regret that we took care of our obligations. I do not regret that we got secure in our finances. This will come in handy when we have to pay for IVF or adoption. I do not regret the career opportunities I had.

But every month around this time, I can’t help but think we shouldn’t have waited.

Who knows. We could have tried back then and still had miscarriages. We could still be trying.

Or we could have succeeded and one of us would have been at home raising a toddler wondering what might have been. The one whose job took a backseat for the sake of the family might have been frustrated that they haven’t yet seen their post-grad career take flight. Maybe that person would have been me.

Maybe the financial pressures would have split us apart. (Shudder).

And since I couldn’t accept any of those worst case scenarios, I wholeheartedly agreed to wait.

Sometimes, when I get like this, I just want an apology from Cowboy. “I’m sorry I made us wait and now it is so hard for us.”

But Cowboy is not sorry. And won’t apologize for doing the “right” thing financially. He’s just not there. Nor do I expect him to be.

So I try to find comfort that we avoided the worst-case maybes listed above. And I try to reason that we did the right thing for us.

I try to rationalize that maybe this anger is just a few ticks away on the dial from another familiar emotion: sadness.

Perhaps I’m just tired about the sadness and need a new emotion to preoccupy the day. And since everything else feels fake, anger it is.

Whatever it is, I just need to let it go.

What's done is done and can't be undone.

I’m glad I wrote this post and got it out of my head. I am starting to feel better already.

* Note: For various reasons, Cowboy and I decided long ago that if we had children, one person would have their career take a backseat so at least one of us could spend a lot more time with the youngster(s) in the formative years. Since I always wanted the experience of being full-time mommy, I naturally thought this would be me. That being said, Cowboy (despite his nickname) is not one of those the-woman-stays-home kind of guys. He would be perfectly happy staying at home with our child, provided he could take the kid to Snow Monsters day care during winter and that the car seat fit in the boat during summer. Boys.