and we leave for the airport in less than 10 hours. Oh yeah, and I have to finish cleaning my house. I absolutely despise returning home from a trip and finding things in disarray, which is odd, because I'm not exactly a neat freak.
I'm definitely looking forward to this trip - sun, hanging out with the fam, eating, drinking, booty shaking - but I'm also kind of dreading it - it's been my only "something to look forward to" for a while now. To add to the pressure, I'm hoping to come home pregnant (and tan, and ten pounds lighter. The odds are good that I'll step off the plane burnt or as pale as I am now, and pregnant with nothing but a 10 pound food baby.)
Good times :)
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
can you see the steam coming out of my ears?
I was just doing a little net surfing regarding the Nadya Suleman situation (she has a website now! and you can send her donations through paypal! vomit) and I stumbled across this little gem of a post:
http://communities.canada.com/vancouversun/blogs/socialstudies/archive/2009/02/11/nadya-suleman-octomom-just-doing-what-comes-unnaturally.aspx
Oh. my. fucking. god. I am so angry I am shaking right now, and can pretty much kiss sleep goodbye tonight. If you don't feel like reading it, she basically says that we should just accept mother nature's assessment of whether or not we are to become mothers. Really? What about the parents who abuse, neglect, rape, murder their children? Did mother nature make a great decision there? And what about when mother nature says that someone will have diabetes? or heart disease? or cancer? Should we ignore medical intervention for those issues too? Don't get me wrong - I think the Suleman situation is an atrocious abuse of medical technology, and the doctor who transferred the eight embryos should be severely punished. That said, I would flatten this woman with a spinning backfist if I lived in Canada. She should just be glad Obama won the election. I had to settle for a comment calling her out (which has not been posted as of yet) for her ignorance and prejudice towards those of us who are childless, and not by choice.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Am I just being overly sensitive?
http://communities.canada.com/vancouversun/blogs/socialstudies/archive/2009/02/11/nadya-suleman-octomom-just-doing-what-comes-unnaturally.aspx
Oh. my. fucking. god. I am so angry I am shaking right now, and can pretty much kiss sleep goodbye tonight. If you don't feel like reading it, she basically says that we should just accept mother nature's assessment of whether or not we are to become mothers. Really? What about the parents who abuse, neglect, rape, murder their children? Did mother nature make a great decision there? And what about when mother nature says that someone will have diabetes? or heart disease? or cancer? Should we ignore medical intervention for those issues too? Don't get me wrong - I think the Suleman situation is an atrocious abuse of medical technology, and the doctor who transferred the eight embryos should be severely punished. That said, I would flatten this woman with a spinning backfist if I lived in Canada. She should just be glad Obama won the election. I had to settle for a comment calling her out (which has not been posted as of yet) for her ignorance and prejudice towards those of us who are childless, and not by choice.
I'd love to hear your thoughts on this. Am I just being overly sensitive?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
blah
I haven't been doing much of anything lately. I've spent the last month or so stuck in the land of blah. Truly, it's been a challenge to simply function as a human being lately. I haven't even been reading much (only 4 books in a month - I think that's a record low for me). My trip to blah has come about for a variety of reasons, but I think the top two are my 31st birthday and the impending birth of Hubby's niece/nephew, who is known in our home as the PIG - precious impending grandchild.
Hubby's parents can barely contain their excitement. I don't blame them for being excited- it will be their first, and possibly only, grandchild - but damn if they don't just irritate the fuck out of me lately. Our child should have been the first grandchild, not the PIG. Sigh. I know that I should be happy for Hubby's brother and his wife, and there probably is a little nugget of happiness for them deep in my psyche, but it's buried under layers and layers of jealousy, anger, sadness, etc. A little background: Hubby's brother is in medical school, and his wife just finished school herself. There were some concerns as to whether or not they'd be able to have kids at all, so PIG is truly a miracle for them. But of course, I have to compare myself and Hubby to them: We own a home. They do not. Hubby earns enough that I could stay home with a baby (should my womb ever decide to let one hang out long enough, of course). PIG will spend the majority of his/her time in daycare. We live close to family (okay, it's Hubby's crazy family, but family nonetheless). They do not. PIG has made me feel like a complete failure: I gave up a career that was quite fulfilling and moved halfway across the country from my family and friends so that we could settle down, buy a house, and enjoy the less-stressful Midwestern lifestyle, and raise a family. We did everything right. And here we are, two and a half years and many failed pregnancies later. I have a job, not a career, and few close friends (but many acquaintances) here. Blah. And of course, I feel like the shittiest person in the world because I cannot even bring myself to send them a gift or a card. I told Hubby he needs to do it, but unless I nag he'll probably forget. Of course, I have no energy to nag, so if they end up hating us, so be it.
The whole birthday thing sucks bananas too. 31. I thought I'd be close to done having kids by now. I thought I'd have a career by now. I thought I'd have my Master's by now. Instead, I have put my whole life on hold to chase a dream that is quickly fading into the realm of unlikelihood. I did not feel like celebrating at all this year, and yet Hubby's family insisted on having a dinner to celebrate. We tried explaining but got suckered into it anyway. And of course, it was a miserable experience. To recap: Hubby's parents (who are Evangelicals and are convinced that unless they convert us we'll be going straight to hell, where all the fun people are) opened dinner by praying and moving immediately into a conversation about sex. WTF? I wanted to crawl under the table and vomit. The only thing that could have made me feel more uncomfortable was the after dinner conversation: Hubby's mom discussing all the ways in which PIG's gestation has been difficult on his/her parents. Seriously? A dinner for MY birthday (which I didn't want to have in the first place) and you think I want to hear that? I know she's had a difficult pregnancy but really, I think I've won the bad pregnancy lotto. They will actually have PIG to hold, to love, to kiss, to smell that wonderful baby smell. I may never have that. I just lost a baby 6 weeks ago, woman! I had to bite my tongue (literally - it's still sore) to keep from screaming at her. For someone who professes to be so pro-life, she sure disregarded the life of my child, and the grief we are still slogging through.
Speaking of grief, I had my first therapy appointment this week. It went well, but as I've suspected for a while, I am clinically depressed. Blah. Therapist Lady (I just noticed as I was typing that therapist = the rapist. How telling.) thinks I should be medicated. I agreed at the time, but am now having some second thoughts. The side effects of a lot of these drugs scare me. Weight gain? If you think I'm depressed now, watch what happens if I put on twenty pounds. Loss of sex drive? I'm trying to get pregnant! I have a phone call in to her to talk it over, and to let her know that my wonderful RE called in a prescription for Zoloft (Therapist Lady is a psychologist, so she can't prescribe, and had me set up an appointment to see someone in her office who can). It's a moot point for now anyway, since we're going to Mexico next week and I don't want to start anything, if I do at all, until we get back.
In other news, Hubby almost killed us both last night. I do most of the cooking around here, but I just don't cook breakfast stuff well at all. Last night, I was in the mood for brinner (breakfast for dinner. Thanks, Scrubs). He cooked bacon and eggs. The eggs were wonderful, but the bacon tasted odd to me. And so I asked Hubby what kind of bacon he used, and learned that it was maple smoked bacon. "Oh," I thought as I scarfed it down. "That explains the taste." Only it didn't. Our after dinner conversation went down like this:
Hubby: Well, that was the last of the bacon.
Me: (knowing that we had just purchased an entire package of bacon and hadn't opened it yet, and we each only ate three or four pieces with brinner) Really? That was a whole package?
Hubby: (looking at me like I'm dense) No, just what was left in the package.
Me: (confused) When did you open the package?
Hubby: I have no idea. It was in the crisper drawer.
Me: (knowing that the bacon we had just purchased was NOT in the crisper drawer) Oh, shit. That was some really old bacon.
I have no clue when that maple bacon was purchased, but it was definitely at least several months ago. The package had been opened probably for close to that long. I have no idea how I missed it when I cleaned out the fridge a couple of weeks ago, but I did. I also have no idea why he would cook that bacon when he was the one who picked out the new bacon, and put it away, most definitely not in the crisper, but he did. Luckily, we didn't get seriously ill but we've both made some mad dashes to the crapper today, and as I am writing this I'm skipping the gym because I'd like to avoid shitting my pants in a room full of other people. I guess from now on I'll be frying up the bacon around here.
Hubby's parents can barely contain their excitement. I don't blame them for being excited- it will be their first, and possibly only, grandchild - but damn if they don't just irritate the fuck out of me lately. Our child should have been the first grandchild, not the PIG. Sigh. I know that I should be happy for Hubby's brother and his wife, and there probably is a little nugget of happiness for them deep in my psyche, but it's buried under layers and layers of jealousy, anger, sadness, etc. A little background: Hubby's brother is in medical school, and his wife just finished school herself. There were some concerns as to whether or not they'd be able to have kids at all, so PIG is truly a miracle for them. But of course, I have to compare myself and Hubby to them: We own a home. They do not. Hubby earns enough that I could stay home with a baby (should my womb ever decide to let one hang out long enough, of course). PIG will spend the majority of his/her time in daycare. We live close to family (okay, it's Hubby's crazy family, but family nonetheless). They do not. PIG has made me feel like a complete failure: I gave up a career that was quite fulfilling and moved halfway across the country from my family and friends so that we could settle down, buy a house, and enjoy the less-stressful Midwestern lifestyle, and raise a family. We did everything right. And here we are, two and a half years and many failed pregnancies later. I have a job, not a career, and few close friends (but many acquaintances) here. Blah. And of course, I feel like the shittiest person in the world because I cannot even bring myself to send them a gift or a card. I told Hubby he needs to do it, but unless I nag he'll probably forget. Of course, I have no energy to nag, so if they end up hating us, so be it.
The whole birthday thing sucks bananas too. 31. I thought I'd be close to done having kids by now. I thought I'd have a career by now. I thought I'd have my Master's by now. Instead, I have put my whole life on hold to chase a dream that is quickly fading into the realm of unlikelihood. I did not feel like celebrating at all this year, and yet Hubby's family insisted on having a dinner to celebrate. We tried explaining but got suckered into it anyway. And of course, it was a miserable experience. To recap: Hubby's parents (who are Evangelicals and are convinced that unless they convert us we'll be going straight to hell, where all the fun people are) opened dinner by praying and moving immediately into a conversation about sex. WTF? I wanted to crawl under the table and vomit. The only thing that could have made me feel more uncomfortable was the after dinner conversation: Hubby's mom discussing all the ways in which PIG's gestation has been difficult on his/her parents. Seriously? A dinner for MY birthday (which I didn't want to have in the first place) and you think I want to hear that? I know she's had a difficult pregnancy but really, I think I've won the bad pregnancy lotto. They will actually have PIG to hold, to love, to kiss, to smell that wonderful baby smell. I may never have that. I just lost a baby 6 weeks ago, woman! I had to bite my tongue (literally - it's still sore) to keep from screaming at her. For someone who professes to be so pro-life, she sure disregarded the life of my child, and the grief we are still slogging through.
Speaking of grief, I had my first therapy appointment this week. It went well, but as I've suspected for a while, I am clinically depressed. Blah. Therapist Lady (I just noticed as I was typing that therapist = the rapist. How telling.) thinks I should be medicated. I agreed at the time, but am now having some second thoughts. The side effects of a lot of these drugs scare me. Weight gain? If you think I'm depressed now, watch what happens if I put on twenty pounds. Loss of sex drive? I'm trying to get pregnant! I have a phone call in to her to talk it over, and to let her know that my wonderful RE called in a prescription for Zoloft (Therapist Lady is a psychologist, so she can't prescribe, and had me set up an appointment to see someone in her office who can). It's a moot point for now anyway, since we're going to Mexico next week and I don't want to start anything, if I do at all, until we get back.
In other news, Hubby almost killed us both last night. I do most of the cooking around here, but I just don't cook breakfast stuff well at all. Last night, I was in the mood for brinner (breakfast for dinner. Thanks, Scrubs). He cooked bacon and eggs. The eggs were wonderful, but the bacon tasted odd to me. And so I asked Hubby what kind of bacon he used, and learned that it was maple smoked bacon. "Oh," I thought as I scarfed it down. "That explains the taste." Only it didn't. Our after dinner conversation went down like this:
Hubby: Well, that was the last of the bacon.
Me: (knowing that we had just purchased an entire package of bacon and hadn't opened it yet, and we each only ate three or four pieces with brinner) Really? That was a whole package?
Hubby: (looking at me like I'm dense) No, just what was left in the package.
Me: (confused) When did you open the package?
Hubby: I have no idea. It was in the crisper drawer.
Me: (knowing that the bacon we had just purchased was NOT in the crisper drawer) Oh, shit. That was some really old bacon.
I have no clue when that maple bacon was purchased, but it was definitely at least several months ago. The package had been opened probably for close to that long. I have no idea how I missed it when I cleaned out the fridge a couple of weeks ago, but I did. I also have no idea why he would cook that bacon when he was the one who picked out the new bacon, and put it away, most definitely not in the crisper, but he did. Luckily, we didn't get seriously ill but we've both made some mad dashes to the crapper today, and as I am writing this I'm skipping the gym because I'd like to avoid shitting my pants in a room full of other people. I guess from now on I'll be frying up the bacon around here.
Monday, January 5, 2009
books, books and more books
They are taking over my house, encroaching into the living room, the kitchen, the bathrooms, our bedroom - books are everywhere. We're considering turning the dining room into a library, because, obviously, reading is more important than eating. I only wish my ass reflected my priorities.
I have a long history with books. I love the experience of diving headfirst into someone else's reality, or some author's non-reality, and ignoring my own. This habit started when I was fairly young, and things were icky on the homefront. My reality was something I only experienced in short bursts between books. I remember reading Jane Eyre when I was less than ten, and rereading it several times over the years, falling more in love with it each time. As I grew, and my world expanded, my understanding of that universe expanded. The same book, but not the same. The same me, but not the same.
I also remember getting Helter Skelter from the local public library, loving it, and deciding that I couldn't part with it. This then resulted in several late notices, and a phone conversation between Mom and the librarian, during which Mom accused the librarian both of having made a mistake, and being a lunatic, because, quite logically, "She's just a kid. She's not reading about Manson." The librarian sheepishly admitted that that would be unlikely, and dropped the issue. I still have the book somewhere in my piles.
I met a woman recently who told me that she didn't read, and had probably never finished a whole book. Presumably, she doesn't have a learning disorder - she just doesn't like books. Huh? You can live without reading? She must be some sort of alien life form.
To the point: I only got through this whole (lazy baby in the tube) ordeal by forgetting about it and reading like an addict smokes crack. That is to say, I ignored my house (oh, the mess when my book binge finally ended!), my pets, dear dear Hubby, and pretty much everything/one around me.
It took a bad trip - seriously, awfully bad - to snap me out of my bender. I thought I could make the jump from novels to Serious Reading (all in the name of learning how to cope with my semi-fertility). I read self-help books, specifically miscarriage/pregnancy loss books. I had reason to believe they could save me - after all, books are the only things that keep me sane, grounded, me. Why wouldn't books about miscarriage help? I have no idea, but all I know is that they induced a feeling of illness in me not dissimilar to morning sickness. Still, I kept trying, paging through references to God and His grace (ugh - there is no God in RPL, and if there was, I'd hit him with a spinning backfist) and a lot of yuck about validating your grief (really? you mean it's ok to feel like my life has gone to crap? even though my life HAS gone to crap? got it.) I wanted to read about women like me, who want a baby so badly, and have been in the trenches forever, not about those who give up and accept childlessness. I may get there someday, but for now, I'm holding on to my mommy dreams. I banished those books into the library/dining room, and immediately got rid of my morning sickness-like feeling. And I didn't even have to have a miscarriage this time!
PS - I really like Coming to Term: Uncovering the Truth about Miscarriage by Jon Cohen. It's scientific and nerdy (I like basis in fact, which is probably why I have a problem with religion), and also awesomely hopeful. I highly recommend it.
PPS - If there's anyone out there who might want a stack of books about dealing with miscarriage, and who doesn't mind references to God, they're yours. Seriously. Just ignore the eau de vomit that might accompany them.
I have a long history with books. I love the experience of diving headfirst into someone else's reality, or some author's non-reality, and ignoring my own. This habit started when I was fairly young, and things were icky on the homefront. My reality was something I only experienced in short bursts between books. I remember reading Jane Eyre when I was less than ten, and rereading it several times over the years, falling more in love with it each time. As I grew, and my world expanded, my understanding of that universe expanded. The same book, but not the same. The same me, but not the same.
I also remember getting Helter Skelter from the local public library, loving it, and deciding that I couldn't part with it. This then resulted in several late notices, and a phone conversation between Mom and the librarian, during which Mom accused the librarian both of having made a mistake, and being a lunatic, because, quite logically, "She's just a kid. She's not reading about Manson." The librarian sheepishly admitted that that would be unlikely, and dropped the issue. I still have the book somewhere in my piles.
I met a woman recently who told me that she didn't read, and had probably never finished a whole book. Presumably, she doesn't have a learning disorder - she just doesn't like books. Huh? You can live without reading? She must be some sort of alien life form.
To the point: I only got through this whole (lazy baby in the tube) ordeal by forgetting about it and reading like an addict smokes crack. That is to say, I ignored my house (oh, the mess when my book binge finally ended!), my pets, dear dear Hubby, and pretty much everything/one around me.
It took a bad trip - seriously, awfully bad - to snap me out of my bender. I thought I could make the jump from novels to Serious Reading (all in the name of learning how to cope with my semi-fertility). I read self-help books, specifically miscarriage/pregnancy loss books. I had reason to believe they could save me - after all, books are the only things that keep me sane, grounded, me. Why wouldn't books about miscarriage help? I have no idea, but all I know is that they induced a feeling of illness in me not dissimilar to morning sickness. Still, I kept trying, paging through references to God and His grace (ugh - there is no God in RPL, and if there was, I'd hit him with a spinning backfist) and a lot of yuck about validating your grief (really? you mean it's ok to feel like my life has gone to crap? even though my life HAS gone to crap? got it.) I wanted to read about women like me, who want a baby so badly, and have been in the trenches forever, not about those who give up and accept childlessness. I may get there someday, but for now, I'm holding on to my mommy dreams. I banished those books into the library/dining room, and immediately got rid of my morning sickness-like feeling. And I didn't even have to have a miscarriage this time!
PS - I really like Coming to Term: Uncovering the Truth about Miscarriage by Jon Cohen. It's scientific and nerdy (I like basis in fact, which is probably why I have a problem with religion), and also awesomely hopeful. I highly recommend it.
PPS - If there's anyone out there who might want a stack of books about dealing with miscarriage, and who doesn't mind references to God, they're yours. Seriously. Just ignore the eau de vomit that might accompany them.
Monday, December 29, 2008
a good egg gone to waste
It hasn't even been two weeks since the surgery, and I do believe I'm ovulating. I know it's far too early to get back on the bandwagon, but I've been so consumed with trying for so long that it almost pains me to let this eggy go to waste.
I'm like Pavlov's dogs - see the egg white cm, jump Hubby. But today, I'm remaining firmly planted on the couch. How ironic - it's the first time I've actually wanted to get off the couch in weeks!
So, the only way that I can move forward is to plan the future, so my little brain has been ticking away all day. In order to ensure that no other good little eggies go to waste, I'm going to get my body (and mind) in the best possible shape (just in case I ever conceive again).
Step 1: detox. I just need to figure out which product to use, and when would be the best time to start, so as to best control the ensuing anal blow out. This step also means I'll have to say goodbye (yet again!) to some of my newly rediscovered best friends: junk food, alcohol, and caffeine. Poor Hubby. I'm sure I won't be a nice girl for a little while.
Step 2: sweat. I absolutely despise not being able to sweat my ass off in the gym, and since I want to be as healthy as possible before we ttc again, I will throw a tantrum if the doc doesn't give me the ok to work out. Seriously. It's the only high I have left.
Step 3: therapy. I know I need it. I've just recently accepted that. I'll leave my fears of being ridiculed for my own special brand of crazy at the door.
Step 4: acupuncture. I've read some promising stuff about it, and even if it proves to be bunk, I'll give it a try. I've never been scared of needles or anything. As a kid, I'd beg for a shot at the doctor's office, even if I didn't need one. I think I just wanted the lollipops they gave to the kids who had been stuck, or maybe I just liked the pain. Is it any surprise that I love tattoos?
I'm open to suggestions, if you know of any other steps I should include in the renovation of my womb/mind.
I'm like Pavlov's dogs - see the egg white cm, jump Hubby. But today, I'm remaining firmly planted on the couch. How ironic - it's the first time I've actually wanted to get off the couch in weeks!
So, the only way that I can move forward is to plan the future, so my little brain has been ticking away all day. In order to ensure that no other good little eggies go to waste, I'm going to get my body (and mind) in the best possible shape (just in case I ever conceive again).
Step 1: detox. I just need to figure out which product to use, and when would be the best time to start, so as to best control the ensuing anal blow out. This step also means I'll have to say goodbye (yet again!) to some of my newly rediscovered best friends: junk food, alcohol, and caffeine. Poor Hubby. I'm sure I won't be a nice girl for a little while.
Step 2: sweat. I absolutely despise not being able to sweat my ass off in the gym, and since I want to be as healthy as possible before we ttc again, I will throw a tantrum if the doc doesn't give me the ok to work out. Seriously. It's the only high I have left.
Step 3: therapy. I know I need it. I've just recently accepted that. I'll leave my fears of being ridiculed for my own special brand of crazy at the door.
Step 4: acupuncture. I've read some promising stuff about it, and even if it proves to be bunk, I'll give it a try. I've never been scared of needles or anything. As a kid, I'd beg for a shot at the doctor's office, even if I didn't need one. I think I just wanted the lollipops they gave to the kids who had been stuck, or maybe I just liked the pain. Is it any surprise that I love tattoos?
I'm open to suggestions, if you know of any other steps I should include in the renovation of my womb/mind.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Laziness
Reality is going to bitch slap me again. My days of laziness and self-indulgent sniveling are about to come to an end. Mom, who flew out on Christmas day to hang out and eat deliciously crappy food and listen to me whine, will be flying back home Tuesday, after which I'll promptly return to work. Sigh.
In the last month, I have truly mastered the art of laziness. Before pregnancy #5, I was merely a novice, despite my illusions of grandeur. When I started bleeding and spotting shortly after the pregnancy was confirmed, I panicked and planted my ass (which has, surprisingly, not doubled in size) on the couch. There it has remained, with very few excursions: doctor's visits, surgery, and little else. At first, my lazy days were worry filled, but fabulous. I still thought cletus the fetus had a chance, and I was determined to give it to him (I'm pretty sure cletus was a boy. Call it semi-mother's intuition). I ate healthy food, drank lots of water, peed a lot, read lots of books (thanks to fabulous friends who gave me the whole Sookie Stackhouse series - you rock!) and watched plenty of the true crime shows Hubby hates. I told Hubby that if he denied me anything I would take pictures of the bruises on my belly caused by those fabulous lovenox injections and report him for spousal abuse, so of course he was wrapped around my little finger. This was probably quite difficult for him, since laziness is one of the things we have in common, and I'm sure I was fairly demanding. Laziness, at that point, was a Good Thing.
Then came the Tearful Tuesday, when we found out that little cletus inherited our laziness, and planted his lazy ass in my fallopian tube. What a stinker! I'm sure we would have gotten along famously! After surgery, laziness was clearly not a choice - I was in pain and nodding off like a junkie every five minutes from my narcotics for the first couple of days, and have been hobbled by sadness ever since. I have absolutely no desire to do anything other than sit on the couch. I know that I need to move on and just get off the fucking couch already, but I can't. And Tuesday looms, two weeks from Tearful Tuesday, when Mom will leave and I'll go to work and pretend to be normal and fight back tears all day. Wednesday brings the follow up appointment at the RE's, and two parties, neither of which I want to attend. But I will, for Hubby's sake. The boy needs to play with his friends, and he's too sweet to leave me all alone on New Year's Eve, even if I beg and plead (I can't play the spousal abuse card anymore - the bruises are too faded).
Life goes on, even as my world crashes around me.
In the last month, I have truly mastered the art of laziness. Before pregnancy #5, I was merely a novice, despite my illusions of grandeur. When I started bleeding and spotting shortly after the pregnancy was confirmed, I panicked and planted my ass (which has, surprisingly, not doubled in size) on the couch. There it has remained, with very few excursions: doctor's visits, surgery, and little else. At first, my lazy days were worry filled, but fabulous. I still thought cletus the fetus had a chance, and I was determined to give it to him (I'm pretty sure cletus was a boy. Call it semi-mother's intuition). I ate healthy food, drank lots of water, peed a lot, read lots of books (thanks to fabulous friends who gave me the whole Sookie Stackhouse series - you rock!) and watched plenty of the true crime shows Hubby hates. I told Hubby that if he denied me anything I would take pictures of the bruises on my belly caused by those fabulous lovenox injections and report him for spousal abuse, so of course he was wrapped around my little finger. This was probably quite difficult for him, since laziness is one of the things we have in common, and I'm sure I was fairly demanding. Laziness, at that point, was a Good Thing.
Then came the Tearful Tuesday, when we found out that little cletus inherited our laziness, and planted his lazy ass in my fallopian tube. What a stinker! I'm sure we would have gotten along famously! After surgery, laziness was clearly not a choice - I was in pain and nodding off like a junkie every five minutes from my narcotics for the first couple of days, and have been hobbled by sadness ever since. I have absolutely no desire to do anything other than sit on the couch. I know that I need to move on and just get off the fucking couch already, but I can't. And Tuesday looms, two weeks from Tearful Tuesday, when Mom will leave and I'll go to work and pretend to be normal and fight back tears all day. Wednesday brings the follow up appointment at the RE's, and two parties, neither of which I want to attend. But I will, for Hubby's sake. The boy needs to play with his friends, and he's too sweet to leave me all alone on New Year's Eve, even if I beg and plead (I can't play the spousal abuse card anymore - the bruises are too faded).
Life goes on, even as my world crashes around me.
Friday, December 26, 2008
green eyed bitch
Jealousy is an evil, evil bitch. During my struggles with semi-fertility, she has taken up a near constant vigil in my life. Fertiles, specifically preggo fertiles, seem to bear the fruit of my resentment. I can't even begin to describe the just-punched-in-the-gut feeling that invariably accompanies the news that someone I know is expecting. (Oh, wait, yes I can. It feels like I just got punched in the gut). Several times Hubby has had the pleasure of delivering the news, and the exchange usually goes something like this:
Hubby: I have something to tell you (looking appropriately somber.)
Wifey: Uhhm, okay.
Hubby: So-and-so is pregnant (flinching as if I'm going to hit him with a spinning backfist. I haven't. Yet.)
Wifey: (tears, snot, incoherent mumblings, all of which may last several hours or days.)
Thank god that man often gets to see me at my best, because jealousy most definitely brings out my worst.
Sometime later, when I regain the ability to breathe, and thus talk, (much, I suppose, to Hubby's horror) I break out the "Why I'd Make a Better Mommy than So-and-so" game. It's rad - winner gets to feel like a total fucking asshole just for playing. I pretty much always win.
I have no idea why such happy news produces such an incredibly visceral reaction in me. I know that somebody else's pregnancy does not mean that I'll never have a child. It makes absolutely no sense that I feel like it does. Jealousy defeats reason, KO 1st round.
I think all of that is a fairly, or at least somewhat, normal response to the shit that we have been dealing with (not that that stops me from feeling ridiculous and asshole-ish for reacting in such a dramatic way). What really keeps me awake at night is not the because-so-and-so-has-it-better jealousy, but the because-so-and-so-has-it-worse jealousy. There, I said it. It seems even more asshole-ish written than it did in my head, but there it is. I wouldn't say that I wish I was that person dealing with the loss of a spouse, child, lover, friend, family member. I've experienced some of those losses, more than once, and they suck. I do, however, wish that the people in my world would understand (or acknowledge, for fuck's sake!) the depth of our losses. While my children might never have walked this earth, or been held in my arms, or kept me up all night, screaming, while I chugged from the flask in my bra just to deal, they are missed. Surely, sorely, they are missed.
Hubby: I have something to tell you (looking appropriately somber.)
Wifey: Uhhm, okay.
Hubby: So-and-so is pregnant (flinching as if I'm going to hit him with a spinning backfist. I haven't. Yet.)
Wifey: (tears, snot, incoherent mumblings, all of which may last several hours or days.)
Thank god that man often gets to see me at my best, because jealousy most definitely brings out my worst.
Sometime later, when I regain the ability to breathe, and thus talk, (much, I suppose, to Hubby's horror) I break out the "Why I'd Make a Better Mommy than So-and-so" game. It's rad - winner gets to feel like a total fucking asshole just for playing. I pretty much always win.
I have no idea why such happy news produces such an incredibly visceral reaction in me. I know that somebody else's pregnancy does not mean that I'll never have a child. It makes absolutely no sense that I feel like it does. Jealousy defeats reason, KO 1st round.
I think all of that is a fairly, or at least somewhat, normal response to the shit that we have been dealing with (not that that stops me from feeling ridiculous and asshole-ish for reacting in such a dramatic way). What really keeps me awake at night is not the because-so-and-so-has-it-better jealousy, but the because-so-and-so-has-it-worse jealousy. There, I said it. It seems even more asshole-ish written than it did in my head, but there it is. I wouldn't say that I wish I was that person dealing with the loss of a spouse, child, lover, friend, family member. I've experienced some of those losses, more than once, and they suck. I do, however, wish that the people in my world would understand (or acknowledge, for fuck's sake!) the depth of our losses. While my children might never have walked this earth, or been held in my arms, or kept me up all night, screaming, while I chugged from the flask in my bra just to deal, they are missed. Surely, sorely, they are missed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)