Category Archive

I have been making empty promises about this post since last Wednesday. Sadly, it’s already Wednesday again, almost two weeks after I originally started it, and I still may not finish it. It’s chaotic at work. Have I mentioned that? At this moment I can hear the sounds of four different classes, my own not included. Two of the classes are playing music; one is reading a novel out loud; another is attempting to do student presentations. My class is playing Scrabble; they are making the least noise. If you know me at all, you will know the irony and the significance of the following statement: I would rather be in the mall on Christmas Eve than sitting here.

But that’s not the point of this post.

This is:

Thirty-two weeks ago I was sitting at my desk in a near comatose state waiting for my planning period to start so I could go home and lie on my bed in a near comatose state and wait for my ultrasound appointment. I was bleeding, and I was convinced it was happening again–that the alien looking thing inside me was making its exit and I would once again be back to square one with nothing but angst and grief to show for all my attempts at pregnancy.

I tend to be one of those people who is always right. Not the annoying kind who claims to be right but isn’t. I am, in fact, actually right. Except sometimes, when I’m not.* And then I’m usually only a little off. But this time, 32 weeks ago, I was as wrong as I’ve ever been in my life. I have never been happier to be so.

I went to my ultrasound appointment braced for the news. As it turns out, I was braced for the wrong news. When I heard the words, “There’s a healthy baby in there with a heartbeat,” and, “You seem to have a small subchorionic hematoma, which will bleed a little and then most likely be reabsorbed by your body,” I came completely unglued. I have been a nervous wreck ever since.

I mentioned in an earlier post, which I can’t seem to find right now, that I fully expected every doctor’s appointment to reveal the big hoax–that mistakes had been made, reports misread, and there really wasn’t a baby in there after all. The revelation never came. I developed a case of perpetual queasiness. My clothes got too small. My boobs grew. Every ultrasound showed a living being in my uterus, a little bigger and a little more mobile every time. I know it must sound ridiculous, but I continued to doubt my good fortune. The more attached I grew to the idea of actually carrying and birthing a child, the more panicked I became about the myriad of things that might go wrong. When the pings and pokes began, when I could actually feel the kid flitting around in there, I became obsessive about detecting movement and convinced myself that if I didn’t feel it all the time, something horrible had happened to the baby. I kept most of this to myself, but I was a basket case most of the time.

I would love to tell you I’ve become one of those serene pregnant women who sits around gazing lovingly at her swollen abdomen with a haze of light emanating from her pores, absentmindedly humming lullabies and attempting to communicate with the unborn. But I can’t. I’m not there yet. I am still worried about things–head size, measurements, fetal movements, fluid level (mine is on the “low end of normal”), inhaling toxic odors, that cat scratch on my thigh. It’s insane, really, but there you have it. My friend Cheryl told me recently that she loved being pregnant for the first time because she was so clueless and had no idea what was going on. This line of thinking perplexes me; being clueless only adds to my paranoia. And adds and adds.

There are those who would say to me, “Oh, stop it. You have what you want. Why are you complaining?” There are those who said it to my friend Bri recently. What I want to ask those people is this: Do you KNOW what it feels like? How many babies have you lost? Do you KNOW how much the girls in this little circle have SPENT on pregnancy attempts, invasive medical procedures, drugs, sperm, therapy? Yeah, of course we’re going to worry. Does that mean we’re not happy? That we’re ungrateful? That we’re not going to enjoy pregnancy? No, not at all, but we take nothing for granted. Nothing.

There are times during every day when Chickie is twitching around, hiccupping, jabbing my side with tiny little heels and crushing my bladder with that larger-than-average head, when I am overcome with gratitude. When I go home every afternoon I head straight for the nursery, where I sit for a while in silence taking it all in, letting the day fall away, feeling my baby toss and roll under the palm of my hand. I can’t wait to meet this kid, hear its cry, hold its tiny little hands and feet, stroke its arms and hair and back. But I’m not naive enough to think that all my worries will be over once I’ve given birth. I’m told that at that moment, the worrying has only just begun.

I would be lying if I told you I’m not elated beyond words about the possibility of having this kid in the next week. I’d also be lying if I told you I’m not worried that something could still go wrong, or that I will be totally clueless once pregnancy ends and motherhood begins. But it’s the kind of worry I’m willing to accept. It’s the kind of worry I wish for every single woman who wants more than anything to have a child, and for those of you who have already been blessed with a kid or two. And for those of you who don’t worry–mind sharing your drug of choice with the rest of us?

*Okay. I hope you know I’m exaggerating. I’m NOT always right. I am frequently wrong. Frequently. I was kidding. Kidding!

I have not
gone into labor
and probably won’t
until January

and my baby
will weigh 15 pounds
and have
a giant head

Forgive my silence
work is insane
so hectic
and so maddening

*I started a post last Thursday, which I plan to finish today. Meanwhile, it would make me very happy if someone correctly identified this post’s extended allusion.

As I was assured by many of you, my baby does not have an enormous head. My doctor shared the radiologist’s report with me yesterday, and everything is within completely normal range. The head measures about a week and a half ahead of the rest of the body, which the doctor said was nothing to worry about.

Thanks for all the encouraging comments.

For those of you playing along at home, I have 15 days of school remaining. If only I had the energy to do the dance of joy.

I went in for my weekly appointment today, and since my doctor is out of town for the holiday I saw another doctor in the practice. She told me my doctor had noted at my last visit that he wanted to “watch my height” because I was measuring “a little small.” Today’s measurement was apparently on the small side also, so she sent me to the hospital for an ultrasound. Naturally I freaked the hell out.

As it turns out, Chickie weighs between 5.5 and 6 lbs. Not on the small side if you ask me, but what do I know? Also, according to the U/S tech, Chickie’s head is “larger than average.” Given my preexisting fear that the kid will never in a million years fit through my hoo-ha, that it’s simply not possible, this is not good news for me. Now, not only am I worried about the actual birth, but I’m also concerned about the size of the kid’s head as it relates to potential health issues. Anybody ever hear this news at an ultrasound? Anybody want to assure me I’m not about birth Chicken Little or one of the Coneheads? Anybody with some sense and experience want to advise me on what awful (or not) condition might cause my child to have a larger than average noggin?

Please discuss.

My seventeenth charted cycle started on March 22, 2006. I was back in the game with a new donor after a four-month break, 6 failed IUIs, a miscarriage, an HSG, 2 donors, and almost of year of recording fertility data. I was starting to think it was never going to happen.

According to That Fertility Site, I ovulated on Day 12 (April 2), a Sunday, but the OPK didn’t give me a positive until Sunday afternoon. My temp rose only 2 tenths of a degree on Monday, but it rose nonetheless. I was disheartened, but I manually overrode the charting software based on the OPK and called the doctor. They scheduled me for 3:00 Monday afternoon. I had a student teacher at the time, so I took a half day and went home early to wait for the appointment. I needed the downtime. I was convinced it wasn’t going to work, that I’d missed the window.

My doctor was delivering a baby, so I was scheduled with the nurse practitioner. She had done my last IUI in November, and I liked her a great deal–she explained every single move she made, right down to opening the catheter, inserting the speculum, depressing the plunger. She did not hurt me, and when she was finished she made sure my cervix was not bleeding from the tenaculum. She told me my swimmers were abundant and full of energy. She was kind, and she made me laugh, and I left feeling calm and peaceful. But I was still convinced it wasn’t going to work.

I spent the rest of the week in a daze, staring at my chart, staring at everyone else’s charts, trying to find some small shred of hope and finding none. Nothing was different, nothing was out of the ordinary. I was financially prepared to do two more months, but I was already looking ahead to when those attempts didn’t work either, and I would be back where I started, but with considerably less money. Spring break started that Friday, and I actually managed to do other things–read, watch movies, eat [lots of junk], take Suzanna for long walks around the neighborhood [in my pajamas]. I was fighting a battle with myself–feeling myself falling into that sadness of a failed cycle, but trying to convince myself to focus on something, anything, positive. Positive.

On Easter Sunday I was planning to drive to my mom’s and spend the afternoon with my family. I have to confess that I didn’t want to. I wanted to stay in bed and feel sad, watch “Beaches” and “Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood” and “You’ve Got Mail” for the billionth time and lament about a seventh failed cycle. I had tested the day before (negative) and the day before that (negative), and on Sunday, 13 days past ovulation, I almost didn’t bother testing again. I showered, dressed, and with time left over I thought “what the hell” and peed on a pregnancy test. And then I almost forgot about it. I got my things together and was on my way to the car when I remembered it. I walked into the bathroom and nonchalantly picked it up, fully expecting to glance at it and then throw it away. But it was positive. Positive.

Positive! So I opened a different brand–a plus/minus type. Plus! Positive. So I drove to W@lgreens and bought a digital test. Pregnant! Positive. I could. Not. Believe it. I tried to be excited, but I was terrified. I had a positive once before. It did not last. But I gathered up the digital test and put it in an Easter basket for my mom–finally, an Easter basket worthy of The Easter Basket Queen–and headed out the door.

By the time I got to my mom’s a mere 45 minutes away, the “pregnant” reading on the digital test had vanished. I tried to body slam the voice that whispered “bad omen” in my ear. My family was excited by the news, but also cautious, I think. We didn’t talk about it much. In fact, I hardly talked about it all all, ever. I was too busy holding my breath.

I’m still holding my breath.

It’s been boring here lately. Even I am bored with my blogging, or not blogging, whatever you want to call it. It would be easy for me to tell you that I’ve been quiet because I’ve been busy with work (which is true) and graduate school (also true), but I wouldn’t be telling you the whole truth, and the whole truth is something I’ve been struggling with lately.

Four months ago I announced my pregnancy on this blog. That announcement followed a long period of silence and short, silly nothing posts, and not much of significance has followed since. Or perhaps more accurately, not much mention of the pregnancy has followed. I know that some women resent the sudden cease in blogging when a fellow infertile or TTCer finally gets pregnant. I don’t remember the blog where I read it, but I remember reading that just disappearing after you get those two pink lines is inconsiderate, a snub to your comrades who supported you through all the RE appointments, negative HPTs, painful IUIs, hormone tests, HSGs, HCG blood draws, and crack-of-dawn temp checks. On one hand I agree. But I also know that some women, the ones who are still trying, don’t want to hear about every pregnant woman’s expanding waistline, cravings, morning sickness, first fetal movements, baby showers, nursery preparations, doctor visits, and name deliberations. I’ve been racking my brain to figure out the middle ground.

Right after my miscarriage last July, I discovered that some of my favorite people were pregnant. I was immensely happy for them–and immensely sad for me. I would go days without reading their blog, and then I would spend an hour catching up, and at the end of that hour I was still both happy and sad, but life went on, and by the time the Cutest Baby in the DC Area was born, I was newly pregnant and scared shitless and happy beyond belief. I wanted to tell everyone–and no one. I was afraid that putting it out into the Universe might jinx me somehow. I still have this creeping fear, even now at this moment as I type these words with my child’s foot planted firmly in my ribcage. But lately that fear, that something-could-still-go-wrong voice that nags me daily, is not why I haven’t mentioned the pregnancy much.

When I was in high school I got lots of positive attention from my instructors because I was a good writer. Writing has always come easily to me, much like playing sports comes easily to some people and music comes easily to others. My friends always wanted to talk about why I got As on my papers and they got Bs and B-minuses and Cs. I avoided these talks, which made me feel bad, guilty, like being good at writing was wrong of me and I should stop it and be more like everyone else. Never mind that I got Cs in math and later almost failed college calculus AND college biology. Hell, we can’t all be good at everything. But for some reason my being a good writer irritated my peers. I made it a permanent practice never to discuss papers with my classmates–I was afraid of alienation, and making friends was hard enough for me already, so I kept my grades to myself, pretended they didn’t exist.

And now I find myself doing it again, except now I can’t exactly slip the evidence of my success discreetly into my bag and slide out of the classroom. I’m pregnant. Eventually, if I’m lucky, there’s going to be a baby. I’m going to have to talk about the kid because it’s going to take up all of my time, my energy, my attention. I’ve been deliberately talking about other things, or talking about nothing at all, not because I’m so wrapped up in my own good fortune, but because I don’t want my good fortune to pain others.

Let me stop now and say this: no one has made me feel this way. I feel this way all by myself without assistance or influence from others. It’s just who I am. I worry about these things. I internalize everything. Many things are my fault (or so I say). If someone I know and care about is acting strangely, I wonder what I’ve done. If I don’t hear from people, I start wondering if they’re avoiding me. So. I’ve been practicing a form of self-censorship, the act of deliberately omitting subject matter in order to avoid conflict or distress from other parties. (Sad, isn’t it, how work and school creep into everything?)

And all of that is a preface to this: my period of self-censorship is over. I have allowed myself to be silent about something really big and important, something I want to remember always, and I have only myself to blame. This is not going to become a pregnancy blog, but from now on I will blog about my pregnancy. I plan to go back to the beginning. I want to have a record of these months in some form other than the scribbles on my weekly planner. I realize that some of you who have been gone might come back, and some of you who have been around might drift away, and some of you will be firmly where you’ve been all along, right here reading whatever inspired or incredibly dull drivel I post. In the end, though, I’m doing this for me, so that I might remain here; this is, after all, a corner I created for myself, and I need it to be an honest place where I can say whatever I need to say–or not. Many of you have let it be that kind of place all along–for me, and for the countless others on this road–and to you I am eternally grateful. I’m glad to finally be catching up to your bold wisdom, your integrity, your beautiful, funny, graceful, souls (and also yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours and yours). And also Lorem’s. Thanks for the support, chicas.

Why is it that when bending over is a near impossiblity, so many things I need keep falling on the ground?

Dear K.E. Court Cul-de-Sac Neighbors:

If you happened to look out your front windows last night around 10:45 in time to see a pregnant woman wearing nothing but a too-small tie-dyed t-shirt, excessively large underwear, and a pair of black leather Mary Janes hissing obscenities at her dog, please accept my deepest apologies. I had not intended to leave the house, only to let the dog out one last time before bed, but she bolted into the street to sniff God knows what, and then she disappeared from view. I love her, but quite frankly she is too stupid to get out of the way if a car is coming, so I felt the need to retrieve her quickly. It did not occur to me until I was already in the driveway that I was not wearing pants. You see, when I am at home in the evenings I no longer wear pants because they are extremely uncomfortable, and I have not bothered to purchase maternity pajamas (hence the too-small t-shirt). This look has become quite natural for me within the confines of my home, but I’m sure it’s not something you are used to seeing–if, indeed, you saw. And if you did, again, I apologize. I’ll try not to let it happen again.

Yours truly,

Your neighbor in the yellow house

I can’t even remember if I’ve mentioned that I’m taking two graduate courses this semester. It was all part of The Plan That Wasn’t To Be: I was going to be working in a school media center, which was going to limit my constant contact with kids, which was going to limit my exhaustion; I was going to be filled with second trimester energy; I was going to get these two time-consuming classes out of the way while I was pregnant, rather than try to take one in the spring once Chickie is here. The reality of the situation is this: I’m still in the classroom, teenagers are life-sucking organisms, and by the time I get home I want to eat and go to bed by 7; on Sundays when I should be working on class stuff, I am lying around in a big t-shirt and my underwear watching Magnum repeats and taped Ellen episodes; and now I’ve discovered that one of the required courses for my degree is being offered in the spring and won’t be offered again for two years, so I’ll be taking a class once the Chickie arrives after all. I should really be on campus at the library, but they require pants there. So I’m pretending to be productive; after all, if you saw someone sitting around with a laptop typing madly you’d assume she was doing something important…right?

~~~

Tomorrow is September 11, as if any of you needed reminding. That’s why this post over at Life is Sweet, Baby struck such a chord. I’m not sure I’ll even watch TV tomorrow, and God, I shudder at the papers, the images that will once again be plastered all over the internet, the comments from drama-seeking colleagues and kids who are parroting their parents. Don’t get me wrong–my head isn’t in the sand–but is there someone out there who doesn’t remember? Is there someone who actually needs to see a real-time re-broadcast of news footage from 9/11 in order to be reminded of the horror? Is it just Lorem and me, or is someone trying to perpetuate a nation’s fears by “honoring” 9/11?

~~~

I’d like to publicly harass my sister over at Torching Time, Talking Rhymes. She hasn’t posted since May 5. When I gave her a hard time a few months ago I was brutally reminded of my own lapsed blogging, but I’ve gotten better. Megan, just so we know, Summertiiime is almost over; Autumn begins in about two weeks. And we’ve all fully celebrated El Cinco de Mayo. Also, you are no longer at home with the slow computer, and certainly you have stories to tell from your first two weeks back on campus.

~~~

Speaking of sisters, my middle sister is on her way to California where she will live and attend art school for the next two years. It’s still a little surreal for me, but every time she calls from another westward location it grows a little more concrete. I’m really proud of her–it takes a lot of cajones to pick up and move 2000 miles from home in pursuit of a dream. I think she should start her own blog. Hint hint. Hint.

~~~

I know there hasn’t been much talk of pregnancy on this blog, but I thought I should at least let you know that things are moving along on the right track, with lots of emphasis on the “moving.” My abdomen seems to have a life of its own now; objects placed on or close to its surface will be challenged from within. I’ve reached the conclusion that I’m either carrying the Incredible Hulk or a descendent of Michael Flatley, Lord of the Dance. Below, submitted for your approval, is a photo taken of me yesterday at 24 weeks, 2 days. Don’t worry, I’m wearing pants.

Note: when I uploaded this picture to Flickr and then looked at it I was horrified to see what appeared to be stretch marks all over my stomach. I have no stretch marks. Sure, my navel looks like the tied end of an inflated balloon, but ZERO stretch marks. I can only assume that the wavy quality of this picture is a result of its having been snapped with a camera phone.

My hairdresser called me “Chunky” today, as in, “Hey Chunky, what’s up?” I stabbed him with his own scissors and hid him under the picnic blanket I keep in the hatch of my Matrix.

There is a “Gilmore Girls” promo that’s been running endlessly on the Warner Brothers station that shows Lorelei and Rory hugging. Rory says, “I love you, Mom,” and Lorelei says, “Kid, you have no idea.” I dissolve into tears every time I see it; I had to bite my tongue while I typed that last sentence. Want to hear the worst part? I don’t even watch “Gilmore Girls.” I had to Google the show in order to find out the characters’ names. It’s just that the “maternal moment” in that 10 second clip reduces me to a glob of mushy mommy goo, and even though I see the commercial coming and I know that clip is approaching, I can’t stop myself. Seriously, shouldn’t I be beyond these hormonal meltdowns by now?

First of all, my most sincere apologies for alluding to that horrible song** again in the title of my last post. I don’t know why, but every time I am remotely reminded of it, it lodges itself in my brain where it stays until something else moves into its place. It’s as if I no longer have control of my thoughts–yet another brain malfunction I’m blaming on pregnancy. Add it to the rapidly growing list that includes, but is not limited to, forgetting what I was about to say, forgetting what I was saying in the middle of saying it, and putting pantry things in the fridge and fridge things in the pantry. Today I actually went a step further and attempted to put towels in the pantry, and this was just seconds after I put washcloths and hand towels in their correct spot in the linen closet. Apparently, the larger things on my body become, the more rapidly my brain shrinks.

Which brings me to a topic I don’t discuss much: my boobs. Why discuss something that, for the most part, does not exist? I have mentioned here before that my sisters and I basically halved my mother’s boob gene: Megan got half, and Charity and I got the other half to split. When I was younger I thought this was grossly unfair and longed for a real bra size; but eventually I found that I was happy with things the way they were. I’ve always been somewhere between an “A” and a “Nearly B,” which has allowed me to get away with wearing insignificant bras, or none at all. But thanks to pregnancy, those days are over.

Now I’m not sure what size I wear, but things have definitely changed. When I was 9, 10, 11 weeks pregnant I wasn’t paying any attention to my boobs. I was looking at my belly, which had always been very flat and was suddenly developing a round shape. And then one evening I went out to dinner with my aunt and uncle, and my Aunt K. announced loudly in the middle of the restaurant parking lot, “You have boobs now!” That was in mid-June. In early July I went swimming with some friends, and when I arrived at the pool my pal Lisa, who actually calls me HD in real life, exclaimed, “HD! Look at your boobs!” The following week I went to the beach with my mom. I was standing in front of her putting on sunscreen and noticed her staring at my chest. I gave her a questioning look, and she said, “Do you think your boobs are bigger, especially at the top?” And the week after that my friend MJ from work brought me lunch while my carpet was being installed, and her first words upon seeing me were, “You’re showing now, and you have boobs!”

There is an episode of “Designing Women,” one of my all time favorite shows, in which the Annie Potts character decides to get a boob job. Her doctor gives her several “test” boobs to try on so she can decide which size will best fit her tiny frame and board-flat chest, and she is astounded to discover the attention she receives when she wears them out in public. At one point she says rather emphatically, “THESE THINGS ARE POWER!” She eventually decides not to have the surgery because all the fuss is too much and she doesn’t like the energy she’s expending to manage her potential new size. I have to agree with her. I had no idea that what essentially amounts to FAT warrants so much attention. I don’t remember getting these kinds of comments when my feet grew rapidly from a size 7 to a size 9, or when my butt expanded from a size 4 to a size 6. Seriously, what’s the big deal about boobs?

*Blogger’s spellchecker doesn’t recognize the word “boobs,” but it does suggest “boobies” as an alternative. And also, “bob’s,” “babes,” “bibs,” and “beefs.”

**If you don’t know what song I’m referring to, good for you. You’re better off not knowing. You’ll sleep more soundly if you just pretend you never read that sentence and move on with your life.

Those of you ahead of me in the motherhood journey will no doubt assure me that sleeping discomfort at almost 17 weeks is nothing compared to the discomfort I will encounter at 37, or even 27 weeks. Fine, whatever, I believe you. But–and I’m NOT complaining, just making an observation–the hours between 11 p.m. and 8 a.m. are not my best time of day. Oh, who am I kidding? More like the hours between 11 and 4, because there’s not much sleep taking place once that magic hour arrives. Why, you ask? Beats me. It’s not like I’m battling a giant belly, just a small bump, and the multiple trips to the bathroom were commonplace before. I just can’t get comfortable, and when I do sleep, I wake up suddenly between 4 and 5. I never slept on my back before, but now I can imagine no more comfortable position than that, and we all know that’s a no-no. I always slept on my side before, but mainly my right side, and I read recently that even that is a health risk for the baby. My doctor told me I could sleep on my stomach if I used lots of pillows, but that’s never been comfortable to me, and it has to be said that my ever-growing bazooms make it even less comfy now. More on that later. That leaves the left side. In yoga practice we are told that lying on the left side puts unnecessary pressure on the heart. In pregnancy we are told that lying on the back and right side does the same. If I lie on my stomach I have dreams of squashing my unborn child. Seriously, what’s left? Headstand?

And speaking of dreams, while pregnancy makes a large number of your brain cells inoperable during waking hours*, it certainly fills your head with interesting things during those few precious hours of fretful sleep. For example, I had a dream about the baby a few weeks ago. I think it was a boy, but I never got to find out, because it very quickly turned into a kitten. And last night my dreams were filled with cereal. Breakfast cereal. In my closet. Specifically, Cap’n Crunch Red Berries, Lucky Charms, Cocoa Krispies and Rice Krispies. I found them all there, stuffed down into one huge box, and began eating them dry by the handful. Perhaps I was hungry during the night? Note to self: eat a snack before bed.

I know I promised you tales of carpet installation and the crazy adventure my mom and I had at the beach, but in just a little while I’m heading back to the beach for what will certainly be another crazy adventure, this time with my mom AND my sisters. In the meantime, I’m taking a notebook so I won’t forget all the things I want to write about when I return. Here’s a preview:

• boobs
• my teenager theory
• my mom’s man theory
• my job situation

Wishing you all beach thoughts and endless pitchers of margaritas (hey, somebody should enjoy the wonder that is tequila!).

*Gayle asked me last week after a particularly inane statement had escaped my lips, “Is the baby pressing on your brain?”

I’m not really sure where to begin this LONG overdue post. I thought by the time I finally got up the nerve to write what I’m about to write, I’d be happy and relaxed and comfortable with “going public.” But I’m not. I’m shaking. My heart is beating fast. I feel like I should go get my fertility necklace and my prayer bead bracelets and my Venus of Willendorf and clutch them to me. This is not how I imagined sharing this news with the people who read this blog. But here it is. I’m pregnant. I have been for 12 weeks now. You’re probably wondering why I’ve held out on you, so I’ll get right to it.

1. Sheer terror. If you have suffered loss of any kind you most likely understand this phenomenon. You are looking at the positive pregnancy tests and expecting the very worst. You are afraid to call your doctor. You cannot eat on the day of the first beta, or any of them for that matter. And God forbid there be blood. Blood at 7 weeks was the end for me. I called my doctor’s office that morning and then walked around in a stupor all day until my 2:00 appointment, where they showed me a bean-sized baby with a giant beating heart–and a subchorionic hemorrhage. I cried so much I don’t even remember much of what should have been the magical first ultrasound. I have only just recently stopped looking for blood–and that is an exaggeration. I only suffered one miscarriage–a very early one, at that–and still, sometimes I think this is all a dream, that it’s too good to be true, that the next time I go to the doctor the ultrasound tech is going to look at me and say, “Oh, well, it looks like we made a mistake. There’s no baby in there after all.” So yeah. Every time I thought, “okay, today I’m telling my fellow bloggers,” some heinous fear kept me from it. Today, though, I decided to kick fear’s ass. I don’t want to spend the next six months battling this kind of worry, at least not without support from my friends in the computer.

2. And then there was worry of a different kind. I’ve been struggling with it for weeks, but yesterday Bri said it. That pretty much sums it up. Basically, I’ve been waiting for Bri and Calliope to get knocked up. I know there are lots more of us in the fertility trenches, but when I joined Fertility Friend a year ago, they too had just joined, had just started the fertility journey. I could relate to so much of what they were going through. In my mind I had this little fantasy that we’d all get pregnant at the same time and share symptoms and stories, and eventually we’d compare notes about our kids. Realistically this is not impossible. I remember how it felt to find out that my best friend was pregnant on the very day I started my period after my sixth failed IUI. I had decided that day to take yet another break; she told me she was pregnant that night. She had that same little picture in her head–that we’d both be pregnant at the same time. As it turns out, we are. I think Bri and Cali and I will all be pregnant at the same time, too. But selfishly I don’t want them to “secretly hate me” for being pregnant first, or to stop reading my blog. I can only hope that doesn’t happen, but that’s not my biggest hope. My biggest hope is that they’ll both be announcing their pregnancies soon, too, because that’s what’s meant to be, I am positively certain of it.

I want to make it clear that I didn’t practically stop blogging the past several weeks because of all this pregnancy stuff. I was telling the truth about the madness that is the end of a school year. I think I have school “washed off of me” now, and the world is starting to look interesting again. I’m starting to relax a little. I’m having ideas and original thoughts for the first time since spring break. I think I can safely say I’m back into a groove that involves taking pictures and writing and blogging. I hope you’ll all still be around.