Dead Bug

Who slipped my kid 'shrooms?

2008-07-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

Scene: Olivia at the dinner table, head tilted back, swaying gently and waving two capped washable markers in loose circles overhead

Me: "Olivia, what are you thinking about?"

Olivia, dreamily: "I'm painting the sky. Isn't it beauuuuuutiful, Mommy?"

No dancing bear bumper stickers have materialized on her BOB just yet, but I'll be keeping an eye out.

Who knew this blog could get any whinier?

2008-06-26T18:06:00.000-07:00

I think Emily may have had it right in her comment on my last post: just fake it. Pretend I have it together at the office, pretend I'm not on the verge of a meltdown at home. There is a tight little smile plastered on my face as I go through my day, with a couple of hours' respite during the long commute. I also think Cass had a big part of it right, so I will bang my head against a convenient wall when I just can't cope anymore, and perhaps lock myself in the bathroom and scream on occasion, as Jennifer suggested.

The days are just hard, and that's the way it is. I get up at seven if I'm lucky, nurse an unenthusiastic baby, get ready for work, pump, pack up all the crap I need to take with me, get the other one up, take her to the potty, dress her, feed her, check work email, dash out the door, drive for an hour, work for ten, pump twice more and drive the hour back home. It is now 8:30 or so. I am then beset by an eager Josh and Olivia, try to make something for dinner while entertaining one or both of them, get Olivia toileted, play with them both for a few minutes, get Josh nursed, get him to bed, get Olivia to bed, pump again and try to get ten minutes' peace before I have to turn in, too. An hour or two later, the crying starts and the nighttime round of hushings and feedings and lullabyes starts up. When something else gets thrown into the mix--illness (frequent), necessary travel, unexpected home repairs, anything--I just start to lose my ability to cope, or even pretend to cope.

I don't want to give the wrong impression here. I am not struggling with half the burden that some people have. Chris asked about resources, and I do have resources--I have resources that the me of fifteen years ago wouldn't have credited. There are people who mow our lawn, clean our house and whisk away our drycleaning. I have two excellent nannies covering different days of the week and a thoughtful, involved, creative husband who probably does more parenting (and more enjoying of parenting) than I. I get to work from home one day a week; Jeff is working from home three days. And yet, with all of the help, with all of the accommodations we have been granted, I struggle to make it to the end of each day.

I always thought of myself as someone who thrived on pressure. I secretly relished an impossible deadline, the adrenaline of a major crunch, the challenge of high expectations. What I didn't realize was that I would eventually wilt, that I can't sustain it. I guess I just hadn't been challenged enough, for long enough, to know this till now.

So I am finding out all sorts of things about me that I never knew--for example, that I am not nearly as mentally stable as I thought I was; that I am completely incapable of any sort of emotional distance from other people's tragedies; that I can get blindingly, irrationally furious over irrelevant things. That I am, in short, a different, rawer, less certain person now than I was before, be it temporary (please) or permanent. And I need to adjust to who I am, and what I am today, and not expect the driven, competent, happy me of old to be front-and-center right now.

I wouldn't change much, even if I could. Perhaps I would have a sane, kindly, helpful old mother who could come and live with us; perhaps I would have a lighter work schedule. But I don't, so I need to deal with my life exactly as it is. And those moments when the kids do something novel, something silly, something sweet, something interesting--those are the moments I live for, the moments that drown out the fact that I am worn down and overwhelmed.

It will get easier. Some part of me know that it will, not too long from now, get easier. For now, I have to accept that I am where I am, mentally, emotionally and physically. Lower my expectations of me for a while.

Apologies for the self-indulgent rambling. With my new, lower standards, though, I don't think I will take the time to edit.

All-consumed

2008-06-16T19:20:00.000-07:00

It's weeks like this that find me wondering what I was grousing about before--you know, way back when, back in those days of pillowy luxury, those days when I had just the one all-consuming baby to suck up every spare cycle in my distracted brain, every spare scintilla of my limited energy.

I asked for it. I did. I asked for it, I asked for it, I asked for it. And I don't regret it. I couldn't ever regret Joshua, my ebullient boy, with his fuzzy head and cockamamie grin. But, shit, two is hard. Hard hard.

How do people do this? How do they make it work? What is the secret? For fuck's sake, even my barmy mother managed to raise three of us, and without the resources or conveniences I'm enjoying in this modern age.

Seriously, dear friends in the computer: How?

Selfless

2008-04-01T08:06:00.000-07:00

A life-long friend, always Mary to my Half-Pint, the one friend my sister and I shared willingly over the years and who is still among the people I am closest to in the world, informed me a few days ago that she is eleven weeks' pregnant with her first donor egg cycle. This friend who means so much to me, who shared in my infertility struggles, knew all along that she would not be able to have biological children, knew she would have to go down the road even further than I, but never said a word. She comforted me, cheered me on and took joy in my success without a hint of frustration or jealousy.

I don't think I really understood selflessness until the babies came, and then it seemed like the overriding requirement, and the highest hurdle. But Suz, my good, kind friend, you are already there--you've mastered the hardest part of motherhood.

And then there was none

2008-03-07T16:25:00.000-08:00

Has your milk ever taken a holiday? Just decided to kick off its pointy heels (its pointy shields?) and head to the a B&B on the coast for some relaxation and a good book?

Mine took off for parts unknown for one entire workday on Wednesday, one ten-hour workday in which I pumped for two hours and got about six drops of bluish, watery milk. It came back to work on Thursday but its mind was clearly still on the B&B's fluffy goose-down pillows, and maybe those crumbly cranberry-hazelnut scones. Its continuing lack of focus and productivity will be noted in its semi-annual review. Frankly, I question its dedication to the position.

Why? Why does this happen? The pediatric nurse practitioner, when I queried her today at Josh's five-month appointment, asked if I was getting enough sleep. (Lady, what do you think? I have an infant and a toddler and a career. Take a guess.) Her recommendation was to drink tea.

Now, I love her to pieces (for a whole variety of reasons that I would like to think are the just appreciation of her kind and attentive nature but probably have more to do with the fact that she always tells me that my babies are doing wonderfully and are so beautiful, even if I know she says that to every parent) but, really, tea? Is that the best we can come up with?

There's no real point to this. I know, I disappear for weeks at a time and then come back with something this mundane, but it's really got my goat. On that note, baaaa! (Or is that a sheep? I can never remember.)

I want a mini-break, too. And maybe a scone.

Things

2008-02-17T16:22:00.000-08:00

In the long years before Olivia and Joshua, I would, not too often, let myself imagine who I'd be as a mother, the grand roles I would play, the different "me"s I'd be: a teacher and a student, doctor and nurse, maid and playmate, nurturer, rulemaker, enforcer, coach, comforter. To some extent, yes, I guess I am most of those, at least some of the time. More often, though, it is the things I am--the physical items I stand in for--that are the essence of who I am now, what my life is now.

Like today. Today I am Kleenex. I am also a hand towel, a doormat, a scratching post and a chair; a ladder, a radiator, an engine and a lift.

I am a garbage disposal, swallowing half-chewed bites of soda bread from my daughter's proffering hand. I am an uncomplaining post against which she leans when in need of a rest.

I am a Jack-in-the-box and a radio. A Crayon-hued canvas. A carousel. A conveyance. A Cuisinart.

I'm a barrier. A windshield. A purse. A pacifier. Food.

I am a soft, conforming pillow for a dreaming, peaceful boy. And I am his blanket.

I am all these things. Taken together, I suppose they are a role after all--the universal role of Mom.

The Great Divide

2007-11-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

Joshua, hatless and swaddled in his soft green blanket, is snorining softly in his shabby carseat. He is two months old now. Olivia, still wearing a valentine-hued getup of her own choosing, is passed out in her crib. Her purple hiking boots, such a hassle to put on, were even harder to get off without waking her.

So, the kids are asleep. The kids, plural. I repeat that word to myself at night when I can't sleep, over and over, marveling at it and wishing I could make myself believe in its veracity. Soon, maybe.

There are days, today included, when we are a family of four. We went for a long walk together, ate lunch together, sang silly songs. And there are days--most, in fact--when we are not, when we are divided into our natural pairings. I am near constantly with Joshua, for reasons obvious and otherwise; when he's not working and she's not with a caregiver, Jeff is with Olivia. It is the pragmatic tack to take, the sensible way to handle the demands of two babies at once. And, it seems to me, a little sad and isolating.

Until Josh's arrival, Jeff and I marveled together over Olivia's every ounce, every sound. The shape of her head, the directness of her gaze, the curve of her mouth, the angle of her chin, the plumpness of her wrists, the timbre of her laugh. We had the luxury of being a team with a single objective, a single project. That project is now a blooming, determined toddler who needs a river of attention and energy--needs that are incompatible with the simultaneous care of a newborn. So she jumps and runs and paints and babbles and throws tantrums in the company of her father, while Josh and I keep to gentler activities in another room, and I marvel at his gaze and chin and wrists on my own. I have breakfast time with Olivia each morning and "special time" each evening--a time to do whatever activity inspires her at that moment--but it's not nearly enough.

When she falls down, the sympathy she wants is from her dad. When she masters a new skill, she wants his approbation. When she's full and still has food on her small plate, the mouth she wants to feed with her plastic fork is always Daddy's. Josh, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to be with me, to be comforted by me, to smile with me, and tracks me with his eyes regardless of whose arms are holding him.

It hit me hard the other night when I came in from a few minutes' play time with Olivia to find Jeff cooing and smiling at a burbling Josh. I realized that it was the first time I had seen Jeff look unreservedly delighted to be a father to his son, a delight I was so used to seeing him feel for Olivia. There was no taint of overwhelm or worry or exhaustion, no how-the-hell-are-we-going-to-manage crease in his forehead, no vague accusation in his eyes. Just delight. Pure delight.

I want more of that. I want Jeff to have more of those moments with Josh. I want more of those moments with Olivia. Some day, I'll probably ask for some of those moments between Jeff and me again, too, but I don't want to get that greedy just yet.

* * *

I realize that I haven't given Josh much of an introduction, and I want to give you a picture. He is an exceptionally easy baby. He eats, he smiles, he sleeps. He does not scream and spasm and shake after feedings, he doesn't need to be walked in endless loops through the house at 3 a.m. No GERD, no thrush, no ear infections. Not even diaper rash. In short, he is a delight, an unexpected counterpoint to the colicky misery of Olivia's first months. I am flush with gratitude.

The Adjustment

2007-09-30T17:54:00.000-07:00

Several of you have been so thoughtful as to ask how Olivia is reacting to the new baby. I thought I'd answer it with a quote from today:

"No, Olivia, don't bang on baby brother's brain. It's not nice."

--Jeff, upon finding Olivia turned around in the double stroller, pounding gleefully on Joshua's fontanelle.

I have a post brewing on the unmerited cockiness of a second-time breast-feeder and the horrifying sight of your baby spitting up blood he ingested from your own nipple. But perhaps that is enough on that and I'll leave it there.

Joshua Michael took his time

2007-09-26T17:45:00.000-07:00

Overdue by five days, Joshua had finally seen enough of my uterus by Monday morning. I awoke at precisely 5:29 to a mild contraction that was just enough stronger than all of the other mild contractions of recent weeks to pique my interest. Another followed about twelve minutes later, and another, and another--all mild, all far apart--for the next two hours. I wrote a few emails, showered and dressed and suddenly the contractions were five minutes apart, then four. And strong. Very strong.

By 8:45, with contractions between three and four minutes apart, I was eyeing the clock and hoping that our nanny didn't choose a bad day to break her year-long punctuality streak. (She didn't.)

My OB's office warned L&D that we were on our way, and would be in a hurry. Jeff packed the car, I got Olivia dressed and tried not to let her see how much pain I was in. (I failed, and she looked at me sideways with a very grave blue eye and a charming crease in her forehead.)

Then we remembered a bunch of stuff that we still needed to pack and phone numbers we needed to have, and we couldn't quite manage to get out the door. And then it was 9:15 and we were on our way to the hospital, Jeff driving exceedingly carefully and infuriatingly slowly.

Some asshole in an enormous black truck with the obligatory NRA sticker took up two "Small Cars Only" parking spaces in the hospital lot. Asshole. ASSHOLE. We couldn't find a spot. We spiraled up the structure for what seemed like twenty minutes but was, I'm sure, no more than two, and found one on the top floor. We got down (two contractions) and into the hospital elevator (another contraction) and the kind security guard who rode with us hurried me past the crowded inspection point and straight to sign-in. I wanted to kiss him but would only have reached his knees as I was doubled over with another contraction.

At 9:39 I signed in and was taken to L&D triage. After a few minutes, I was strapped to the monitors and left: there was a woman arriving in pre-term labor (32 weeks) and she, for obvious reasons, needed to be seen first. I breathed and whimpered through another few contractions and waited for the triage nurse to return, listening to the moans of women in the nearby beds.

When the triage nurse did return, she took one look at the tracings (2-3 minutes apart, peaks off the graph) and said, "We'll be admitting you." Right after the next contraction, she did an exam: 5-6 cm, 90% effaced, zero station. She asked about drugs; I said, yes, as soon as possible, please. She called our delivery nurse. We waited.

When the delivery nurse--Old Pro, let's call her--came to get us, she wouldn't let me dress. Just covered me with a robe, hastily and partially tied, and rushed me toward the delivery room. Mid-walk, I had a monster contraction and had to use her as a handrail, doubled over, butt to the breeze and a dozen or so civilians in the hallway. (I didn't care.)

Once in the room, she tried to get an IV going in my left arm with a 16-gauge needle. Said she had to get me hydrated before they could do the epidural, and that we needed to hurry. The vein blew. She rushed to repeat it on the right; it worked. The next contraction saw me writhing, vomiting and trying to break Jeff's hand, which he had foolishly placed in mine in a gesture of support. It felt like my guts were filled with exploding fire. Old Pro promised that she would get me some fentanyl immediately. She called the anesthesiologist for permission, loaded it up and within a few minutes I was drunk as a skunk. Still in pain, yes, but the pain didn't seem to matter quite as much.

Anesthesiologist arrived a few minutes later. Epidural was placed. He promised me that the birth could be "a pain-free experience," unlike the hell of the last one. Within five minutes, I was more comfortable than I had been in months. I could feel the contractions, sure, but as a not-unpleasant sensation. The nausea abated. I smiled. Jeff relaxed. Ahhh.

It was now about 11:45. The the nurse headed down the hall for a few minutes to eat her lunch. The OB on call came in to check me. She pulled back and, with a look of great surprise, informed me that the baby's head was right there. Right there. I was complete, head almost crowning, time to push.

Old Pro was retrieved from the break room, an assistant was rounded up from somewhere to hold one of my legs, and I was told that the baby would be out within two contractions.

I assumed the position, pushed once I felt the contraction and found myself seeing stars and unable to lift my head. Repeat two or three times.

Old Pro asked if I felt lightheaded. I couldn't answer. She mumbled something to the OB, the OB shook her head and I was told to push again as hard as I could with the next contraction. I did and tried not to faint. Couldn't catch my breath. OB then infomed me that, while the baby didn't seem to be very big, I am very small; that the baby was cutting off my blood return, making me unable to get enough oxygen, and his umbilical cord was very compressed. Heart tracings at 60 BPM and not recovering. I am to push, push, push or they will have to "do something." I cannot comprehend what they are saying to me and it doesn't sink in.

I push again as hard as I can muster (picture trying to sprint for 200 meters after exhaling completely), fainting once, then come around and push one more time. And then his head is there, his mouth and nose being suctioned, along with one arm, which apparently preceded the head and caused some of the trouble. I can see him! And then, at 12:12 p.m., another little push and he's on my belly, writhing and peeing. And he's right as rain.

Twiddle, twiddle, do, re, mi

2007-09-21T16:22:00.000-07:00

With thumbs a-twiddle, I'm passing the time, whistling tunelessly, waiting for this too-boring-for-TLC baby-delivery show to get on the road. After the serious talking-to I got a few weeks ago at the OB's office, warning that he would almost certainly be showing up early, he is now officially tardy. There was one brief scare last week--I lost five weeks of fundal height in six days, necessitating a rushed ultrasound at the hospital, which proved entirely reassuring--but other than that there's been no excitement at all. Nada. Zip.

My parrot, Archimedes, is doing a perfect imitation of my aimless, random whistling, except that she has better pitch and volume. I am mildly jealous.

I'm 2 cm dilated, 50% effaced and having the occasional unproductive contraction. Sleep deprived only from the need to urinate five or seven or nine times per night and finding it difficult to squirm into any position that approximates comfort. I am, as best I can manage, ready: I want him out where I can see him, where I can touch him and where he isn't spooning so affectionately with my bladder.

I realize I will be hitting myself over the head with a cartoon-style skillet once I find myself in the agony of labor, and afterwards, when I haven't slept for a fortnight. But, patience and prudence be damned, I am READY.

And the Grass is Still Green

2007-09-04T18:11:00.000-07:00

There is no ideal jumping-back-in point in this story; in fact, there isn't much of a story. The usual segments of my daily life have continued to eat up the minutes quite uneventfully, if rapaciously, and I am furrowing my well-lined brow in concentration as I try to come up with highlights. Or even lowlights.

There have been a few Big Events for us--major projects completed at work (yes, I know, yawn, yawn, who the hell would care but us?), a new house (again, interesting if it's yours, and not so interesting if it's someone else's), and a phoenix-like recovery for my almost-dead father (perhaps interesting if you have a loved one of advancing years and would like to know how to badger, threaten and intimidate doctors and administrators at The Worst HMO Hospital in Los Angeles for five months until they Do Something Useful). There are the usual milestones and sweet moments from Olivia's last half year, along with a frightening preview of the Terrible Twos. And, of course, there is The Least Interesting Pregnancy in the History of World Pregnancy, 40,000 BC-Present.

The product of this Least Interesting Pregnancy is due on the 19th, but my Nurse Practitioner (aside: this is such a boring pregnancy that I don't even see the doctor--just the NP) has predicted an early arrival. As in, any time now.

I'm not sure if this will be the first of many or the first of, say, two posts. Guess it depends on whether anyone is still out there reading, how much time I can wrangle and how coherently I can write in the forthcoming blur of sleep deprivation. I can guarantee at least one post upon arrival, if nothing more ambitious.

I have missed this place. I've missed you. Feels good to be back, even if it's a short stay.

Into the sunset

2007-03-12T19:10:00.000-07:00

You know, it's to be expected. All new mothers are stressed and tired. The majority of career women are busy and anxious. A lot of pregnant women feel shitty and emotional. And every last pregnant infertile is scared to the bone that something will go wrong. It’s all par for the course, and this is a course I most certainly chose for myself. I hear myself whinging about the nausea or the overwhelm or the exhaustion or the random scary cramp and I just don’t want to be around me. I want a break from me.

In that vein, I think it’s time for a hiatus here at the Dead Bug Blog. I hope to come back some day soon with a fresh perspective and something more than two-paragraph sad-sack posts.

The truth is, we are well. I have everything I could ask for, except infinite time. Olivia is something beyond wonderful—she’s winsome and bright, full of life and interest and sweetness. She has started hugging me, even if only after she started hugging her favorite stuffed animals. Her ill-coordinated walking is a delight, her nimble hands becoming so expert at so many things. Her eyes, these pale blue lamps that shine right into me, continue to take me by surprise.

And then there is this other little being, this textbook pregnancy, this extraordinary gift. He looks as he should, his NT measurements just right, with a beautiful heart and centimeter-long feet complete with minuscule, moving toes. Those too-short minutes in the perinatal center, with their detailed images and descriptive tech, have made him much more real than a month of morning sickness could have done. I believe in him now.

Jeff and I are finding a few minutes for each other, holding hands, talking about unimportant things and letting out our breath each night before bed. I missed it so much and didn’t really know it. He continues to awe me as a father—more often than not, the primary caregiver—as he puts Olivia’s needs before all else, with my pregnant self not far behind. He has always been generous and self-sacrificing, but I never knew he could extend himself this far. I feel so indebted to him, so grateful and so very much in love.

I’ve spent too long focusing on the things that make life difficult: it’s time to pay attention to everything that is right. So I will head off into a seventy-degree evening, the hills covered in Irish-green grass and studded with daffodils, and admire what’s left of the sunset as I drive the hour home. There is no “other side” to strive for, no world with a perfect house and plenty of sleep, a healthy dad and a job that makes me happy all the time. The grass really is as green as it’s going to get, right here, right now.

More of a Drunken Stagger

2007-03-07T13:17:00.000-08:00

That "walking" Olivia was purported by the optimistic ladies at daycare to be doing does not, to my mind, qualify. But it sure is charming. I mean, there's nothing quite as heartwarming as an eleven-month-old who thinks she can walk, but actually resembles Nicolas Cage in the after-bar scene in Valley Girl: directionless, uncontrolled, shitfaced staggering. At least she does it with a delighted screech instead of a puke.

More...well, more someday. Our current level of overwhelm is reaching new heights and/or depths, what with the commuting, working, househunting, parenting, elder-caring, morning sickness and it being tax time. (Our taxes are, let's see, complex would be a laughable understatement. Self-employed husband, home office, stock options, new dependent, etc., etc., etc. And to further exacerbate our tax-time woes, we're also official employers of one fantastic part-time Tanzanian nanny, whose legal right to work in the US was finally printed on government paper this January 1st but whose payrolling began, erm, somewhat before then.

If it's Thursday, this must be Hell

2007-03-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

No time. No time. No time.

There is an Etna-like explosion of work. I will be entombed in it if I don't claw out an airhole soon.

All is still well with the pregnancy. I am still wretched, and reassured.

Olivia started walking today. I have yet to see it.

Buuuuuugh.

But it doesn't matter much

2007-02-22T17:35:00.000-08:00

Dream house will have to remain in the realm of fantasy. Further inspections uncovered a rotten trove of unappetizing problems--soggy window casings, improperly installed stucco flashing, drainage issues, sewer issues, electrical issues, furnace issues, roof deck issues and even a nice big damp patch on the eighteen-foot ceiling of the living room. Apparently, the last inspection was done in late October of last year, before any significant rain visited the area. The property stager had the temerity to hide a large, discolored, efflorescing water stain on one of the landing walls with a gilt mirror; I only noticed because the picture hanger holding up the mirror had come halfway out of the wall--a result of the decay caused by the damp.

We are sad to let go of the vision we had of ourselves, and particularly of Olivia, in that house, in that yard, going to that elementary school. But we are glad we didn’t end up with an elderly 2800-square-foot Mediterranean albatross that might strain us to the breaking point.

I find that I mind losing this house a lot less than I would have thought. It seems, well, not exactly insignificant, but not really compelling, either. Maybe it’s partly the distraction of the nausea and everything it represents; maybe it’s the even larger distraction of Olivia. Maybe it’s the fact that I just can’t slow down enough to really consider the ramifications: Will it be another eight months of fruitless searching? If we fail to find a suitable place, how will we cope with two babies and a daytime nanny in our tiny house? (Yes, jumping the gun, but we are in a position in which we have to plan for the possibility that this one will really happen—that we’ll have a newborn come September.)

Speaking of which, appointment tomorrow. 10W2D. Not sure what to expect; hoping for a scan.

Telling your father what to do...

2007-02-20T18:20:00.000-08:00

...is a miserable business.

No, you can't postpone the physical therapist till tomorrow. Yes, you have to drink the Ensure. No, you can't lie on your back for another hour. Yes, you have to go to the doctor's on Thursday. No, you can't skip the morning blood draw. Yes, you have to have the dressing for the bedsores changed now. I know it hurts, but you have to do it anyway.

I know you're tired, but you have to do it. I know you're not hungry, but you have to eat it. Here, let me cut it up smaller for you.

Ups and Downers

2007-02-16T18:25:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we got the word that our below-asking offer was accepted on the house of our dreams. It is large. It is lovely. It is of my favorite vintage (1920s) and one of my favorite styles (Hollywood Mediterranean). We will feel like prince (the house is castle-like) and pauper (we aren't actually, you know, wealthy) all at once. We were typically elated, with lots of No ways and Holy cows and Oh my gods and more No ways. We laughed and danced around the lunch room to the congratulations of our co-workers.

Today, however, was a lot more subdued. We got the word that my dad would be staying in the hospital instead of getting sprung yesterday, as was the original plan. The blood clots in his left leg, the result of his Parkinson's-induced immobiliy and general poo-poohing of physical therapy, decided to go an a walkabout in the general direction of his lungs. Much heparin was given; much coumadin to come. We hope a visit from Olivia will get his circulation going, though we have to sneak her into the hospital room disguised as a small pink throw rug.

Back Tuesday.

And it's back

2007-02-13T13:00:00.000-08:00

I feel like a heel for not updating yesterday. My only excuse is that I didn't have time--it was a long, long day, filled with meetings and drama and thunder and unmerciful traffic.

The nausea resumed its normal virulence yesterday. I am tentatively exhaling now (inbetween shallow, panting nausea breaths) and assuming that all must be OK if I feel this much like bloody pulverized hell.

I am so grateful for your concern and good wishes. Thank you, all.

Ambiguous update

2007-02-11T09:27:00.000-08:00

Nothing really significant to report, but, using Ollie's smell test (Jeff's sweet-spicy deodorant), I did manage to nauseate myself very slightly. It being the weekend, hopes for a scan are minimal, unless I start bleeding and get to have a fun-fun-fun trip to the ER. Fortunately, no blood and no real cramping.

I'm trying to assume that all is well, that this is normal, that it's just different from the utter consistency of the last pregnancy. Not quite working, but enough so that I haven't completely freaked out Jeff with my worry.

I'll be calling the OB's office tomorrow if the nausea doesn't return.

Scared

2007-02-10T09:41:00.000-08:00

Sudden cessation of symptoms this morning. No cramping, no bleeding, but also no nausea. For about a minute I was relieved, then the possible implications dawned on me.

Probably making too much of this, but scared nonetheless.

The eight-week whine

2007-02-07T18:26:00.000-08:00

Eight weeks today, and definitely pregnant.

I am exhausted. Always exhausted. And the nausea, which I blithely, confidently assumed would be better this pregnancy than last--I'm not carrying triplets--has bludgeoned me. It started in earnest just after the six-week mark and now I am very nearly incapacitated by it, squeaking by each day out of pure necessity. It keeps me awake at night, rolls through me in waves as I drive to work, grows steadily through the day as I struggle through meetings and conference calls, then laughs at me and pulls back just a hair when I finally give in and say, Uncle!, You win!, I give!, Just let me throw up! Please! I just want to throw up! PLEASE! Somehow, the effort I made last time to not throw up, since I was supposed to be keeping down an ungodly number of calories, has blunted my ability to hurl when I really, really want (need?) to.

Sadly, the nausea is at its zenith when Olivia is nursing, with her warm weight pressing into my belly. Nursing is something I had come to love, and now it is a rather, um, sore subject. The pregnant nips, they do not like the nursing. It hurts almost as much as it did during those first couple of weeks postpartum, except for the blessed lack of engorgement. But I can manage it, and the thought of giving up makes me very, very sad. That bond with her is something I do not want to lose just yet. As a compromise, I have eliminated the pumping. During the day, Olivia, now ten months old, couldn't care less whether she's given bottles of hard-won mother's milk or swills haphazardly-mixed formula, though she does still love to nurse. Which she does two or three times a day, or more often on weekends.

I read up on being pregnant and nursing and everything seems to indicate that it will do neither of them any harm--that the only one who stands to suffer by it is me. So my lofty and ambitious goal for the next month or two will be to get enough nutrition in me for the three of us while battling the urge to eat nothing at all, ever. Any helpful ideas you lovely ladies in the computer may have on how to get iron into my diet without supplements or daily ingestion of a 16-ounce Porterhouse would be much appreciated. The supplements make me even more nauesated, and, while I love a good steak, I do not love a good steak every single day. I'm trying to eat a fortified cereal each morning, but nothing about it appeals right now and it makes it very hard to finish a grown-up portion when everything in you is screaming, Stop!

So, enough with the whinging. If I didn't have nausea, I'd be whinging that I didn't feel pregnant enough. I love knowing that something is going on in my body, that this exciting, terrifying process is taking place. And on that subject, I must admit to you that the terror is slightly less tangible this time. Not because I am suddenly an optimist, but because it feels like an unearned bonus, a windfall. If someone were to tell me it was all a mistake, I would be very disappointed, very sad, but I wouldn't feel cheated.

Perhaps the terror will grow as my attachment to this fetus/embryo/fetbryo grows. Being on the "normal" calendar with my OB, there aren't the weekly ultrasounds to put a picture to the pregnancy. The next one, in fact, will be the NT scan early next month, unless something bad happens first.

In the meanwhile, I'm still shocked--every day--to find myself here.

Different?

2007-02-02T10:35:00.000-08:00

Some days, I find myself having forgotten that I'm pregnant. It takes me by surprise after full half-hour intervals in which I haven't given it any thought: I'll be working on a project or driving to work, and a wave of nausea will hit to remind me--oh, yes, that's right, how wonderful.

So far, these early days of pregnancy have been much easier. Not carrying triplets has meant much less morning sickness, though the exhaustion seems even more pronounced. I chalk that up to the fact that Olivia is still not sleeping through the night, except on rare occasions, and even when she does, I wake up worrying about her. That, I suppose, is the biggest difference: instead of thinking constantly of this pregnancy, the background hum in my head is on the all-Olivia, all-the-time station.

I worry sometimes if this is fair. Olivia has been the recipient of unremitting, obsessive attention from that first positive beta. Vague dreams of Olivia predated that pregnancy by years. Will this one, if we get there, suffer from a lack of attention? The few people we've told say things like, Wow, it'll almost be like having twins! and, Poor Olivia, she's not going to like the competition. And I think to myself--of course Olivia will still get our attention; she's the center of the universe: the question to me is, will the new (maybe) baby get enough? Even my dad, though patently delighted at the prospect of another grandchild, wondered how we'd find the time and energy. Jeff, in a very innocent way, said he didn't know how it would be possible to love another as much as Olivia. And he meant it just that way: the mystery is in the how; he assumes he will.

I was the youngest of three. I never hurt for attention, at least not that I can remember, until after my mother went off her ill-constructed rocker. Jeff is the oldest of three, and I don't see that his younger brothers suffered from a lack of parental involvement. But I do know that there is a special bond between Jeff and his parents, and between my eldest brother and my mother, that is just different.

I don't know why I'm worrying about this now. Who knows where this pregnancy is headed? Early days, very early days. But, well, by now I'm sure it's no mystery that worrying is what I do best.

How

2007-01-29T17:43:00.000-08:00

"You're the perfect example of how a full-term pregnancy can restore your hormone balance," Dr. Top said last week. "I've seen it over and over. Years of infertility--unexplained, poor responders, what have you--then an IVF pregnancy, a baby, then...fertility."

I gave a surprised smile, feeling puzzled and curious and inarticulate, and that was the end of the subject. I didn't even think to ask, "How?"

I know that something was, well, different, hormone-wise. Back before I knew just how difficult it would be to get pregnant, I spent two years charting my wonky cycles, including all of the usual indelicate jabbing and swabbing, and never once had any eggwhite cervical mucous (EWCM--remember that acronym, people? Brings you back, doesn't it?). I would often get LH surges that lasted four or five days instead of the usual one or two. The month of the inconceivable conception, though my cycle was definitely irregular, with ovulation around day 23 or 24, I had EWCM that would have made Toni Weschler's illustrations weep with envy. And there was a textbook one-day LH surge, which corresponded perfectly. Just like I always hoped for, back in the Creataceous period.

But that's it. That's all that was different. Could these small things honestly be signs that my body was somehow fixed? If so, how? It just doesn't seem possible. The cycle that gave me Olivia required the maximum stim dose, no suppression, ICSI and assisted hatching. I had less than 40% fertilization and none of the embryos were close to a Grade 1. Clearly, my eggs were not just on the decline, but speeding rapidly down that far slope.

A part of me is inclined to believe that this pregnancy was a matter of extraordinary luck, not the natural outcome of a prior success. But then I think back to all of those endless months of trying and failing and trying and failing and wonder if there's something to Dr. Top's version of "how" after all. In the end, I guess it doesn't make much difference for me right here and right now--against all of my expectations, I am pregnant--but I can't stop wondering.

Yes

2007-01-26T14:20:00.000-08:00

There is a fetus. There is a yolk sac. There is a heartbeat. And there is a powerful feeling of relief.

I Have Nerves that Jingle, Jangle, Jingle

2007-01-24T15:32:00.000-08:00

Second beta came in at 18,970, for a doubling time of around 74 hours. NP considered this result "fine"; the internet seems to consider it not quite ideal. Betabase lists a median doubling time for this hCG range of around 60 hours, and I'm wishing I were a little closer to that, but it's not slow enough to freak out, exactly, even though that's what every fiber in my body seems to be gearing up for. It's like there's a muscle-memory for freak-out, and any marginally bad news sets in motion this incoherent twanging fear and discontent. It's stupid; this news is maybe mediocre, but it's not bad. And yet I go into low-grade panic mode.

The twanging fear and I will just have to hang out till Friday, when the Wand Monkey is due for a feeding at 11 a.m.