A Wonderful End to the Old Year

It is supposed to start raining any minute. Which is wonderful news because it means my pyromaniac neighbors will have to stop shooting fireworks soon. Right?

Happy New Year. Wishing you all the best.

The Year in Review

I'm imitating Suz at WithintheWoods and recapping the year by reposting the first line of the first post of each month. Never mind that I took a break in June. . .

Peace, prosperity and happiness to you.

I know you read this.

Life goes on.

Today we had the big ultrasound.

I haven’t been writing too much lately, and we have my students to thank for it.

A quick recap of the last several weeks:

Ouch. I know you probably feel cramped in there, but I think you may have cracked one of my ribs tonight.

My less-than-one-percent-chance-of-conception baby has arrived.

I promised a birth story, so here goes.

Ah. The publisher will be here Friday.

Every once in a while, a news story will grip me and I will become preoccupied with it.


That was rather enjoyable! I suppose it is time to make some resolutions.

38

That's my age in a few hours. Yesterday, my twenty something beer-truck-driving brother told me he can't believe I am almost over-the-hill. I told him that I can't believe he is still draftable and that given the way this Iraq thing is going . . . Then he gave me a countdown calendar for the days Bush remains in office and all was forgiven.

I usually recap the year in anticipation of my birthday. I like to take stock, you know? I checked out my post from last year and was pleasantly surprised to see that most of my wishes for this year came true. It has been a most excellent year.

Let's review shall we?

That this pregnancy is healthy. YES!
That Baby E thrives despite the problems we have had with childcare. YES!
That Baby E gets a spot at a good center by May. IT HAPPENED IN JUNE!
That I summon the strength and discipline to finish the text. NO. SEE MY LIST FOR THIS YEAR.
That I succeed in getting family leave and sabbatical next year. YES! THE PROVOST JUST REALIZED WHAT I GOT AWAY WITH!
That I be a good mother to my daughter and a good wife to my husband. I HOPE SO
That there are fewer natural disasters to fret over. YES
That I remember others have it much worse. I TRIED
That I keep writing in this space for therapy. YES
That fewer hairs show up on my chin. SIGH
That Karl Rove is indicted and Cheney is forced to resign. NOT QUITE, BUT CHENEY'S SHOOTING A HUNTER WAS PRETTY GREAT!
That Dems take over in midterm elections. YES! OMG! YES!
That there is peace. SIGH

I'm typing with one-hand and holding/nursing the baby with the other so I'll keep this year's wishes modest.

That I find the will to finish the text.
That the publisher is nicer.
That my daughters are healthy.
That daycare is more traumatic for me than for Baby M.
That E figures out the potty training thing.
That J and I have time to reconnect.
That I can breastfeed M until she is one or until I feel good about stopping.
That I lose the baby weight.
Peace on Earth.
That I become better organized.
That I keep writing in this space for therapy.
That fewer hairs show up on my chin.
That I give more to worthwhile causes and charities.


Merry Christmas. Wishing you a joyous holiday.

Not Feeling the Christmas Magic

I have a head cold, my baby has an ear infection, and the two-year-old doesn't give a damn that Santa is gravely concerned that she is resisting bedtime. This will have to be short.

Still, in anticipation of spending the 23rd with my family, I feel the need to share a short Christmas story. One that pretty well captures the Christmases of my youth and may explain why I dread our holiday visit. My family, you see, is BSC.*

The year was 1988. I was returning home for the holidays after my exams. After a long drive north from Tallahassee, I stumbled into the front door of the family home at dusk. I smelled cookies baking. The tree in the big bay window looked and smelled lovely, and there was a fire in the fireplace. It seemed so normal. Could it be? Had aliens replaced my family with normal people? It was so . . . Norman Rockwell.

It wasn't to be. The calm lasted less than 30 seconds. My dog, a poodle**, heard me enter and ran in my direction. Did you know that poodles are prone to cataracts that make objects-- even large ones like nine-foot brightly lit Christmas trees--invisible? The poodle missed me by a wide margin but found the tree. She went into the tree, up the tree, through the tree. The poodle, all eight pounds of her, toppled the tree. It made an enormous crash. Then the house went silent.

Now, remember, I had been gone for four months. I was expecting my parents to make a fuss over me. Welcome me home. Ask me what special dish I would like for dinner. Instead I got this:

"What the f&*^! Get back here, dog! Get back here! My tree! My motherf@$# tree! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!"

My mother appeared in the door, butcher knife in hand, screaming. She was drenched in sweat, either from cooking or the side effects of menopause or possibly a combination of these. She did not acknowledge me, the child she had last seen in August. Instead, she lunged at the dog who, sensing danger, shot between us and ran to the back of the house, skittering along the wood floors all the way. My mother gave chase and around they went. Through the living room, the dining room, the kitchen, the family room and back again. She pursued the dog even as my eight-year-old brother begged her to spare the dog's life.

"But she can't see," he sobbed, "Please don't kill her. Please don't kill her. I love her. Waaah." That my brother even thought it was plausible that our mother might kill the dog should convince you that I am not exaggerating when I say that my family is BSC.

Nothing stands out from the rest of that visit. The dog's life was spared. The tree was mended. I was a debutante.***

Going home is hard for me. While I enjoy seeing my brothers, I never know what I'll walk into when I go through that door. I do know this. I hide the butcher knife when I go home. Just in case.





*bat shit crazy
**my parents are small, yappy dog people
***a story for another day

Then and Now

Then . . .




and Now. . .

One year ago today

I can't believe a year has passed since that second, faint pink shadow of a line showed up on the pregnancy stick.

Heavy Heart

Every once in a while, a news story will grip me and I will become preoccupied with it. It will play over and over in my mind, and I will surf the Internet looking for updates or clues. It will keep me up and night and it will be one of the first things I think of when I wake.

That happened this week.

The Kim family of San Francisco went missing after a Thanksgiving holiday visit to friends in Portland. James and Kati and their two daughters, ages 4 and 7 months, became lost and then trapped in the unforgiving Oregon back country. The lost persons story aired late last week and I followed anxiously as authorities tried to locate them.

On Monday, nine days after becoming stranded, Kati and the daughters were discovered in good condition. I was elated that they were alive and more elated still when I learned that Kati had nourished both children by nursing them (hey! I could do that!). What a hero!

My joy over their rescue was tempered by the fact that James was still missing. He had left two days earlier on foot to seek help. Search teams immediately started tracking him, but today, two days later, his body was discovered. I don't know the cause of death, but it seems clear that exposure played a role.

I've already seen criticisms of James' actions posted around the web, (Why drive back roads? Why leave a roadway when lost? Why go out without provisions?) but I am here to praise him.

For sticking it out as long as he did. For keeping the children safe. For being resourceful. For having the courage to try to increase the odds of being found. For sacrificing all for his family.

I'm an optimist deep down and I was hopeful for a miracle right up until the press conference when his death was confirmed. I am terribly sad for the Kim family tonight and hope that they find peace and strength and courage to go on.

Worst Parents in the World

Last night, E wouldn't settle down for bed time. We had been to a birthday party and thought she was just revved from all that sugar. So we practiced tough love. First we made sure her diaper was dry and that the room temperature was comfortable. Then we ignored her while she screamed and pounded on the door. This went on for some time. We congratulated ourselves for setting boundaries and for not caving to a two-year-old's whims. She woke several hours later and was hard to soothe. Tough love again. More screaming. Once again, we traded self-congratulatory comments across the pillow.

This morning, J noticed that E's hair was matted and that her ear was oozing a bit. She has tubes, and some drainage is normal with a cold, so we weren't alarmed.

Then, during her afternoon nap, both ears exploded. Pus. Blood. Ooze. She has a double ear infection. This is quite a feat considering the tubes. It must have been hurting badly last night, but we were so focused on the sugar she consumed that other possibilities didn't occur to us. So she suffered longer than necessary.

Tonight, she is more comfortable. The antibiotic drops are doing their thing, and the ibuprofen is helping with the pain. She went to bed without complaint.

This parenting thing is tricky business. I think we get a lot right, but when we goof, we really goof. This time, we erred by assuming that she would be able to alert us to something serious. Last night when we asked her what was wrong, she asked for her books, she requested water, and she cried to be let out of her room. She never said a word about her ear. We should have known that her communication skills aren't yet sufficient to express what is wrong. She can sing the "happy birthday cake" song, but she can't say that her ear hurts like a bitch. She screams and we try to interpret. Last night, we got it wrong. Very wrong.

I wonder what therapy she is going to need later in life. Because of us.

Control

I have stress dreams that are good barometers for how my life is going.

In the first, I am behind the wheel of a car in the parking lot of Target. It isn't my car. It is big, old and non-responsive . The brakes barely work and the steering is off. If you have ever been the driver of a bumper car at your county fair, you may be familiar with the sensation of driving this beast. In my dream, I am desperate to avoid shopping carts, cars, and pedestrians. Somehow, I do manage, but barely.

In the second stress dream, I look out across the horizon and see tornadoes coming my way. Whichever way I run, they follow. I thank the jackasses who made the movie, Twister, for this dream. I think tornadoes might be cool if they were predictable and filed a flight path first. As a side note., my fear of tornadoes is not without merit. I have seen two, up close and personal, in the last four years. The first time I saw one, we were out shopping for a car. I pointed out the tornado to my husband and the sales staff. As I started formulating a survival plan--the freezer room in a nearby minimart seemed to be the best bet--the men, my husband included, ran outside gawking at it. I don't know if they were brave, or (more likely) if the Y chromosome kicked in and overrode their sensible, cautious side, but they weren't thinking about seeking cover. Luckily it went the other way. The second tornado appeared on a jut of land just across the harbor. I stopped the car and called 911 to report it. I thought the man in front of me was doing the same, but it turns out he was taking pictures with his cell phone.

In the final stress dream, I am a passenger in a plane that is going down. Matthew Fox is not on board. My fear of flying can probably be traced to the death of a childhood friend's father* Then in 1994, I had a horrible flight out of Colorado Springs which involved turbulence and a short dive in which people screamed and luggage flew out of the overhead bins.

My stress dreams have returned. It doesn't take a psychologist to realize that the common theme in each of these dreams is control or lack of it, to be more precise. Lately, I've been in reaction mode at home and at work.

At home, Baby M has had a cold and has regressed on the whole sleep through the night thing. She wants to be held most of the day and she hasn't been eating well. This has left me stupid from sleep deprivation and in pain from a nasty case of plugged milk ducts.

E is doing better, but she is two, which means she is opinionated and of limitless energy. She has taken to walking around with her pants and diapers around her ankles declaring that she needs to go potty. This is now a ritual activity complete with reading materials (thanks, J), toilet flushing and hand washing. It was cute at first. Unfortunately, she doesn't quite have the awareness in advance that she needs to go and only tells me after the fact. This does not curb her enthusiasm so we are spending a good bit of time in the bathroom which is, of course, making me a bit insane. I'm considering installing a wine bar in there to help me relax.

On the work front, I have the text hanging over my head. And a publisher who is truly not nice. I also have the department's assessment report to write, but to do that I'll need to analyze the data in all my free time**and to work with a colleague who, while well-intentioned, is a bit much. Do I really need to know that she and her husband made love*** last night? Do I need to hear about the patriarchy that stand in the way of her making full professor?

Finally, I'm fat. Well, not so much that my ass is going to be featured on the news tonight as an example of American gluttony, but fat for me. The baby weight is being stubborn. My father-in-law said something to me about it today over Thanksgiving dinner as I was eating seconds.****

All this is to say that my stress dreams have returned and I am feeling a bit out of control. This must end: I need more control or at least the illusion of more control. Now. I've started a small experiment. Starting two days ago, I am doing my best impression of someone who has things under control. If at the end of a week, I don't feel slightly better, I'll try something different.

I'm keeping the house neater. Specifically, I'm not going to bed with anything out in the kitchen, I'm insisting that messes should be cleaned as they are made (pretty amusing with a two-year-old in the house), I'm planning meals head of time*****. I'm selecting outfits the night before they are to be worn. I'm checking bank balances. I'm thinking about the text.

What am I missing? How do you hold things together?

*I recently realized that the crash was the same one that claimed the life of Steven Colbert's father and brothers).
**I have loads of it, if we count the hours I senselessly devote to rest.
***Her words, not mine. This sounds so cheesy to me. So 1970s. So herpes era.
****Was this comment necessary? I think not.
*****This week is easy. Leftovers. I plan for the family to eat the leftovers right down to the turkey bone marrow.

Three Months: A Short Thanksgiving Story

Last Thanksgiving, I was seriously depressed. Mood and FSH levels are inversely related after all. Despite the dire fertility diagnosis, I was not willing to accept the RE's word that my ovaries were cooked. I was mid cycle and armed with an ovulation prediction kit, Preseed, and the conviction that I would have another baby even if it meant second mortgaging the house and cycling across the country at a high FSH friendly clinic. I was a woman on a mission.

Thanksgiving morning I took food to bleary-eyed friends who had a three-day-old baby. Later, my in-laws spent the day with us which meant I had to sneak off to the bathroom to pee on a stick and then obsess. The lines almost matched which meant I was close to ovulating. Hope! Now if the in-laws would leave already.* After hours of discussing whatever my in-laws discuss** they finally left, we did that which needed to be done, and somewhere over the course of that long weekend we did what seemed impossible: we conceived naturally.

M is three months old today. And I am so grateful.

Happy Thanksgiving.


*Family holidays stress me out, and I was feeling raw and intruded upon. With a possible LH surge, my normal impatience for their departure was somewhat intensified.

**Good God, these people can talk. For hours. About nothing.

Awake

When my first daughter was a month old or so I remember reading a post on my new mommies board from a woman who was clearly delusional. She explained how she treasured the nighttime wakings and feedings and would miss them when they were gone. The words treasure, gaze, and bond appeared. It was a Hallmark post, dripping of saccharine.

I remembered that just now as I got up with Baby M. It is 4:30 a.m. and she is nursing. I adore my little one. I do. But for the record, when these night wakings are over, I will not miss them. What I treasure right now are eight unbroken hours of sleep.

Reunion

J's 20th college reunion is this weekend. Here. He didn't care to attend any events, and I am extremely thankful for this. You see, I work at the college he attended, and I'm not at all enthusiastic about turning over $80 per person to my employer to drink cheap wine and eat crappy cheese and crackers when my most recent cost-of-living adjustment was so small I needed to borrow a microscope from the biology department just to see it. Plus, this is pure conjecture, but I'm fairly certain that the only people who attend reunions are people who are there for bragging rights. You know, people with big houses, nice cars, kids who don't get dirty or snotty, and law or medical degrees. Republicans.

Let's just say we fit in none of the above categories. Our house is small and cluttered. We have about 1500 square feet downstairs and a finished room above the garage that would be a good bet for Mission Organization makeover. We have a 1996 hatchback with body damage and are considering splurging on a Honda Fit if two car seats will fit in back and if we can swing a payment on top of childcare. My kids get dirty. Very dirty. Snotty too. We are humble public servants making crappy wages. I'm a democratic sociologist, but people in this part of the country don't get it so I usually just say that I'm a democrat and cope as they look on me with fascination and pity.

So I was feeling good about getting out of reunion duty and not having to mix with people I don't know and can't relate to. But my relief was short-lived because college friends of J's called. They are in town for the reunion! Why didn't we go?! It would be so great to see us! It's been too long! They have to see the BA-BEE!

How to describe them? She is a stay-at-home mom* whose Christmas letters always start with "we are blessed" and then go on for five pages to document their Tahoe vacation, big new house, perfect children, and perfect lives. She got a masters degree in education, spent half a year teaching and hasn't worked outside the home since that time, not even before they had kids.

He is a lawyer. Not just any lawyer, but the one on the back of the phone book in his city.** My brother happens to represent insurance companies and has been on opposite sides of the aisle from this guy more than once. My brother says this guy is a shyster. Now please understand that my brother is himself a bit of a shyster who once sent a certified letter to a new neighbor because their dog kennel was three inches over the property line. So when he calls another attorney a shyster, I have to take his word for it.

I'm pretty sure this couple is Republican. They just have that vibe. I guess I'll know soon enough because J invited them over here tomorrow morning. He told me this at 8 p.m. tonight and we had a fight at 8:05. I threw the F bomb, he called me names. I finally gave up because it won't change the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Blessed (turn your injured neck into a check!) will be here in the morning.

Let me set the scene for you. The house is cluttered and none too clean. There is stuff everywhere. Baby equipment that replicates when we aren't watching. Puzzles. Crayons. Books, magazines, newspapers.***I haven't vacuumed this weekend because E is terrified of the vacuum and she hasn't been anywhere without me. Though I just mopped on Wednesday, the kitchen floor needs to be mopped again because J made pumpkin seed brittle**** and there are sticky spots everywhere. We don't have baseboards. We renovated this house two years ago, E was born and most work stopped. It really bothers me that we don't have baseboards. It almost bothers me as much as the clutter. There is nothing I can do about that by tomorrow morning.

Now that I have calmed down, I have a plan for getting the house looking as nice as it can considering all. I told J he must take the kids out of the house for at least an hour in the morning as I don't have time to coddle a toddler who thinks the vacuum cleaner is a monster. My plan is simple. First, I am going to pick up everything that doesn't have a home and throw it in a Rubbermaid bin that will then be deposited in a dark corner of a closet and probably forgotten until we move again.***** J will be totally pissed when he realized I done this, but he'll deal. Once surfaces are cleared, I'll dust and vacuum. Then I'll mop. Then I'll wipe down the front bathroom. Then I'll make the beds. Easy, right?

*Nothing wrong with this. She just has a bit of that Stepford Wife thing going, you know?
**This is true. A mutual friend confirmed it.
***No, I'm not a hoarder, but I do have the last two days worth of papers out because I might get to read them and because I need to find the TV and Real Estate sections.
****You don't want to know.
*****You think I'm joking, don't you?


An Update: I sent J and the girls into the cold morning air so I could clean the house. Then this couple was two hours late. She talked nonstop the entire visit about her children. J went to lunch with them and reports that the monologue went on for the entire meal. On the plus side, they send their kids to public school so they can't be all bad.

Fear and loathing

Ah. The publisher will be here Friday. For four days. Four long days. She isn't pleased that I'll have M with me, but unless J grows boobs and starts lactating, M is coming along. I could pump, but there are a few problems with this. First, it takes me two pumping sessions to make enough for one bottle. I don't understand this, but that is just how it is working out. Second, the baby doesn't take bottles well. She arches her back and wails as if we have abandoned her. She is getting better about this, but it is hit and miss. Finally, I can't leave J with two girls for that long. Well, I could, but it wouldn't be pretty. He looks strung out when I get back from yoga and that is only 90 minutes; I can't imagine how strung out he would be after a few days. It isn't that he is incompetent. Not at all. It has more to do with M's reluctance to take a bottle and E's tantrums. I told the publisher that I would need to bring the baby and she was OK with it six weeks ago. I'm holding her to it. She was forewarned.

The text is not going well. If I had it all to do again, I would never have signed up for this. It will go down as my biggest professional mistake. Still, I'm not a quitter. Really, I am not. It's just that it seems bigger than me. So much bigger. My social science is a broad field. While I am more than competent at teaching the introductory courses, it has occurred to me that my area of expertise is fairly narrow. This means that to write with authority on certain topics, that I have to dive back in the literature and really educate myself. This takes time and energy. Both are in short supply.

Then there is the feedback from the editor and publisher. The publisher thinks I am too spare in writing. She may be correct. I have a journalism background and I'm stingy with words. I was trained to get as much information into as little space as possible. Old habits are hard to break. It is depressing for me to get her feedback. The editor is less critical, but he doesn't have a background in my field so we don't always speak the same language.

When I think about it, my biggest problem may be psychological resistance to this project. The publisher has been very cruel at times and domineering at others. I fear her. I loathe her. She has told me that "we own your time" "you belong to us" "we could have gotten a bigger name for this" and the list goes on. I am not the most assertive person, but I am unusually passive around her. It feels bad and lends a bad vibe to the project.

Between now and Friday I need to finish a chapter. I don't think it will happen, but I'll give it a try. I think that if M will give me more than three hours of sleep at a time, that I may get more done. Send little M some sleep vibes. A clear head would do me good.

My sitter is back

Ah bliss. One of our three sitters from last year has returned. Her fiance, a professional athlete, was not picked up by the major league so he is back here playing for a farm team. I know they are disappointed, but I am so happy to have her back. She came over three afternoons this week and watched M while I worked upstairs. When it was time for me to feed M, she knocked on the door and I took a nursing break. It was so easy! If I could afford to do this long-term I wouldn't put M in daycare in January.

Advice

You'll thank me for this: When you decide it is time to get your hair chopped off, make sure the stylist has a lot of experience cutting short hair.

One year of blogging

Was it really a year ago today that I learned my FSH was 24.7? That Nurse Joy didn't want to give me the news? That I stood behind the little coffee shop sobbing and hoping passersby wouldn't notice? That I had to cancel my evening class because my eyes were red and puffy and I wasn't sure I could keep my composure?

A lot has changed and a lot has stayed the same. The RE was wrong. My eggs were good. The book is not nearly done. I'm a mom again.

Mama's lost her groove

Baby M (wasn't that the name of a custody battle baby?) is eight weeks old and is a model citizen. While she isn't sleeping quite through the night, she goes down around 10:30 p.m. and doesn't wake again until 4:30-5:00 a.m. After a slow start to breastfeeding, we have the hang of it. She mostly eats every three hours or so until the evening when she eats a bit more frequently. She doesn't fuss much and she smiles a lot. Baby M has found her groove.

So what is wrong with Mama?

• She is 10 pounds heaver than she was this time last year and that last ten pounds aren't budging. This is probably due to her very healthy appetite and lack of exercise. The ten pounds make Mama feel fat and very unattractive. Her favorite jeans don't fit. Hell, none of her jeans fit and she was reduced to a trip to K-Mart for three pairs of fat pants less she freeze her ass off. Actually, freezing her ass off sounds like a plan.
• She is trying to work around the baby on a project she hates. While M is basically on her own little schedule, she needs lots of attention as newborns tend to do. Mama is supposedly back at work full time with the baby. That means schlepping the baby to campus at least one day per week and trying to work from home the other days. The problem with this is that the blocks of working time (when not needing to tend to the baby) are small and by the time Mama is finally immersed in the detestable text, it is time to save all files and feed, burp, bathe, walk, or cuddle with the little one. Mama much prefers this to writing anyway.
• She does not like the publisher of the text who is pure evil. It had to be said. Seriously, this is not a nice woman and the entire thing-- nine more chapters--must be completed by April 30. Or else. She is making a trip this way in three weeks. Is praying for a November hurricane a bad thing?
• She is devoting considerable energy to Big Sister E who is "highly spirited" which is a nice way of saying she has taken the "terrible" in terrible two to heart. She is a lovely girl when she is happy, but she can turn on a dime.
  
• She trips over toys and baby gear daily. Despite attempts to keep the living space in order, it feels chaotic and cluttered. Between puzzle pieces, baby swings, and books and magazines (oh yes! a household of readers), things have a tendency to pile up.
• She feels anxious. All the time. And unsettled. Is this the first hint of postpartum depression? Perhaps this is just to be expected.

Clearly, something needs to happen to make Mama feel more in control. A few ideas:

• While it means stranding J with the girls for 90 minutes, I insist on going to yoga or Pilates twice a week. I've done this three times and felt better for a little while after. No matter that I am the worst student in the class.
• I need to start running again. I have a bad neck so this is a little scary, but the times I've felt most in control were the times I was running regularly. M is still a little small for running (in the running stroller) so I'll have to work out something with J.
• I have to come to terms with the text. I completed a dissertation somehow. This shouldn't be as difficult because it isn't original research.
• I need some changes. I'm starting with my hair; I'm getting it lopped off. Seriously, it just adds to the frump. It is time for something short and perky.

Baby M is waking. If you see my groove please send it my way. I need it.

A Belated Birth Story

I promised a birth story so here goes. It was a ridiculously easy birth compared to E's delivery two years ago. Here is what made the delivery different: My epidural worked, no magnesium sulfate was involved, no vacuum was needed, there were no third degree tears from hell, and I was not in labor for 36 hours. It was the birth experience I had hoped for.

After being told I could go anytime starting at 37 weeks, I was still very pregnant (and totally pissed about it) at 39 weeks. Because my blood pressure started to rise, I was scheduled for an induction on M's due date. We were at the hospital by 6:30a.m. By 8:30, my OB broke my water and by 9:00 I was having contractions with the help of Pitocin. The contractions weren't that bad, but I asked for an epidural around 10:00. I was only 3 cm by 11:00 so J and I thought we were in for a very long labor (I was in labor with E from 5 a.m. when my contractions started until she was born at 5:30 the next day).

We settled in for a long wait and decided to watch a DVD on my computer. Unfortunately, I wasn't terribly discerning in my program selection. I selected Season One of Weeds*, not realizing that there would be fairly graphic sex scene on the episode we selected (think Sex in the City). My computer is relatively new, so I was frantically trying to stop the DVD before the doctor or nurse walked in and discovered us watching porn. Oh well. Live and learn. We turned the computer off.

Around 1:00 I had breakthrough pain so my epidural (lovely epidural!) was amped up. I felt pressure around 1:45 and when the doctor checked me at 2 p.m. I was complete, complete and +3. It was time to push. I really only had to push through about four contractions and I delivered my lovely, curly haired baby at 2:30. I had a second degree tear, but it healed well and didn't cause me much aggravation.

It was a wonderful experience and I would do it again. In fact, I would love to do it again. What is wrong with me?

*Which I really like despite the shocking scene.

Dear Dr. Negative and Nurse Joy

My less-than-one-percent-chance-of-conception baby has arrived. She is perfect. Lovely. Brilliant. Adored.Here. At last. *

May I suggest that in the future, rather than scare the shit out of patients who present with less than stellar hormonal profiles, that you instead show a little compassion and a little willingness to work with them? At the very least, refer them to a center that is less concerned about the center's statistics. Don't push donor eggs until you are certain that all avenues have been exhausted. [Trust me, you didn't exhaust any avenues.] Finally, believe it is possible for the sake of your patients. I think I managed to get pregnant largely because Dr. F believed I could do it. I have six and a half pounds of proof sitting next to me.


*I promise a real update and short birth story when I have a little more time and a lot more energy. As it happens, I developed a case of late onset preeclampsia four days after M was born and had to be rehospitalized. I'm feeling better, but still battling high blood pressure and the extra fatigue that brings. Then there is the small matter of M thinking party time is from 10 p.m. to 4 a.m.

Never made it to the hospital

About an hour after posting last night, the contractions abruptly slowed and became less intense. By midnight, they had quit altogether. The upside is that I got a decent night's sleep. The downside is that my mom is here now. Watching me. For signs of labor. I may go crazy.