You Can't Make an Omelet Without Releasing an Egg

In baby-attempts news, there was most definitely some sort of Ovulation Party going on last week. The CM was nice and stretchy and egg-whitey and ready to receive diced green peppers, ham, onions, and sperm, and there was some cramping. I went ahead and only did one little half-hearted attempt, since I started getting a bit nervous about taxing my system, and thought it really might be best after all if the employees had a month off to recuperate. I figure it was a good sign that things were pretty much back to normal though, so I’m anxious to do a hard-core push (ha ha) next month. A little teensy part of me (the crazy part, which I guess is technically more like 90% of me) kinda hopes that maybe, just maybe, since the odds are so small anyhow, that the itty bitty attempt coulda been successful. And then I go back to, ‘well, it’s for the best if not, because that’s a LOT of rollercoastering hormones in a very short time’, and I don’t know how many more stabbins’ I can avoid from Quiet if I continue on my raging lunatic sprees.

In work news, I started my new position officially on Monday so am spending the week in beautiful upstate Boston, where it’s like 852 degrees cooler than North Carolina, which is a nice break. We did lunch in New Hampshire, which was kinda neat because I think that was my first time in that state. The new Girl Boss actually so far seems to be pretty decent. I’m worried of course about what she thinks of me – it’s been a while since I’ve had to get up early and stay focused all day long, and I don’t think I’m doing a very good job of not getting a slightly glazed expression starting at around 3:30 in the afternoon. Plus, I keep staring at her tits. No, seriously, she wears these low-necked tops and she has just terrific, slightly freckled cleavage. I hope she doesn’t think I’m totally gay for her. Or, if she does, that it’s advantageous for me at review time and I don’t have to go downstairs.

In M&M news, there is a new delicious raspberry limited-edition 6-week engagement ruby-red M&M on the market. Apparently they aren’t everywhere yet, but they are most certainly at Hannaford in Chelmsford, MA. I have to buy a million packs and freeze them, because I can think of a trillion things I can put them in at Christmas. Mostly my mouth. Totally check them out, they're tasty. And fruity!

In home news, there are zero updates. There is also zero patience left for Loud, zero hope of ever selling, zero options left available, and soon-to-be zero dollars left in my bank account after I freak out and go rent a seedy motel room so I can get the hell out of there before another day goes by. If only I had a dollar for every time someone has said to me in the last two months, ‘Boy, this is a terrible market to be trying to sell’ I'd be able to afford the motel. Quiet and I are fed up with Loud's asinine friends being there, and it makes me bitter because he wouldn't have a nice house to invite people over to if, well, I'm sure you get the idea. But in good news, I introduced myself to Loud's boss since I'm at the corporate office, and made sure to tell him that Loud really wanted to move to Boston AND travel a lot more. I actually giggled to myself as I walked back to my temporary desk. See, I can be evil when I'm not hormonal!

Lady Luck is a Transvestite Who Hates Me

My week sucks.

First, there was, well, you know, The Doctor's Appointment.

Then, the totally awesome rockin’ Def Leppard concert was cancelled because of a teensy bit of rain. And wind. And lightening. And falling trees. And deaths. So then I decided to treat myself to a cheap and convenient McDonald’s sundae (because nothing says 'Sorry Your Concert Was Rained Out!' like a dollar’s worth of frozen milk-like substance). But instead, the sundae said 'Sorry About the Stomach Punctures!' since it was full of shards of broken industrial-grade plastic. Yes, I said Def Leppard. I was only going because Gowan is now the lead singer for Styx (that probably doesn't make me seem any less dorky, does it?).

Of course you've all heard about Joanie and her Twirling Baton of Terror, and that afternoon was a dentist appointment where surprise! I had the uppers attached for my invisalign, and now my whole mouth aches with struts and vise-like gripping things and, well, shards of plastic. It hurts to take it out, it hurts to chew, it hurts to talk, it hurts to put it back in. So I figure I just won't do any of those things for, well, the next 10 months. I had a Slim Fast shake for lunch and just finished a lame yogurt smoothie, and now I'm ready to try eating the glass with my stupid convenient invisible braces because I'm so hungry, yet such a huge wus about the pain.

Next I tried desperately trying to get on the reservation list for the chef’s table at Starlu for dinner Wednesday night, since my dear friend of a friend was celebrating her 40th birthday, and, much like yours truly, nothin’ says lovin’ like someone serving you five custom-made courses. No dice. We went anyhow, and two of the gals hated their meals, which was annoying, because how can you hate salt? Some people are so weird.

Last night there was a notable lack of ovulation, which bummed me out, and I pretty much just watched Lifetime and whined. This evening will probably be more of the same. I'm fixin' for a stabbin' because tonight is Loud's Rocky Horror Picture Show debut as Frank-N-Irritating, so you can just imagine the hijinks that have ensued today. His Number One Fan got here about an hour ago but I doubt that she's here to hobble him, unfortunately. I'm excited to listen to them shriek and giggle for the 7 hours it takes to squeeze him into an ill-fitting handmade corset and close-but-no-cigar makeup. I would take and post pictures, but really, it's just too depressing. Plus I still don't want to get sued, no matter how bitter I am.

$1 for whoever does this to Loud, slowly and painfully.

And then knock on it, for luck for me. And to hurt him more.

Maybe the weekend will bring me something new and fun. I just found out the rockin' concert was rescheduled for Monday night, when I am conveniently in Boston, so I'm not too hopeful yet. AND Loud just told me that there will be a whole joyous houseful of Rocky-ites here shortly for a final dress rehearsal. Kill me, please.

Joanie Loves Coochie

‘Hi, I’m Joanie!’, said the ultrasound tech in a chipper and suspiciously reassuring voice. It was 10:30 am and I thought I was going to die I had to pee so bad. I have been on road trips with my father where he wouldn’t stop that weren’t as excruciating as this. One of the pre-requisite cruelties of an ultrasound is to drink 40 oz of water, in 15 minutes, 1 hour prior to the exam. I think a man designed this test. I sat in the waiting room for 15 minutes, chanting silently to myself with my legs jiggling, ‘I will not wet the couch, I will not wet the couch’.

So by the time Joanie introduced herself in a falsely friendly tone my eyeballs were floating. I hopped up on the table, she goo’d me up, and I excitedly focused on the monitor. That’s when things started to go bad. First, it’s hard to describe a level of discomfort so acute and embarrassing that you get tears in your eyes. Joni ruthlessly pressed the ultrasound device over and over on my filled-to-bursting abdomen, heedless of my straining and squeezing. I tried to distract myself with the blurry black and white images, but all of a sudden an unbidden thought popped into my head – ‘Wow, if I was here with a healthy pregnancy, this is when I would see my baby for the first time!’ Needless to say, it wasn’t a happy thought, and that’s when I really did start to cry.

Joanie finally finished her grueling abuse with another traitorous smile and allowed me to race to the bathroom. I almost skipped back to the exam table I was so lightened and relieved. I figured that it was over and she was ready to send me on my way. Not so. Joanie next pulled out a monstrous device that I can only assume had been previously stored under the table due to its size. ‘I’m just going to insert this!’ she cooed, brandishing the immense phallic object that in my head suddenly sprouted spikes and gears and other hurty things. I don’t think anything should be put into your body that takes two hands to lift. As someone who hasn’t had sex in almost exactly 4 years, my brain screamed, ‘Close the legs! Intruder!’, but there wasn’t much I could do. I know that dear Joanie was only doing her job, but feeling that thing slamming repeatedly against my cervix was startling and, well, owie. Give me a pap smear any day.

And what comes next? You guessed it – more waiting! The results will be sent to my doctor’s office, who will lose them and have to have them resent, but they will be sent to the wrong office, and then when they finally get them they will mark in my chart that they have called me even though they haven’t and I’ll have to call them (that’s how most of my test results get relayed, at least). So I’m excited to play What’s the Worst Thing It Could Be for the next few days or however long that process takes this time. Right now, the winner is ‘dead baby still inside me somewhere’, followed closely by ‘live baby with horrible chromosomal abnormalities’, and in 3rd place, ‘cysts or tumors or something that means I will never be able to get pregnant ever again’. Yes, I am a professional worrier.

**Post Script**
As I was finishing writing, my doctor’s office called. Not surprisingly, the ultrasound did not show anything. So the good news is, my body took care of everything very tidily and I don’t have to freak out about a D&C or any weird suspect foreign items floating around in there. The bad news is, I am obviously still ravaged by hormones so won’t be able to do another attempt until everything settles the hell down. Myself included. You hear that, self?!

False Hope

Well, once again I’ve learned a little lesson. I’ve learned another new term; ‘decidual bleeding’.

For those of you out there who have never been pregnant, take it from me – pregnant women are lunatics. Over the past 10 years I have teased countless friends and enemies alike who were once rational, logical, smart people, until they had a puppy on the grill. I don’t know if there is any research to support my theory, but I firmly believe that there is a process whereby brain cells are transmitted to the fetus, resulting in a nice smart baby but a slow dim-witted mom-to-be.

How cruel is it to be on the other side, looking out?

My irrationality and hormonal mood swings hit an all-time low this weekend. There isn’t really any one incident I can pin down or use as an example because, well, I’m not smart enough to do so any more. But I have been, plain and simply, crazy. I cry if Quiet wants to watch a show I don’t want to watch yet, when asked, I can’t decide on anything except ‘Bridezillas’, truly the most loathsome show on television. I had watermelon and lemon meringue pie for dinner, despite the fact my fridge is brimming with delicious leftovers like pesto pasta salad and potstickers and Italian subs; it all sounds disgusting to me, even though those were the only things I could possibly eat only days earlier. Right now the thought of lemon pie gives me heartburn and makes me want to hurl, and what I would really like for dinner is miniature marshmallows or anything purple. What I ended up eating was plain angel hair pasta with a tablespoon of peanut butter in it. It doesn’t help that it’s 104 degrees out. I feel especially bad for Quiet, who has resorted to eating nasty little power bars at lunch to try to cut down on the calories I’m stuffing into him with my constant bake-and-don’t-eat-anything-but-force-you-to-eat routine.

So I finally broke down and went to see my doctor. As you all know, the only thing I hate more than going to the doctor or having to call and make an appointment and then go out in the heat and drive in a hot car to get to the doctor is getting a needle at the doctor’s, which is what I had to do. I had to have the stupid blood test because I’ve been going positively crazy; the nausea hasn’t gone away, the occasional odd cramp has continued, I will soon have to go to some PTA (Pregnancy Testing Anonymous) support group, and I’m definitely not ovulating. Either I incorrectly self-diagnosed the miscarriage (damn the internets!), or these are the miserable after-affects that I am still experiencing. Either way, I need to know before I start throwing random objects out my window just to hear the satisfying tinkle of glass before bursting into tears because I can’t find my blue t-shirt. I’m like a cry-baby special needs 6-year old. I hate being this way.

My doctor told me I shouldn't jump to conclusions (or miscarriages, as the case may be), which only made me mad at myself for not seeing her sooner and for already going through all the phases of grieving, but mostly for then laying in bed that night and playing, 'What if?', as in, what if everything is really, despite everything, still ok?

Seeing the Silver (uterine?) Lining

It’s a ho-hum kind of day outside today, which is terrific because I love pathetic fallacy. There have been some murmurs of thunder but no rain yet, and it’s nice and dark and I’m working from my chaise like the lazy sorry-for-myself pitiful emotional invalid I am. But I’m super comfortable. I wish someone would bring me lunch, since I seem to be getting back my appetite a bit and I would love some cry-baby soup.

I’ve read a LOT in the past few days about when to start trying again. There’s one camp that says the next few months are very fertile and baby-friendly and there’s free drinks and hors d’oeuvres and a really good band, and there’s another that says you should wait because otherwise there’s an increased chance for another miscarriage and your ex will be there with his new hot thin fiancé and you’ll owe the IRS for back taxes. I don’t want to wait (we all know how good I am with patience), especially after this little taste of success, and if it’s true that fertility is actually increased the next few months, well, I need all the advantages I can get, right? But I don’t want to go through the Oh! O-oh. Ohhh. Ew. again. But if it’s something wrong with me, like PCOS or consumption or faulty wiring, then I want to know sooner rather than later.

I got a sad little present yesterday. My mom, who is awesome and supportive and just generally a good person, sent me some onesies. She had warned me that the baby bomb was coming, so I was able to brace myself, but it was still a good reminder why you should never start buying that kind of stuff prematurely (ha ha). I remember my sister mentioning that this is really hard to keep yourself from doing – you see a great deal on something you KNOW you’re going to need, but the potential fallout never outweighs the savings. No one wants to be Miss Havisham with that useless wedding dress.

I’ve pretty much made up my mind to do the Eighth Attempt next week, assuming that everything is functioning again as it should and the machine goes ping. I’m still glad that I chose to do this now and not in, say, five years, because I think I would have just that much more stress about my time. I think I'll just let my body decide what it wants to do and I'll just do my best to keep it happy however I can and deal with whatever comes. Just please, please don’t make me be nine months pregnant in August in North Carolina. There isn’t that much air conditioning on the planet.

My Chemical Romance

I have learned so much in the past week, it’s really been terrific. I have learned that finding out you are pregnant, especially the very first time, is utterly terrifying no matter what the circumstances. I learned that my mother had a miscarriage shortly after having one of my sisters, which I did not previously know. And I learned that the technical term for an early trimester miscarriage is a ‘chemical pregnancy’, and that this is pretty common (involving up to 30-40% of all pregnancies), and that it’s really, really bad when it happens to you.

The actual physical pain isn’t very cool, especially for me who has never had a big issue with monster monthly cramps the way this is kicking me down. The emotional pain is harder, because it’s confusing and filled with guilt and doubt and loss and fear. There are lots of very positive things I can come up with (the next few months should be even more fertile! I know I can get pregnant now! My due date will be later, which means my mom will be able to come stay with me sooner!), but the bottom line here, and there’s just no way around it no matter what I tell myself, is that this was my first baby, and now it’s gone.

I really think I’m lucky that I wasn’t further along; as if women go through this in their fourth month, or sixth, or ninth? How am I suppose to not think of that every single day the next time I’m lucky enough to be in a family way again? I had barely accepted the fact that I was pregnant, that there was a little life starting to form. I hadn’t talked to it, or nicknamed it, it was very much still an ‘it’. I’m not sure when you cross that line and ‘it’ becomes ‘the baby’, but now I’m really afraid of developing that attachment.

I’m also really, really worried about it happening again; the conception more so than another loss. Seven months turned out to be no time at all in the perspective of things, but no matter what I read or the advice I get I still feel like I’ve slid back the snake’s tail to square one. I do feel that I’m more practiced, but now I also feel more pressure. What if that was my one shot? And how much doubt am I going to have THIS time when I get that positive result? How many weeks will have to go by before I will let myself celebrate, can let my guard down a teensy bit? Yes, I’m going to jump right back on that horse. From everything I’ve read (and believe me, it’s a lot), the three months following a miscarriage are the most fertile and my best chance, soI sure as heck don't want to waste an opportunity.

Baby-Who-Was-Not-Alistair, I’m sorry you couldn’t stick around. I guess that there was probably something wrong and it was for the best, so I can’t argue with that. I think I’m over the guilt that it was the flight or the heat or the Frova or something else I did, but I promise to try and do better next time. I never got to know you, and it sounds terrible, but I’m really glad I didn’t, because I can’t think how I would be able to deal with this if you were truly a person to me. You were a good practice for Alistair, and I am grateful for that. It’s going to make me appreciate Baby-Who-Was-Meant-To-Be even more.

The Girl Who Cried Pregnant

Each person that I tell makes it more real to me. This is what I tell myself, and is the only explanation I have for why I keep telling random people my news, despite the fact I have NOT waited the obligatory 3 months. That, and, well, I just can’t keep a secret. And my youngest sister totally outed me on Facebook. Seriously, I almost told a woman in the airport.

I have, however, worked very hard to keep my secret today, since I am at a meeting with a zillion gossipy coworkers and I don’t really want the news to get to my brand-new boss. I’m not ready for that conversation. I do think that it is sinking in a little more, that I’m letting myself start to finally believe. Until I find myself in the bathroom stall, holding my breath until I assure myself that for now, at least, it’s still true.

I spent a lot of the flight to Chicago alternating between Lifetime Television for Women-style revelations (‘My friend Quiet gave me a baby, omg! Hm, I better get him something really good this Christmas’), ‘duh’ moments (‘My sister’s husband is Alistair’s UNCLE! That is so damn cool!’) and, well, more fear and general denial. Then we landed. It was bumpy (it is the windy city, after all), and although I had been clutching my latest love, a PSP, I instinctively let go and put a hand on my lower abdomen. Of course, I instantly felt like an idiot and realized it was far more likely for the $200 piece of gaming equipment to fall on the floor than the embryo or whatever the heck it is at this stage, so I went back to holding the other baby. But still – maybe we’ll be ok.

This evening it seemed like there might be some spotting which freaked me out – more of the ‘Uh huh, I knew it was too good to be true, now everyone is going to make fun of me but in a pitying way’ type rather than the ‘Uh oh, what’s wrong’ kind of thing. Since I still do not believe it’s real. So I obsessively read everything I could online, which interestingly has convinced me that the blood-in-the-pipette-tube traumatic experience last month was a result of ovulation bleeding (pinpointing conception exactly to the minute the evening of July 15th), but failed, however, to convince me that what I’m experiencing is anything other than my insane body getting ready to menstruate. Because really, as if I could be pregnant? Sheesh, I’m not even married.

An Inconceivable Truth

Over the past couple years that I’ve been considering single motherhood I’ve had plenty of fantasies about the moment I first learn I’m truly, officially, unquestionably pregnant. I’ve imagined the excitement, the champagne cork popping, the happy phone calls and creative ways I’ll tell people.

Never, ever, in all the rainbow-and-unicorn daydreams did I picture myself sobbing and wanting to barf. I didn’t foresee totally not believing the EPT test – walking back and forth, in and out of the room for 45 minutes picking up and putting down the treacherous stick with the little ‘+’ sign, faint but unmistakable. I wasn’t prepared for the wracking sobs in the doctor’s office, where I unattractively stammered and snotted and quivered, while the nurse shook her head at me and admonished, ‘Well, you got a positive read on the home test, what did you think?’

What did I think? I thought it was wrong, of course! I thought that it was a mistake, that it was another cruel joke of nature, that if I let myself believe it then I would be devastated later on when I learned that it just wasn’t true. Seven months of trying were NOTHING! Mere seconds of my life. I need more practice time, I was just getting good at it. I need more time to think about how I’m really going to do this – what am I going to do about childcare, and how am I going to answer those tough questions when Alistair is older, and how the heck am I suppose to not think about this every single time I do everything now? I got in my car outside the doctor’s office, put on my seat belt, and thought, ‘Oh my god, if I had a car accident now it could kill the baby’. I had to spend the afternoon working from Starbucks, and I couldn’t have a delicious Caramel Macchiato. I chose the sandals with more support instead of the cuter ones because, well, better for the back.

I can’t live like this for nine months. And then, after nine months, it just gets WORSE! Then the little helpless person that you’ve done your best to nurture and shelter within you is out in the cruel, cold world, and there are all kinds of horrible things and horrible people that it can be exposed to. I can’t protect him from germs, and bullies, and abduction, and credit card debt, and heartbreak (those aren’t in any particular order of badness, although I think people really do underestimate how awful credit card debt collectors can be).

I am now held to a higher standard. Society will care about what I put into my mouth, how much exercise I get, what plans I am making. Then I will be judged by feeding decisions, diapering techniques, sleep habits, discipline, nursery colors. Because I am single, I will be scrutinized more carefully; the absence of a ring signifies an absence in a child’s life, and makes me less of a parent even though I have to be more.

In all the time I’ve pictured the process, the experience, thought about holding a child and everything I had to give, never once did I reconsider. I worried about finances, and legalities, and a million other potential things, both big and small. But I never prepared myself for paralyzing, head-splitting, nauseating fear. I didn’t think about how foreign the words ‘I’m pregnant’ would sound coming from my mouth, how ashamed I would be of myself for being hesitant to utter them out loud, because I’m not deserving or prepared or capable or knowledgeable.

Where’s the glowing? Where’s the maternal pride, the sense of accomplishment at a job finally successfully completed?

Fear. Stark, naked, irrational, and all-encompassing. That’s what motherhood means to me today.