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."

Now who's crabby? Hormonal, maybe?

In other news, you can tell how great snow season has been by how long it takes Cowboy to file our taxes. We still haven't done them yet.

Our snowpack is like 200% of normal. I didn't mind being the snow sacrifice this season. Really, I didn't.

I have ten weeks to go.

It was our third anniversary yesterday. Because the traditional gift for a third anniversary is leather, I hope Cowboy wasn't embarassed in front of the other restaurant patrons when he opened the leather riding crop I bought for him. Just kidding. I didn't buy such a thing.

But I thought about it.

7th Inning Stretch

I don't know why I included a baseball reference in the title. Other than it is the only reference I can think of right now related to the #7. Seven being the number of months pregnant I will be on Easter Sunday.

As this blog is my journal and my blog, thought I would take a minute to jot down some recent stats (more baseball - and I'm not even a fan):

I've gained 24 lbs so far.

I'm still doing yoga, but mostly at home. When I was recovering from a miscarriage and trying to get pregnant, the yoga studio was my safe space. I'm sensitive about interjecting my obvious belly into someone else's safe space, so just in case, I explained to my instructor that I'd be practicing at home for the most part. I do a very slow, modified Ashtanga practice or a kick-ass prenatal yoga DVD. Bending over in yoga is getting tough, so I may be trying out a prenatal class soon.

I passed my gestational diabetes test.

Since I am Rh-negative, the antibodies test came back as predicted. Yet another shot of Rho-Gam.

I failed my anemia test and now must take 325mg (!) of iron a day. At first I thought this was no biggie, but then quickly realized that most iron supplements come in 25mg doses, which equals a heck of a lot of iron pills each day.

We signed up for a 529 college plan.

We have started working on "the room." Will post pictures when there is more to show than paint on the walls and pieces of a crib stacked in the corner waiting for assembly. Right now I am re-finishing a vintage secretary-style desk to use as a changing table. It is slow going because I cannot use any chemicals (hand sanding is so fun!) and wear a mask and gloves for safety. I will be pestering this blogger soon for curtain sewing tips.

Frienemies

Do guys have frienemies?

I’m beginning to think that one of Cowboy’s close friends might qualify.

To preface, since pre-Ms. Planner, Cowboy has maintained a close group of friends from college. Many of them live nearby. I’ll come home to find one of them in the garage or drinking a beer in our kitchen after a round of golf. I like this about Cowboy and his posse.

All have wives and children. As such, we congregate every so often for birthdays; summer holidays at someone’s cabin or lake house. We are the youngest and last couple to add children to the mix. Some of their children are old enough to babysit ours.

I would not have chosen to be friends with most of these folks were it not for Cowboy. We get along. They make me laugh (mostly). But we don’t have much in common save for our love for Cowboy. That being said, I respect his bond with his friends and don’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.

HOWEVER…

He has one particular friend – a stay-at-home dad – who is starting to drive me insane with his negative comments about child rearing. Here I am, trying - after a long time of sadness – to be genuinely happy. And he seems intent on imparting on a steady stream of "let’s get a rise out of Cowboy and bring down the pregnant lady" with his sage stories about raising his only child, a girl, now 7.

Let’s see. There are endless stories of baby excrement. Especially related to changing the diapers of little girls. The story – told on several occasions - of when his daughter puked and it got in his mouth. Don’t ask. Stories about leaky swim diapers. Scoffing when Cowboy and I bring up the concept of maybe using cloth diapers. Badgering me as to when are we getting a playpen for the boat. Although he knows Cowboy absolutely doesn’t want a playpen in the boat (I know you had a playpen in your boat but I prefer to hold my baby in our boat – thankyouverymuch). Generally how our lives will suck after having a kid.

Our theories and desires (and, admittedly at this point, they are just theories) are met with the proverbial: ha-ha-ha-oh-you-new-clueless-parents-just-you-wait attitude. Yesterday, his unrelenting spew took me to a point I hate in myself: I let loose a snotty and indignant comment, something to the effect of, "yes, I believe I’ve heard that story from you ten times," which brought the conversation in a large group of people to a complete halt. Nice one.

I don’t want to surround myself with people like him. I prefer positive-thinking these days. I need positive thinking. There is so much stacked against a new mom what with the hormones, the questioning of one’s self confidence, the inevitable sleep deprivation, the changing body, etc., that I need those who will build us up not bring us down.

Stay away from this guy is the easy answer. Except that he and Cowboy go water skiing once a week. Water skiing season is just around the corner. I watch his daughter while the guys go out on the river after work for a ski session. No one can figure out why his wife can’t leave work at 5 pm just one night a week so the guys can have guy time. So I watch the child for Cowboy’s sake because he is annoyed to no end by her behavior on the boat. Sigh.

Any ideas on how I can stem the tide of negativity without impacting my husband’s long standing friendship?

You know, writing about this seems very self-indulgent when there many out there close to me who are suffering in ways that are so much more poignant and real than this. I guess with all the sadness afloat, I am just feeling a tad more sensitive these days.

There once was a cowboy from Nantucket...

There once was a Cowboy from Portland.
Blood, needles and gore, he could not stand.
So imagine his chagrin,
When his knocked up wife said to him:
As I see it, you will be in L&D holding my hand.

# # #

I am bit late posting my limerick. Oops. This limerick was inspired by our recent hiring of a doula to assist with Missy's birth.

It may sound like I am picking on my husband at bit. And I am. For as rough and tumble as he is, Cowboy does not do messy, medical stuff well. The guy doesn't watch Grey's or ER, and House - forget it. He doesn't even like to take Gus to the vet.

Although we both know deep down that he would regret not being in the delivery room, he is downright terrified of it.

In fact, part of him would be secretly happy to play out the 1950's father-to-be in the waiting room, handing out bottles of local microbrews that read, "It's a Girl!" instead of cigars (smoking anything but mary jane is so not PC in Portland).

I confided this to my OB during my first pregnancy. Oh how naive of me to be thinking of such things in the first trimester, as I learned the hard way. Anyway, she said you'd be surprised at the number of dads who excuse themselves from the room during the sketchy parts of birth. She suggested hiring a doula, as much for Cowboy if not for myself.

I had never heard of a doula. My informal canvassing for those who have had a doula assist at their births turned up a slew of local friends and acquaintances who have used them with success.

While I was doing my canvassing, turns out Cowboy was doing his. He began offering some of his male friends who are firefighters (and therefore must have been trained to deliver a baby, right?) cases of beer to be our doula.

Nice.

No way, I told him. Besides you'd probably have to at least buy them a fifth of whiskey to make the offer even remotely attractive. But, I reasoned with him, if we had a real doula helping out, it would free him up to take ocassional jaunts down to the restaurants on NW 23rd if it all became too much and he found himself needing a break. (Conventiently, our hospital is adjacent to one of the hottest restaurant and bar streets in the city).

He spent an afternoon mulling this over and then announced he wanted a doula - and not the firefighter kind. Whew.

So we found one that I think will be a good match for our style. She comes to our house twice before the birth for personal birth classes. If I want, she will come to our house when I am in early labor. She will advise us when to head for the hospital. And will stay there for the entire birth. She then does two more visits to our house to help with breastfeeding and any other post-partum issues immediately following the birth.

Sounds like a party for her.

The point of us hiring a doula is not to abdicate our responsibility in the process, but to create the best odds of having a positive experience. Again, this might be our only chance to have it. I don't want to snap at Cowboy and make an already tense situation worse. I don't expect him to get all mushy and cut the cord and look in the mirror (good Lord, no mirrors, please). I just want him to never regret that he was in the room when his daughter arrives. As much as I don't want him to regret that he wasn't in there because it got too intense.

And if that means he stays "uptown" only and gets the random PBR break, I'm all for it.

Tagged: 6 Non-Important Quirks

My new friend from Still Passing Open Windows tagged me to share "Six Non-Important Quirks" about myself. After last week's imperfect-day post, it is high time for a light-hearted antidote.

Below are the rules for the meme:
1) Link to the person who tagged you.
2) Post the rules.
3) Share six non-important things / habits / quirks about yourself.
4) Tag at least three people.
5) Be sure the people you tagged KNOW you tagged them by commenting what you did.

Six Non-Important Quirks About Me

#1. The undergarments I wear on a given day must match in color. No beige bra / black panties combo. All black or all beige.

#2. I pre-wash the dishes and silverware in soapy water before putting them in the dishwasher.

#3. More dishwasher anal-ness: I load it a certain way and have been known to re-arrange dishes if they don't pass organizational muster. Insane, I know.

#4. I cannot stand litter and pick up pieces of trash in my neighborhood as I walk Gus.

#5. I own more pairs of trail running shoes than street shoes.

#6. I always buy a package of Swedish Fish when I shop at IKEA. I know they sell them at Target and other stores, but - for some reason - they don't taste the same to me.

I realized after reading the first four quirks that I sound a lot like Bree from "Desperate Housewives." Oh well. It is what it is.

Now I tag:

Precious Little (hopefully this will provide momentary respite during your 2WW)
Waiting Amy (to see how well she is going to fit in with life in L.A. - ha!)
Weebles Wobblog (because I am sure they will be entertaining to read)

Now I am off to work on my St. Patrick's Day limerick. Pity I can't use "Nantucket" in it.

Of loss on this imperfect day (Feb. 29, 2008)

Back in late October 2006, I planted daffodil bulbs in our front yard. I’m actually a tulip-kind-of-girl, but daffodils bloom earlier in the Northwest. After months of grey, rain and cold – and even during spring when it is still grey, rainy and cold – the flowers provide a welcome harbinger of the warm weather to come. So I picked a species that would come up early.

I was just barely pregnant with Junior #1 at the time of planting. As I planted, I imagined what I would look like when these daffodils bloomed.

A few weeks later, I miscarried. My OB confirmed this at my ultrasound after seeing a barely-there heartbeat.

I miscarried naturally and had nothing left of this so-very-much-wanted pregnancy. So I wrote a letter to "Junior" (our code for the embryo) and buried a copy amongst a nest of daffodil bulbs right by our front door.

As I buried the letter as one would a pet hamster, I said a few prayers. My first prayer was for Junior the Embryo. My second was that I would be pregnant again by the time those daffodils bloomed in spring.

By March 2007, the daffodils were up and the sun was starting to shine again every few days. I was not pregnant. At first, the blooms sagged and then the stalks grew strong. The daffodils flourished and looked delightful in our front yard.

March came and went. No such luck.

By mid-April, the blooms started to wither. "Great," I thought, "There goes that prayer." Yes, I am a horribly selfish person when it comes to religion (which I know is terrible and is something I have promised Him I will work on).

A week later I was out for a walk with a friend’s 6-year-old. She’s a flower fanatic, quite knowledgeable for her age about all kinds of flora. Returning from the walk, we surveyed our lawn and sighed over the dying daffodil blooms.

"But Ms. Planner!" screeched my charge, who has a habit of invoking really high little girl pitches in her voice, "Look, there are two flowers still blooming!" And indeed there were.

She desperately wanted to pick them for her bouquet of weeds we’d brought home, but I wouldn’t let her, because then Junior’s daffodils would be no more.

And, although it sounds mean, I am glad I didn’t let her pick the remaining blooms.

Because a few nights later, I got a positive HPT:

Junior #2.

My wish had come true. I was pregnant again with the daffodils.

Shortly thereafter, the remaining two daffodils faded. Almost as quickly as they faded, so did the pregnancy. My RE called it a chemical. My sweet OB said that any pregnancy is a pregnancy. And gave me another shot of Rho-Gam in my ass.

Late winter 2008 has brought a spate of warmish, sunny weather in the Northwest. Hence, Junior #1’s daffodil stalks are again pushing their way to reach what little sun is to be had during the day.

This year, I waddle past them every morning and say a thank-you to whatever powers that be that I am pregnant yet again. My wish did come true. Just a little later than I wanted. But it came true nonetheless.

For fleeting moments, I sometimes wonder about the almost ones. Junior #1 would be a chubby 9-month old today. Junior#2, an infant, who had hopefully just gotten into a schedule.

Today perhaps I will go to the store and buy a bouquet of daffodils for their little sister-in-waiting. My prayer these days is that I will have the chance to let her pick as many of those blooms as she wants from the yard.

Housecleaning

I've done a little organizing on my blog.

When I first started reading blogs in the late fall of 2006, only one blog author that I faithfully read was pregnant. And she was just newly so.

By the time I started That Was The Plan in spring 2007 - after my second miscarriage - there were a handful of ladies, maybe three or four, who were on their way.

Undoubtedly I initially connected with blogs where I "felt" I had more in common with the author. Sometimes our commonality was recurrent miscarriage. Or maybe I sensed an author had similar life experiences to my own. Oftentimes, I just enjoyed the way a person wrote and could feel a personality that jibed with my own from her posts. Hence, I read more blogs of people still struggling than those who had already hit the jackpot.

Sometimes the disparity between those with success and those still struggling seemed downright futile. But I loved reading the success stories. It gave me hope.

This past weekend, I realized that almost one-third of the blogs I read are written by women who have stared down the barrel of IF and have come out still standing on the "other" side. Another third are well on their way.

What amazes me, too, is how different their paths are.

My college roommate (who does not blog) struggled with IF for 5 long years. The birth announcement she sent out last Christmas heralding the arrival of her son read simply, "Believe."

Trust me. Believing is hard to do when we've been conditioned through our experiences to not believe. I still struggle with believing.

Another friend asked me the other day if I was more relaxed now that I am in my second trimester. I told her I was starting to become more chill now that I was getting closer to the point where they would try to save my daughter if I delivered early.

You mean, you are still thinking that way? She wanted to know.

Her rhetorical comment made me realize that she just didn't understand. But I was okay with it.

So here's my deal:

For those who feel they have made it to the other side, I will continue to rejoice with you and help heal the wounds by understanding what you've been through.

For those still struggling, please know that I will stick by you until you reach your other side. On the days when you can't, I will continue to believe for you. Because I know in my soul that everyone will make it one way or another.

The rock and the hard place

I realize that this blog has morphed from tackling loss, infertility and now pregnancy after loss/infertility. This past weekend I reached 22 weeks (5-1/2 months) of pregnancy. As such, I find myself making that inevitable transition between the this-one-may-also-not-work-out and holy-shit-I-better-get-my-ass-in-gear-because-it-looks-like-this-may-happen lines of thought.

Yesterday, I saw The Business of Being Born documentary at a community screening. (Warning: the link flashes to a trailer featuring pregnancies and babies, but you can quickly click off the trailer page to get more information about the film without seeing this.)

I don’t intend to write a review of the film – because it presented so much opportunity for discourse – other than to say that I am SO glad I saw it. I highly recommend those of you approaching a birth see it, too.

It really got me thinking about my journey thus far and the direction I want the remainder of the journey to take now that I’m midway through it.

If you had asked me a year ago, I would have been happy to have a child in my life by any means necessary. But now that I am actually knocked up with support of modern medicine – read: progesterone, early ultrasounds, CVS testing, etc. – I find myself wanting to reclaim a bit of "natural-ness" in this whole process. Seems a bit two-faced to me. But part of me wants to make up for the horrible, shitty anxiety and poking & prodding of the first trimester. And the other part of me wants to test myself physically and emotionally with the birth process, which may be my only opportunity in my life to do so.

I’m not going for a midwife-assisted home birth in a bath. But I am leaning toward trying to accomplish this by more natural means than pitocin and an epidural.

A few years ago I rock climbed the East Buttress of Mt. Whitney with a friend. At 14,800-feet, Mt. Whitney is the tallest peak in the Lower 48. The ascent and descent took 16 hours of long, physical effort. It snowed on our first pitch and proceeded to get colder and grayer as we ascended. The weather kept the handful of other teams off the rock. But both my friend and I hate rappelling with a passion and by the time the weather got bad enough to make it miserable, we had climbed too far to warrant a rappel.

My friend forgot the guidebook and we got lost en route. We found our way back to the right pitch but it took over an hour of route finding while I sat on a tiny belay pitch at 14,000 feet. I was tied in, legs dangling over a sheer face. I couldn’t communicate with my partner. It was freezing. Every part of my body hurt as I alternated between feeding out rope and holding the rope in brake position. I felt utterly alone, scared and beyond sore. Climbing big walls is a lesson in isolation and self-reliance. You see your partner for a handful of minutes as you make the transition onto the next pitch. Mostly it is all about you. And your demons. And your effort. And your confidence in yourself. And your pain.

We finally made it and the clouds cleared miraculously to give us a grand view of the Southern Sierras. We took a few minutes to eat a Clif Bar and re-rack our gear for the descent, which was a 2000 foot hike down a craggy 50-degree route comprised of small granite boulders that required us to scramble. Getting lost earlier on the wall meant we were losing sunlight fast.

And I had forgotten my headlamp.

The descent sucked more than the climb up. I dislike downclimbing. Period. The sun was almost completely gone as we made it to the steepest part of the descent. My only light was a tiny hand-held LED light in my bail out kit like the kind you keep on a key ring, which lit up when I pinched it between my thumb and forefinger. We descended slowly. Partly because we were exhausted and sore. And partly because it was so dark that our lights only illuminated the next 10 feet in front of us and we didn’t want to head over a boulder with an 8-foot drop on the other side.

A few teams at base camp saw our lights blinking down the route. They lit lanterns so we could find our way back to camp. It should have been gratifying to see those lights, but they were so tiny and seemed so far away. My fear got the best of me and I found myself between a rock and a hard place – literally and figuratively. I was scared to go on and thought seriously about parking myself on a rock ledge about 2 hours above base camp, shivering all night long while I waited for the sun to come up. That would have taken hours. The other option was to keep going through the cold ache, the exhaustion and the utter fear of a painful or deadly mis-step in the black darkness. Keep going just 2 more hours to base camp, with its bliss of a cup of warm soup and my zero-degree down sleeping bag.

I kept going. And it sucked. But I made it. And had one of my best nights of sleep ever that night. The high I had for the next several days didn't fade either. Even when we hoisted our 50-lb. packs on our aching backs for another 5,000-feet of steep singletrack to the cars.

Climbing that bitch – and making it down in one piece – is one of my proudest achievements to date (forgetting my headlamp notwithstanding).

So while the pain of labor is sure to be more intense than the pain I felt on this climb, I think the emotional response may be similar. I’ve pushed myself physically – on more than one occasion – to the point of the rock and the hard place. Scared to go forward. Scared to go back. It is that space of utter isolation, fear and pain that I think women are most scared of when in labor. That and that something might happen to the baby.

But, as this movie points out, for the vast majority of women who have the confidence that they can get through labor without drugs, everything works out okay for them and the baby. And the result far outweighs the pain they went through.

I know the premise of this film is not for everyone. And we all know there is no one-size-fits-all when it comes to family building. But – for me – I really think I can do this without drugs. And I want to give it a go.

Coming Out

One of my favorite business trips of the year is a trade show whereby all the retailers of outdoor gear come to buy next year’s products from the manufacturers – a veritable "Grown Ups Toys-R-Us." In my ten + years in the outdoor sports industry, I’ve made several lifelong friends most of whom come to this show. It’s like an annual high school reunion.

A few of the women in this circle knew of my struggles to start a family.

I kept this pregnancy under wraps from most of them. I just didn’t want to write those emails if it didn’t work out. This past trip, however, their genuine joy over my obvious belly was a wonderful thing to see.

Except for one woman. I met her last year. Over the phone. She wanted to hire me for a great job in Colorado. She wanted things to move fast, explaining that she just really needed a break from the pace she was keeping.

I knew from a colleague that this woman had struggled with miscarriages and a failed IVF. She is a few years older than me. We are similar in that we believed wholeheartedly that we could easily start families in our late-30’s only after netting the grad degree, the spouse, the house and paying it all off with a management-level position. (Suckers).

In one of our final conversations last fall, she had all but hired me and bought our plane tickets to Colorado when I put on the brakes.

"The truth is, I’m a stirrup queen," I admitted over the phone, "And I don’t think I can fairly commit the time and energy you need for this position right now because I’m struggling to start a family."

With that, we launched into an hour-long discussion about our fertility struggles.

She admitted that she had scheduled IVF #2 for the fall and wanted to reduce the stress and the level of hours she was keeping before embarking on round 2. She cautioned me not to wait to try IVF and even offered up a referral to her RE in the Denver-area.

It was the strangest and most satisfying interview I’ve ever had. It was also the first time I publicly put my personal life before my work. I declined the offer. A few weeks later I found out I was pregnant with Missy.

Flash forward to January. I would see her face-to-face at an event where it would be too difficult to dodge each other. I hoped that she, too, would be pregnant.

I knew her cautious and detached "congratulations" all too well as she stared at me in disbelief. Had the shoe been on the other foot, I know I would have behaved somewhat similarly. I felt so bad. I wanted to give her a hug. And apologize for getting pregnant when she had not.

After a bit, she warmed up and then peppered me with questions. What had I done? Had I used acupuncture? Herbs? A traditional Chinese medicine diet?

When asked, I’ve always been open about my journey. But this conversation really forced me to think about and articulate why this time might have been different from the others. Aside from whatever mystical connection to the universe or God’s "Plan" or whatever, what had I done or not done to contribute to this pregnancy’s success?

In a nutshell:

Yoga. Each of my BFPs was preceded by a spate of dedicated yoga practice. Even after "experts" told me that Ashtanga was contributing to my lack of progesterone issues, I never got pregnant when I wasn’t practicing Ashtanga yoga regularly.

Progesterone Supplements. Even with Missy, who by all accounts is healthy, I had falling progesterone levels. My thoughts on low progesterone and pregnancy are so long-winded that I will save it for a separate post, but I firmly believe that the three suppositories a day saved this pregnancy.

Diet. I did follow a TCM yang-deficiency diet for several months before this pregnancy. And after I got pregnant and was weaned off progesterone, I nearly ate a pint of ice cream to make up for it all.

Chinese Herbs. I ditched using these 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. I think they were hampering my emotional state.

Acupuncture. I ditched this 2 months before becoming pregnant this time. However, I did resume acupuncture for recurrent pregnancy loss right when I found out I was pregnant and continued weekly treatments until the end of my first trimester.

Work stress. While I don’t advocate quitting one’s job if you truly love it, but it is pretty ironic that we achieved a successful pregnancy on the first cycle where I wasn’t imbibing in a daily dose of sadness and stress as my company prepared to move to another state.

Letting Go. Yeah right. Someone with the blog moniker "Ms. Planner" can never just let go. But I had resigned myself that this was our last month of trying before moving on to IVF or adoption. We would never have timed sex again, I promised us.

Clear Blue Easy Fertility Monitor. Fuck those OPKs and obsessing if I was one of those women who ovulated 12 hours or 48 hours post-positive stick. I brought out the big guns and discovered that instead of being a CD 13 & 14 girl, I’m a CD 14 & 15 girl. Now that I think about it, we always got pregnant if we timed things for the evening of CD14 instead of morning. I never was a morning person anyway.

That is my journey. But everyone’s journey is different and uniquely their own. I borrowed a little from my intuition, a little from Western medicine, a little from Eastern medicine, a little psychotherapy. And crafted my own little Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang of a fertility vehicle. Thank heavens it didn’t sink this time.

At the end of our conversation, the woman who wanted to hire me held out her hand and asked me to pass some baby vibes her way. I don’t believe in that baby dust hooey but I extended my pinky finger and gave her a pinky good luck shake. I wished her all the luck in the world on her journey. I hope she finds what will work best for her, physically, emotionally and spiritually soon.

I hope that for everyone.

Back home

I am back from my work travels. Tired and with a bit of a cold. I worked 14 days straight at two back-to-back trade shows in two of the U.S.'s most diverse cities in which to be pregnant: Salt Lake City, Utah (the nation's most fertile state with its youngest population) and Las Vegas.

Being 5 months pregnant in Salt Lake just means that most people assume I'm on baby #6. Pregnant women (umm, really girls - they all look so damn young) and small children abound here. Infertility sucks in itself but to be infertile and living in Salt Lake would be a double burden to bear. Fertiles are everywhere.

Las Vegas. A completely different story. Being obviously pregnant in Sin City is tantamount to being a circus freak.

I don't even like Vegas. It is so opposite my style to begin with. Suffice it to say that being pregnant + Vegas = majorly no fun. For instance:

Men obviously staring at my chest and then my belly. I felt like I was on display.

No sushi at Nobu. Sigh.

No Maker's Mark and ginger ale at AJ's Steak House.

No Hard Rock Casino for people watching - as a general rule I don't gamble. Too much second hand smoke.

One night I attempted to rally and go to the Mix, a fabulous nightclub that looks out over the Strip on the top floor of the Hotel with some colleagues. Okay, it was crowded but I swear the bouncer took one look at my pregnant belly and informed us it would be at least an hour before we would even be let into the bar.

Apparently no one wants to disturb the carefree vibe that is the very lifeblood of Vegas with a visible reminder of a knocked up gal.

Thank goodness for the Bathhouse spa and pedicure. And room service.

In the end, I am glad that I was fortunate enough to be dealing with those minor inconveniences. Missy handled the long days like trooper. Now, we rest for a few days. And do the laundry.

18 week ultrasound

"You two do good work."

That was the report from the doctor at our 18-week anatomical scan today. I technically hit the 19-week mark this weekend. Can you tell I want time to fly?

I breathed a huge sigh of relief. Although I realize that things can turn on a dime, this felt like one of those big hurdles cleared.

Missy was moving all over the place but ended up cooperating for the important shots - including what I called the sitting-on-the-photocopier-shot, which proved that she definitely is a little girl. "Don't EVER do that when you are big," I admonished her, eliciting chuckles from Cowboy and the male ultrasound tech. I feel slight movements nearly every day, which is the most reassuring pregnancy "symptom" I've had so far.

Our ultrasound tech was terrific. He told us at the end of the ultrasound that he was glad he had us as patients and that everything was okay. He had had two patients earlier in the day that he discovered "really bad news" on their ultrasounds. My heart just went out to those women and men. Cowboy and I went to a late lunch afterward and I felt guilty sitting there all happy with my prospects when there were two couples out there who were staring down the barrel of one of the worst weekends of their lives.

I wish them some peace wherever they are in P-town.

On Monday I leave for a two-week long business trip (apologies in advance if I am not posting or checking up too often). I've promised myself that the real planning will begin when I return: 529 college plan, a will, crank up the life insurance policy and - maybe - some nursery furniture sourcing.

On another cute note, Cowboy is definitely prepping for the baby in his own cowboy way. He was the one who researched ALL the 529 plan information so now we just have to decide on which route we will go. And last weekend - when I was at the baby shower - he went to the mountain where there happened to be a junior ski competition. He made sure he watched the girl's race.

Welcome to the other side

Back in June, you might remember that I co-hosted a baby shower with a friend for our third friend. The three of us went to MBA school together and ended up in the same town post-graduation. We just happened to get married in the same year. And in a moment of silly, pre-IF glee, pledged to co-host baby showers for each other when - not if - the time came. Stupid, stupid girls-night-out, second apple martini.

This past weekend, I co-hosted a shower with the third friend (the new mom) for our second friend – who is due end of March. It was much more fun for me than the first baby shower because (a) I wasn’t recovering from a recent miscarriage and (b) I was well on my way to being a real live pregnant lady.

But life on the other side is still so weird to me.

There is nothing like sitting around a dinner table full of 8 new moms to make you want to slink into the kitchen to load the dishwasher and soak the wine glasses.

I felt like a bona fide fraud. And nervous, like I was going to be punished by losing Missy if I behaved as if I was a normal pregnant woman at the shower.

On one hand, I am angry that I have let my past experiences so negatively taint my expectations toward this pregnancy. On the other hand, I remain grateful for my experiences. With them I feel like I view this pregnancy with much more objectivity and realism than almost anything else I have faced in my life.

I guess it is true that failure can be a wise instructor.

My friends are starting to ask me about the nursery (don’t I have it decorated yet!?) and my birth plan. WTF! I wanted to state in a loud, emphatic voice: “Look people, I am JUST finally accepting that I might actually have this kid.” So, no, I haven’t decorated the nursery and absolutely do I not have a freaking birth plan.

As a side note, of all the people who I know who have given birth recently, only ONE has had the birth go according to her plan.

My other baby foray this weekend was to take dinner to my friend who was pregnant with twins on my same due date for Junior #2 around Christmastime. She was originally carrying twins but found out one of them had anencephaly, so she had a reduction toward the end of her first trimester.

The new baby only sleeps while on someone’s chest. I am sure this would eventually be no fun to a new mom whose husband is gone on a 48-hour shift and who has a rambunctious 3-year old. Consequently, my friend seemed annoyed with the new baby and wanted to spend more time with her 3-year old.

So I got to hold the new baby for hours. It felt fabulous. At first, I remembered Junior #2 and felt a little sad. But then I couldn’t wait for Missy to get here so I can hold her.

I know I shouldn’t be wishing my life away but a big part of me just wants it to be June already.

On The Road Again

We are back from our annual ski road trip. It was quite the adventure.

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?

Rechaka (Sanskrit for exhale)

46 chromosomes and healthy.

Also, as someone aptly pointed out in the comments, only 10 toes. (Sheesh, can you tell how nerve wracked I was?).

And it looks like we have to change Junior's name to something a little more, um, girly.

Bring on the little pink ski helmet and rhinestone-studded goggles.

Good lord, what is Cowboy going to do with two of us?

Deepest rechaka. Ever.

CVS update

The CVS drama went well yesterday. I won't have preliminary results until tomorrow (Friday) and official, official results until Dec. 24 or 26. Perfect timing as we will be on our ski trip and most likely out of cell range somewhere in some mountain valley.

The reason they give you 2 results is that they grow a short term culture and then a long term culture. They test each one to ensure that they didn't accidentally grab maternal tissue in the sample, which would throw off the results from the first culture. The genetics counselor explained it better, but that is all I remember from what she told me. I was a little focused on the forthcoming procedure by that point.

In nearly all cases, the result does not change from the short term to the long term culture. So I should be satisifed with tomorrow's result. But, knowing me, I probably won't be.

The procedure was easy and relatively pain-free. If you've had an HSG, a CVS is a snap. On a pain scale, a CVS is a 1 compared to 6 or 7 for an HSG. They used a catheter to go in vaginally due to the position of the placenta. I made Cowboy go with me because I am gradually getting him used to seeing my feet up in the stirrups.

The risks for a CVS are 1 in 200. Miscarriages - if they happen from the actual procedure - generally happen within 48 hours. I have another 20 hours to go.

We also had a pretty detailed ultrasound. Junior was positioned exactly sideways with its face and belly towards my backbone. As such, we got a terrific view of the spine and all of the little ribs. Plus, it's feet were tucked up so that the soles of the feet were pointed towards my belly, giving us the opportunity to count - and marvel at - two tiny little feet and 20 toes. It is about 4 inches long now. Measuring right where it should be with a FHR of 167.

The ultrasound techs at the Maternal Fetal Clinic I went to are strictly trained to be diplomatic. There is only, "this is an arm," "here is a leg." No modifiers or descriptors. No, "this looks perfect." She pointed out the major organs, too. I guess no news is good news at these things. And when the doctor only comes in to perform the procedure, I am taking that as a good sign, as well.

If we want to, we can find out the gender, too. I think that I will find out if everything is OK. If not, I won't.

Quick Update

I am so sorry I have been a slack blogger of late. I am sorry I haven't been reading, commenting or offering support.

My work is fever pitch from now until March. The nausea and vomiting have not ceased. I am at 13w3d. Will it ever go away? I have not had an ultrasound or Doppler since before Thanksgiving. Deep breath. My genetics counseling and subsequent CVS is tomorrow at 10 pdt.

Although I want to know. I am so very freaked about it all. Assuming I don't miscarry from it, I will not have the results for another week.

The stress is palpable.

Blog you very much

JJ at Reproductive Jeans had just the best idea to post a shout-out to the blogs that inspired you to start yours.

I exactly remember the day I found Stirrup Queens a few weeks after my first miscarriage last November and clicked on a few blogs and started reading. I would read someone's blog from start to finish in one sitting. Before then, I had only heard about blogs on NPR. Here are a few I connected with immediately, sustained me through the dark days and inspired me to begin my own.

So blog you, ladies. Blog you very much.

Apron Strings. Known then as The Oneliner, Christina was (still is) funny and honest. At the time she was still trying to figure out why the basic baby making business wasn't happening for her. In her, I saw another professional woman - similar to myself - struggling. She honestly wrote about ovulation sex fights and being happy one day and beyond sad the next. About being dedicated to her career but wanting (and deserving) so much more. I knew exactly what she was going through. And she made me feel not so alone. I will cry tears of joy the day that Christina becomes someone's mom.

My Dear Watson. Infertility can be such a sad journey. But Watson got sassy with infertility and made it her bitch. She used self-deprecating humor and her terrific writing skills to make it seem not so sad. Each post was a big middle finger in the face of infertility. And then pregnancy. Now I can't wait to see what she writes about motherhood.

Sticky Bun. Have you ever read someone else's post and thought, "that person has been inside my head!" Nearly every one of Sticky's posts were like reading a page from my diary. If we didn't live on opposite sides of the country, I am sure we'd be dragging our husbands to dinner parties together. From hyphenated last names to miscarriages to a strained relationship with the religion in which we were raised, Sticky and I have so much in common. And when our paths were different, Sticky's posts always gracefully reminded me of what the other side might be dealing with.

With much love and thanks to you each.

Melt Down

Today marks my first (and hopefully last) mini-meltdown on my OB's office. Subject: my ability to get an appointment for genetic testing before I hit the 13w6d cut-off.

The Wednesday before Thanksgiving I had my first regular OB appointment. No fancy u/sound, but I did hear Junior's heartbeat on the Doppler. I am approaching the end of the first trimester (11w2d today), which means time for first trimester genetic screening and testing. I have always been very clear with my OB that I would like a CVS. She supports my decision given the following factors: my age (late 30's) and someone genetically related to us has a child with Trisomy 21.

Much like miscarriage or even infertility, most of us might consider that having a child with the kinds of chromosomal or neural tube issues that can be revealed in utero as something that happens to "other people." And then it happens to someone very close to you. And your perspective changes. Immediately.

As such, I researched all the options available for genetic screening and testing, including the pros and cons, before I ever got pregnant. Additionally, Cowboy and I had discussed and agreed upon our choices and the subsequent decisions given the outcome, again, before we achieved a pregnancy. I don't refer to myself as Ms. Planner for nothing. It was a pact from which neither of us wavered.

Until this pregnancy. Which was so hard won. I found myself wavering. And thinking more about just having the nuchal translucency screen, with no risks of miscarriage, and hedging our bets.

So I talked to the person who has the Down's Syndrome child and pointedly asked which tests she had done. This is not something I wanted to do because, for me, asking sounded a little like blaming. What had she done or not done to determine the risks before the surprise delivery of a baby with Trisomy 21 who had to be airlifted to a bigger hospital minutes after birth because she wasn't breathing and underwent total reconstructive surgery to build a fourth chamber in her heart at age 2 months.

She had done the nuchal translucency test. And was given a 1 and 4,999 chance of having a baby with Down's Syndrome.

Hell, I'd have played those odds, too.

But I'm not going to. If only the maternal-fetal clinic I've been referred to would let me schedule what is my right to request and have: a CVS.

For some reason, the referral from my OB only requests first trimester screening, which is the nuchal translucency screen and genetic counseling. I tried explaining to maternal-fetal clinic that given our family history, I would not even believe the results of an NT screen, so please, just schedule the fucking CVS. That way I can either make the heartbreaking decision or finally bond with this fetus.

But noooo. I had to call my OB's office and outline - in tears with my voice wavering in a high octave - to the nurse-on-duty very clearly why I would like a CVS:

1. I am in my late 30's.
2. This is my third pregnancy and I have no living children.
3. My XXX has a child with Trisomy 21. She had an NT screen, which gave her very low odds of carrying a child with Downs.
4. I am not letting myself bond with this baby until I have answers.

I mean, for fuck's sake. It is not like I just heard about CVS in a blurb in USA Today and decided this was the test for me. My - our - decision is the result of thoughtful primary and secondary research and subsequent discussion. Well, I discussed. Cowboy, in his cowboy-like way, listened and said, "Have the test. The first test you can have."

Thank goodness the nurse was an open and understanding soul. She completely agreed and said she would change and re-fax the referral to the maternal-fetal clinic.

So now I wait for the maternal-fetal clinic to call. Again. I'll have to stop myself from having a little edge of "I told you so" in my voice when I FINALLY schedule the appointment.

I know the subject of genetic testing (amnio and CVS) versus genetic screening (NT scan and quad blood markers) is so deeply personal and scary. With testing, you know absolutely, but there are very clear risks. With screening, there are no risks, but you are only given odds with no guarantees. The decision seems even harder when you factor in the effort taken to even have the privelege to make such choices.

I sometimes wish I didn't think so much. That I was carefree and confident. That I was a happy, bubbly pregnant woman. But that's not me today. I have let this entire process rob me of so much reproductive confidence that I am angry with myself.

I just want to get past this test and the first trimester so I can start to live a little again. Why is that so hard for me right now?

How?

How can I nicely tell my friend to take me off her email list of her exciting pregnancy news? Yes, the same one who spam emailed her 9-week sonogram picture to a dist list of friends & family has recently emailed news announcing she has a daughter in utero to the aforementioned list. I should point out that this friend has no idea I am pregnant. As far as she knows, I am the same person who has had two miscarriages - and nothing more - since TTC a year-and-a-half ago.

How can I nicely tell my other friend that I really enjoy our chances to get together and talk over coffee, but why does she always have to bring her 6-month old? I feel she only plans things with me when her husband is out of town and she therefore brings her son along. This was all but confirmed last weekend when she canceled last minute because her son was sick. And her husband was out of town.

How can I nicely change my attitude so I can accept that my friends lives have changed. That while we may have meant something to each other when we were ensconced in grad school and the years pre-husband-and-family immediately after, that perhaps we don't mean that much to each other now.

Because, in my view, if we did, I would make mental adjustments to embrace and empathize with what they have going on in their lives. And they would do the same in consideration of me.

Aw shucks, thanks for all the birthday messages! You know how to make an old guy feel loved. But what is this about me potentially getting a little brother or sister? Huh? No one cleared that with me. Fuckers.