In which I actually respond to requests for further info

Some of my beloved readers have expressed an interest to know more about my gastric bypass. The blow-by-blow account can be read at my old profile at the obesity help website. I always have to emphasize that RNY is a medical procedure that went easily for me and that is not always the case. I feel compelled to note that if my RE was as hot as my bariatric surgeon I would probably still be in infertility treatment to this day. As a hobby. And I would like it. I'm still pondering that sick thought in my mind. I can't quite believe I have the thought, let alone that I Typed It Out. Ah, well.

A few of you have also asked about my pregnancy that occurred post-RNY, how I did it, what I did, how it went, when it happened. Never fear, gentle readers, a future blogudrama is currently being composed on that very topic, probably to be completed sometime next week.

Functional Illiterate

So, A and I went to the movie theater to check out a new flick awhile back. A loooooves to go to the movies--she loves the popcorn, the darkness, the foldy seats, the soda, everything. Even if the movie sucks, A will proclaim that she had a fabulous time. I also love to go to the movies and dh doesn't. So, whenever there's an appropriate offering at the theater, I take this kid to "the show" (as we used to call it back in my day). It makes a good mother-daughter outing. The one downfall A has, however, is the "staying-shut-up-while-the-fucking-movie-is-on" part of this date. Sure, I give her pep talks before hand and I reward good behavior and I try to emphasize that she gets to go to the movies & N doesn't (usually) because she is so mature and can behave, etc. But still, she talks at least some.

So, we're sitting quietly in our chairs, waiting for our feature presentation to begin. The previews come on, and A is quietly munching away on popcorn. One preview is for the upcoming Polar Express. This movie looks beautiful and I can see (yes, even in the dark) that A is intrigued by it. I mentally put this on our list of movies to catch later this fall. Anyway, the pictures flash on the screen, interspersed with phrases such as "a movie by blah" or "starring blah blah blah". As each phrase appears, A whispers "what's that say", "what's that say?". I try to shush the kid as best I can, dismayed that the talking has started before the movie has. More phrases flash, more questions from A, more shushing from me. At last, A can take it no more and she's feeling fairly frustrated and I'm getting a little peeved because the brat won't stay quiet and the goddamned movie hasn't even started yet.

A brief moment of silence and then . . . all hell breaks loose.

"What's that SAY?!", she wails loudly. "You know I can't read! We haven't learned those big words yet!" This all said in a loud, disgruntled voice, all pretense at piping down is long gone.

Oh poor thing! Now, I'm feeling a twinge of bad-mother guilt. Uh-oh.

You know, I'm not one to condone bratty pain in the ass behavior, but too often I forget how it is to be a little person in a big person's world. I really need to make more of an effort at this.

A~mused

Some recent quotes from A, my 6 year old:


"And it was all I could do. Standing there in line, fearing for the bad taste of it." ~ in regard to waiting in the lunch line, afraid that she would have to get chocolate milk because she prefers white.

"You know, that song says 'girls don't like boys, girls like cars and money'. And it's right mom, because that is what I like." ~ in regard to her favorite song on the NOW 14 cd.

"Dad said it was a fake smile, but it felt pretty real to me." ~ in regard to having her soccer team picture taken

Mystify me

Since I didn't blog or journal or anything during my pregnancy, I might as well blog about it after the fact. When I feel like. Before I forget the whole ordeal entirely.

It was about year ago that the unthinkable happened. Try as I might, I still can't wrap my mind around it. Which isn't saying a whole hell of a lot, since my mind isn't as flexible as it used to be.

Somewhere in late Sept. 2003: As my period approached, I remember thinking that these were the worst damn cramps I'd ever had. True, I'd been off the pill that month, but even so, I usually have pretty mild periods. The cramps were unusual and dammit they hurt. The cramps kept it up for about a week, but still no period. And I'm never late. Early? Sure. Late? Never.

So during one of my innumerable trips to Wal-Mart, I decided. I decided. to. Test. Despite the fact that I had no pregnancy symptoms whatsoever. Despite the fact that I didn't really recall having much sex the month previous. I was cheered to see that a store brand hpt was only going to set me back about $4. I mentally note what a good deal that is. I could test once a month for less than $50/year if I wanted to. And there was a time when I did, you know, want to. But I'm much more sane now than I was then, kinda, sorta, and I only let myself buy one test. The Cheap One. And, I'm so confident that this test will be negative that I also pick up some pads while I'm there, in a higher absorbency than usual. 'Cause these cramps are killing me, in case I hadn't mentioned that, and surely that must be a sign of that the motherfucker of all periods is on its way.

So, I go home and put away the groceries. Then I remember! I bought an hpt today! I could test! As a former hpt-addict, this is a highlight! Except I don't really have to pee. Well, now that I've finally remembered that I have the test, I don't really want to wait. I weigh options of squeezing out very little pee vs. risk of diluted urine from consuming too much fluids too rapidly thereby getting false negative result. Remember that my results are always negative and that they've never been so "falsely" thus far. And then I recall that test just cost $4, so can definitely afford another test, should I decide I need it. So, guzzle some iced tea in careless abandon. Guzzle some more, just to make sure there's enough pee. And to also make sure that I can fall back on that "false negative due to diluted urine" excuse to make myself feel better when I just see one line.

Then while I'm waiting for the iced tea to morph its way into pee, I get to watching me some Trading Spaces and it is VERN and I love him (and if I wasn't already married, then he'd be the father of my children, I swear it). And I forget about the test, and I go pee in the bathroom where you can still see the tv from the toilet 'cause I don't want to miss a second of the Vern goodness. So, somewhere in the neighborhood of watching a Law & Order rerun I remember that I forgot to test. So, I drink some more iced tea and am thankful that I think that I'm probably not pregnant so that I don't have to worry about caffeine. While I'm brushing my teeth, I remember the test again, and I really do have to pee now, so I go ahead and take it. I set it in the bathroom cabinet to "cook" while I brush my teeth, as I decide that I'm not really in the mood to see just the one line 'cause that will make me all "depressed 'cause I Failed" and other shit like that.

So I've changed into my pajamas and am completely ready for bed when I remember that I left the test cooking in the bathroom cabinet. I look at the result, see two lines and immediately think:

FUCK!

This cheap generic test is defective.

I decide not to tell dh the news right away. So, five minutes later I run downstairs and blurt it all out, whilst waving the defective generic test stick soaked with urine in his face. He concurs that the test is defective and immediately drives the five miles back to Wal-Mart. Later, he returns with a 3 pack of First Response. By tomorrow morning (when all three of those are positive), we're both convinced that First Response tests just aren't the same quality they used to be, since all these are obviously defective too.

And that, my 3 readers, is how we learned that baby C was on the way. Who'da thunk it?

Metro (Gel) Sexual

I love my MetroGel, truly I do. With a passion uncontested.

Back in the days before I gave in and admitted that I have rosacea, I struggled along trying to convince myself that redness "it's just acne" ('cept it wasn't) or "this new foundation covers this right up" ('cept it didn't). I tried herbal remedies, various and sundry products from Estee Lauder, Mary Kay, but none of those helped a damn bit.

Then one particularly bitchy doc who was supposed to be seeing me as a new patient for my pcos suggested the MetroGel. This doc was so bitchy, I almost hate to give her credit for the MetroGel suggesting (as I do love it so), but she really did suggest it. She must've been having a rare moment of clarity or something.

So I tried it (that fact is surprising, given that I completely disregarded all other assvice given by aforementioned bitch doctor).

And now I love MetroGel, and want to kiss it, and hug it, and call it my very own, and have it's babies, and we'll be married, and never be apart, and and and . . .

And now I have nice smooth skin. Well, except for during my pregnancy when I stopped using the MetroGel because I wanted C to have a chemical free amniotic life. But I longingly caressed the MetroGel tube every day during my pregnancy, dreaming of the day we'd be reunited at last. And now we finally are. Sweet blessed Jesus gay, now we are.

No one can ever take you away from me, MetroGel. We're together forever (said in creepy, stalker-like tone).

Insightful missives from various disgruntled body parts

Dear Laurie:

You thought you were soooooo sneaky regulating the hormones on us, what with your fancy schmancy gastric bypass and the oh-so-potent glucophage and the ever-powerful spironolactone and the stifling heat of Yasmin. And the supplements, my God, the endless supplements--did you have to add in the magnesium and the green tea? We'd come to expect the fertility drugs to try to pump us up, but instead, you went and shut us down. Yeah, you really thought you were such hot shit. Those ultrasounds that weren't focused solely on us were quite emotionally painful. The dildocam is supposed to zero in on US--the lumpy, the bumpy, the freaks of nature. The trips to the gyn to discuss issues other than our cystic powers was hurtful, really it was. We realize now we'd been spoiled by the RE. The lack of attention was emotionally painful to the extreme, but we somehow survived.

Now listen up, and listen but good. We let you have the pregnancy (taa--hope you enjoyed the pre-eclampsia and the bonus prize of HELLPS), and we mostly kept quiet. You've had your fun, and meanwhile, we were plotting our revenge, girlie. We'll be a fool for your meds no more, ya hear?

You thought those meds had us beat down? Ya think that pregnancy got the best of us? There's a new game in town now. In case it's slipped your attention, we've returned to power. We'll running rampant now, and no, that cyst pain ain't all in your head, girlfriend. Yasmin has no power over us whatsoever. You will pay, by God, you will pay with your very blood. Daily. You will, in fact, own every fucking product Kotex manufactures. You will also maintain a healthy yet rapidly depleting stash of ob tampons in a variety of absorbencies, to be used wherever and whenever we see fit.

Don't you try this crap again. Neither Dr. W or Dr. V is a match for us and you know it. We will not be made fools of. We know where you live. Resistance is futile.

Hate,

The Ovaries
Bad as We Wanna Be


Dear Laurie,

Please, please give in to the ovaries. Whatever their demands--they're bleeding me dry in here.

Warm regards,

Uterus
p.s. Give my regards to the Fetus Formerly Known as Cletus. I do miss the little guy.


Dear Laurie,

We regret to inform you that we will never be returning to our former position, as we were in rather close proximity to each other. The pregnancy introduced us to the fact that we are much happier the further we are apart. Way, way, way apart. Thusly, we have decided to permanently relocate, about 15 miles away from each other. We suggest that you buy bigger jeans to compensate for this fact.

Truly,

HipBones


Laurie:

Where the hell is the loofah? When you were pregnant, we could accept the fact that it was difficult to bend over to reach us. The c-section bought you a few extra weeks of slack. However, now you've gone too far. We suggest you get familiar with the business end of a pumice stone or we can't be held responsible for our actions. Let's just say you get a super deluxe pedicure speedy-quick like, and no one will get hurt.

Left & Right Foot

Blog by Numbers

5: different blogs I've seen this idea on

5: different blogs that executed this idea better than I did

4: colleges I've attended in my lifetime

1: number of husbands I've had

43: blogs I read on at least a semi-regular basis

10: jobs I've had in my life

2: house cats I've had during my life thus far

1: number of houses I've built from scratch

17: times per day I wish I'd just went ahead & gone to law school when I was younger so I wouldn't regret it so much now

2: times I've been engaged

4: times per week I actually do make a daily to-do list on my daytimer, on average

396: dollars generated from our last yardsale

19: times per day I renew my conclusion that it's too late for me to start law school at this point in my life

10: years I've been married

1: number of houses I lived in whilst growing up

4: cities I've lived in during my entire life

1,367: years it feels like I've been married

54: times per day that I think about eating something chocolate

2: pregnancies I have had

4: number of total kids I'd like to have someday

73: times per day I wish I had a different, better paying job

1: time per day I eat popcorn, meanwhile wishing it were something chocolate, like cake

2: men this week (who are not my husband) have said I look damn fine.

19,946: times per day I wish dh had a different, better paying job so that it wouldn't matter whether/what kind of job I had

3: kids I have

9: pregnancy pounds I still need to lose

2: adoptions I've been lucky enough to complete

229: my favorite TV channel on directv

8: days my baby spent in the NICU

140: pounds I've lost after my gastric bypass

1: clothing sizes that I'm "up" post-baby

800: days it felt like my baby spent in the NICU

9: times I've had sex since giving birth

12: days I've spent in a foreign country

4: times I eat out per week, on average

115: times since giving birth I've seriously considered having sex but decided against it because I was too fucking exhausted.

7: times my mother in law has pissed me off during this summer alone

0: times I've had sex in a foreign country

3: total times my sister has called me since acquiring her new, loser boyfriend (she pays his child support, for God's sake)

2: years since my gastric bypass

59: times my husband asked me to have sex while we were in a foreign country

3: times it's been warm enough on the weekend to take my kids to the pool this summer

1: time this baby has slept thru the night since I've known him

Fists of Fury

So, since C is my third kid, I didn't go "all out" during the baby buying phase before his arrival. That was partly because I felt doomed, but also partly because he was #3, and I'd already gone "all out" twice previously. Except for the newborn-sized clothes, just cause they are so damn cute and I'd never bought anything that little for any kid of mine. I did go "all out" for newborn-sized clothes. And I'd do it again, damnit.

But since I didn't go "all out" for the baby equipment, that's how C ended up with the el cheapo Pooh bouncy seat, instead of the fancy lit-up aquarium one or doubles-as-a-toddler-rocking-chair bouncy seat. No, C enjoys the $20 Pooh and friends bouncy seat, which we haven't even gotten around to installing batteries in. We're bad asses like that. So C sits in his battery-less therefore not so bouncy seat oogling at the Pooh and Tigger stuffed toys dangling in front of him.

In the past few weeks, C has discovered his hands. This has been so cute to watch. Subsequently, he has also discovered that his hands can also serve a dual role as FISTS! He's often doubling up his fists and sticking them up at me. See? See?! Here are fists!! Now these hands are multifunctional, not just purely for decoration anymore. And in his opinion, these hands taste pretty damn good, too. They could just be the best friggin' hands C's ever tasted. Since the somewhat miraculous discovery of his fists, C has a new goal in life: To kick Pooh's (of the bouncy seat dangling fame) ass. Anytime I look over at my little darling, ensconced in the seat, he's pummeling the bejebus out of poor helpless Pooh, and growling all the while. The hell it's so much friendlier with Pooh, that's the thought clearly running through his little baby brain. This kid's had enough of Pooh pompously taunting him and he's not gonna take it anymore, damnit.

Once C feels he's put Pooh in his place, he seems in a much better humor and appears to have quite a sense of accomplishment. So take that, rich Disney bastards.

The blood red badge of what-the-fuck?

I'm not one of those women who likes to talk about her period. I'm just not. I gracefully opt out of those intense office discussions in which the female staff members all compare their period now to their period on the pill to their period when they were 14.5 years old to their period in the periods to come. I do not play the "my period damn right is worse than yours" game. I do not invest in lavendar and thyme scented pantiliners. I do not feel the need to announce to my friends that "My GOD! the torrentialness of my period blah blah friggin' blah".

Nevertheless, here I am. Blogging about my period. This is my third month of bcp post-pregnancy. This is the third month of screwy goings on. So, here are three months worth of menstrual chronicles:

Month 1: Take my pills. My period starts when there are TWO PILLS LEFT IN MY PACK! What is up with that? That's never happened before, and I am a pill veteran I tell you. I know how to take me some pills. I chalk it up to post-partum weirdness and go about my business.

Month 2: Take my pills. My period starts when there are THREE PILLS LEFT IN MY PACK! THREE?! I decide to call Dr. W (who is the only! gyn available locally, that is why). After three days of phone conversations like this:

Nurse: But you're supposed to get your period at the end of your pills.

Me: No, no, no stupid bitch I still have pills to take. Not the white sugar pill ones, but the orange supposed-to-be-doing-something ones.

Nurse: Oh. I've never heard of that. I'll ask Dr. W and call you back tomorrow.

Tomorrow comes. Our conversation goes like this:

Nurse: But you're supposed to get your period at the end of your pills.

Me: No, no, no stupid bitch I still have pills to take. Not the white sugar pill ones, but the orange supposed-to-be-doing-something ones.

Nurse: Oh. I've never heard of that. I'll ask Dr. W and call you back tomorrow.

At long last, Dr. W relays to me, through his nurse, that my pills are indeed working. This is nothing to worry about. I decide to give Dr. W the benefit of the doubt that he may know what he's talking about. 'Cause he's the only gyn in town (except for Dr. V), so what choice do I have, that's why. So, I go about my business.

Month 3: I take my pills. I have bled every day. Every. goddamned. day. I don't know if one could call this my period, because it's not as heavy as it usually is. I do need to wear a pad. I still have orange pills to take. I'm still taking them. I'm still bleeding.

Is this menopause at 31? Or is this just my fucked up body taking its revenge because it had to endure a pregnancy? Is a hysterectomy breathing down my goddamned neck? Or is this normal for a post-partum girl? Why didn't I pay more attention during those office-wide period discussions. It just goes against all I believe in to initiate an office period discussion. I have tried to make myself do it. But I just can't. And God, I just don't think I can stand to call Dr. W's office again. Maybe if I liquor myself up some . . .

That is all.

Model Cytizen

or maybe that should read Model Cyst-izen

My other ob, Dr. Grandfatherly Genius (the one who actually did the baby-delivering, not to be confused at all with Dr. Weird, the one who did the nagging, chastising, griping, whining, hand-patting, shoulder-squeezing, & ruckus-rousing, or with Dr. W's partner Dr. Vain, or with my perinatologist, Dr. QuirkyNerd) has a strong interest in pcos. Or, rather his practice does. They somehow co-sponsor a pcos support group (for anyone w/pcos, not just their own patients) and are up on all the "new research". And for something totally different, they actually encourage their patients to bring in pcos articles for them to review. All practices that I think are quite hip & trendy.

I like Dr. GG, I really do. He was soooo supportive during the last few weeks of my somewhat freakish pregnancy and he actually managed to act like he not only actually gave a rat's ass about me & my cletus-the-fetus, but also to convey the impression that he cared very much about my well-being. This meant a lot, as compared to Dr. W's "your pregnancy is going to hell in a handbasket just deliver this little bastard and get the fuck off my watch" attitude.

However.

Dr. GG thinks that I should speak at the pcos support group because I am a shining example of someone who took control of their pcos through my gastric bypass, diet, nutrition supplements and prescription meds. I figured this little "remedy" out on my own, and I totally realize (and emphasize) that while it worked for me, it may very well not work at all for anyone else. I do not expect nor would I encourage anyone to make the same decisions that I've made. But Dr. GG thinks that I would be an encouragement for women to take an active role in researching/advocating for their own treatment. An encouragement to my fellow cysters, which is indeed a heartwarming thought.

Problem is, I do not feel like being an encouragement. The not wanting to be an encouragement makes me feel strangely selfish. But I still just don't wanna. He's brought this up to me a few times. But still. I don't wanna. Is this so wrong?

I got yer velveeta right here, baby . . .

This just in: yet more evidence that I have adopted the cutest, sweetest, most-likely-to-be-a-very-charming-&-successful-con-man Korean boy.

N is such a little ham. I swear, I know I spoil him too much, but I just can't help myself. Another shining example of my guy's irresistible, charismatic little personality:

A, unlike her usually well-behaved self, was throwing a huge fit over something. So, up in her room, she was wailing and screaming away. I (being an exceptional parent) was ensconced on the couch, watching cartoons despite the fact that good God, she was making my head hurt. Not to sound too much like an ogre, A could've watched cartoons with us if she would've apologized for her behavior and stopped screaming (behavior that would come, grudgingly, much later).

N is unaccustomed to seeing A punished, since usually there's not a lot of call for it. N is, however, used to being the one punished--he's just too rambunctious and too ornery and too smart for his own good. Therefore, he's usually the one called on the carpet. But, not in this instance. A was mid-conniption fit, and N was snuggled up next to me on the sofa, looking up at me more than a little angelically. 'Cause it's rare for him to actually see someone else get in trouble without him being a party to it. Anyway, during this tender moment, he murmurs to me "Hmmrph. A is in trouble. Big, big trouble. Now I am the goodest, best one."

How adorable is that? Isn't he just the dickens? Couldn't you just eat him up? Nevermind that on odd-numbered days I want to sell him to the gypsies. Without a doubt, I have the three of the cutest best goodest kids.

It's my blog. I can be as cheesy as I wanna be.

For another subject entirely, I am sorely craving me some good Chinese food.

Here's my trouble

See, I've found out why my former ob, Dr. Weird, and I didn't get along. No one ever told this recovering infertile girl that she was supposed to practice the love with her ob. It took me 10 years of marriage to get knocked up after all, it's a given I'm a slow learner. Dr. W should've known from my medical history that he'd have to spell it out for me. I just didn't know what was expected. No wonder the bastard was so damn grouchy. He just needed a little love practicin' to cement our dr-patient relationship.

Although the thought of sharing the love with Dr W makes me a little queasy. And invites some rather unwelcome and somewhat nauseating mental pictures. La La LaLa La La LaLa La La LaLa, envisioning something else much more pleasant now.

Hmmmm . . . now also thinking that dh would've embarked upon much more lucrative career of obgyn if he'd known that love-practicing was involved. Ah, well.

Filing this info away under "Things to remember should I get knocked up again". Thank ya much, George W.

Back, ass words

Last summer, A was into pants/shorts/capris with words written across the ass. So much so, she managed to acquire 3/4 of her wardrobe featuring various slogans and a fair amount of glitter emblazoned across the butt.

This summer, she's shunned the ass words pants, entirely. Unfortunately, that occurrence didn't take place until after we'd started buying up her summer wardrobe. Forget that almost every damn pair from last summer still fits. All shunned nevertheless, in favor of denim short shorts. A would've preferred the shorts w/ the 1.25mm inseam, but ever one for modesty and grace, I held my ground. All of her shorts have at least an inseam of 3mm (and that extra mm is damn hard to come by, I'll have you know). I do have standards, I'm not raising a tramp here. And so, all of the ass words pants/shorts are now relegated to oblivion, in the back of A's closet.

All this to say: If you're wanting to display messages like "cutie", "cheerleading", "soccer", and "sweetheart" on your hindquarters, I can help you out. So long as you wear a child's size 4/5. I'm here to serve.

Please pass the prozac

I've heard it said that pregnancy after infertility causes the worst post-partum depression. Isn't that just another kick in the fucking pants. A little bit of humble pie, wrapped in mystery, peppered with irony, shot through with misery. How in the hell is that fair? Who needs this shit anyway?


I think I am depressed.

My husband is constantly telling me I am.

My mother is forever telling me I am.

My mother-in-law is incessantly telling my husband that I am. I don't really know how she makes that diagnosis, since I avoid her like the goddamned plague but whatever. Screw her anyway, which is a thought I always have, depressed or not.

Okay. So. Well, I am depressed. I think I may be so depressed that I need some meds. It's not that I'm against the meds so much. I have been on meds before. There are good things and bad things about meds, if you ask me. Currently, one of my main problems with the meds is that I have no doctor. My ob and I parted on not the friendliest of terms. Okay, so maybe hostile is a better word. Because he was an incompetent, cold, hand-patting, shoulder-squeezing, waist-hugging stupid-ass freak bastard. So he is definitely out. My gp is no longer practicing. He was mediocre at best anyway. So he is definitely out. And I just feel weird making my first appointment with a brand new doc, walking in, and saying brightly, "Hello, my name is Laurie. Nice to meet you. I am stark, raving, fucking nutters. I'd like some prozac, if you please and I'll be on my way." Because pretty much, that's all of an explanation that I'll be able to muddle through before I start bawling. Because talking about my depression makes me feel lousy and ungrateful and useless and that makes me start bawling, even if I had not felt like bawling prior to the discussion about my depression.

I need to get this figured out somehow. Sigh.

Through rain, sleet, snow, my ass

I am at work. And I can't get into my personal email account (I can access my work one just fine, but that's work). Oh. No. I feel so isolated, so cut off from the outside world, so lonely. Misery loves company. No, misery needs, craves, must have company and can't live without it.

Getting a little panicky now. Oh nonononononononono. Please, please let it work soon.

Breathe in.

Breathe out. Hoo hee hee, hoo hee hee, hoo hee hee.

Why the fuck didn't I take those lamaze classes? They would've been useless for my c-section but possibly v. helpful during times like these. Oh, hyperventilating just a bit. I need outside contact. I need it, crave it, must have it, I tell you. Oh, wait. I think I already wrote that somewhere.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. SHIT.


Lonely, oh so lonely, I'm sooo lonely . . .

ONE is the loneliest numBAH, ONE is the loneliest . . .

Alone again, naturally

Are you lonesome tonight?

I get so lonely, can't let just anybody hold me . . .

Like a drifter I was born to walk alone . . .

Solitaire see what it's like now, solitaire to cry all night now . . .

Only the lonely, (dum dum dum dum)

Show me the meaning of being lonely . . .

It's like I told you, only the lonely can play . . . only the loooonnnnelyyyyy

How do I get you aloooooonnnne??

This is a song, for the lonely . . .

Hey there, Lonely Girl . . .

All by myseeeelllllf, don't wanna be all byy myyyyyyyselllf


And so completes the maudlin song lyrics I can think of right now. I tried to cover all of the most irritating genres. Okay, so maybe not all of them fit the situation so good. Lonely was the operative word. I am getting desperate and possibly the smallest scooch crazy. And I do the best I can with what I have. So there.

No substitutions, extensions or refunds

N has recently started preschool (despite the fact that he thinks he "doesn't need school") and he's loving every minute of it. N is proud of having made lots of friends already and is quite full of himself. So, today I needed to take him down a peg or two, despite the fact that I hate to do it. He'd just pushed the monkeyshines way too far, it's all fun and games until somebody (like me) gets hurt, ya know? Yada, yada, yada.

So, I put him in the corner. Which he hates. With. A. Passion.

After much wailing and caterwauling, I let him out, and follow up with what I think is a stern yet loving lecture.

Having vented his fury while in the corner, N calmly but firmly replies, "Tomorrow, I am taking you back to the mommy store and get my money back."

Gee, I wonder how much the mommy store will think I am worth? Probably just a lousy gift card towards a new mommy or something lame like that.

Tactlessness: it's not just for infertility anymore

When I read the goings-on over at Barren Mare and Naked Ovary, I decided that I needed to make my own foray into the quest for answers to the "When Did It Become Okay?" nightmare. I've had all holiday weekend to mull this over, so it's gonna be a doozy.

When did it become okay . . .

to quietly, but firmly, inform people that the infertility was all my fault because (pre-gastric bypass) I "was soooooo big"? a la my mother-in-law. Even though she's convinced it's true, why why why oh why does she spout off about this all the time. See all along my enormous weight gain, was, in fact, a method of birth control. I thought it worked swimmingly well. So there.

to ask, in all seriousness, when I was in all of my fourth month of pregnancy, if I thought that my pregnancy weight had "all gone to my hips and butt"?

to say, that because I "acted okay" that I really didn't have pre-eclampsia and that contrary to blood test results, that I probably really didn't have renal or liver failure, again, because I "looked fine". Thus damning the entire medical profession to uselessness, due to the fact that the repeated and quite vocal observations of casual acquaintances are more reliable than a doctor's diagnosis, lab results, and a second opinion. And cheaper too. Sshh, don't tell the insurance or they will be muy pissed off.

to blame every single complaint or dislike I've had post-pregnancy on "post partum depression", even the problems that I've complained about for the past 3 years, a la my husband and my mother-in-law. Oh, all right, yes, I admit to being so gifted in bitchiness that I can actually channel postpartum depression several years before my actual pregnancy occurred. I have carefully cultivated this talent for over 30 years, it's not something one can just casually aspire to.

to repeatedly tell me (whilst I'm suffering and stressed out from pre-term labor at 30 weeks) that your own "miscarriages didn't bother" you at all. Well, that is because you are a freak and I refrain from telling you that.

to tell people (when introducing my children) that "A came from China, N came from Korea, and C came from God". The only implication I get from this is that someone doesn't think my older two kids came from God. Then, if I'm really really really lucky, follow this up with the comment about the infertility being all my fault. Yep, this from my mother in law again, God love her.

to perkily inform me that, "see, you adopted and then you got pregnant!" Um, okay. It was the adoption that cured me. We'll be sending those troublesome kids back now--that was one damned stressful cure, I'm telling you. And since A is 6 years old, it was the slowest cure I've just about ever seen. Whew, good thing we grew to love the little buggers. This comment is best issued from the SuperFertile Myrtles of the world who have no experience with adoption or infertility. That makes it best.

to ask about me about the birthparents of my older two children, usually while in the presence of my older two children. Uh, yeah. Like that's your business.

to ask if I have cancer (or, my personal favorite, AIDS) since I've lost so much weight. Because if I did have a terminal illness, I'd want to be all chatty about it over a luncheon with a group of casual acquaintances. Since, yeah, it takes the threat of death for fat girls to stop eating. It's a little-known obesity cure, but please don't tell Dr. Talbott or he'll try to bottle it.

to sarcastically (and, I daresay, cattily?) remark that "it must be nice to wear such small jeans". Okay, they are a size 8. EIGHT!! I ain't Twiggy. Get hold of yourself, bitch. Is "cattily" a word? I thought it was, but it sure doesn't look right.

I think that about covers it. For now, anyway.

Blather, wince, repeat

I've been working on this entry for awhile. The thing is, I just can't seem to completely scourge the self-righteous tone from it, imo. And I don't mean to be self-righteous at all. I just gotta get this off my chest. So, here we go. Don't say I didn't warn you.

We've already covered my kids and my somewhat-infertility-inspired overprotectiveness. I know that we have.

But I don't think I've shared that I'm a founding member of our local international adoptive families support group. It's a very cool, laid back group. Our quarterly-or-so gatherings consist of 20-30 families, eating supper, while kids of various races/ages/genders run amuck and cause general chaos. I'm about as protective of each one of our "group kids"as I am my own children.

I have also previously mentioned that I have had a gastric bypass. I know it's not a solution for everyone, and I realize that I've had a much easier road than many people. I am willing to share my experience, but realize it's not representative for everyone.

I have also adopted internationally/transracially. I love it. It's been two of the absolute best things I've ever done. However, it's not for everyone either. Adoption done wrong serves no one, least of all the kid involved.

Now, keep those things in mind.

A few years ago, one of our group members brought along their hairstylist to one of our international adoptive families gatherings. We will refer to her (the hairstylist) as Chickie. Chickie and her husband expressed interest in our group, and had confided to aforementioned member of our group about their infertility woes and said that they were interested in pursuing adoption. So, Chickie comes to our gathering, where she and her husband spend the entire evening huddled in the corner, looking horrified and disgusted. It is obvious that Chickie is having some sort of problem dealing with this all; I presume it has to do with unresolved IF issues, but don't pursue it with her. At this time, I'm kind of angered that she's chosen to drag her shit out in front our kids, some of whom are old enough to realize that this gathering is quite obviously not pleasing to her. If it weren't for that, I would have more sympathy for her. Actually, at the beginning of the evening, I do empathize with her, but as she gets poutier and poutier, my tolerance wanes.

A few days later, I realize that Chickie & I work out at the same gym. Seeing me reminds her of "the gathering", and I overhear her confiding to a friend that international adoption is "soooo not for her" and that "she could never do that". I can't remember the details, but it's made painfully obvious to me that Chickie is troubled by the non-whiteness of "our kids" in the group. It's probably a good time to reiterate that I have no problem with anyone who chooses not to adopt, transracially or otherwise, or with anyone who is struggling with IF issues. Most certainly, I've dealt with similar conflicts myself. It was the way Chickie misrepresented herself (as someone who was planning to adopt internationally) to our group and the way she treated our kids and the group members who reached out to her that ticked me off. And my kids are Asian, so her attitude of "a white baby would be better" does kind of rub me the wrong way. Furthermore, using her attendance at our gathering as a means to further the stereotype that international adoption/adoptive families are somehow wrong is mildly pissing me off. Chickie later reiterates to the group member who invited her, "she could never do that." Okay, then don't. Whatever. It's not like we make meth at our gatherings. I decide that perhaps Chickie is suffering from some form of Adoptophobia. For her sake, I fervently hope that a vaccine is available soon. I figure it's probably for the best that she's not adopting anyone, and then promptly forget her very existence.

Fast forward a few years later. I'm having a yard sale in which I sell all my pre-gastric bypass surgery clothing. I was afraid to sell this stuff until post-pregnancy. I was deathly scared that pregnancy would make me as big as I was before surgery. And, it's kind of bittersweet--some of these clothes I really love, but it's hard to believe I was so big. I remember being uncomfortable, but I must've been more uncomfortable than I realized at the time. Oh wait, that's got nothing to do with the point of this, nevermind.

Anyway, at said yard sale, Chickie is in attendance. Only I don't recognize her, 'cause I had already forgotten about her very existence long ago. As previously noted, it's been awhile, at least a few years. Chickie herself suffers from pcos and is plus-size. So even though I hate her (a fact I don't yet recall), I do feel a reluctant kinship, in spite of myself. Chickie tries on several items of my former wardrobe. Some things fit her, but others are too small. As she is crying in my garage (because of her weight, I presume), she tearfully asks whose clothes these are. I think this is an odd question, but I want her to quit bawling so I answer truthfully rather than my usual backsass. I say they were mine. Chickie remarks that it's hard to believe that I was ever that big. (Fat girl on the inside is hurt by this little jab, but decides to be bigger person and overlook it.) Given her emotional state, I decide to share with her that I have had a gastric bypass (normally, I am in the closet irl about my surgery). I do share this because she is so obviously miserable with her size, bawling about it as she is, in my (a stranger, because she does not recognize me either) garage. Furthermore, I share that I not only look and feel better and am healthier, but that my pcos has improved somewhat and that I was even able to have a successful pregnancy. I say these things not to persuade her about gastric bypass, but because she is so obviously depressed and in despair, and I'm wanting to give her hope.

At the end of my little confessional, when I am all warm & fuzzy and feel like we be sisters and all, Chickie manages to dry her snot on some of my clothes that she's not buying and to collect her composure. "Oh. Gastric bypass.", says Chickie in quite a cool tone. I get inkling that maybe we're not like sisters after all. "Well. I mean, everyone dies from gastric bypass.", Chickie says authoritatively. I, quite obviously alive, look at her confused. Chickie continues, "Gastric bypass, I mean, I could never do that."

She could never do that. Where have I heard that before? All of a sudden, the fire of recognition blazes a trail through my brain and I remember who the hell Chickie is! I successfully stifle urge to knock Chickie senseless. And then I laugh my ass off, much to her bewilderment.

See, this is the thanks I get when I try to be nice to people.