Deep thoughts & Big Decisions

Many thanks for your thoughts and comments a few months ago about the home vs. work dilemma.

Identity has always been an issue for me. Not in a particularly negative way, as in "I need to find myself," or "I just don't know who I am" kinds of crises, but in applying loose labels to myself.

In high school, identity went according to which crowd you hung with and in which sports you participated. Identity at my small, liberal arts college, was largely determined by your Greek affiliation and your academic major. All of those loose labels were ones I picked, and enjoyed. Never did I feel mislabeled, just comfortably ensconced in my crowd, my world.

Along with great friendship, love, and opportunity, marriage brought about the biggest identity crisis I'd experienced thus far. Who was I? Would I just become known as"J's wife"? I legally dropped my last name to take his, and this was scary to me. My mom was quick to point out, and it is a truth I've held dear to my heart ever since, that my maiden name always belongs to me, and just because I don't sign it on my checks, it is who I am. It always will be. J had thoughts of moving back to the town where he grew up, and the mention of it sent me into a tailspin, as he is part of a large, well-known family in a very small town. I knew I would simply become "J Smith's new wife" without a moment's investigation into who I really was and what made me interesting.

Luckily, it never came to that, as I am determined live my life in some semblance of a metropolitan area. And now, six years after marriage, I'm quite confident of who I am, in relationship to my husband. I haven't ever felt slighted, or identified as simply "the wife of ... "

But for the past ten years, my identity has been very much wrapped up in what I do professionally. I think it's a hazard of our culture, at least here in the mid-Atlantic area. The first thing out of people's mouths at any social occasion around here is "Nice to meet you, SusieQ. What do you do?" And it's so easy to spit out your job, rank, title, affiliation, whatever, and bam! You're identified.

What to do when the professional identification is gone?

Just before the new year, I made the decision that I want to stay home with the babies and give full-time motherhood a chance. For many, many reasons, but mostly acknowledging that this may be my only pregnancy/children and I really don't want to miss out on a single moment. It may be the only moment.

So. Having confidently made my decision, I presented it to my business partner, and told her I would do whatever necessary to support her in her decision about what to do with the business. I think she was surprised, and thought I would try to stick it out with some sort of a part-time presence.

We have made the plans, and are in the final month or so of our fabulous business creation. We will transition it into a business that she can run on her own, and that suits her skills and interests. I find that each day I alternate between sadness that we are closing this wonderful entity, anticipated loneliness for the people I have so enjoyed, and pure elation that the responsiblity will no longer drag me down, and awaken me at night.

Don't get me wrong, I am a fairly interesting person. I have interests, hobbies, friends, etc. I have no doubt I can carve out a new spot for myself in this big world and smallish community. But that takes time, and I'm worried about the meantime, the transition time. Who will I be in the interim? Who will I become? Mother - yes. Wife - still. Volunteer extraordinerre? Artist? Advocate? Sloth? Regular person?

* * * * *

I'm now at 22 weeks, and all is good. We've had our fetal scan, and both babies look great. They both have appropriate private parts, which is a delightful relief. Stay tuned for news about This One and That One.

Join the Bandwagon

I'll admit it, I totally dig Despera*e Housewiv*s ... it's part of the Sunday night decompression routine, which begins with a pineapple and ham pizza, consists of guilty pleasure tv shows, culminating in Gr*y's Anat*my, and sometimes later, some of my own snugglin' and lovin'. Sunday nights are grrrrrrreat, as Tony the Tiger might say.

Last night, I began Sunday Night Ritual with a plate of pizza nearby and laptop on my legs, catching up on some much-needed blog reading. I read a post at Fertility Now about the additional crappy storylines about infertility on prime time shows. So true, so true, I thought .

I attentively tune in to DH, and BIG SURPRISE! Gabriella and Carlos want to have a baby. But, according to her doctor, "that big fall" she took earlier has rendered her INFERTILE! Must be some tumble she took! And to make it even saucier, her crazy-ass mom shows up offering to be the gestational surrogate for their child. But add a background of sexual abuse, mother-issues, aversion to adoption, and all the expected drama. But alas! By the end of the show, it's all wrapped up with a nice, tight bow. Carlos is totally cool with adoption, Gabrielle is thrilled that she won't have to "mess up her body," and I'm sure by the end of the season, they'll oh-so-realistically have a brand new baby in their home!

Gross Pregnancy Detail

Bellies change. I get it. Obviously, this is because a baby (or in this case, two babies) are taking up all the room that was previously occupied by internal organs and partially digested pizza. I'm thrilled about what's going on in the inside. It's what's happening on the outside that grosses me out.

1. My belly has a pulse. I can lie in bed, shirt pulled up, and watch my belly throb. It's not babies kicking or moving, it's just blood circulating. Lots of it. Making my belly move on it's own.

2. Have you ever taken a dip in the pool or bathtub and looked down at your body, noticing that any visible hairs hold tiny bubbles on them? On a recent dip in the tub, I submerged myself in the delicious warmth, and looked down, only to see tons of bubbles all over my stomach. Everywhere! Upon further investigation, outside of the tub, I see that yes, I have fur. Pale, light fur, but fur nonetheless. Uggh.

3. And the piece de resistance ... I need to buy some stock in Band-Aid. Because I think I'm going to be purchasing them by the boatload, in order to cover the nasty, herniated sphincter that my belly button has become. I can't stand to look at it. It hasn't popped out yet, which I hear will happen, but it's previously cavernous depths are shrinking daily, and if pressed in just the right way, it looks like Jack might just pop right out of his box.

* * * * *

On the other, more positive and delightful, hand, the beings in the belly are doing way cool things. I find myself wanting to be slothful and lazy, to lie around on the couch, just so I can be still and feel the belly (averting my eyes from the orifice formerly known as Belly Button), waiting to feel a gurgle, a bump, a hard spot, or an overt jab. It is happening more and more frequently, and I'm obsessed. All I want to do is wait for it.

What's up with that?

I come home from work yesterday, only to find my dear, sweet husband (formerly macho-man sports-loving husband) enthralled by the Olympic Curling match that is currently on television?

WTF? Why would a man who loves the speed of skating, the manly crunch of human bodies in football, the intense skill and inherent danger of mogul skiing, be enthralled with curling?

As I tried to engage him in our everyday repartee - "how was your day?" "What exciting things happened at work?" - I was caught in a non-stop lesson on the intricacies of block shots, stones, brooms, and tee scores. I tried, I promise I tried, to find the lesson interesting, and perhaps discover some nugget of curiosity that could prompt me to ask a question or feign interest. But alas, none. My mind was a blank.

I thought it all over when I came downstairs to breakfast. We watched the morning news, as usual, and during a commercial, someone thought it good to switch over to the other channel carrying Olympic coverage. To which the response was an overindulged "Oh yea! Curling is on!"

Oh, Turin/Turino/Torinoa, what monster have you created?

My Infertility Bookshelf

Information is a salve. It soothes, it eases, it heals, even if only temporarily.

Dr. Google has been a boon to those dealing with medical issues, and in my own personal experiences, infertility. But books, I still love those. What's better than cuddling up with a first-person tale of woe to make you feel certain that there is hope for your situation? The laptop doesn't do so well propped up on the ledge of the tub (believe you me, I have tried), but a medical tome can pass the time while attempting to simultaneously relax and determine how the hell you're going to manage to conceive a child under the duress of ill-functioning internal organs.

So to you, I present my personal infertility library. These books hold a revered spot in my bedroom. They are not on my regular, downstairs bookshelves, as I never achieved the confidence to discuss it all as cocktail party conversation with folks who might be perusing my bookshelves. And the bedroom just seems right. Since the babies were not to be made as per the ususal method (i.e., in the bedroom), the proximity seems somehow appropriate. Contemplative reading is best done in bed or bath.

Note to the right of the books, the very large husband-stole-from-a-wedding-receiption-back-in-his-college-days-extra-large-goblet full of all the spare change. Very necessary when embarking on IF treatment with minimal insurance coverage.

A Few Good Eggs ... I liked this one a lot. Straight-out woman's perspective. Not too much total depth, but a good primer in easy going language.

Love and Infertility ... While not totally my style, I was glad to find a book that talked directly about how infertility affects your relationship with your husband/partner.

Girlfriend to Girlfriend: A Fertility Companion

Unsung Lullabies: Understanding and Coping with Infertility

Inconceivable: A Woman's Triumph over Despair and Statistics ... Wow. This woman's story is awe-inspiring in many ways. I didn't necessarily take the same paths she did, but she did inspire me to keep at it.

The Baby Trail ... Okay, it's chick lit. But it's entertaining, a story I could somewhat relate to, and kept me occupied when the last thing I wanted to do was dwell on my most recently failed IUI.

Conception Chronicles: The Uncensored Truth about Sex, Love and Marriage when You're Trying to Get Pregnant ... Cool format, very "chatty with the girlfriends" and good basic info.

Conquering Infertility ... The author is somewhat of a mind-body infertility guru. After reading this book, my only consolation to my infertility woes was that if they continued, I was going to get myself up to Boston for one of her workshops.

In Vitro Fertilization: The A.R.T.* of Making Babies ... Such a clever, clever title. Gag. The edition I read had some pretty outdated information, and I found it condescending and annoying in general. Perhaps a newer edition?

The Infertility Survival Handbook ... I loved this book. It reassured me, and gave me some coping techniques, along with information for which I was starving.

Knocked up: Confessions of a Hip Mother-to-Be ... Another chick-lit guilty pleasure to give me hope. Although I did keep the front title hidden while reading in public.

Not on the shelf, but another goodie:

The Couple's Guide to In Vitro Fertilization: Everything You Need to Know to Maximize Your Chances of Success ... The only one I found that even attempted to speak to the man in the relationship. Not that he read it anyway.

Any other nominees? Favorites? Most despised? Ones you would like to read? Books you wish someone would write?

It just doesn't seem right

While I do believe in a woman's right to have a child, whether she is single, married, black, white, yellow, purple, tall, short, skinny, round, young or old, I can't help the fact that I am bothered by this.

I don't argue with this woman's desire. I do argue with any doctor who would perform IVF on a 67 year old woman.

Shower Issues

I spent Saturday at a wonderful baby shower for a dear old friend. It was a nice mix of people, old and young, and although games were involved, they were short, sweet, and kind of funny. I reconnected with old friends, made some new ones, and felt the warmth of all the people that were so genuinely excited for J. & I.

Coincidentally, over the weekend, both a good friend and a relative, told me that they'd like to plan showers/parties for me/us. I freaked out. I am so, so bad at being the center of attention, and quite uncomfortable in that situation. But it's important to them, and I know both showers will be a good time, and a memory I do want to make.

But I'm worried. (apparently, I'm not the only one who has shower issues.) Friends and family are spread all around the state. Neither J or I have a traditional work environment (we own a small business, and esentially work together. With one other person), so we don't have a group of "work friends." I certainly have some good girlfriends, but honestly, most of them are out of town. Many of our friends are "couple friends". I am deathly afraid that I simply don't have enough friends to split between two parties. What if noone comes? How horrifying.

I'm so nervous, and really don't know how to handle it. But then again, weeks ago, I had a deathly fear that noone would offer a shower, and would that be disappointing too?

Such trivial concerns. I need to put them in perspective, and realize that these are problems I only dreamed I'd ever be having.

Who Are Those Crazy Ladies?

It’s something I’ve alternately dreaded and anticipating. I avoided it for a long time … took drastic means to skip it … rubber bands, safety pins, a few of J’s items, my “fat” clothes.

But the time came, and I had to bite the bullet at go shopping for maternity clothes. All of the above techniques only enhanced the fact that it appeared that I had overindulged during the holiday festivities, and might have gotten me nominated as a candidate on “What Not to Wear.”

Typically, I love to shop. For anything. It’s one of my favorite pastimes. In the past few years, clothing shopping hasn’t been as fun, as I haven’t been particularly satisfied with my shape. And shopping on a deadline with specific needs simply takes the fun out of impulse shopping.

So I went. Actually, my MIL wanted to take me, and we spent a wonderful afternoon together. We picked out some nice basics, and few fun pieces, and were having a great time together (which is crazy, because we really don’t spend much “alone” time together).

The seemingly innocent saleswoman had been as nice as can be. It was a small boutique, and we were the only people in there, so much chatting and making-nice had been happening. I’m not sure how the subject came up, but we were talking about the different kinds of people who shop in her store.

And then she said something to the effect of “Yea, and then sometimes you get these women who aren’t pregnant, don’t seem to want to buy the clothes, don’t talk at all, and just want to look around. It’s crazy, I don’t get what they’re doing here!”

I get it. It was me. Years of cautious wandering through baby boutiques, occasionally maternity stores, wondering if I’d ever be there shopping for myself. Nothing crazy about it.

Birth Stories

That was about as honest as it gets.

I just returned from a local production of Birth, by New York playwright Karen Brody. A collection of monologues, really, tied together with choreographed role-playing by other members of the cast. Each character, through an alternating series of monologues, relays her own birth story, or stories. They range from scheduled c-section to a “My Body Rocks!” self-empowered natural birth, from a home birth to an experience with too much unwanted medical intervention.

The play opens with a dialogue about how it is a domesticated dog gives birth. A dog knows what to do when the time comes. Her instinct guides her. She readies herself. Humans do not intervene unless there is an emergency. There are no bright lights above and crowds on all sides. The dog takes herself to a quiet place. She has a private birth, and when her puppies are born, they either begin to nurse, or nuzzle up with their mother. Is it too much to ask, that as women, we be treated as well as our dogs in birth?

I certainly felt the slant towards the position of natural childbirth, minimal medical intervention, the promotion of midwifery. It didn’t bother me in any way. In promoting those very virtues, the play advocated women taking care of women. This is a concept that simply can’t be wrong. We are animals. We do have instincts. And yes, as the playwright so well noted, women are qualified to give birth to their own children.

I don’t want to give away too much about the specific storylines, in hopes that if you ever have the opportunity to see this play, you will rush straight to the theater. It beefed up my confidence in myself and my abilities as a woman, educated me about some questions I should be asking, and illustrated, in a very realistic light, the myriad of options that are now available to women. Reading about your options in a book is nothing like hearing them from the mouths of women.

And most of all, I learned that the intentional choices you make for yourself are always okay. Whether it's a choice about your career, your spouse, your infertility and desire to have a child, or about childbirth. Because it is your voice and your intention, you have the right to make the decision. You stand behind it because it was the right choice for you, not for anyone else.

Home again, home again

It's true. There really is no place like home.

Especially when compared to a rainy week at a secluded ski resort in the mountainous backwaters a few states over.

But relaxation is always a good thing, and although my ambitious expectations for the productive use of forced downtime are never met, or exceeded, I do feel calm and ready to take on the new year.

The pile of four books that I was certain to read remained somewhat untouched. I did enjoy many chapters from this very interesting compilation of essays written by an array of fascinating women.

While watching my sweet nieces and nephews, supervised by my very own J., swoop down the slopes, I soaked up the wit and wisdom of this very hilarious woman, who might just be my 'new favorite' author. I'll be seeing attending an event at which she'll be speaking next month, and am so very excited!

More often, I listened to a trashy mystery novel on my iPod and attempted to learn to crochet. After some very serious false starts, I managed to tangle together an attempt at a scarf. If, perhaps, my color selections has been more, um, informed, it wouldn't look so much like a day-glo seventh-grader with a bad haircut. But, I've mastered a new stitch, and have a lovely, very long scarf that I might or might not be to embarrased to wear.

Actually, the three day visits with the aforemententioned nieces and nephews, and the two day wrap up with good friends from home, made the trip quite nice. Sandwiched between the two were some good movies, kinda-good meals, quiet time with J, great people-watching, romantic moments, stunning views and nature, and the discovery of a very hip coffee shop/live music venue a few towns over. So all was good.

* * *

I was practically breaking down the doors to the vet this morning in an attempt to bring my kitties home. They didn't want to release them, as they hadn't had their required going-home bath, but I could wait no longer.

We learned that white kitty did indeed have a raging bladder infection (yet again) and after tests, bacteria cultures, an x-ray to search for stones and blockages, and a week of a new medication, I was treated to the most astronomical veterinary bill I've ever seen. But if the boarding, testing, and antibiotics have cured miss kitty of her spraying ills, it will be worth every single penny.

They were so cute when we got home ... each was so nervous, as if they'd been dropped off in a totally unfamiliar home. Scared "meows" and tentative sniffing were the typical behavior for a few hours, as they would rush around a corner to make sure that yes, we were still there. I wonder, how good is the memory of a cat?

* * *

Call it nesting, call it new year organizational frenzy, but I've got it. (I suspect the latter, since I've always been a decorating/organizing kind of girl.) Yesterday afternoon and evening was spent pulling almost everything off the shelves of my closet, trashing, moving, organzing, boxing and labeling it all. Old clothes in plastic tubs, guest room dressers and closets were sorted for (1) Maybe I Can Still Wear this For A Few Months, (2) No Chance This Will Fit Me, But Maybe After the Babies I Can Get Into Really Fabulous Shape ... A New Me!, or (3) Fat Chance, Off to Goodwill.

This afternoon you would find me in front of my kitchen pantry. All like items moved together, shelves rearranged, and each shelf labeled. Yes, it's a new low. I labeled my foodstuffs. Really, it's more in an attempt to train J to put things back in the right spot, but hopefully it will also help me keep from buying multiples of the same thing. Why, I ask, did I ever find the need to purchase three seperate containers of cornstarch. I honestly don't even know what it's used for. Got a good recipe for cornstarch muffins or something? Send it my way, please.

* * *

Things are good on the baby-front. I'm quite poochy now, at 16 weeks, and feel some very strange rumblings down below. Who knows, could be all the cornstarch I'm consuming. I got waaay ahead of myself and ordered the two cribs I'd been lusting after. Not thinking they would arrive so soon, of course. And they will continue to reside, flat-packed, in my hallway until I can get motivated to do some painting, move some furniture, and get my stuff together.

I know it's very early to be worrying about such things, but the room is so small, I need to set up the big pieces of furniture before I can figure out if a chair will actually fit in there. I'm visual ... I like to see it all in person.

* * *

This is more of a reminder to me, but for any of you who join me and all the other blogging ladies in the belief that this is the most assinine and ridiculous bill, please voice your opinion. This makes me so proud to reside in this state.

***

Bad news. Please send thoughts and prayers out to Jen.

And We're Off

They all made fun of me.

I had to drop the kitties off at the vet today, for a seven-day vacation while we're out of town. Normally, we have a cat-sitter come by and check on them, but Moo-Kitty is having some bathroom issues, and we would certainly come home to a stinky mess.

I couldn't just "drop them off" and take off on my merry way. I wanted to sit with them for a minute, show them around their new home, put them in the cages (they get to share a double, thank goodness), and pet and talk to them, make them calm. Or make me calm.

Okay, so I asked a lot of questions. Who checks on them over the weekend? How often? How much do they let them out to play? Etc, etc.

Okay, so I had to be tugged out reluctantly. I'm comfortable leaving them at home ... they are familiar with home. Maybe lonely, but comfortable. I've never left them away, at the vet, or anywhere else. So it was tough.

And when we were back at the receptionist desk, J proceeds to make fun of me to the receptionist. And then play the baby card: "Can you believe she's pregnant with twins? We're never going to be able to leave them. She'll be a nervous wreck." And on and on. Ad nauseum.

Well, excuse me. Somebody was raised on a farm (not me). Someone (moi) treats pets like members of the family.

I know the the comparison may be crass, and probably not equal, but these kitties are my first babies. They have comforted me through tough times, through lonely times. They put a smile on my face when nothing else will. They allow me to nurture, to take care. They keep me warm, and their purrs sooth me into sleep. The anger and frustrate me, but I love them.

So, there. And yes, I will be calling to check on them while we're away.

We're off for a week's vacation. I've packed up a stash of books, magazines, movies, and games. And pursuant to Emma's recommendation, I've loaded up on yarns and instructions, and am determined to be a master-crocheter by week's end.

Testing! 1, 2, 3 !

I don't know if it's par for the course, by my RE strongly suggested (both to me in person and via letter to my OB/GYN) that since I conceived via IVF with ICSI, that an amniocentesis should be performed, no matter my age.

He says that, while it is unproven, there could be some evidence to the conclusion that ICSI babies have a higher rate of birth defects. My OB says she hasn't seen the link, and encourages her patients to make the decision on their own. I've read articles and seen statistics to both effects.

We'd discussed it at previous appointments, and it came up again today at my 14-week checkup. If I were 35 or older, it would be a no-brainer, as the risk of birth defects in any pregnancy increases at that point. But I'm only 30. So is it worth the risk of the amnio itself? And if it showed positive for birth defects, what decision would I make?

As an alternative, by OB offered up an AFP or multiple marker screen (also known as a triple or quad screen). This blood test, she says, gives a percentage chance that there could be a genetic defect, and is a indicator to move on to an amnio.

Again, the question is, if it came back positive, what would I do with that information? I would have to amnio both babies, and what if only one had problems? Would I want to, as she said so delicately, "alter the pregnancy"?

My answer is no. Others would answer yes, which is absolutely fine. It's an incredibly personal decision that I would never presume to judge for others. We've had no genetic issues thus far, so I'm not going to investigate further. Because I know that the resulting decision would be no different than I would do right now.

Should I change my mind, I have about six more weeks. We have our in-depth fetal scan in four weeks, which I am so excited for. That scan could show problems that might exist, and we'll deal with that when we get to it.

Today's ultrasound showed two normal, healthy babies, measuring at 14.5 weeks. Every time I've been in, the ultrasound office is very busy, is shorthanded, is overbooked, etc., and today was no different. Therefore, it was again a short scan, without much screentime for me. Again, a little disappointing. And an ultrasound tech who said, a number of times, "So, we're here today to check and make sure there are still two in there, right?" Way to start off the day on a positive note, huh?

But everyone looked happy inside, and wiggled around a bit. Seeing the spines was very cool. Kind of felt like I was at my own private exhibit in the Dead Zoo.

* * *

I'm off next Saturday for an annual ski vacation on which I cannot ski. (J can, of course, and will.) It will be just J & I for the majority of the week, and friends will join us for the last two days.

I'm planning to take some good books, audio books on the iPod, write my thank-you notes, and try out some new recipes. We're going to load up on movies, and I just got some supplemental editions of Scene It. Good or bad, depending on how you look at it, it's a nothing little town with nada in the areas of nightlife or entertainment, so entertainment falls squarely on our shoulders.
Imagine you're snowed in in a 70's era condo in the mountains. What would you do to while away the long hours?

Love in a Bathtub*

The simple idea of it sooths me. It warms me, in these months of cold, when no matter the setting on the thermostat, it’s still not warm enough. It is escape, quiet, time alone. My mind doesn’t wander to problems most difficult and to-do lists full of tasks. In there here and now, I’m also deep in someone else’s life. Or in a place far away. Yet still at home, in my bathtub.

Oh, the bathtub. Ever since I was a child, it’s been my refuge. An option for entertainment when boredom strikes. A vehicle for procrastination. As a teenager, I’d spend hours, literally, in the tub with a book. The water started out steaming hot, and as it cooled, I’d alternately let some of the cool out and then refill with fresh, hot water. I’d emerge a wrinkly raisin, shriveled by satisfied.

I’ve had different bathing phases throughout my life. Once off at college, there was no option. No tub in my shared, suite bathroom, for the first three years. Finally, the senior year apartment had a nice white tub … almost new. My roommates thought me crazy, but whenever I could grab a few spare moments, that small room was all mine. Let them all use the powder room … that bathroom was reserved!

Post-collegiate apartments contained bathrooms that were afterthoughts of penny-pinching renovationally-challeneged landlords. I suppose the few square feet of floor space that a tub takes up were put to better use … in the crappy galley kitchens? No. In the almost non-existent laundry closets? Nope.

And then … salvation! J and I bought our house, just before we got married. It’s an early 1900s row house, and had been subject to some horrendous renovations. But the former owner did do one good thing. He left in place three original cast-iron clawfoot tubs, all full sized. Plus one mini clawfoot tub residing the backyard, under a leaking downspout. Add to the mix one tan laminate tub-shower-wall cubicle combo in the unfinished basement Not installed, mind you, but hooked up to a hose for water, and another hose leading into a floor drain. And not in a bathroom, per se, but just floating in the middle of the room. Apparently, he lived down there on occasion. I won’t even go into his other creepy habits that we later learned about. Freaky.

For years, I loved those tubs (the full size clawfoots). While they were dingy, marred, nicked, painted and wallpapered (?) with questionable taste, they are just the right size to hug your body. Not enough space to squirm around too much, but enough to be comfortable. They are just the right size for an across the tub rack that holds a drink and book. What more could a water-loving nymph like me want?

We renovated that house a few years ago, and oh yes, I discovered what more I could want. Namely, a little more space and some kick-ass jets and bubbles.

Winter always finds me in the bath, almost with daily regularity. I’ve been so cold lately, and it’s one of the only ways I can feel good. Just plain, old good.

The ingredients for my perfect soak include:

*A stack of magazines or catalogs, or perhaps a delicious novel
*A cool drink (in the past it’s been wine in the evening, but now I’m digging ginger ale)
*A small snack of some sort (one must be careful when selecting a snack, because occasional overboard experience do happen. Have you ever seen a gumdrop floating in bathwater? Take my word for it … ugg.)
*A concoction for the bathwater … bubbles, salts, whatever’s available. Today it will be a bath bomb fizzer.
*A kitty cat.

Running water always draws the attention of my two little felines. They love to drink from the sink faucet, so the bathtub water is simply fascinating. Once the water reaches a higher lever, Sweet White Kitty positions herself on the tub surround. Her body flattens, inches forward, and one paw reaches down towards the reflective pool of water. Usually she undershoots it, and has to reach down even further, which makes me so nervous. Eventually, paw makes contact with water, and licking and grooming commences. Not such a good idea if bubble bath has been introduced into the mix, but she usually figures it out.

If small food pieces or bottle caps are in the immediate area, soccer wannabe Sweet White Kitty starts her match and things start flying into the water. Which is why I know about sticky, floating gumdrops.

I’m starting to feel nostalgic. It’s been 24 hours since my last visit. I can wait no longer … I’m off to take a dip now. Ta ta!

*with apologies to Sujata Bhatt

The Sevens

Goodness .... I was tagged by Jen. This took an awful long time for me to complete - it was harder than I thought. Maybe you'll learn something new about me. I did.

Seven things to do before I die:

1. Spend some time hanging out in Thailand (where I was born) and in neighboring Laos
2. Enjoy my grandchildren
3. Get back to pottery, and have my own little studio someday
4. Help my sister get her life going, and hang out with her kids
5. Continue to write, and get better and more disciplined at it
6. Explore the Grand Canyon (this is more J's wish than mine, but by default, it's mine too.)
7. Attempt to enjoy and master a competitive sport.

Seven things I cannot do:

1. Enjoy a game of chess
2. Touch my nose with my tongue (but I can round up my tongue like a crescent roll!)
3. Control my obsession with "Flavor Blasted" Cheddar Goldfish
4. Master the inverted balancing poses in yoga. Or even hold them for 2 seconds.
5. Keep sucking in my stomach any longer
6. Multitask while cooking, without getting frantic
7. Stand flat on my feet, without rolling them outwards

Seven things that attract me to my spouse:

1. Gorgeous eyes
2. His faithfulness
3. His small, but very cute, butt
4. His love of me
5. His earnestness
6. His confidence
7. The cute way he's so technologically-challenged

Seven things I say most often:

1. "Whatever"
2. "Good morning, *&(*&((" (insert name of my business here)
3. "Is there anything I can help you find today?" (See above)
4. "Hiiiiiiiiiiiii........" (even if I've been in the same room with the person for a while. Just to break the silence. I don't dig silence.)
5. "Yep, it's twins. Yep, I'm excited."
6. "Thank you." (I try, so hard, to be polite, even when I'm feeling like I want to bite your head off.)

Seven books I love:

1. Anything by Ellen Gilchrist, most especially I Rhoda Manning Go Hunting and Fishing with my Father.
2. The Fourth Hand by John Irving
3. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway
4. The older Patricia Cornwell books. The new ones simply suck.
5. Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott. I'm currently reading this, and can see it becoming a favorite.
6. My whole library of infertility books ... they gave me much needed information, stories of women like me, and comfort that indeed, there is a possibility of a child in my future. Perhaps I'll write a bit later about these books. I have a ton.
7. The Martha Stewart Living Cookbook. I know, I know, you either love Martha or you hate her. But this is my go-to book anytime I need help with cooking or am in need of a cool recipe.

Seven movies I watch over and over again:

1. The Abyss
2. The American President (just like Jen!)
3. Mother, May I Sleep with Danger? (Oh gawd. Tori Spelling on Lifetime. But I just can't turn it off when it appears. Why? WHY?)
4. Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (SJP and Helen Hunt back in the day!)
5. Watcher in the Woods (another fun one from childhood)
6. African Queen
7. The Poseidon Adventure

The Little One

I did it! I managed to get this whole wireless thing set up - presto chango! And I spent an entire late evening / early morning on the couch, checking in on every single person on my blogroll. Wow, lots has happened in the past few weeks, and I was waaaay behind.

We babysat our 2 1/2 year old nephew the other night. Usually, we visit at his house, so we get him in small, controlled doses. This was a different story ... I'd forgotten how crazy wild little tots are. Thank goodness we had some activities planned, or he would've had us all a mess!

After a very fun dinner of grilled cheese, we moved on to work on the Christmas tree, which was lit, but not decorated. Little One took his job of the swirly paper ornaments very seriously, so seriously that he hung all twelve ornaments from one branch. There was no way to encourage him to spread them out, he thought they were perfect just how they were. And they were.

Wrapping presents, what fun, I thought! I can get some real wrapping done, and he can "pretend" wrap some smaller ones. No such luck. We all know what is more interesting to little boys ... the big, empty boxes. One large carton became a sled, a fort, a house, a spaceship, and then an Extreme Home M*akeover house once J was finished with the scissors and duct tape. Quite a creation!

And then, popping popcorn. I realized that most kids now get their popcorn straight out of the microwave, so I thought we'd have a lesson in the Amazing World of Air Popped Corn. It's so much more fun to watch, and when nearing the end, you can take the top off and watch the last few kernels pop all over the kitchen. It was a true success.

I suspect my poor kitties didn't feel the same way about the evening. They're not used to kids, and the Little One was a bit of a terror for them.

After much tail pulling, laying-on, screatching, and whippings with the fishing toy, they discovered the cardboard boxes that were still standing and full of fluff and tissue, and made their ways for safety.

Swerve: Big Decision Ahead

Oh, I am so torn. I have a huge decision to make, pretty much over the weekend, and it’s a fairly huge decision. Or at least I think it is. Is it?

I am part-owner of a small business. I’ve been in it for about five years, and I really love it. It combines my skills (marketing, public relations, organization) and my loves (shopping, homes, beautiful things). It’s been a big part of my life, and has given me amazing opportunities, freedoms, responsibilities, and learning experiences.

But owning a business is hard work. If an employee doesn’t show up, guess who must cover? If a customer is crazy and unhappy, guess who has to spend all the time taking care of it? When the holidays roll around, guess who’s here at all hours? Who goes on all the business trips, deals with all the vendors, and runs the day to day heart of the business? Moi.

The above factors can all be positives, but they can also be negatives. And I can’t do a job half-assed. So if I’m in for good, I’m in full-force. If I’m out, I’m out. No part-time, reduced-responsibilities for me.

I have a meeting on Tuesday with my partner. I need to let her know what my plans are – in or out. For me, there really is no in between. I like to think that there could be, but I’m a bit of a control freak for starters, and a partnership needs to be equal in terms of what you put in and what you take out. And I wonder, with two at home, can I give 100% like I do now? And do I really want to?

It may seem pretty far ahead to be making this decision, but it's not just quitting a job - that would be easy. It's dissolving a partnership. It's potentially changing the face of a business. It's a whole different way of life.

So with this, I put it out there: Do any of you have experiences or thoughts about staying at work vs. staying at home? Regrets? Good decisions? Anecdotal stories? Hard statistical evidence? Just wondering.

On Line ... Almost

I'm so excited! I've almost figured out how to make my laptop get wireless access! I can't wait to read your blogs from the comfort of my couch or at the kitchen bar while I eat breakfast (or lunch or dinner ... or Oreos at midnight).

In my circle of friends, family, and coworkers, I am one of the most technologically knowledgeable.

But amongst the world of bloggers, I am ignorant ... Completely! So I will sit this evening, surrounded by my boxes of gidgets and gadgets, and hope to get it all set up correctly. Stay tuned!

It Takes All Kinds

I watched a cool special last night about adopting children from China. I'm a Video on Demand junkie, and it was new, so how could I resist? It was very much a homemade, how-to kind of program, but I'm a big fan of how-to kinds of publications and shows, so I really enjoyed it. It took you step by step (very basic steps) through the process, explaining each level, from choosing an agency to deciphering referral information and pictures and on and on.

Ever since I realized that adoption was a possibility for us, I've tried to incorporate the idea into my mindset. I've read about adoption, just like I've read about IVF. I enjoy talking to people who have, or will, adopt. I love reading your blogs. I hope I am one of those people who is genuinely interested, instead of tentatively curious, about adoptions and adoptive children.

I have a friend who will be using a gestational surrogate this spring, if all goes according to plan. I had no idea what an arduous and intense process it will be. Not only does she have to manage finding, interviewing and deciding on a surrogate, she also has to go through the first part of IVF, with the stims and retrieval.

I know that people who have experienced infertility are often more educated about and willing to talk about these subjects. But I love that as women, we really do have so many options available to us. And for the most part, we don't have to hide in the shadows as we decide and manage our choices. We can speak with pride about what we're doing, knowing that there is no shame for us, that we are making the right decisions about our bodies, our futures, our families. Sure, some may not agree with medical intervention, adoption and surrogacy, but we know that it's the right choice for us.

In my own little world, I know people who are making all these decisions, and I love the simple fact that we can. Just think about how many women are making these choices every day.

I've been reading a lot about pregnancy, birth, child raising and the like (big surprise, right?), and I've noticed that in more recent books, there is almost always a decent reference or specific information about all of these options. How you came to have your child absolutely does affect how/if your pregnancy progresses, how your early days with your child will be, and choices you might make in raising him or her.

A family member gave me the copy of What to Expect ... that she read in the mid-1990s. There is little to no reference to ART, IVF, adoption, or surrogacy. At all. And that lack of information certainly mirrors what kind of information and acceptance was out in the general public around that time.

We live in a good time. Sure, I wish more states had mandatory infertility coverage. I wish it was easier to adopt children, and there was less bureaucracy and paperwork. I wish the cover-your-ass legalities involved with any of these options were simply not necessary. I wish people didn't feel the need to over-analyze, criticize, and judge the choices of others, without knowing the facts.

But all in all, we do have choices. And to steal from Martha, that's a very good thing.

Hypochondriac in the Making? I Think Not.

In my life, I've always been a pretty healthy person. Basic illnesses, a bout with mono, a kidney infection that I'll never forget, regular colds and flus. I've learned so much about my body during these past three years, and I feel much more in tune with any aches and pains and what my body might be telling me. Too, in tune, perhaps, now that there are real, live babies inside.

I sneezed last night, laying in bed, and experienced the oddest, strongest pain in my groin. It was so odd, and so scary at the same time. Not like a punch in the belly, not the bowling-ball in the gut like after retrieval, but sharp, yet widespread. I know in my head that this must be normal, right?

I hesitate to call my doctor for something that must be so normal - I don't want to be as annoying as the patient she told me about. The poor woman was so uptight about causing damage that she literally called daily with questions like "I walked by a store where they were repainting. I'm sure I breathed some fumes. Did I hurt my baby?" I am determined not to be that woman. I'm all for asking for help when help is due, but I'm certainly going to have to be able to figure some things out on my own, right?

Doctor Google came to the rescue and assured me that it's just ligaments stretching. Which seems odd, because you can't even tell I'm pregnant. By looking at my belly, that is. Which I also find odd at 12-weeks with twins. Shouldn't something be showing? No worries, it will come soon enough, I'm sure.

Keeping Up with Room Service

They're still there, and apparently, they plan to stay. La Utera de Laura is a hospitable residence, and they seem to be happy with the room service. The maitre'd brings them their meals accordingly, and even though it's been more McDonalds than they might prefer, they haven't penned any complaint letters. The room service has been so good that they're actually measuring a little bigger than they should, which is great. Because their host, moi, has dropped a few LBs in the process.

The spa services have been a bit rumbly lately, as the hosts belly has been acting up, but it all makes for interesting entertainment for them. They would shout and scream with delight and the crazy, bumpy massages they're receiving, but they just read that voices only travel through air, not fluid. Even though their vocal cords are developed, they have noone to talk to. Poor little ones. Imagine, being able to talk, but not being able to talk ... what torture! Instead, Baby B demonstrated delight by doing a little side-roll-arm-raising demonstration while on Candid Camera.

They've spoken to the hotelier about securing their reservations for the next five and a half months or so, and have been told that as far as the establishment can tell, the room will still be available for them. As long as they don't throw a crazy kegger and get kicked out.

* * *

I'm finally experiencing a slight respite in the holiday chaos that is my life right now. The miracle of part-time employees is a blessing, allowing me to attempt to think about my holiday shopping and such. Quite frankly, I think my friends and family are sick of getting gifts from my store, so I'm trying to branch out a bit.

* * *

I feel challenged sometimes in how to talk about this pregnancy, and the circumstances surrounding it all. I was pretty open about doing treatments and IVF while it was happening, and certainly don't feel closemouthed about it now. I was out with a group of college girlfriends the other night, and when one of them asked "Oh, do twins run in your family?" I had no problem whatsoever saying, "Oh no, we did in vitro."

With friends and people near my own age, I feel so comfortable talking about it, and when talking to that particular girlfriend, I followed it up with a brief conversation about how I don't mind talking about it, because I wish I'd known some more people to talk to and help me when I was going through it. And that it's something I wish more women would talk about. Also, I suspect this friend might be having problems, and I wanted to let her know about me.

On the flip side, last night we told a group we're involved with at church. Many of them, I know well, some of them know about our IVF and such, and I don't mind talking personally to in a more intimate situation. They are all wonderful people, and I don't take their questions to be rude, just interested, but at one point, I just didn't know what to say. Practically all the ladies - ranging in ages from 30 to 70 - asked if twins run in our family, were you taking fertility drugs, etc. etc? I just said no, smiled, yes we're excited, and on and on.

I didn't feel totally uncomfortable, just unprepared. However, two women in the group have twins, and I'm so looking forward to talking to them. And another woman spoke to me afterwards, and just said "I'm so excited for you ... I know how long you've wanted this." It's all she needed to say. She didn't need gruesome details, didn't really care, which I loved.

* * *

I had no idea how lucky I was with all these ultrasounds. I didn't realize that with a regular, singleton pregnancy you usually only get one, or maybe two, ultrasounds. I've already had three...and counting. I feel so lucky, I can get this fix, the little bit I need to keep me going. I can see now why those private ultrasound studios are popular, and although I think he's totally whacked, I can begin to understand why Tom C. thought it important to buy a machine just for he and his child-bride.

The babes have three and a half weeks before they make their next on-screen appearance. Maybe somersaults or thumb-sucking is in the works?