The depths of despair

Anyone ever watch Anne of Green Gables? Anybody? Drama is my bag today, baby.

Okay, so it's not really the depths of despair.

Ssshhh . . . You may not know this about me. My husband certainly doesn't.

When I'm depressed, I shop. And, my current job situation makes me depressed. So, I have shopped.

Thus far, I have outfitted two out of three kids with new fall wardrobes (the girl-child, A., will not let me select her clothing without her presence, blast it, should never have encouraged independent thinking in that one). Now, I have moved on to the not-as-spendy endeavor of used books. I think I've touched briefly on my love of used books in the past. The good thing about depressed shopping for used books online is that you can get a lot of used books for not (as compared to a new wardrobe for each child) a lot of money. That's not so bad. Plus, readin's my passion, so it's not as if these books won't be put to good use. Eventually. I've also pre-ordered several dvds. The awesome thingy about pre-ordering is that you can cancel the pre-order once you manage to cheer yourself up out of the bowels of despair and are no longer depressed anymore. Unless, of course, you manage to cheer yourself way way wayyyyyy up and then forget about recent bout of depressed shopping, thusly forgetting to cancel pre-ordered goods . . . Once I've finished up with the book shopping phase, my plan is to segue into purchasing lipstick colors I may look good in and fragrances I've been wanting to try and then move on to scented candles that may (or may not) cheer me up whilst I'm at work.

Best of all, I have secret arrangements to pay for the ill-gotten gains (credit card with on-line billing only, goes to email account that dh doesn't know I have), have further conspired with ups man as to where covert deliveries go (in the Lil' Tykes cabin, it's not just for playin' house anymore), and where the packaging/invoices go (down the Diaper Champ, if dh wants to fish in that, more power to 'im).

Now, you know. Now you know the depths of my madness. The disgusting, slimy lengths I'll go to in order to fuel my addiction. The addiction that has inspired to to rampant, shameless use of italics in order to further emphasize my deranged state of mind.

Oh, btw, I have an upcoming interview. For a position that pays less than I currently make. See, it's not the plain ol' vanilla job finding that I have problems with, it's that better-payin' job finding that I can't seem to manage.

Who cast me in the role of rainmaker, anyway? I didn't sign up for this, I tell ya.

I'm feeling kind of sickish now.

May I take your order?

Throughout my pregnancy with C., my daughter, A. (age 6, adopted from China) was fascinated by the process. She eagerly awaited her new brother right along with me. A. had lots of pregnancy vs adoption questions and I answered them all to the best of my ability. She knows her own and her brothers adoption stories, and she talks about when she will have/adopt her own kids.

Lately, we've had several conversations that go a little something like this:

A: "Yesterday at the restaurant, Granny & I saw twins. Twin babies. And Granny said, 'Oh Avery, how would you like twins?' And, mom, I've thought about this and I've decided that I would. I would like twins. Twin brothers. Plus, you named N and you named me, and Dad named C. It's only fair that I get to name a baby now. It's my turn. I get a turn."

me: (mentally wondering when someone explains infertility to a kid.) "Well, that is a nice thought. I hope that we get to adopt another kiddo someday, if we have the opportunity and enough money. Probably just one more though, and almost definitely not twins."

A: "Well, I only want boys. And, I want you to grow the babies in your tummy, like you did with Cole. I don't want to use our money for another adoption, remember we're saving that money for Disney World and for visiting China someday."

me: (Now puzzling over why she thinks the "adoption fund" and the "vacation fund" are one and the same. Oh wait, that's 'cause they are. and they're both broke. Make executive decision to withhold this information.) "Ummmm . . . You're quite the little material girl." (Vaguely feeling as though I've missed teachable opportunity here, but my sleep-deprived brain can't quite wrap around just what that opportunity is exactly.)

A: "I'm going to name this new guy Quidditch."

me: "Well, remember if a baby grows in your tummy, you don't get to pick boy or girl when the baby grows in your tummy. And, you don't really get to pick if you want twins, even if you grow them in your own tummy. You don't really have much say over what grows in your tummy. Granny was just teasing you. Anyway, if we did have twins, where would we put them? We don't have room for any more car seats either. After all, the back seat of the jeep is completely full with the three of you guys."

A: "Oh good. That means we can finally get a minivan too. I've always wanted one of those. I get the back seat. I want a green one. Dakota has a green one, that's the kind I want. Quidditch could be for a girl. Just a different middle name."

me: Speechless (mentally concluding that somewhere this talk has taken a horribly wrong turn, feeling as if I have failed to accurately convey life's priorities, decide no comment is the best policy.)


Ya want fries with that?

That Voodoo I do so well

So today, while I'm doing my daily blogging, I come across lwteacher's info on Madame Zoira . I scroll down a bit and see a picture that diagrams how to read my palm. Right away, I see the problem. And suddenly, all becomes clear!

This self-palm-examination has revealed exciting answers. I now know what the trouble is with my job hunt. 'Twas doomed from the start, you see. Possibly, this palm defect is the root of all my problems throughout my entire life. Nothing is my fault. I have a disability. I don't know why someone didn't clue me in earlier. A lot of pain could've been spared, I tell you.

You see, I have no fucking success line.

Or rather, my palm has no fucking success line.

None. what. so. ever.

So, at least now I know for sure that I'm screwed. Ya know, my magic eight ball could've saved me a lot of time and heartache if it would've pony'd up this knowledge before now. 31 years of pain, right down the crapper.

Madame Zoira, I thank you for this. Do you, by chance, do life coaching?

Perfect

It is official: I do not piss off absolutely everyone in my path.

Today was a rainy dreary day here at casa cystah. One of those kind of days that makes it hard to get out of bed, ya know?

After hitting the snooze as many times as the law will allow, I stumble up the stairs to wake up the two older kidlets. I help N, the 4 year old, get dressed. He is so cute when he is still sleepy, I can still see those faint traces of babyhood. God, I love that. Anyway, once he shakes off the fog of sleep, he pipes up, "I wanna wear my Scooby clothes."

"Okay", I reply.

"No, I wanna wear Scooby Doo, get my Scooby clothes out, please!", N insists.

Mentally, I'm thinking that I'm not arguing with him, but whatever. I get the requested outfit down from his closet, and help him on with his shirt (it has neck-buttons, and he doesn't quite have those down yet). I straighten out his shorts and he's good to go. And such a handsome little guy, I'll add without prejudice.

He's beaming, obviously pleased with this state of affairs. "Oh, thank you mama! I look perfect.", he says with more than a little pride. Okay, so the kid's not humble.

See, I am a people-pleaser, after all.

Obsessive observations about poop

Alas. My baby boy has the scours. Yes, once again, one of my precious children has driven me to obsess about poop. Presented below, my morning conversation with the doc's office, in convenient, Me vs Them format, for ease of reading:

Me: My kid's got the diarrhea. He's had it for three days. I can deal with that. It is quite troubling to me, however, because he's now having very few wet diapers. Very few. I wanna bring him in.

Them: Give him pedialyte. Take away all his formula. Only give him pedialyte, nothing else.

Me: Um, I don't wanna do that so much, my kid is underweight as it is. Plus, he's not taking his bottle so good now that he's sick. Plus, none of my kids have ever really drank much pedialyte ever, under any circumstances. I think this has to do with it tasting like crap, because I've tasted it myself, you know. Anyhow, I don't feel comfortable just casting my lot with pedialyte.

Them: (continuing on as if they haven't heard a damn thing I've said) only pedialyte for today, and then tomorrow only mix up his formula half-strength.

Me: I mean, the kid wakes up in the morning with no pee in his diaper. NO PEE, just crap. Plenty of that. When this phenomenon happened on Sunday, I thought it might be a fluke. But no, today it has happened again. A bone-dry diaper in the morning. After 11 hours. There is no pee even in the morning, this is what I, as a mother of 3, find quite alarming. Understan?

Them: Just pedialyte today. Just that. Call back tomorrow.

Me: (crying softly) But he's such a little tiny guy, he only weighs 13 lbs soaking wet. Fasting just doesn't seem like the greatest way to deal with illness, it's certainly not an approach I'm familiar with. I'm afraid he's dehydrated because of the aforementioned hysterical rambling that I just told you. You don't even have a medical degree, you're just the secretary after all . . . Please, can't I talk to the nurse, your professional opinion notwithstanding?

Them: Call back tomorrow.

Me: (to no one in particular) I hate you medical secretary. Damn you to hell for so callously dismissing my worries about excessive poop and lack of urine output. I am sending lots of bad karma your way, if it is possible to do such a thing. I'm hoping you catch every single bug encountered by your practice today.

I decide to completely disregard this asshat advice. I'm still giving C his formula, then offering him some pedialyte. He has consumed it with the enthusiasm that my other two children have, mostly because it tastes like ass, but partly because he's not taking his bottle so good during this illness.

Okay. Now that I've typed this out, I think maybe I'm overreacting. But don't you rest easy, medical secretary. Oh, I will be calling you tomorrow, sweetheart.

He probably thinks this blog is about him

So in the interests of badmouthing both docs equally, I decided to blog about why I call Dr. Vain by that name. He's Dr. W's partner, and I had to see Dr V. a few times during my pregnancy.

Dr. Vain thinks that he's soooooo good looking, you know how you can just tell that about men. Since being my kinda-ob, now if I see Dr. V at my work (not uncommon) he comes over to me, to say hello in quite a regal tone of voice and to offer his up hand so that I can kiss, I mean, shake it. He means well, so I let it pass. He manages to keep this vain attitude despite the fact that he has back hair sticking out the neck of his shirt. Lots. of back hair. And some of it is graying back hair. Go figure.

Dr. V and I really only had one memorable encounter during my pregnancy, at about the 12 week mark when he informed me during an u/s that I wasn't pregnant. "Are you sure?", I asked. "Yes, I definitely don't see anything." said Dr. V. "Well, that's not good", I said. "Are you sure you're looking in the right place? I mean, 'cause the rad tech said everything looked fine a few days ago, and you don't seem to have the probe in the same spot she did." (A little impatiently), "Yes, I am sure that I'm looking in the right place", says Dr. V, without even a moment's hesitation. "Hmm . . . ", I reply, with more than a little skepticism in my tone.

I don't know why I was skeptical of Dr. V's opinion, because I'm usually quite pessimistic about the reproductive abilities of my own body. Mostly, I guess, it really didn't seem to me like he was looking in the right place.

That was not quite a year ago, and I now have a 4 month old. You can figure out which one of us was right. The bastard wasn't looking in the right place. So there.

Those known only to God

Getupgrrl's oh so perfect post regarding Mizuko may just be the best damn bit of hot diggity blog I've ever read. I mean, but dayum. It's inspired me to the depths of my own personal nostalgia, to the creepy cobwebbed corners of my memory. I hardly ever go here, with good reason. But even with that in mind, I haven't forgotten a thing. Still.

While I wanted to write the story of my own miscarriage in grrl's comments section like everyone else, that almost seemed too public. I mean, everyone reads grrl's blog. Hardly anyone reads mine. So here, I have pseudo-privacy. Here, I feel safe. Here, I don't have to worry about rambling on too long, thereby using up grrl's entire comment section. Here, I don't have to worry about living up to the awesome poetic standard previously set by others tragic stories. Here, I can sound as crazy as I wanna be.

And so, here will reside the story of 12/28/92.

I was only 19, and had just become engaged. My period was just a bit late, and I am always regular. But I thought that I might be feeling pms symptoms so I agonized over whether to buy a test. Finally I did. The tests back then were the kind where you pee'd in the cup, then used a little dropper plus some other chemical and drip-dropped your very own urine plus the magic chemical onto the test pad, in order to obtain result. The instructions say to wait 5 minutes (tests were slower back then too), but after only a few seconds . . . It was positive. I decided that I must've done it wrong. I drop more urine. Still positive. I add a little more chemical. Still positive. I decide I haven't waited long enough to read the result. I go in the other room and return 15 minutes later. Still positive. Shit.

I go numb. I will stay that way for a long, long time.

I go sit down, frozen by fear. Am I happy? Am I sad? I am definitely scared. Certainly, I'm numb.

I go through about eleven weeks of pregnancy mostly by myself. My fiance is there, but he's not really there. How can he be when I'm so numb? How can anyone relate to that? Mostly, I am alone. Which is how I like it best during this time.

I go through swinging moods. The one thing that I do know about this pregnancy is that I love this little unexpected baby. The fiance, I don't love so much anymore. My future, I'm much more ambivalent about. My family, I'm too scared to face. But the baby, I do love. I decide to name it Caitlin if it's a girl (Caitlin wasn't so god-awful common back then) and tentatively decide on Austin for a boy, but I don't feel completely sure of that choice. My due date is July 19, not so far from my own birthday. I imagine being 9 months pregnant at my own party.

I put off going to the doctor for several weeks. Partly out of fear, partly out of denial, and partly because I'm scared that something might be wrong. Afterwards, I will wonder if seeing the doctor right away would've changed anything. I will feel guilt.

Once I'm at that fateful appointment, Dr. Weird keeps reminding me of how young I am (nothing, it seems, gets past him). He gives me what is the most painful and longest pap smear of my life. I swear, the man was intent on carving his initials into my cervix. This hurt so incredibly bad. Later I will wonder if somehow this had something to do with what happened. I will feel guilt for not hollering "stop it, that fucking hurts!"

My parents are horrified at the news of my approaching motherhood, rightfully so. After all, I am a good girl. No one saw this coming from me.

Then, just a few weeks after I break the news to them, I notice something pink. In my underwear. What is that, I wonder. I feel uneasy. When the pink stuff doesn't quit coming, I get worried. I call Dr. Weird. He offers no opinion on anything. I feel lost. I tell my mother, who calls her own former OB. That doctor tells me to go on complete bedrest. So, I do.

I lie in bed and pray for my baby. I have mental pep talks with my baby, telling him/her to hang on and be strong. I get sick of bedrest. I feel guilt for being sick of bedrest. This continues on for a few days. I start to feel a bit of hope. The pink isn't getting any worse. True, it's not better, but it's no worse. Surely, if something really bad were going to happen, it would've happened by now.

That night, something really bad does finally happen. I wake up so early, that it's still black as pitch. I don't feel right. And I feel . . . wet. I go to the bathroom and I see more blood than I've ever seen before. Blood is everywhere. I am scared. I am so scared. I know there's no way my baby will survive. It simply can't.

My mother takes me to the ER. The 45 minute drive is a silent one. I hurt so much, physically and spiritually. In my heart, I know my mom is relieved, even though she doesn't say it. Finally at the hospital, endless searching for a heartbeat, endless poking and prodding. I overhear a tech say that she doesn't know why they're looking for a heartbeat, she can tell my water has already broken. If I weren't so numb, this would break my heart. That's my baby you're talking about. Nurse Bitch keeps shouting at me that they have to confirm this is a miscarriage. Um, okay. Blood is still gushing out of me at an alarming rate, not sure what the hell else she thinks it could be. A nurse complains about me asking for pain meds, telling me that this is a process that I must endure. Oh, thanks for clarifying that for me. I am treated like I've received a late Christmas present--that this miscarriage has blessedly rescued me from motherhood at such a young age. And I understand that, really I do. I feel guilt, for mourning my baby. I feel sorry that I can't squeeze out the expected, obligatory gratitude for this crowd of bystanders. Yes, I know I am so young. Yes, I know, this is probably for the best. Yes, I know the baby was probably horribly deformed. Go away. Please just leave me alone.

Finally, a few people do manage to squeeze out some compassion my way: the rad tech who bawls like a baby herself while she's looking for the baby inside me and the surgeon who will eventually perform my d & c, because I just don't seem to stop bleeding. The thought occurs to me that the mattress on my hospital bed looks exactly like an enormous maxi pad. I take some bizarre, perverse pleasure in this destruction of hospital sheets.

My mother's ob stops by my room. She recommends that I get a Norplant, so I will have something "good and strong" for birth control. I'm a good girl, so I take her up on the offer. My mom puts my hair into a french braid, I put my clothes on, and I'm dismissed from the hospital. Dismissed is exactly how I feel. From that day forward, I can't stand my hair in a french braid. It reminds me of how I looked that day.

On the drive back home, afterwards, my mother rather stiffly informs me that "I had better never do this again for a long, long time." My ovaries apparently take this statement very much to heart, 'cause in a few months, the beginning of my pcos symptoms show themselves. Not that I know enough to recognize what they are. And so ultimately, my mom will get that particular wish: it will be 7 years before I adopt my beautiful daughter, and it will be well over a decade before I manage to get knocked up again.

During my 5 years suffering from infertility, I occasionally wonder if she ever thinks about and/or regrets this statement. I don't blame her for making it. I can even almost understand how she felt. I just wonder if she remembers it. I wonder if she wishes she could take it back. Since her grandchildren turned out to be so hard to come by, I wonder if she regrets treating that first one so casually.

One thing becomes glaringly and hurtfully clear: I might've wanted this baby. I might've loved this baby. I might've realized what a miracle this new little one is. But I am the only one.

And so I give a shout-out to whoever posted the comment somewhere that referred to these little babies lost as "those known only to God", I immediately loved that thought. The idea that God knew this little one is somehow a comfort.

The hunter becomes the hunted

Most of our friends just thought that I'd just stay on Infertility Island forever. Yeah, I was one of those vaguely thunderstruck girls who quietly disembarked from the boat, most of my shit in tow. I quietly got my passport stamped and applied for my permanent resident card, and then eventually for citizenship of the fair isle. Yep, that was gonna be my new home. I was okay with it. Heck, eventually I forgot the name of the place and just rolled with it. I briefly considered a run for governor. No one (least of all me) expected that I'd ever leave my new digs and after a bit, I wasn't entirely sure that I even wanted to. I was something of a comfort to others, who managed to think "at least I haven't been here as long as Laurie has." Ah well, it was okay by me. I'd given up on trying to leave. But then the boat came by, and just like poor little Elian, I was spirited away from the only home I could recall.

WTF?

An odd thing is going on in my life right now. Since I'm not sure how to handle it, I've decided to just avoid it and yammer on about it in my blog. That seems harmless enough. I'm all about harmlessness.

I remember when DH and I were actively involved in infertility treatment. I recall feeling so depressed and I was convinced that the drugs were playing with my mind (which is none too stable without the influence of anything). Eventually, I did get to the point where I shunned all pregnant friends (i.e. "so what if we were best friends--you're knocked up, therefore you're dead to me now!"), I somewhat tearfully declined all baby shower invitations, I did not chip in for various office "baby pools" to guess due dates/birth weights/what the hell ever, I secretly seethed when acquaintances announced their happy pregnancy news, I did not go down the "wing" of the mall that housed Gymboree. It got to where when infertile friends announced their pregnancy, all I felt was jealousy for them, instead of my former "hey, score one for our team!". I was bad. I was dark. I was gloomy.

As I type this, I realize that damn, I really went all the way with this bitterness thingy. Typed out, it looks worse than it was. I think. Maybe. Well, dh says no, I was really over the top bitter. What the hell does he know from bitter. I decide to discount his opinion.

Once I dealt with my infertility issues and especially once we adopted our kids and were finally a family, somehow without my noticing I started going to baby showers again, and stopped glaring at random pregnant women finally, and God knows that Gymboree has seen enough of my money in the ensuing years.

Meanwhile, some friends of ours were also enduring IF treatment. While we pursued adoption, they persevered and treatment was eventually beautifully successful for them, and they now have a precious, charming toddler girl. This couple is in our small group of "couple friends". We don't have a lot of these. No, I don't mean swinging or anything, I mean those couples that you go to dinner-&-a-movie with, that kind of thing. DH and I are just too different and our schedule is crazy and whatever else, we just don't have a lot of couple friends. But we are friends with the "Q family". We've all hung out together, my kids got along great with their kid, there was a good age range there, and I've always thought of them as good parents.

Since we'd both suffered from IF at the same time, both of our families were surprised to find out last autumn that yes, both of our families would each be expecting new arrivals come springtime. Sadly, their family lost that pregnancy, right at the beginning of the second trimester. Dh and I were both so sad for them. I already had IF survivors guilt from this pregnancy, and this family's miscarriage only intensified it.

After a complicated pregnancy, and complicated delivery, and dealing with preemie baby struggles in the NICU, I was pretty self-centered. It was only recently that dh brought to my attention that the Q's didn't want to be my friend any more. ME? Because. I'd. had. a. baby. Upon hearing this, I don't know whether to laugh maniacally or to get a bit misty. I mean, me? Sub-fertile Myrtle? This is just all so shocking . . . so sudden.

I'm okay with this. I understand how she feels. I don't really feel like dh & I can spare any couple friends, but we can deal.

Damn, but this is weird. It's like the universe has been turned upside down. Boggles the mind, it do.

That's Ms. Manners to you . . .

Around my office, we have a spontaneous event known as "Food Day". No, it is not a national holiday, but several of us enjoy the occasion, and yes, even look forward to it. On Food Day, each office member brings a favorite snack item to share, usually such foodstuffs are homemade but can be purchased if they are of good quality. Some of our favorite items to consume often include homemade brownies, tortilla roll-ups, cheese ball from the deli down the street, a box of doughnuts from the bakery, a still-warm homemade coffee cake. Not a hard concept to understand, no? Recently, it's been brought to my attention that, evidently, there needs to be some sort of laws governing Food Day. A framework needs to be established, if you will. A pall has been cast over this formerly joyous occasion, and that is truly a shame. I will set about to rectify the situation.

And so ladies and gentleman, I offer you:

FOOD DAY ETIQUETTE

1. If you don't bring a snack, then you are not allowed to gobble down other people's offerings on food day. Ya can't play if ya don't pay. Get outta our trough. No excuses.

2. A jar of peanut butter with toast crumbs in it, a half-eaten bag of stale potato chips, the leftover sandwich from your lunch, a hunk of cheese that you've cut the mold off of = all of these are fine examples of what does not qualify as a valued contribution to Food Day. These items are generally considered trash, not snack food.

3.A. If your own personal contribution to Food Day has leftovers, naturally you should feel free to take them home to share amongst your beloved family members. You should not feel free to pack up everyone's leftovers to take home to share amongst your own family members, meanwhile gleefully noting that you "will not have to cook supper now". Nonononononono.
3.B. Likewise, please do not leave your Food Day offering leftovers to fester in the fridge, growing hairier and more pungent with each passing month until somebody else pries it from the fridge and disposes of it for you. Snacks are not like fine wine, they do not improve with age. When it doubt, through it out. Your mother does not live here. And other shit like that.

4. If you are a habitual "non-contributor", then please stop scheduling Food Day. You don't get a vote. Once you get up off your lazy ass and bring a snack, then you can play God. Not until. Got it?

5. Please bring your food in. Clean. dishes. only. CLEAN. 'Nuf said.

The management thanks you for your cooperation in this matter. We now return to our regular broadcast schedule.

Sugar Mama

Alternatively titled, I'm in love with a younger Korean boy

This particular entry comes with a general disclaimer: cheesy motherly bragging to follow, read on at your own peril.

Okay, so I dearly love all three of my kiddos, with a passion only another infertile can understand. Most days I marvel at my good luck of having three of the best kids right in my own house. How the hell did that happen?

But, back to today's topic.

Some days (like today), I'm guilty of favoring the middle kid, N. He is such a handsome little imp, who's just full of charm and orneriness. No matter how mad at him I am, those flirty big brown eyes and one of those dimpled grins almost always gets him off the hook, regardless of what monkeyshines he's been up to. With such disciplinary tactics, I'm reasonably sure that N is doomed to spend 15 to life on the far side of a plexiglass wall & we'll only be able to talk via those phones. Well, that is, when he's not whiling away daylight time on the chain gang.

And yes, I am aware that I'm not doing him any favors by spoiling him rotten. Each day, I renew my vow to work on this little problem of mine.

However, that is easier said than done.

Lately, he's taken to calling me by the name of "Sugar Mama" whenever he's in trouble. Or whenever he wants something. Or whenever he thinks I'm in a bad mood. Actually, he pronounces it "shugga-momma", which only makes it even more damn adorable. It melts my heart. How can I be mad at a kid with such charisma?

Maybe he won't be a felon after all. Looking back over this entry, it seems more likely he'll end up a gigolo.

Life may be good, but it still takes chocolate to get me through the day

In spite of dh's good wishes this morning, I was still forced to resort to a brownie batter blizzard to cope with the afternoon trauma of work (it was a small, I only ate a third of it). I knocked that back with a good dose of cyber-shopping (the books were used, they were bargain-priced, I couldn't pass that up, could I?) and now I'm good to go.

Really. I am. Particularly since it's almost quitting time.

Smirk. I'm such a smart ass.

And now for something completely different . . .

How can I bitch on a day like today?

It's a given that work still sucks my ass, and furthermore the kids refused to eat what I'd planned for their lunch (thinking about just leaving them each a supersized bag of chips to last all week, after that they're on their own), my own lunch at a pricey restaurant (not of my choosing) tasted like Palmolive, and that stubborn baby still isn't eating very good (I'm sure the good folks at Enfamil are laughing their rich asses off at how much formula this kidlet wastes). I did manage to derive some sort of sick enjoyment from the fact that my 6 year old and I have managed to convince the 4 y.o. that we'll be biting off his toes, frying them up in the fry-daddy, liberally coating them with season salt and then serving them to the dog. He's been hiding his feet for a day and a half. Yeah, good times.

There I am, meandering through my mediocre day and an email from my dh comes along. I cringe. I employ one of my favored defense mechanisms, that of procrastination, and proceed to ignore it for a good long while. Then, once I decide I'm feeling strong enough, I open it.

What. the. fucking. fuck?

It's just a note to say he loves me.

Excuse me, but who's husband is this, anyway? My husband certainly doesn't do Hallmark quality crap like this. For a moment, I consider that perhaps his work computer has some sort of weird-ass virus. Or maybe someone else is using his email account in some sort of cruel prank.

But no, it's for real.

See, my life's not all bad. Good things can happen. Really.

I'm in such a good mood, maybe I'll just let the 4 y.o. keep his toes intact. Maybe.

Dr. Weird, I presume

Since I tend to go on about my pcos and I do plan on blogging about at least some of the more significant events in my pregnancy (just in case I ever get 'round to starting/completing C's baby book), I want to provide a brief background on why I call Dr. Weird by that well-earned name. Well, at times, he could've been referred to as Dr. FatBastard, but I decided I want to save that name in case I have a more deserving doctor in the future. Now, you may wonder why I chose to go to such a flaky ob. 'Cause this is the only ob practice in town? that's why.

So, in bulleted format, here are just a few of the many weirdness examples:

• "Let's not focus on a 'due date' per se. Try not to think that the baby will be here on a particular day. Think of it as a best-estimate"~when asked by me what my due date was. OK fucker let's not get all new age-y, when's my damn due date.
• "If you want a second opinion, then I will set one up for you."~when asked by me if my high blood pressure was a sign of impending pre-eclampsia. I can go for that doc, so set it up then.
• "I decided you didn't need it."~when I asked when/with whom my second opinion appt was arranged. Well, okay dude. It was your idea.
• "I don't know the results of your blood work from last week, because my partner, Dr. V set that up."~um, so I have a different chart for each of you docs, even though you're in the same practice and it's mandatory that I spend quality time with both of you? That's a dumb-ass thing to do, if you ask me.
• "Look at that baby go." Said in a rather admiring tone of voice while watching a 14 week old Cletus the Fetus on u/s. This was rather endearing, but other shit later cancelled the endearing part out.
• "Don't eat any ham. I had a patient one time, she gained 5 lbs from eating one ham sandwich. Ham is very, very bad."
• "What do you want me to do, talk in code?"~when I told him that he was making me feel a little doomed about my pregnancy. Okay, so I was a tad hormonal. He's an ob for christsakes, he should be used to that kind of shit.

So, there you go. What the hell else could his name be?

Life in a normal size

So most of last year's fall clothes are maternity. They're not bad, as far as maternity clothes go, but they don't really do much for me now. And, um, evidently here in the midwest we decided to go directly from spring to fall, as seasons go. Which is not necessarily a bad thing. Just different. But if we were going to be skipping seasons, I'd just as soon we skip the winter one. But I digress . . .

Anyway, I find myself in need of fall clothes. Last fall's clothes were maternity. The fall before that's clothes are of the plus-sized variety. I no longer require either of those kind of clothes. WOO HOO!

I now require normal sized clothes.

God, when you are normal sized, clothes shopping is such fun. Don't get me wrong, shopping for maternity clothes was fun too (especially given that as a recovering infertile, it was a pleasure I thought I'd have to forgo), but maternity clothes are ever-so-vaguely cut similarly to plus-size clothes. That fact alone makes it just a smidgen less enjoyable for a formerly plus-sized girl.

It's still such a novelty for me to try on clothes and look good (relatively speaking, of course), in them. I still have to remind myself a) not to go to the plus sized department and b) that I don't have to avoid looking in the mirror. I'll look decent in the stuff I'm trying on. I don't have to worry about needing a bigger size, because yes, indeedy, there is a bigger size available, should I require it. That has not always been true for me.

I can, in fact, buy trendy clothes if I wish to. (Except for low rise pants. Reference earlier blogging). I do not, however, need to feel confined to what Lane Bryant considers trendy. I have clothing options, for Christ sake. Options--say what??! Imagine that, those odd things that clothing manufacturers think fat girls don't need. Pregnant girls don't get that many clothing options either, for whatever reason.

All these mighty big options (such as shirts that don't tie in the back, dresses without a high waist, pants in more than one length) are gonna take some getting used to. Do other women really take this shit for granted?

The state of my stomach skin

My stomach skin provides all the support of a wet paper bag.

Yes, I knew that after a gastric bypass I wouldn't look like an ab-roller commercial. I was okay with that. I didn't harbor any secret fantasies about this.

And yes, I realized there would be some sagging skin after losing nearly half my body weight. Some saggage, I could handle. I deal with pcos every day, and that has robbed me of most of whatever vanity I possessed during my youth.

And of course, I didn't expect my subsequent pregnancy to improve the situation on my stomach any. At least I wasn't disappointed on this count. Pregnancy did indeedy make my already-horrific looking stomach skin even more crepe-y, crinkly, and droopy. I was mildly surprised (okay, maybe relieved is the more correct word) that Dr. Grandfatherly Genius was able to a) actually able to find the correct spot for my c-section incision, and b) that my completely tired out skin managed to heal from said incision.

I actually have pants now that I don't wear, not because I can't fit into them (although I have pants like that too) but because my stomach skin hangs over the waist band! Actually hangs there, flappin' in the breeze like a banner advertising my former fatness. Just to be perfectly clear, the overhang is not caused from flab, mind you, (although there is just a bit of that there), but from having zero-elasticity left. None. Nada. Zip. Zilch. It's only a matter of time before the not-so-elegant drape of skin reaches to my knees, the law of gravity is bound to work on that eventually. Another somewhat surprising aspect is that my freakish stomach appearance phases my kids not at all. It periodically crosses my mind to wonder why they don't ask about it, since they're certainly quite entranced by my cesarean scar.

I don't have any insurance coverage for plastic or "reconstructive" surgery. Like I could be brave enough for that anyway--pulling together this sodden mass would have to hurt like a bitch and I'm too much of a wimp. And dh and I aren't rich like that (this issue covered in an earlier bitch session), so we can't afford to pay out of pocket for it. Dh has the idea to pimp me out to "Trash can of skin" or "extreme makeover", but I'm just too shy for crap like that.

So I guess I'll just continue to deal with tucking the saggage into my control top hose. As dh likes to point out, it's certainly better than having all that skin full of fat, as it once was. He's never been fat though, so sometimes comments like that piss me off. But he tries to be supportive. It would just be more helpful if he could take some crash course in at-home plastic surgery.

I know, saggage is not so bad actually, as problems go. It's just so hideously unattractive.

But I can still bitch about it.

Yeah, like you didn't already know that.

Dear Lord, Please don't let me look as freakish as I feel.

Amen.

You know what I'm referring to. That mental appearance checklist that you go through when you have pcos. That checklist that drums through your head much like a particularly irritating song lyric or some crucial tenet of newfound religion. After all, as civilized and open-minded as some members of our society might be, the world just isn't quite ready to see the natural, unembellished effects of pcos on a girl. I think it goes against the grain of our culture and may even break an amendment or two. Or maybe not. Anyway, a girl with pcos feels obligated to cushion the blow, as much as possible anyway, to the general public.

Of course, it's absolutely positively mandatory that you run through the pcos checklist quite thoroughly first thing in the morning. I mean, one can't face the world looking like one belongs in the circus, even if somedays you can't help feeling like you belong there. The day should at least start out as normal as possible. And, it's still crucial that you run through the checklist periodically as you go about your daily routine out amongst the general public. And yeah, it still feels rather obligatory to run through the checklist at least a time or two even while in the comfort of your own home. There's just some things a girl doesn't necessarily want her husband to know. In many of these instances, ignorance is, indeed, bliss.

Bleached/tweezed offending hair, as necessary? Check!

Shaved offending hair, as needed? Check!

Utilization of necessary miracle skin-care products to control acne that plagues us still? Check!

Expertly applied super-absorbent facial powder to control unwanted oil-slick-like shine? Check!

Lipstick chosen in flattering neutral tone to draw attention to more attractive aspects of face and away from blotchiness of skin? Check!

Covertly styled hair to camouflage hair loss, employing creative use of hats and/or super-holding styling products, as needed? Check!

Rogain (need I explain more?)? Check!

Birth control pills (or insert your fertility potion of choice here), glucophage, spironolactone, and/or other meds taken to counteract/control/otherwise to wage neverending yet often useless battle against miscellaneous undesirable pcos side effects? Check!

Stomach discretely tucked into super-sucker control-top pantyhose? Check!

Ulcer meds to counteract endless worry about long term pcos effects such as heart disease, diabetes that could potentially result in senseless early death? Check!

Price of all of the above products? Oh, let's just say upwards of $500 (and I'm not counting those who need some injectible not-covered-by-precious-insurance precscription meds in this).

Feeling like you've got the world fooled about how you really realllly look? Priceless.

In this way, life is not fair.

No, don't mind me I'm just a normal girl, thanks. Kindly avert your eyes, nothing to see here.

The Joy of Soy

Per my 3 month old, the soy farmers of the heartland can kiss his pampers-clad butt.


During my pregnancy, I never gave formula a lot of thought for this little guy. I was a formula veteran--having adopted two babies, I knew the in's and out's of Enfamil vs. Similac, silicon vs. rubber, disposable vs. reusable. However, for a change, I was looking forward to the opportunity of breastfeeding this little one. What's that saying about the best laid plans always getting crapped up? Life (perhaps that should be edited to say "MY life") has a way of screwing things up, and when Cole arrived a bit early, he was too small and too weak to nurse. I pumped for awhile, but he just could never get the hang of it. So, I grudgingly turned to the bottle for comfort. Or rather, the baby did. Things worked out well for awhile, but as of late . . .

I'd noticed that my little darling had been having quite a bit of gas with his bottles. He was arching and squirming as though his 'iddle tummy hurt. He was fussy and crabby after his bottle. So, this being my third kidlet, I don't need no stinking doctor. I diagnose him with milk sensitivity and promptly start mixing up some soy-based formula confection, in all its stenchy glory. Good Lord, is there NO WAY to make the soy formula smell a little less raunchy? MUST it smell like ass? With all our modern technology, can't the stuff be infused with a yummy smelling aroma? Forget about this new-fangled LIPIL crap, and concentrate on improved smell, for criminy's sake.

But, back to our topic. Now my little munchking is slurping away a bottle o' soy formula. And like magik, gas is nearly gone! I congratulate myself on a parenting job well done. I consider writing parenting book. I mentally spend advanced money for authorship of parenting book. I mentally spend advanced money three times over. I pat self on back again. I am so proud of self. Look, baby is so less gassy. I am gifted at this mothering shit, truly I am. Gifted. I consider going to medical school and becoming beloved, world-reknowned pediatrician. As an added bonus, I have saved family the $15 copay of a doctor visit. I add thrifty to my list of inner virtues. Decide to mentally spend the $15 that I saved. It is mine after all, since I was the one who did the saving.

But wait.

Soy formula may be less gas-inducing, but my little darling doesn't seem to like it. He doesn't seem to be eating it. At. All. Okay, maybe that is an exaggeration. A bit. But he is definitely not eating with the usual gusto. As the overprotective momma of a preemie baby, I notice such things. That said, I decide to take approach inspired by own grandmother (a little-known goddess of childrearing, undoubtedly where I get my own prowess, certainly I am channeling her spirit at this moment), in the form of "when he gets hungry, he'll eat." Well, that is Sunday. Monday, baby is still not a fan of soy. Tuesday am, baby is still not convinced. His ever-deepening scowl lets me know he will never be vegan.

Tuesday pm, I break down. I mix up more of his old moo-based formula. Baby promptly slugs back an entire bottle, then enjoys gas induced squirming and arching and proceeds to fart in careless abandon. The idea enters my head that perhaps baby not only enjoys the taste of milk, he seems to be enjoying the gassy squirming. Which makes perfect sense, once I consider his father's own habits.

Make note to self re: the need to pick up some lacto-free formula at the local 'mart.

My potential so-called mid-life career change

Monique of Infertile Me provides much inspiration. Whilst TV might not be my best friend, at times that's certainly open for debate. And if there's one thing I'm quite capable of, it's rotting my brain via TV. Of course, I'm not so good at it now, as I was pre-kids, as my time and choices are understandably restricted during their waking hours.

My favorite tv show of late is (drum roll, please):

American Chopper, which I think is on TLC, but maybe it's on Discovery or something like that. I can't remember for sure. As long as I use that "remind me" feature on the remote control, I'm not really required to keep track of the actual channel. The kids do not understand this fascination at all. Trading Spaces, they're okay with, and Noah's favorite show is For Better or for Worse (go figure), but Chopper, they just don't get. But it's usually on after their bedtime, so they don't usually provide much interference.

Chopper has it all--conflict, profanity, humor and bike-building all rolled up in a tidy package. Now I hearing your rumblings, and no, I've never ridden or even considered riding a motorcycle in my whole life and I've certainly never seen a "chopper", but from afar. Admittedly, my life experience is limited in this arena. Quite possibly, bike-building isn't the glamourous lifestyle as indicated by this oracle. Maybe. I am willing to consider that fact briefly.

But still, the show appeals to me. I've spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this, turning it over my my non-biker-babe brain. The idea of taking metal, paint, and a bunch of other crap and somehow (presto, change-o) rendering it driveable is just somehow appealing. A chopper sometimes is almost like art--depending on the builder, the different combinations of frames, colors, shapes, and use of effects make such an awesome individual creation. I could be a bike-artist (meanwhile, conveniently forgetting that no one has ever ever ever for any reason considered me artistic). At the end of their project, they have a bike to show for it! A shiny, chrome-y bike. How cool is that? Part of this show's appeal, is, I'm sure, the shiny-ness. How can one resist shiny? It's simple: ya just can't. Plus, the general bitchiness of Paulie and Senior combined with the sponge-bob-y quality of Mikey just heightens the irresistibleness.

So now I want to make a bike. I don't want to ride it or whatever, I just want to build it. The best I can discern is that first, I will need to learn how to fabricate metal. That seems to be a key issue. The other stuff I decide to figure out later. Being his usual helpful and oh-so-supportive self, DH pipes up that he doesn't know where the hell I'm going to learn how to do that. My dad, who at least tries, says that I'll have to be an apprentice somewhere (the vagueness isn't his fault, it's the best he can figure), and then they (whoever I'm apprenticed to? is that who 'they' is?) will teach me the trade.

Huh.

The apprenticeship sounds like more commitment than I want to put out, in the name of bike building. It sounds like an awful lot of effort, too. I was thinking more along the lines of a month-long class at the local tech school or a book on tape or something.

Food is not my friend

isn't now, has never been and never will be. I kind of make myself sick when I think about how long I depended on food for comfort. Blathering along like an idiot, thinking I could eat my way happy. What the hell was I thinking?? What else can I say, but life can be a bitch and I can no longer hobble along on that food crutch like back in the ol' days.

I've already pissed and moaned quite a bit about my job hunt (definitely, almost certainly there will be more of the same in the near future). What I haven't been quite ready to reveal is that this is my first major crisis since my gastric bypass, nearly two years ago.

Now, don't misunderstand: I have never regretted this surgery, not for a single instant. I can never forget, even for one millisecond, how lucky I am to be given this second chance. Feel free to insert lots of endlessly grateful blathering from this former fat girl. However, in these many ensuing days as a post-op, I'd kinda forgotten my tendency to turn to food in a crisis. I guess I was just too busy pretending that I was just a normal girl, enjoying the surprisingly weird feelings of being not-fat-and-not-infertile, for the time being. Anyway. That wasn't such a good idea, 'cause I've been unpleasantly surprised by the reality of my situation.

It's not that I've been strictly on the straight-&-narrow since my surgery (far from it, blush), hoo boy, not at all. BUT, this is the first time the intense longing to eat an entire bag of miniature reese's cups and then wash it down with a few chilly liters of pepsi has hit me in forever. Just typing those words makes me a little trembly. Hee. (said in a breathy tone, tinged with just the barest hint of mania and rounded out by an ever-so-slight infusion of hysteria)

Thus is the world of an addict my friends. Welcome to my calorie-crazed nightmare. After all, you can take the football-field-sized stomach out of the fat girl, but you just can't take the "longing" for the capacity of that aforementioned stomach. I feel confident that normal people just don't have to battle these binging urges. Really. I do.

Now I'm thinking what life would be like if one didn't ever think about binging. Crap, now that is a novel idea.

Now, be grateful that I'm not indulging the sudden urge I have to break out into sonnett, devoted to all the candy I have loved before.

Blogger without a cause

My conflicts all started when I realized that I'm not, technically, the infertile chick that I used to be.

A fact for which I am eternally, exceedingly grateful. But for the grace of God yadda, yadda, yadda . . .

However:

Normally,in the past whenever I blogged, it was usually about my PCOS and the problems that it caused me, the depression that I felt about my infertility, and how bleak the future looked for dh & I without kids. All this crap was depressing as hell, but I did have a "niche" in bloggerdom--sisters with whom to share my bitchiness. After all, I had a right to the bitchiness, dammit. I felt that venting my spleen via my blog was helpful to others possibly even a public service in providing support and info and empathy and sympathy and all that other warm fuzzy crap. Eventually, though I made my peace with all that IF quagmire, slogging through it all at a snail's pace until I managed to convince two (two!!) different social workers that I was, in fact, capable and worthy, even dare I say it, to adopt two babies. I'm a MOM! Wow. There were endless, countless, hopeless nights where I never, ever ever thought I'd get to say that.

I did ditch the childlessness and yeah, I became the tired, old, worn-out fucking cliche and rather haplessly ditched the infertility thingy too.

That said, those badges of honor may be gone.

But the bitchiness remains.

Whenever I read of others infertility blogs now, I feel petty. PETTY. Self-absorbed. I feel shallow blogging about petty. Reading those blogs takes me right back to how I felt. Dealing with my crappy job be damned, I know all too well that's nothing compared to begging for another hit of hcg and every-other-day conjugal visits with the dildo-cam.

I don't know where this is going, except that I feel less self-centered today than I did yesterday. Which is something, I guess.

Gloom, despair, and agony on me

deep dark depression, excessive misery . . .

alternatively titled, Has God Forsaken Me in the Blasted Job Quest?

Am I ever going to find a new friggin' job? I have helped countless friends with their job hunt while I was pregnant (and thus, unable to hunt for myself), I have tweaked other people's resumes and proofread cover letters 'til my eyes crossed. Thereby shouldn't there be some enormous amount of good-job-hunt karma or some such crap coming my way? Isn't that only fair? This sucks, really it does, because you know I spend most of my waking hours at work, for Christ sake. DH is no help at all, because as he so eloquently and helpfully puts it, he can't just crap me a job. Gee, dear, thanks. I was bumbling about under the assumption that you did, in fact, carry boundless employment opportunities in your anal sphincter. Now we know it's nothing that maalox can't cure. Love you too. Smooch.

Despite the pointless drama above, life's not all bad. Possibly I should focus on something positive, lest I become suicidal.

My kids are great. If we weren't so fucking poor, I would stay home with them, really I would. They are tons of fun. There's an idea--my dh should actually be the one on a job hunt, for a new and improved job that will pay better and allow me to stay home with my babies. Then I could sit on the couch, snuggle with my 3 month old (who seems to grow and change and accomplish at twice the rate he did whilst I was on maternity leave, oh crap, now I'm depressed that the little bugger is thriving without me, sob), eat chips ahoy and watch Dora the Explora in careless friggin' abandon. Now, my friends, that would rock my world. Unfortunately for me, dh is not on board with this plan at all, whatsoever. Which is why I'm sending out resumes to the few available job openings in this employment wasteland. Why me, Lord, why????

Shit, I thought I was going to focus on something positive, but this just turned into more job-related bitching. Oh no, all roads lead to job-related bitching. For today, anyway.

And, we're out of those Pepperidge Farm cookies at home. I purposefully didn't buy any more.

Shit.

A poke in the eye with a sharp stick . . .

so for the past three weeks, I've wanted a blog, but now that I've got one, whadda I do with it? Is it rare for a girl to have so much bitching to do, that she doesn't know where to start? Maybe I should write some sort of introduction prior to just jumping into the bitching. But I really wanted the blog for bitching, not for introducing. I think that tomorrow I will start in earnest, with an introduction AND bitching, possibly even dividing these into logical, easy-to-understand categories.