New Post, Part 2 - I was robbed...

Now I posted that story yesterday to talk about being robbed. Oh, no, not of anything monetary, but about a theft of time. This passage from yesterday's post speaks to me:

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

God this is a telling paragraph, especially for someone who experienced infertility. I long for those ten years back that it took to conceive my son. He would be 13 years old now! I keep thinking that if I had been 10 years younger when I had him that I might be here to see his children graduate from high school. But I'm not. I will be lucky to see his children graduate elementary school.

I know. I know. If we had had him at another time it wouldn't be him that we have. And I wouldn't trade This Precious Child for anything. I love him so hard it hurts when I think of it. I cried when I read Amalah's post about loving her child. And this picture simply screams mother love.

But it doesn't stop me from wishing...

I want to see what kind of man he will become. I want to see him fall in love and marry. I hope to see the husband and father that he will be.

It makes me wish that I believed in an afterlife so that even if I can't be here for him that I can at least watch him grow up. I need to see him grow up. I need those years back.

Infertility stole time from my son.

And that makes me mad.

And sad.

New Post, part 1

I have always loved the following story. I will comment about a portion of it tomorrow. I have been thinking about it for a while.

We are sitting at lunch one day when my daughter casually mentions that she and her husband are thinking of "starting a family."

"We're taking a survey," she says half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"

"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral.

"I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous vacations."

But that is not what I meant at all. I look at my daughter, trying to decide what to tell her.

I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes.

I want to tell her that the physical wounds of childbearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will forever be vulnerable.

I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without asking, "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash and every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die.

I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub. That an urgent call of "Mom!" will cause her to drop a souffle or her best crystal without a moment's hesitation.

I feel that I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for childcare, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting and she will think of her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her baby is all right.

I want my daughter to know that every-day decisions will no longer be routine. That a five year old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at McDonald's will become a major dilemma. That right there, in the midst of clattering trays and screaming children, issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in that restroom.

However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.

Looking at my attractive daughter, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the pounds of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself.

That her life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. That she would give herself up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years, not to accomplish her own dreams, but to watch her child accomplish theirs.

I want her to know that a cesarean scar or shiny stretch marks will become badges of honor.

My daughter's relationship with her husband will change, and not in the way she thinks. I wish she could understand how much more you can love a man who is careful to powder the baby or who never hesitates to play with his child. I think she should know that she will fall in love with him again for reasons she would now find very unromantic.

I wish my daughter could sense the bond she will feel with women throughout history who have tried to stop war, prejudice and drunk driving. I want to describe to my daughter the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to ride a bike.

I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog or cat for the first time.

I want her to taste the joy that is so real it actually hurts.

My daughter's quizzical look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes.

"You'll never regret it," I finally say. Then I reached across the table, squeezed my daughter's hand and offered a silent prayer for her, and for me, and for all the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this most wonderful of callings.

Father's Day

This is what we did on Father's Day.

Evan had lots of fun.




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Job Tales

I don't know if this is the worst job I ever had but it comes with a couple of the best stories. It was the second job I ever held, right after high school. I worked at a Winchell's Donut House on Queen Anne hill in Seattle. I was working the 10PM - 6AM shift and going to school at the University of Washington at the same time (this graveyard shift is what led to my falling asleep almost every day in my 10:30 AM physics class...but that is another story).

Working graveyard shift in a place that is open to the public brings in some very interesting people. There was the guy who wore more makeup than I did. He looked a bit like William Shakespeare only with bleach-blonde hair and a fine fine manicure. Whenever he came in (he was a regular), I always called him 'Bill' to myself. He would sit down at a table with a donut and a cup of coffee and talk to himself.

Then there were the two guys that came in together a lot. One looked a lot like Charles Manson and the other looked like Captain Pike (from the original Star Trek...after his horrible accident).

We also had our share of 'Seattle's finest' - yes, police do eat donuts...especially if it is one of the only places open so late at night. Sometimes they just drove up into the parking lot. We were usually glad to see them...especially after we got robbed...twice.

The first time they robbed our shop, my best friend at the time was there alone. They made her crawl on her hands and knees to the back of the shop as they made their getaway.

The second time I was there also alone although I got off much easier than my friend. A woman (yes, a woman) came in and asked for all the money in the drawer. I didn't see a gun or anything and I hesitated for about a half a second thinking maybe I should ask her if she had a gun or a knife. I didn't though. I was afraid it might piss her off and there wasn't much money anyway. I gave her the bills in the till and then asked her if she wanted the change too. She said 'No' and then left.

I didn't think to offer her a donut.

Hurricanes and other tragedies

Alberto. On the way in. Not too worried. Probably just get a mess of rain. Enough to hose down the driveway and bring the mosquitoes out in droves.

Sounds like fun.

Oh. And what the f@#% is wrong with my knee? I did aerobics on Friday (being all good and all…trying to get in better shape for the possible try for #2) and since then my knee has been hurting like hell. My feet started to ache about 15 or 20 minutes after I started (well, I guess I shouldn’t have been wearing shoes that I bought during a Reagan administration) and afterwards my knee started aching. Now I am limping around. And it isn’t even the knee that I screwed up skiing!! It is the other one. Crap. Got a doctor’s appointment at 4PM. They’ll probably just say to buy new shoes.

Mankind was not meant to walk upright.

Poopy update

So. I'll bet my legions of readers* are wondering, 'How goes the potty training?' Well, since so many of you have asked** I will tell you.

We are there!! And by 'there' I mean that E is potty trained. He uses the potty (I get a lot of hits when I use words*** like 'potty' and 'poopy' - so poopy poopy poopy - hah there ...just upped my hit count) almost all of the time. He still has occasional accidents - mostly if he falls asleep without a pull-up on - and he still wears a pull-up at night but other than that - success!

Finally.

I was afraid I was going to have to send him off to college with a case of Depends.

* Huh? Legions??
** Shut up!!
*** just wait until I start using other words like 'vagina' hehe
**** Hey...what's with all of the asterisks? Key stuck?

More hallway etiquette...

Okay, getting back to the hallway etiquette. Just today I was leaving my office space area and two of my colleagues were standing in front of the doorway having a conversation and brazenly blocking access to the door. They were standing 'personal distance' apart (you know, the distance you stand to someone where it is comfortable to both and no one is silently screaming 'why are you standing so close!!!') which put one about a foot from one wall and the other about a foot from the cubicle wall. I approached them, stood for about a second unintentionally eavesdropping on their conversation and then simply shoved my person between them mumbling 'excuse me.'

So was that the correct move? I thought that was better than trying to squeeze my fat ass between one of them and the wall which would almost certainly push them too close together (see 'personal distance' above).

...And the drama continues...

We have decided to pay for another year of storage for our embies. I am talking to my RE tomorrow.

More later.

"Two important things are to have a genuine interest in people and to be kind to them. Kindness, I've discovered, is everything in life."

-- Isaac Bashevis Singer (1904-1991)

Feeling Peevish

I was reading a blog the other day (okay, it was today) and the writer asked about 'pet peeves.' We all have them. I have many; perhaps more than most. Someone listed hallway etiquette as one of their pet peeves.

This got me thinking (hey! I get paid to think...not to think about inanities, but thinking is exercising my gray matter which will make me think better when I do finally start thinking about work, so there!).

So what is the correct hallway etiquette? When you approach someone. Do you smile? Do you nod? Do you say 'hello'. Do you stare down at the hallway as if the wisdom of the ages were somehow imprinted in the tiles of this Hallway to the Toilet.

What if it is someone you know? What if it isn't? Do you look at your feet? Do you look at their feet? What if you don't acknowlege them? Worse, what if you do and they don't? You will be humilliated.

What if you encounter a crowd that is blocking the hallway. Do you try to squeeze between someone and the wall? Do you brazenly stride through the middle, muttering 'excuse me' under your breath? Do you cowardly turn around and try to find another way to your destination?

And what about doorways? This is a whole new area. Do you open the door? How far away does someone have to be before you let the door slam in their face? What if someone is holding the door for you? Do you sprint so they don't have to hold it too long? Or slow down, a devilish grin splitting your face, making them wait longer?

Sad things

There are some sad things that are happening in the internet that I know. Some people whose blogs I read and some who I have just discovered.

If you are religious, say a prayer for Elizabeth and her family. And for cancerbaby and her family. They need all the strength that this little corner of the internet can give them.

Potty Training Trials

Yes, people, it is not going well. After six months we are still in those blasted pull-ups. I was hoping by now that my diaper-changing duties would have come to an end. I don't know what to do. The boy can't have any ice cream until he is 26 and will only be able to visit the park when he has children of his own. Obviously withholding privileges doesn't work with E.

I've tried dangling his cherished Spiderman underwear in front of him ('you can't wear these until you can go a day without going pee-pee in your diaper, E!'). I've tried asking him every 5 minutes, "E, do you have to go pee-pee?" Invariably in the last scenario he will have gone again 4 minutes and 59 seconds after I ask him.

He is pretty good at going poopy and will always come to me and say, "Mommy, I have to go poopy." But he only does that with me. Not with B and not at school. Now this works okay with me. I haven't changed a poopy diaper in months, but I think B is starting to get jumpy. One interesting thing about his pooping habits, though, is he always has to get completely undressed before he can go poopy. Don't ask me why you need to remove your shirt when you poop but E does.

But getting back to going pee-pee...I asked my SIL how it went with her kids. She said that she didn't have any trouble, but then her kids were always naked. Really, I have no problem with this and think that a couple of naked days and a couple of days in just underwear will work with E, but B flips out anytime E's wingding is exposed for more than a few minutes.

"Ahhhhh!! Get a diaper on that thing before it goes off!!" Now E isn't a baby and he knows what to do. I think he is just lazy and stubborn (obviously traits inherited from his mother father) so I think the above reaction is a bit overdramatic but I am starting to get tired of this.

What should we do???

On a lighter note, I am including a newsclipping that was sent to me by my SIL. I really think this woman's baby has worse things to worry about than jackhammers.

...And now for something completely different...

A joke...since I can't think of anything else to blog about...

While suturing a cut on the hand of an old Texas rancher, whose hand was caught in a gate while working cattle, the doctor struck up a conversation with the old man. Eventually the topic got around to former Texas Gov. George W. Bush and his elevation to the White House.

The old Texan said, “Well, ya know, Bush is a ‘post turtle’.” Not being familiar with the term, the doctor asked him what a ‘post turtle’ was. The old rancher said, “When you’re driving down a country road and you come across a fence post with a turtle balanced on top, that’s a post turtle.”

The old man saw a puzzled look on the doctor’s face, so he continued to explain. “You know he didn’t get there by himself, you know he doesn’t belong there, he doesn’t know what to do while he’s up there, and you just want to help the dumb shit get down.”

Great

Well, gee, Cecily asked me how I was doing and I need to add a post to my blog so I thought I would answer her here.

Well, first of all, she didn't just ask me, of course, but everyone who reads her blog...which is the entire universe. Well, maybe not quite, but her readership so far surpasses mine that we are not even on the same planet (except of course we are...).

Anyway, I guess I am okay. Except (you knew there would be an 'except', didn't you?) that I think that E is getting a cold which will mean, of course, that I will get a cold. Great.

Also just got chewed out by my boss for taking a little extra at lunch (had to go pick up E at his pre-school - which closed at noon today - and drive him to his babysitter - damn Easter). Of course it doesn't help that since B is somewhere in middle America driving our crap down from Seattle I have not been the THIRD PERSON IN EVERY MORNING this week like I usually am nor have I been THE LAST PERSON TO LEAVE like I am about half of the time. After all, we are REQUIRED to put in nine (9) hours each day (even though we only get PAID for eight (8) which bites). Great.

It also doesn't help that I am nervous as hell as I am coming up on my 3 month anniversary with this company at which time they decide whether to keep or toss which only helps to UP MY STRESS LEVEL. Great.

So all in all, I guess I am GREAT.

Thanks for asking.

Letters in the Mail

I received a letter in the mail this week that stirred up some really conflicted feelings.

I have always wanted 2 children. When I was young I would picture myself with my two little ones (a girl and a boy, naturally) and I would be content.

Then I grew up. And met a man that I thought I would be with for the rest of my life. After 8 years (eight years!! Tick tick), we were making marriage plans when he decided that he “loved me but wasn’t ‘in love’ with me.” How trite is that? God I hate that expression!!!!

Then a few years went by and I met another man that I felt would be ‘the one.’ Seven years later we got married (tick tick). Then he wanted to wait for children (tick tick). Three years later, we are at the RE (tick tick) and I spent the next 6 years trying to have a baby (tick tick). It is now 3 years later (tick tick) and I received in the mail the renewal for storage for the embryos that were created with our son. We have 10 on ice.

I had a very easy pregnancy. I was not sick a single day. I did not have gestational diabetes, or pre-eclampsia (despite my doctor’s fears), or hemorrhoids or any of the thousands of problems that can come up when pregnant. I had some swelling in my ankles, some numbness in my fingertips and in the last month some heartburn.

That is it.

Oh, there were plenty of worries, mostly having to do with the fact that neither my husband nor I were working at the time. We had a $1200/month mortgage, a $600/month medical insurance payment and I was getting $400/week in unemployment. Figure it out. It was pretty dicy there for awhile. In between twice a week non-stress tests (because of my pre-existing high blood pressure) I was flying around the country on interview trips.

But I was good at being pregnant. And I loved feeling my son move. I don’t think I appreciated it at the time (because of the $$$$ worries) but I really liked being pregnant.

But I am not 25 years old (…or 35…or 45…). And my marriage is far from ideal (we put the ‘fun’ in dysfunctional).

I think I know what we have to do.

But it makes me cry for the little girl who wanted two children.

I am crying for her now.

Dangerous and Stupid

Yesterday Cecily posted about things she has done that are Dangerous and Stupid. Sheesh, I am such a little wimp that I can't even think of a single thing that would fit into her post. Don't get me wrong, I have done quite a few stupid things, but nothing really dangerous and stupid.

Probably the stupidest thing I did was take almost 20 years to finish my college education (yep...I have about 10 thousand credits). Then the next stupidest was to wait for a man to make up his mind. If he can't make a decision after 2 years, hit the bricks, buster!

Well, Wait a minute, I did think of something. We - the three women I went to Hawaii with WAAAAYYY back 25 years ago - did pick up a man at the Honolulu airport and let him spend the night in the house we were at (he slept in a room alone - really). That was pretty stupid, I guess. We were lucky his name wasn't Ted Bundy.

Oh, yeah. I lost 1 (one) pound. Oh, well, down is still down, I guess.