Dear Everyone ...

A newspaper column forwarded to me from a RESOLVE newsgroup. I think it speaks well to the basics of being a good friend, or even a respectful aquaintance, to an infertile person or couple.

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Dear everyone... What to say to a childless couple

First, consider saying nothing at all, says Amy Hibbard, of James City County. Your words of wisdom and comfort may be received as hurtful and insensitive. But if you want to talk about infertility, be prepared to listen, too.

By AMY HIBBARD Daily Press ** May 6, 2007

Dear everyone,

Often, many of you feel the need to ask a childless couple, "When are you planning on having kids?" While that may seem like a harmless question and a natural progression for a married couple, it can also be an extremely painful topic for many people. You never know what someone may be going through.

Please don't make it your mission to ask or chastise childless couples about when and how to have kids. It's really not your business, and odds are they are dealing with emotional issues that you will never understand. It is shocking to discover that as many as 1-in-8 couples in the United States are dealing with infertility. That is a huge number, and chances are great that someone in your life is living with or has previously lived with the heartache that is infertility.

Many couples suffer in silence because it is somewhat of a taboo topic to discuss. If you ask when they plan on having kids, they will put on a smile and give an answer they think you want to hear. They are then likely to walk away and fight back tears. If you are bold enough to ask, you should be prepared for the answer. It may make you uncomfortable to hear about my struggles, but it helps me to get it out and hopefully it will make you -- if you are uncomfortable with the topic -- think before asking someone that very private question again.

This brings me to how to approach, help or treat someone who you know is experiencing infertility.

Please be supportive of your friend. Be there to listen if he or she wants to talk. Offer support if he or she is going through treatments, or help him or her get to and from appointments. If you disagree with the choices a couple has made, it is best to keep those opinions to yourself. There are many options for infertile couples, including medications, procedures, international and domestic adoption, foster care and living child-free. But it is the couple's personal decision.

The best thing to do is to let us determine how much we are comfortable talking about. Don't pry. If we want to open up, we will. But if we want to be left alone, sometimes we need that, too.

Probably the most-hated comment heard by people going through infertility is "Relax, you're too stressed." Many of us have diagnosed medical conditions that are the root cause of our infertility, and no amount of relaxing is going to change that.

Please try not to make comments like, "Maybe this is for the best," "Everything happens for a reason," or "God only gives us what we can handle." You may think comments like this are well meaning, but they are hurtful. Believe me, a person struggling with infertility is already doing enough internal questioning. Infertility and miscarriage can be a very lonely time for people. Everywhere you go, you see babies, children, pregnant women and happy families. There are always situations that remind us of what we don't have. Baby showers, holidays and birthday parties can be very hard for us to attend. Please be understanding if we decline invitations or excuse ourselves early. It is nothing personal against you, it is our way of dealing with our own pain.

What I would like to stress to people who don't have firsthand experience with these situations is: Be sensitive and use good judgment. The best thing you can do for your friend or loved one is to listen. You can't change their situation, but you can be there for them. Showing them you care during this difficult time means the world.

Amy Hibbard, James City County

http://www.dailypress.com/features/lifestyle/dp-now-deareveryonehibbard,1,7672881.story?ctrack=1&cset=true

Doing the Right - or Wrong - Thing

I'm feeling a little bit bad. I am once again considering using my feminine wiles to advance my agenda.

God, that sounds so much more scandalous than it actually is. I've been trying to make more effort, ahm, in the bedroom, lately. I realize that when both of us are more satisfied in that arena, that life simply tends to function more smoothly. And I don't think I'm alone in admitting that the marital bed is not where my interests or energies tend to lie these days. So I took a trip to VS to restock my pathetically depleted lingerie stockpile. I dressed myself up (underneath, you know) before a night out with friends, and all turned out quite well later that evening. I've continued making the effort, and it has been (mostly) smooth sailing in our home.

Back to my agenda. We're not actively searching for a new house, but there is one particular area in which we'd like to live eventually, and homes that have the qualities we want (namely, grass) are few and far between. In driving home from church on Sunday, through our Desired Neighborhood of course, we saw a For Sale sign. On the perfect house.

Of course, it's more than we want to spend right now. Five years down the road, maybe, but today, not so much. But this house, or one like it, probably won't go up for sale any time soon. So, we've set an appointment to go look at it.

And I keep calculating. No, not if we can afford it, the monthly mortgage payments, or if we should even think about it, but how I can best Keep My Man Satisfied (to paraphrase a Cosmo cover line). And if I Keep My Man Satisfied, would it ease the pain of a potentially financially straining situation? And is a Satisfied Man in his dream home going to be satisfied for long?

Obsessions & I Heart TV, Part II

I have serious problems. Serious, in regards to my pocketbook and my time available for doing necessary, but mundane things, like cooking, cleaning and generally keeping up with life.

The first regards clothing and outfitting my children. I do not by any means find it necessary to have them in expensive dress-up clothes every day, not do I find it endearing to put them in preppy, smocked jumpers (which are what all the in-the-k to look like now babies and toddlers around here wear) while gallivanting around the grocery store.

But I do want them to look nice, and more importantly, I want them to look like the BOY and GIRL that they are. Of course, I can tell the difference quite obviously, but I’m tired of asking me about my two sons. MyGirl will get hair eventually, and everything about her is girly, but the adorable mohawk with the curl at the front just throws people off. Go figure.

So, I try to find her clothes that are girly, but not cheesy or princess-themed. And it takes some doing.

Ditto MyBoy. I just haven’t found a lot of little boy’s clothes that I like – most around here seem to emphasize fishing, hunting, baseball or NASCAR. Just not my style. So I hunt and I hunt. And when I find the good stuff, I tend to go, ummm…overboard. The past two days have found me at a local children’s boutique, a children’s catalog company store, and the local ritzy consignment store. I found some goodies, more for her than him. But enough to tide me over for a bit.

On a similar front, to satisfy my children’s clothing obsession with my crafty obsession, I decided that I should make my children some clothes. However, I have big ideas and not so much motivation to actually finish projects.

So, I have a lovely pile of fabrics, one bright A-line dress (all finished), a little boy’s jumper (rather sloppily finished, but finished nonetheless), and a dress that I’ve messed up beyond all compare. Perhaps I’ll try and fix it, or perhaps I’ll just go shopping …

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The next obsession is of course that damned black screen in my basement. I always seem to be behind the curve on popular shows and series. I finally caught on to Sex in the City just as it was about to go off the air, so I spent what seemed like weeks catching up with DVDs. Same idea with Six Feet Under, and I caught up with that with Video on Demand.

In a moment of boredom, which happens so infrequently, J and I happened upon Weeds. Oh. My. God. This show is freakin’ ridiculously awesome. So awesome I missed a committee meeting last night that’s been on my calendar for weeks.

So here I sit, during naptime when I should be washing all those above-mentioned children’s clothes, on Episode 17, Season 2. I think I’ll be quite sad when I’ve actually caught up to real time. And J’s going to be a leeeetle bit mad when he comes home and sees I’ve jumped ahead of him so far.

I Heart TV

I’m not pregnant, I’m not sleepless, and I’m not ill. All the usual suspects for very odd dreams can be counted out. So why the hell did I have a dream about Dav*d Hass*lhoff last night?

Hmm… perhaps I’ve been watching too much Entertainment Tonight / Inside Edition?

It was bizarre beyond description, and involved me and a friend sleeping in a camper. Excuse me, luxury motorhome. DH broke in, frantically telling us that his identical twin was trying to get us, and he was there to protect us. Chaos ensued, and there were two crazy, curly-haired DH’s bouncing off the walls of our motor home.

Unfortunately, I have no great ending to the story, just me waking up in the haze of “What the *(&^#$ was that all about?”

In other television happenings, I caught a brief story on the Today Show about infertility. (Who am I kidding, I didn’t “catch” it. I held off my poor, hungry children’s breakfast until I could satiate my curiosity and the piece was finished.)

Although they didn’t delve deeply into the subject matter, I thought it a nice general-interest sort of piece. They featured a woman who was told she had something like a 3% chance of conceiving, who then went on to miraculously conceive on her own; a woman who chose international adoption, and appeared to be thrilled with what looked like boy-girl twins from Russia perhaps; and a woman who, despite her years and years of struggler with treatments and drugs, was still living child-free.

The last woman brought tears to my eyes, when she spoke of walking into a room full of all her friends and their “forty or fifty children” (that’s certainly how it can feel!), and feeling like there was a big empty space surrounding she and her husband. I knew her feeling quite intimately, and hated to hear her speak so frankly of it for the world to hear, knowing it’s a world that doesn’t really understand.

They interviewed a well-respected RE, I don’t remember his name, and I thought it interesting to note that he didn’t mention male-factor infertility until Meredith Viera brought it up. And I was glad she did, since then he expanded on it a bit.

What's Next?

When I opened the pages of this very fun catalog, I did a bit of a jump-back-jack. There in large letters, I see the words "IN VITRO."

That's as far as I got, as my mind wandered... what could this whimsical and kooky catalog possibly be selling? IVF comfort kits, complete with fuzzy pajamas, ice packs and designer alcohol wipes? IVF t-shirts, or perhaps beer coozies? Key chains?

Nope, it was this. Surprisingly, right in time for Mothers Day. Weird.

Well, I Never (said with a Southern drawl)

I never. Did you ever play that game, perhaps in college (or high school if you were one of those crazy girls)?

In turn, each person says something that they have never done (or perhaps something that a friend has knowingly and shamefully done, but wants to keep a secret), and everyone else in the circle has to drink if they have done that thing. The things would range from innocent to downright raunchy. It was always a good game to get to know your friends better and embarrass the hell out of them (as well as get a serious buzz on).

A year ago, there are a number of things I never thought I would do.

• Put my hands out, as if second nature, to catch vomit and then exclaim with a smile, "Oh look, it's just the squash that never digested!"
• Show up with my two fairly new twins at the neighborhood market for a cup of coffee and wonder why all the lights are off. Realize that a) It's 6:30 in the morning, and b) it's Sunday.
• Stroll with the babies around the neighborhood, casually repeating "Meow....meow...meow" simply to get a reaction from my daughter whose new favorite noise, in response to the cat, is "Maaaooo, Mao, Mao." Yes, like the questionably-preserved Chinese leader.
• Pray for nap time, and then find myself missing my babies.

There are so many more, both good and bad things, that define this new life we are living, and the two new lives that have changed it. I am in awe of the fact that one year ago today, right now, I was laying on my living room couch waiting for my sister in law to bring dinner over. I anticipated even more weeks on the couch, just waiting and waiting. Little did I know that at 7:45 p.m., I'd be jumping up off that couch and running to the bathroom, only to deliver my gorgeous twins nine hours later.

A year seems like a minute, and a year seems like an eternity. Happy birthday, sweethearts.

Making Good Choices

Why in the world does a tired, visibly exhausted baby refuse to lay down in his crib, instead choosing to stand up, hanging onto the bars of his crib, and scream at top of his lungs with his eyes closed and red from rubbing? Why not just give into the exhaustion and lay down like a good little boy and take a nap?

From an adult perspective (i.e. one who would simply die for a nap at 2:45 p.m.), it just seems like a very stupid choice to make. I'm just saying.

Music to My Ears

There is nothing more delightful ... a moment of relaxation in the kitchen after dinner, just me and my People magazine. (Come on, it's a D*sperate H*usewife with her new twins on the cover. I couldn't resist.)

My lovely little twins are running (well, crawling) free, burning off some energy before bedtime. And then the sounds ... the cackling laughter, the hiccup-y giggles ... back and forth ... him then her. They stare at each other, then burst into new peals of laughter, making some sort of joke that mom just can't possibly understand.

The put their faces right up against each other, forehead to forehead. Someone licks someone, someone puts his/her hand on the other. And they explode, yet again, into joyous laughter. Gorgeous sounds only babies can make.

Second Thoughts

My life is good. I am lucky to have a wonderful (for the most part!) husband, two beautiful children that I begged God for day in and day out, resources to live a comfortale life, health and happiness.

I think twice about my earlier bitchings now, especially when there are people out there, like Snickollet, who are not facing the loss of free time or independence, but of a spouse, a best friend, a father to her children. And she handles it with such grace.

This is Not Pleasantville

I'm so frustrated, and I am simply at the end of my rope. I don't know how to get him to hear me. He processes my words, and spews them back out in some form or fashion I don't recognize.

This is an age-old dilemma, and I know that my situation is not unique. While the dilemma is age-old, the times today are different, and expectations placed upon man and woman, husband and wife, mother and father, are different than they were years ago. And they continue to change. And we have the freedom to reshape and mold our lives as they suit us, less dependant upon convention, and more dependant upon what works for our particular situation.

Pre-children, I don't think that J and I ever argued much about housework, cooking, cleaning up. We both worked, had busy social lives (both together and apart), and simply pitched in to do what needed doing. I don't recognize us now, we're both such scorekeepers and tally makers, neither willing to give an inch. I know that we are both contributors to the place where we now find ourselves.

I want J to be present and participatory when he is at home. I am taking care of two energetic almost-toddlers all day, and when J is at home, I fully expect that load to go down to 50 percent. He wonders why I escape upstairs at 7:30, to jump in the tub or read a book. It's the first chance I've had to be alone and rest.

Instead, we have mornings like today. J didn't need to leave for work until 9:00. The babies woke up early, around 6:30, and he got their diapers changed and bottles warmed up. I met them in the kitchen around 6:45. He propped MyGirl up on a pillow, and gave her a bottle. I held MyBoy for his feeding, which is simply a nice, cozy way to wake up, I think.

At which point, he starts making himself breakfast, and as an afterthought, asks if I might like some too. Such a rarity is this situation, I practically faint in shock, and when recovered, reply in the affirmative. He sits down to read the paper and watch the news. Until 8:30, when he gets up to take a shower and get dressed.

During which time, I do the following: feed the two cats, play with the children, sing "Pat A Cake" and "The Wheels on the Bus" numerous times, put away everyone's breakfast dishes, steam apples for children's breakfast, feed children apples and cinnamon oatmeal, sweep under their chairs for stray cheerios and dried remnants of yesterday's lunch and dinner. Wipe snotty, oatmeally faces, pick up stray toys and books, take children upstairs to nursery and battle keeping them out of the attached bathroom while attempting to re-diaper and dress them, simultaneously putting away loads of children's laundry that husband so nicely left sitting on the machine for two weeks (I was waiting to see if he'd ever put them away. "But I did the laundry!" he protests. My ass.) Finally get them down for a nap and myself to my bedroom to consider brushing teeth and getting dressed.

While he sat on the couch and read the paper.

And then he has the gaul to hug me goodbye, and when I'm less than enthusiastic, ask me why I've been acting so distant and angry for the past few days. I attempted to explain that I had been doing an experiment, to see if he would pitch in and be my partner while at home. It escalated into a huge fight, in which punches are thrown, tears are shed, and scores tallied and re-tallied.

He asks, over and over, didn't I want, didn't I ask to stay home to raise the children? I reply that no, as parents we are both responsible for raising our children, but yes, I did want to stay home and take care of them during the day. But that when he is home, it shouldn't still be on my shoulders 100 percent. Our conversation goes in circles, over and over. What he does. What he doesn't do. What I don't do. And on and on.

I tell him to leave, to go to work, that I can't continue this ... it's pointless. I'm feeling like crap with a horrible cold/allergy that's kept me up half the nights and he's getting ready to leave tomorrow for a 4-day golf trip with the boys. I had hoped for a little bit of forethought, compassion, and assistance.

I know, woe is me, woe is me. I have a wonderful life and am lucky beyond many expectations. But I refuse to give in to the "You-Woman, Me-Man" caveman type attitude towards family and home. There is no reason that he cannot be fully present and participatory when is is home. Period.

Then I went and picked up his snotty-ass tissue that he left on the table. Sitting next to his empty coffee cup.

Evening Delights

It was a monumental mess. Beyond all messes we've encountered before. But worth it, because it was a success.

Inspired by Cecily's posting asking for new ideas for finger foods for the voracious under-1 set, I embarked upon a dinner of all new offerings. The twins food offerings have been somewhat limited, partially by my obsessive need to monitor and measure all food intake by sticking to jarred baby food, and also by my desire to keep mush out of my dining room carpet.

I've been trying to mix it up, mostly by steaming/microwaving a rotating variety of apples, sweet potatoes, butternut squash, and carrots. Can you tell I like orange, and the twins don't seem to favor all things green?

But tonight, out of my comfort zone (and onto the oriental rug. Well, just a little.) A delightful combo of cubed tofu covered with spaghetti sauce, grilled cheese on whole wheat, and a few beans fished out of my bean & bacon soup. It was a wild success, with minimal pieces thrown or discarded out of disgust. We'd tried tofu before and they hated it - red sauce must be the key.

It's also the key to the messiest dinner ever. Straight into the bathtub after dinner, which is out of routine for us. I've never wanted to get in the habit of bedtime bath, since we seem to have a family or sitters once or so a week. Before the morning nap has always been bath time. Oh well, changes happen.

The eating is cute to watch. MyBoy is all about quantity - stuff it in as quick as you can. Don't stop to breathe, don't stop to chatter, and certainly don't stop to swallow. Just fill 'er up until the point of disaster. We can usually intervene to encourage a little swallow before maximum overload. MyGirl is just the opposite. She daintily picks up each morsel, between thumb and forefinger and places it in her mouth. She will immediately light up with delight, of pronounce the morsel inedible, and squish around her tongue and lips until the offending piece is out. She will refuse an offering of more food until the first is completely processed. She's the same with the spoon, keeping her lips sealed until her mouth is empty.

Our dinner was slightly less exciting, but certainly colorful. Egg salad sandwiches are one of my favorites, especially with the residual blue tint from PAAS dye tablets. Mmm Mmm good.

I Got Me Some Work

Well, not the paid, going into an office kind of work, but the free, volunteer, out of the goodness of my heart kind. Thank goodness, because I was going crazy.

I'm sure I'm not the first to admit that, as a stay at home mom, the days can get monotonous. The children, while lovely little creatures, don't provide too much stimulating conversation.

MyBoy/Girl: "Maa, maa, grwaa, ya ya ya ya ya."
Me: "Really? You think I look super-skinny today? Thank you so much for noticing."
MyBoy/Girl: "Waaa yayayay, gunaaa!"
Me: "Why, yes. I did get my hair highlighted last week. Why don't you mention it to your father so he can say something nice about it too?"

I've gotten much better about making our own fun, being proactive, and trying to learn some new skills (ie: cooking! making baby food! learning new nursery rhymes!) But I still miss using my brain in interaction with adults other than my husband and mother.

Just as I was thinking that I needed to go seek out some opportunities (of the volunteer nature - I'm absolutly not wanting to go back to paid employement at the moment) with organizations I've been involved with in the past, voila! Two phone calls arrived within a week of each other.

One request was to head up the marketing for a large charitable event with a local institiution, and the other was to serve on a committee (gotta love those committees!) for an institutional self-study at my church. Of course, not expecting the second request, I said yes to the first, and then, surprised by the second request, said yes to that one too!

I'm thrilled to be genuinly busy (not doing annoying house cleaning, closet organizing, other at home stuff) during those much-anticipated naptimes; and am positivly psyched to have real, official meetings to fill in again on my calendar. It was starting to look a bit boring, what with playdates and occasional family visits penciled in weekly.

In addition, I took a trip to an industry event that I used to attend biannually. I was a bit of a spectator this time, as opposed to an active participant, but it felt good to be in the thick of things, coming up with ideas and analyzing what was out there.

I'm starting to feel like a contributing member of society again, in my small way. And yes, I know, and believe wholeheartedly, that raising children is contributing to society, but I mean outside of my little homebase.

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I'm hoping to get back into working out in some form or fashion. I haven't given up on the tennis, just took a little hiatus when I went on vacation, and babysitting hasn't quite worked out since them. I took another exercise class this morning, and felt invigorated. And exhausted. But I'm gonna get back to it. As the instructer pointed out this morning, bathing suit season is coming up soon, ladies. Like I need any more reminders. Thanks.

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And simply as a distraction, I found this very fun website this morning. Mommas do have cravings too, and I love their tagline: "The Pursuit of Maternal Mojo."

Locked Up Tight

My home has officially become Fort Knox.

In our main kitchen/living area, where we spend most of our time, there are three gates. One down the hall at a stairway, and I can name two or three other spots where we should have gates, but I am just fed up.

For someone who worked in the home decor industry and really loved decorating and taking care of my home, this has been really difficult. Not in an Oh my gosh, my life is over kind of way, but more of a I want my house to look beautiful like it used to, but now it's overrun with toys and baby crap!

However, I try to not have too much "stuff" out at once, and whenever possible, I aspire to provide my children with the somewhat more old fashioned and aesthetically pleasing wooden toys. (Fear not, we have our fair share of plastic, too. It's just hidden. Out of sight, out of mind.)

However, all those jail-like gates do provide for some funny times and photographic moments:

For the record, that's MyBoy on the left, and MyGirl on the right. And yes, she's winning. She usually does. Poor boy.

Back on the Wagon?

This is an incredibly odd feeling.

After I stopped breastfeeding, I went back on the Pill. Chances are, due to J’s somewhat incapacitated sperm, I will never get pregnant on my own. But after hearing too many stories from IVF/twin mothers whose doctors told them, and I quote, “Your ovaries will never function properly on their own” and the like, and then they got pregnant when their twins were like three months old, I was determined that I would not become one of those stories.

And I haven’t been sure if I even want more children. J does, for much more complex reasons than mine, and I respect those reasons wholeheartedly. But I have been thinking more and more lately, and I feel confident that I could do this again, and that I want to do this again (the baby, not the IVF, etc). But they probably go hand in hand.

I refilled my prescription right before we took off for vacation, and through the chaos of packing, it didn’t make it into my bags. Subconscious or accident, you ask? Either way, I felt kind of free, and didn’t make too big a deal of it, either way.

Yesterday afternoon, I was reorganizing some of my bathroom cabinets, throwing out the eighteen jillion sample-size bottles of perfume I’ve managed to accumulate over the years. Oh yes, and organizing all my products by use (face lotion, body lotion, hair products, bath products, etc). I am slightly anal when I have the time and inclination.

I came to the bottom of the cabinet, and realized I was at the shelf. The very important shelf that, at the front, contains tampons and liners. The shelf that, at the back, contains a sharps container full of used needles, a fertility monitor and boxes of sticks, and an extra Follist*m kit.

I felt like the breath had been knocked out of me. It’s only been a year and a half since I used all that stuff daily, but you know the adage out of sight, out of mind. And while it’s never really out of mind, infertility has not consumed my daily thoughts as it once used to.

I sat down on the toilet, and pulled out the sharps container. I took out a needle on top, one of the long, thick PIO injections, and twirled it in my fingers. Am I ready to do this again? Can I stand the disappointment and hoping? I’m not as afraid of the physical pain from injections and retrieval as I was the first go around. I feel like labor and emergency c-section have shored me up on the pain-front. But I am afraid of the emotional pain, and how it might be different than it was before. And knowing that we’d have to start over from the very beginning, since we had no extra embryos, is a bit intimidating to me.

I poked around through the Follist*m kit, and marveled at the miniature (in comparison) needles used for those injections. That’s the easy part, I thought. Then I pulled out the fertility monitor, and tried to remember how to use it. Which is where I find myself now, on the Clearb*ue website, downloading instructions.

I’m not a big believer in “signs” and such, but this morning over breakfast, J asked if I’d had any thoughts about “more rug rats,” as he so delicately put it. We haven’t talked about this in months, and I thought it odd that he brought it up now. Well, now that you ask...

So as of now, we’re trying but not trying. I’m ready to give it a go a la natural, but need a bit of time to work up my courage to all of the IVF stuff.

I’m feeling a little ambivalent about it all, and that makes me feel really guilty. I know that this is the right time for our family to do this, and I know that it could take a long time, or may never happen. I don’t want to get too excited, but I’m afraid to not be exited enough.

Glad to be back

My wonderful babies,

We’ve just returned from eight days away, and the last four increased in torture with each sunrise. As much as I loved being away, I wanted so badly to be with you. Many quiet moments were filled with the whispering of your father and me, wondering what you were doing at that exact moment, talking about how proud we were of you, and would we wake you up when we arrived home late at night.

We did not wake you up, but did creep into your room to gently pat your backs and run our fingers through your hair (it seems like it has grown so much in the past week!). We collapsed exhausted into bed, as our trip home took so much longer than anticipated.

We awoke to your giggles and quiet talking, much earlier than we had hoped, but you actually “slept in,” due to daylight savings time. Much like children on Christmas morning, we crept down the hall to your room and peered in the door. In return for our ear-to-ear grins, we received blank stared from each of your cribs. You, My Girl, looked nonplussed and slightly confused as to who we were and why we were there. What happened to Grandma and Grandpa? Your brother, on the other hand, was plain scared of us. I truly think he didn’t know who we were. Your daddy and I were a bit disappointed, but we knew that in a few hours, you would come around. And you did, once you saw your grandparents, and all was well.

Eight short days translates into a whole lotta baby time. MyBoy, you’ve learned to climb the stairs, and with prompting, will attempt the entire staircase. You have officially begun to crawl, although you still favor your army-style belly crawl. It was wild to see you move about on alternating hands and knees. MyGirl, you are cruising around the furniture with speed and grace, and it seems that grandma taught you how to wake.

You both seem so much bigger, and I have to remind myself that you are ten and a half months old … it doesn’t seem possible! You smiles are wider, your vocabularies, which previously included “ba-ba” and “da-da” have grown to include a wide variety of unintelligible syllables. You’ve acquired a few bad habits with the grandparents, my favorite being the spitting of food on the lucky soul who is feeding you. My least favorite are the bloodcurdling screams and thrashing about that occurs every time I try to change your diaper. But we’ve learned to do it standing up, now.

Dad and I loved having an adult vacation, eating out extravagantly almost every night, and enjoying wine with lunch. We tried to sleep in, but found ourselves awake every morning and your appointed wake-up time. We loved chatting with friends, exploring our surroundings, and catching up on our reading.

We talked about you much more than we said we would, and we certainly thought about you more than we imagined we would. We are still a special couple, your father and I, and we have a wonderful relationship, between just the two of us. But now you two are in our lives, and when we’re away, it seems incomplete.

But fear not, we will do it again, and we will love coming home to you even more. How is that possible?

Much love,
Momma

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I guess my reward was not tempting enough to garner many responses, but what did you expect, a trip to St. Barths or something????

Seriously, loved it beyond what my words can describe. A tiny, French island that seems a cross between European country village, Caribbean island, and jet-set yacht club. And the food … oh, the food….

So Long, Farewell ...

Auf weidersehen, goodbye...

I'm off on Friday for a week's vacation with J and two friends. Am currently most excited about the hours of peace on the airplane ride, just J and I. Once that excitement has subsided, I will commence being thrilled about meeting our friends at our final destination (it's a two part journey), enjoying our accomodations, eating in fabulous restaurants, and lolling about on the beach.

But for now, just one thing at a time.

A small, but oh-so-coveted gift card to Tar*get for the first person to guess the correct location, based on the photo below:

"The Baby Who's Not Supposed to Be Alive"

An update to the post about baby Amillia, the 22 week preemie.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/17304274/site/newsweek/

The article states that the mother initially messed up in reporting her conception dates at her first prenatal visit, therefore the doctor assumed that the baby was about 24 weeks when delivered.

I don't know about you, but I knew the date and time, practically to the minute, each and every step of the IVF path. I'm a little surprised that the woman and her OB didn't get all the facts straight. But who knows, in the flush of excitement over a much-desired pregnancy, I could see how things could get mixed up a bit. It might be a good thing if OBs could confirm basic facts with the RE before things get going. Can't hurt to double check the calculations.

Delightful, anyway, that baby Amillie is meeting her developmental milestones, and appears to be doing well.

Can I Interest Anyone in a Stuffed Animal?

It never fails. No matter what educational, interesting or informative playthings I provide for the babies' amusement (and I consider myself rather picky and sparse in the toy department - I hate plastic!), it's the everyday "stuff" that wins the popularity contest.

To point:

As I write, MyGirl is dragging around a brown chenille throw that is simply covered in cat hair. At the same time, she is chewing on a purple bulb syringe, that is glistening with the snot of colds past.

MyBoy is confused about why a tall, slick, plastic trashcan is not the ideal piece of furniture on which to pull himself up. Sliiiiippp.....sqqeeeeaaak....thud. Oh, and then there is my nasty old brown clog. Mmmm...looks appetizing.

And both of them are so pround of themselves right now. Big smiles all around.

Why bother buying toys?

So I Know This Girl...

A few years back, a woman with whom I was friendly shared that she and her new husband were trying to get pregnant. It was right around the same time that we began trying, and we were both unsuccesful. We bonded over the angst of infertility.

We had a falling out soon after -- actually, she had a falling out with me, as I stood by shellshocked and surprised by her undeserved (in my opinion) anger with me. The friendship was over, and I was very hurt, but determined not to let it upset me any further. We have mutual friends, and in the beginning, she would simply ignore me should we all be in the same room or event.

Time passed, and obviously infertility continued for us both. When in a group setting, she began to acknowledge my presence, and I was glad. I thought there must be some serious pain in her life, and perhaps her blowup at me was a manifestation of something much bigger.

I have never thought that our friendship would be rekindeled, and that's okay with me, although I wouldn't push her away -- I think she's a genuinly kind person with a lot of good qualities. More time passed, and I became pregnant with our first IVF attempt. She has remained cordial during the few times I've seen her, and I know that must be hard, as they are still in the throes of fertility treatments. I don't know anything for certain, but I suspect they have done quite a few IVF cycles, and might have experienced some losses.

She is having a transfer on Friday. I was included in an email that had previously included correspondance with her husband, in which he mentioned the event. In receipt of this knowledge, I wanted to do something. I didn't know what, but I hated to know that they would be going through yet another trying ordeal. And I wanted her to know that I know, and that I was hoping for the best.

I knew I couldn't call her ... that would be a ridiculously awkward thing for both of us. So I sent a card, a simple "thinking of you" sentiment in which I wrote a short note that I would be keeping her in my mind on Friday, and wishing for good things.

I had a hard time finding a card that was just right. Most were too sappy, and too presumptuous for a tentative non-relationship like this. Or they were too clinical, referring to medical illnesses and such. I think that something like this really does have a place in our world.

With butterflies making a nest in my belly, I sent the card off yesterday, and anticipate that she'll get it today or tomorrow. I'm nervous that I did the wrong thing. I came by the information by accident, and know that it's none of my business. But reaching out just felt like the right thing to do.

Scary Days and Miracles

My experience pales in comparison to this one, and to those of so many other mothers of preemies, but the fear and dread that I felt going into labor with twins at 29 weeks, and then delivering at 31 weeks, still brings me to tears ten months later.

All those days spent sitting at the incubators, peering inside, wondering if today is the day that I'll be able to hold my babies. If today is the day they won't flinch when I stroke their sensitive skin. If today is the day they will eat just a few ccs more than yesterday. Watching a baby develop, as they do within the womb, in the outside world is an amazing experience. When the twins were born, their little nipples were barely visible. One of the nurses told us that nipples are one of the last things to visibly develop ... we saw it.

Imagine the fear and dread of the parents of a 21 week-old preemie. "Neonatologists who cared for Amillia say she is the first baby known to survive after a gestation period of fewer than 23 weeks," reads the article.

She was an IVF baby. I'm frightened that I keep hearing stories of IVF babies being sicker, more frequently premature, riskier, etc. I remember when we sat down with the RE, Dr. Pleasant, and he said that many people think IVF babies are less healthy, but that there was no proof. I didn't give it another thought, but now I feel like I am overwhelmed with evidence to the opposite.