You Might Be in the Two Week Wait If...

Almost all women have been there at one point in time or the other. Some have been there more times than they'd like, and it's an all too familiar, torturous place. In many cases, it's planned and meticulously calculated. Other times, a woman realizes her math skills were a bit off or perhaps there was an, ahem, "malfunction" and boom, there she is again. Then, of course there are those lucky few who seem to bypass it altogether when, one day, they're sitting on the couch or at their desk and suddenly they think, "hey...wait a minute...wasn't my period supposed to start a week ago?" A trip to the bathroom confirms their suspicions, and lo and behold, they've blown through the 2WW without any symptom obsessing. How nice is that?


But no matter the circumstance that got you into the two week wait (other than the very obvious one), one thing can be certain after you get there: you will obsess over your body and every little symptom. And if you thought your body was mysterious before trying to conceive, you ain't seen nothin' yet. So, for a bit of levity, because I know several women who may in fact, be hanging out in this purgatory for the next little bit (no, not me, I promise).... a list:


You Might Be In the Two Week Wait If....


1. Upon discovering a new symptom, you immediately google it to see how many other women have experienced it too.



2. You might, however, be embarrassed for anyone to see what it was you just googled. Lucky for you, they probably can't understand forum-speak. Ex: BBT spike w/POS OPK on CD 21 but EWCM on DPO 4. WTF??



3. If you've been charting to conceive, you may find yourself playing with your chart, making it look all nice and triphasic. And then, ultimately, you go back and delete all of the temperatures and put in the ones you really have. And it's not nearly as pretty.



4. You continue to obsess over possible symptoms and get excited about the fact that your boobs are beginning to hurt. You periodically check to make sure that they still hurt by pressing on them when no one is looking. If you're out in public and fear being viewed as a perv, you simply pretend to get a chill and hug your forearms across your chest. (You're welcome).



5. Every bathroom trip requires a 5 minute exhaustive inspection of the toilet paper. I'll leave it at that.



6. Upon feeling a wave of nausea, your first instinct is to think, "YESSSSSSS!!!!" And then you find yourself praying that maybe you might dry heave a couple of times when you brush your teeth, just for good measure.



7. Everywhere you go, you see baby bumps. Bumps in Target, bumps in the ladies restroom, bumps waddling down the street in your neighborhood. You swear, you've never seen this many of them when you weren't waiting to find out if you were going to have one of your own.



8. Out of habit, you accidentally refer to your husband as "DH," and your period as "AF" when talking to the nurse on the phone.




9. You have a collection of pregnancy tests under your bathroom sink: IC's to dip when the urge strikes, FRER's for backing up the IC's, and digitals (aka "the big guns") for backing up the FRER's. But rest assured, your husband will not believe you're actually pregnant until he sees the one with it spelled out nice and pretty. Don't even bother asking him to look at lines.



10. Yes, you're only 5 dpo, but that's not too early to get a line on a test. Right? I mean, it could happen....right?







So, if you found yourself thinking "OMG, I've done that" while reading at least half of the above, congratulations. You're not weird and you're not alone. You just might be slightly obsessed. And we (as women) get it. No need to feel bad. We all just want our bodies to stop messing with us and give it to us straight.


So whatever answer it is you're waiting for, I hope you get the one you want in a few (very long and drawn out) days. ;-)

It's the Little Things

It's 8:15 on a crisp, clear, Saturday morning. The kids are away at Grammy and Pop's and thus, I went to bed entirely too late for my own good last night.

"That's okay, I'll sleep in tomorrow," I thought.

And like clockwork, my body woke up a few minutes after 7. And it wouldn't go back to sleep. My bladder was on the verge of bursting and I was ravenous.

I think I pleaded with my bladder in some kind of a lucid dream. Have you ever done that?

No...don't make me get up. Go away. Stop filling up with pee. Just let me sleep another 20 minutes. (Not entirely different from how I plead with Ella to just let me lay there for a few more minutes when she bounces onto my side of the bed every morning. But I have a stubborn daughter. And as it turns out, an impatient bladder, as well).

Then it was my empty stomach and the burning, ravenous hunger pangs. Oh, for the LOVE. It seemed my body was sabotaging any attempt I made to drift back to sleep. And so I got up and deliriously stumbled first to the bathroom, then downstairs to the coffee pot. Always in that order. I've pretty much resigned myself to the fact that the days of truly good sleep are over. They ended back when I was maybe around 18. Right before I went to college and stayed up late studying and practicing by week, and lost sleep on the weekends in the name of having a social life. Then it was marriage, and my sleep was okay for a while, then pregnancy...and well, the rest, they say, is history. I might be able to salvage a few good years between now and menopause. But my guess is that good sleep will become increasingly chemically-induced, or happenstance. Alignment of certain planets and such.

But I sit here with a cup of french roast and although I'm awake a good two hours earlier than I would like to be, I'm savoring the quiet living room. Relishing that I'm not hearing Dora's annoying, repetitive voice. Breathing in the fresh citrus scent of the new candle I bought, rather than the stench of a freshly squeezed diaper bomb. I went out with a group of fantastic girls last night- one of whom happens to be a dear friend (and who also happens to be getting married NEXT WEEKEND). :-) And even though I only had one glass of wine, I'm surprised that I feel pretty rotten this morning. What's up with that?? I wistfully reflect on the stamina that my 22 year old self had. Where on earth is that intestinal fortitude I had in the midst of vile hangovers- the kind that got me through playing exams, juries, and 8 am classes when a night of drinking seemed to magically resolve itself by 11 a.m. or noon, at the very latest. (This wasn't always the case though, as I learned the hard way one time that's it's never ever EVER a smart idea to drink an entire bottle of cab sav the night before an 8 a.m. clarinet playing exam).

Here it is almost a decade later and this girl right here can have two (ish) glasses of wine and fall asleep in her own puddle of drool on the couch at 10:30 pm, then still somehow feel as though she got hit by a semi the next morning when she's trying to dice up bananas and mini-waffles for her kids. (I mean seriously, why can't they get their own breakfast??) ;-)

I'm not even sure where this post is going. I think I'm just enjoying being able to sit and write without being interrupted. Perhaps the silver lining of the cloud that is my inability to sleep in, is the opportunity to expand my definition of "rest." And for today, it takes the shape of a single blog post, written start to finish in one sitting, in a quiet living room.

"Be Our Guest"

We had some friends over for dinner last night. Jake had reconnected with a friend of his after a few years of losing touch due to, well, life. We decided they'd come over and we'd fire up the new grill and take advantage of the gorgeous weather we've had here lately. Then, late last week, Jake got home and said they'd wondered if they could come over a bit earlier so they could meet the kids before we put them down for bed.


I admit- I had to resist the urge to groan out loud, but not because I aspire to be a bitter hostess. Honest. Here's the deal- I truly enjoy having people over. I love cooking for and entertaining people, making them feel at home, and I genuinely look forward to sitting back with a glass (or two) of wine and participating in good conversation. The problem is that the latter part of this simply doesn't happen until the kids are in bed. (Not just in bed, but in the middle of a REM cycle, because simply being "in bed" doesn't ever count). I had my reservations, but because I try to be flexible and because we hadn't seen them in so long, I figured we'd go with it. Just see what happens. Unfortunately, those who are not yet parents sometimes fail to understand that a two and a half year old already has every stall tactic known to man up her pajama sleeve, which she employs every night without fail. They may not be aware that bedtime is already a 40 minute process (on a good night) and that she is keenly aware that you will say yes to just about anything in the name of playing hostess. And you better believe she will work this to her advantage. She knows there's a 99.9% chance she'll get to watch another episode of Dora and eat a bowl full of marshmallows so that you're able to maintain a conversation that's longer than three minutes, get the potatoes in the oven, and throw together a salad.


A few minutes later, once her blood sugar has reached the appropriate level, she will run around yelling the words "fart" and "poop" and turn your couch into a trampoline. Then, she might throw tupperware lids down the steps, laughing hysterically at her own antics. All the while, your guests will laugh and pay her more attention, because they think that's what they're supposed to do when in reality, it's a bit like tossing igniter fluid on an open flame.


I know this will sound like I'm singling people out, and that's really not my intent. Ultimately, I love that people want to spend time with my kids. I can understand the thought process because I used to think the same way. Before I got married and had kids, I always thought, What's the big deal with bedtime?? Just put the kids in bed, sing them a song, turn off the light and you're golden, right? Even in college, I was a nanny during the summers, and had a few overnight babysitting gigs and never had any problems with getting the kids down.



But what I didn't know then (that I'm painfully aware of now) is that your kids will always save their most "special" behavior for Mommy and Daddy. It's part of the blessing.



So half-way into our meal last night, we had managed to get one kid down (the easy one), with one kid to go (the diva). My half-eaten steak was cold, and Ella had squeezed herself onto my chair behind me, asking to see the mole on my back and play with it (no, really. I can't make this stuff up). At which point, I asked if either one of our guests would like to take her up and put her to bed for me, since I was sure she wasn't going down without a fight.



They laughed.



And I laughed too. But only because I didn't want them to feel bad when they realized how serious I was. "Your kids are great," they said as I picked up Ella, grateful that it was finally 7:30, and headed upstairs. Jake and I both smiled- a grin that was one part pride and probably at least two parts exhaustion. "We think so, too."

Great Post by Zenhabits: "The Way of the Peaceful Parent"

Okay, I'm doing this at the risk of coming across as "crunchy" as I know in my heart I actually am. But in reality, this re-post has nothing to do with being a hippie, zen parent, and more to do with acknowledging that every parent strives to be a happier/stronger/more sane/more fulfilled mommy or daddy tomorrow than they were today. After just getting in from an absolutely amazing weekend in Charleston with our best friends (more on that later), I'm feeling particularly refreshed and recharged, but I don't for one second pretend to think that by tomorrow morning, at approximately 11 a.m., I'll still be feeling this way. In which case, I'll be glad to take the opportunity to re-read this blog post (and grieve the fact that I'm not still sitting on a veranda overlooking a cobbletone street, sipping a mojito).


As it pertains to getaways, all good things must come to an end.


As it pertains to parenting, if we're lucky, there's always tomorrow. ;-)

The Truth About Weeds

There are times when we fail to recognize what's right in front of us.



But for the record, I'm not going deep here. This is not in reference to children, marriage, a warm home (although sadly, I know that I've taken them all for granted plenty of times).



For now, I'm simply referring to the eyesore that is otherwise known as my yard. Every day for the last few weeks, I've walked past my neglected flowerbeds and refused to acknowledge the weeds. This is primarily because I'm too pre-occupied with hauling 65 pounds of offspring, complete with sippy-cups, stuffed animals and the occasional diaper bomb. But if I'm honest, another part of me didn't want to acknowledge it because I knew that would mean I'd eventually have to do something about it. And children are great excuses for staying too busy to do yardwork. Or clean. Or sometimes cook. Maybe get a shower. I digress...



Kinda like when the credit card bill comes and you tell yourself you're just gonna open it later, but in the meantime, you secretly hope your procrastination will give it ample time to vaporize into thin air. Or maybe, you'll discover upon opening it that someone like Oprah took it upon herself to pay off the balance.



So yeah. At first, I had hoped the weeds would just disappear on their own or that maybe the flowers would bloom around them and cover them up. But even I and my brown thumb know that wouldn't be the case. Everyone knows that if you want to see the pretty stuff, you gotta deal with the ugly stuff first.



So I donned my fashionable $1 gardening gloves (I heart Target Dollar Spot), rolled up my sleeves, and took advantage of the 80 degree weather. I tackled the first flowerbed on my hands and knees- pulling, digging, occasionally cursing under my breath and, about every three minutes, getting up to scamper after Milo or retrieve some piece of something he had put in his mouth. I had initially said I would only allocate about 30 minutes, but as the pile of weeds began to grow and I made my way to the next flowerbed, I became aware of the fact that I was actually enjoying it. Now, a gardener I am NOT. Most things I plant tend to die within hours of planting them. It's a gift. But apparently, I'm good at unplanting them. To my surprise, there was something cathartic about the sheer act of grabbing and yanking at the unsightly overgrowth. Some were unrelenting at first, forcing me to really dig my hands down deep into the earth in order to break them free. Those were actually my favorites. Each one felt like a tiny victory. The next time I looked at my watch, I was shocked to see it was lunchtime. My back ached, my thighs burned, and I was fairly certain my neighbors saw more of my backside than they probably cared to see, but it was all in the name of landscaping. At least our yard looked better. Not pristine. Probably more like, "hey, those people actually give a crap." (Baby steps, baby steps).



I tease my husband all the time about being crunchy, but I think this week has proved that maybe I'm more crunchy than I realize, too. Because instead of dreading the back patio (which will probably take me at least a solid week), I'm looking rather forward to it- to getting my hands dirty, feeling the sun radiate on my back, and listening to my children squeal as they play in the yard. I think, particularly after these last few weeks, it was a simple reminder to me that it's those things I avoid which often prove to be the most liberating. I always come away wondering why I resisted it so much to begin with.



{And okay, I know I said I was going to keep this on the surface, but the irony is just too much}



Sometimes things are stripped away from us and it's completely and utterly out of our control. Then there are the other times- those times when we're compelled to roll up our sleeves and strip it away ourselves. We know it's what we have to do. It's a matter of survival. Strip away the old, the ugly, the toxic- so that something beautiful can take it's place.



And for that reason alone, I fully intend to spend a lot more time on my patio this year than I have in years past. ;-)

One Last Lullabye

I didn't want to write this post, for many reasons. But someone once said, "when in torment, document."



Someone also once said, "everything happens for a reason."



But I have to say, I'm pretty glad that person isn't standing right in front of me right now, otherwise I might consider punching them.



(Okay, maybe not. But I would possibly slay him/her with vicious rhetoric).



There are very few things which have proven themselves to remain true in my life, time and time again: love, in it's purest and simplest form, can make everything right. Always. Also, (despite my strong feelings about the aforementioned cliche) everything does happen for a reason. Even the painful things.



Especially the painful things.



I have also learned that a momma's intuition is rarely ever wrong. Okay, fine. There have been a few times I've been wrong. (Maybe only two or three....) but I do know that those times became increasingly rare since having Ella and Milo. Call it a sixth sense, call it a "word" or a feeling, but it's there- for better or for worse. In my case, I've been the...um, beneficiary...of vivid dreams, premonitions, whatever, where in freakishly clear detail, I've been able to see ahead into the bigger moments in my life. For example, more than 6 years ago, a dream with letters spelling the name"Jacob" a few weeks before I met Jake on a blind date (and before I actually knew his name). Then another dream, three-ish years later: me, holding a pregnancy test with two bright pink lines- only a week and a half before I found out I was pregnant with Ella. A few nights after the pregnancy test dream, I dreamt of a car accident. I awoke in a cold sweat after seeing bright headlights at night, my car spinning, and my hand on my protruding belly. Fifteen weeks later, I was T-boned in an intersection at night. I held my belly as the car careened to a stop before going into a ravine. I remember being surprisingly calm, even as I was rushed to the ER while a doctor wasted no time searching for the heartbeat. I remember wanting to freak out, but inside, I had this profound sense that I was okay. We were okay. Two agonizing minutes later, the doctor found her heartbeat. He looked up at me, smirked, and said, "Everything is fine. It just wouldn't be still long enough for me to pick it up." (Is that not my Ella, or what??)


So those are just a few of the dreams I always remember right away. I needed to give a bit of backstory to set the stage for yet another one I can now add to the list. This one featured me, lying on an exam table, a wand on my belly and a screen in front of me. I can make out the distinct features of a baby that I know immediately is mine. She is dancing and wiggling about, stretching her tiny arms and legs. I see her nose, her perfect profile, and I feel warmth. Light. Nevermind that I said we were done with two. This baby is coming and the love is palpable. I then turn my gaze on the wall beside me and I see the number 3 in bold. I stare at it for what seems an eternity. From there, I climb into a shower, crying. And then I woke up to find Ella hovering a mere 1/2 inch from my face, asking to watch TV downstairs, so I dragged my tired self out of bed to make her breakfast.


Mid-way through buttering her toast, I thought, now THAT was a weird dream. What the hell did I eat last night before bed? Never again... And I went on about my day. It wasn't until a few days later that I started to feel....off. Warm. Flushed. Barely able to keep my eyes open. Stuffy nose and sore throat. One minute I was starving, and the next, I was sure that my bowl of cereal was about to make a repeat appearance. Milo pressed his head against my chest one night as I rocked him to sleep and I suddenly felt a very familiar pain radiate through my boobs. Wait, wasn't my period supposed to start? I grabbed my calendar and started counting. Not late yet, but very close. I bought some pregnancy tests and didn't tell a soul. (Well, I maybe told one or two souls, but I swore those souls to secrecy). First test was negative. At first, I was relieved. And then, strangely, I wasn't. Was that disappointment lurching it's way up into my throat? I swallowed hard. We said we thought we were done. We had our girl and our boy. Healthy and happy. Surely, that was enough. I wasn't charting or tracking anything. We weren't trying. Hell, if truth be told, we were preventing. But I simply couldn't shake that unmistakeable feeling. The same intuition that told me something was different when I got pregnant with Ella, and the same one that told me without a doubt that Milo was growing inside me, even when the first test I took with him told me otherwise. I just knew. Of course, some of this intuition stemmed from my unbelievable (and unfortunate) sensitivity to hormones and the fact that I was sick, like, 30 minutes after he was conceived. But really, more of it was because I just knew. I couldn't explain it, but I didn't have to. Two days after that initial negative test with him, I saw the word "pregnant" on a digital test.



So, it seemed I was in a very similar spot once again. I started making note of my symptoms, paying more attention. And also, despite my best efforts not to, I started picturing our new family. I saw Milo as the big brother instead of the perpetual baby. I saw him and Ella cozied up to me in a hospital bed- all at once jealous, and yet in awe of this new little creature who was joining our family. It started to make sense, even when I swore months ago that it never would. I took another test. Negative again.



I waited. I waited without knowing what exactly I was waiting for. A blood test came back negative as well. And yet, when most normal people would have given up on the initial idea, I came home and researched. I googled like a fiend. Shamelessly. I just couldn't let it go that something was different. I was now over a week late for my period. I woke up sick to my stomach in the middle of the night. My boobs felt on fire. I was peeing every 30 minutes. And in the midst of it all, I still remembered that dream.



A long and torturous seven days later, I finally got my answer: a very faint yet unmistakeable line on a first response test. I gazed at it, not entirely sure if I was hallucinating. But it was there. "There you are." I said. "What took you so long?" Then, I posted the picture on a well-known pregnancy/fertility forum, just to make sure that other women saw it too and I wasn't, in fact, losing my mind. (Turns out I wasn't- not yet, at least).



But I couldn't get excited. I was happy, relieved, and yet- reserved. When I found out I was pregnant with both Ella and Milo, I excitedly blurted out the news to our parents before the pee had even dried on the stick. Everyone knows a line is a line, no matter how faint. But there was something about this line that told me to wait. Just wait.



I contemplated arguing with my test. I had been waiting. And yet, intuition is so often a double-edged sword. If it clues one in about impending good news, it's certainly just as capable of preparing one for the opposite. I sat on the floor of my bathroom-turned-chemistry-lab and found myself pleading with my pee stick. Please get darker. Please stick. Don't leave me yet. I saw you in that dream and you were perfect and you were healthy. Don't go.... I thought about how long I had waited to simply close myself up in my bathroom alone (which is next to impossible with a preschooler and a toddler) in order to finally hold in my hands what I knew in my heart all along. But why couldn't I celebrate? I told very few people. When I did, I asked them to pray. And I continued to pray that what I was afraid of would never come to be. I prayed, this time, that my intuition would be wrong. I prayed to be sick as a dog, told God that he could throw all of the morning sickness at me he wanted. Please. I could handle it. I would do it.



And yet, even as I prayed, I was aware that I was holding back- that there was more I needed to say that I wasn't willing to say. Over the last four years, I guess I've re-defined how I view prayer, and consequently, how I view "God." I tend to avoid the cheesy, cliche sayings now (whether I believe them to be true or not) because there was a point in my life when I spouted such things without feeling a shred of truth in them. And yet years later, I still ultimately believe that there's this force bigger than all of us that we call LOVE- that works miracles, puts broken lives back together, gives second chances. And I still believe that the excruciatingly painful things are what will always have the most potential to change us, if we let them. But if I truly recognize all of this, it means I have to change my thinking. I have to force myself to say that I trust a bigger picture that I can't see- that perhaps, I might never see. I have to choose to believe that maybe, I really don't know what's best, even when I want to think otherwise. And hardest of all, I must come to terms with the fact that it's especially those things I try so desperately to hold onto that I must learn to let go of. If you love it, let it go.



If you love it, let. it. go.



Because my children, who are tucked away in their beds asleep, didn't get here because I willed them to. And neither did this one. I can't take any credit. And so, days later, I gave in. While the kids were having a snack downstairs, I stole a few solitary minutes to drop down on my knees in Ella's room. I heard three words come out of my mouth, completing the second part of the prayer I was unwilling to speak up until then. And even then, as I sputtered out the words, I was still somewhat unsure I believed them. "I trust You." And then I said it over and over again until the tears stopped. I saw our family. I remembered the tiny silhouette on the screen from my dream more than two weeks ago. At once, I felt immense joy for the blessings I have- that I'm so undeserving of- and yet, I felt my heart break as a familiar pain began radiating in my back and mid-section. Sometimes, whether we like it or not, pain may be the only indication that we're still alive, and that we're meant to live into a bigger story. So for now, as much as it hurts, I won't wish it away, because I know that the story isn't over.







"Dear God, I would have loved to have held this baby on my lap and tell them about you, but since I didn't get the chance, would you please hold them on your lap and tell them about me?"





{For our sweet angel baby, due 11/6/12}

Dessert, Anyone?

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a restaurant having dinner with some friends, enjoying a girls' night out and some uninterrupted adult conversation. It was getting later in the evening and the plates had been cleared away but no one was in a rush to leave (gotta make sure you stay long enough to let the hubby get the kids in bed, after all). The waiter came by and asked if anyone was interested in dessert.



I answered right away.



Nope. None for me.



I told the waiter I'd take my bill whenever he could bring it. I was full, but not stuffed. Comfortable. I cozied in to my glass of Pinot Noir. One friend ordered a cocktail, the other, a creme brulee. We continued to chat and giggle as we swapped stories about our kids. A night out without our babies and yet, somehow, the conversation always came back around to them.


As the minutes ticked by, though, I found myself eyeing the dessert menu. It was just sitting there gaping open, beckoning for me to take a look. I started thinking that maybe I was too quick to make a decision earlier. I had, after all, dismissed it without looking at any of the choices. I had just assumed that nothing could have topped the dinner and the conversation. And I wasn't sure I wanted to risk ordering a dessert that didn't live up to my expectations. I knew that I didn't technically need anything else. God knows, my metabolism (and my thighs) would thank me later.


But my eyes kept wandering. Maybe I wasn't that full. The triple chocolate layer cake did sound amazing. Where was our waiter?? I wished he could just bring the check already so the decision would be made for me. I wouldn't want to make him run back to cancel out my ticket.


The minutes ticked by and he finally showed up with the bill. But by then, my resolve was weakened. Still, I reached into my purse for my card and went to place it on the table. But I stopped short. I was aware that my girlfriends had stopped mid-sentence and were now staring curiously in my direction.


"Is something wrong with your check, miss?" (Side note: major brownie points to the waiter for making me feel young).


"No. It's fine. I'm....just...." I trailed off.


"I think I spoke too soon," I said to him apologetically. "I've decided I'd really like dessert after all. Would it be too much trouble for you to add it to my check?"


"Absolutely no trouble at all," he reassured me. "Do you need more time to look at the dessert menu?"


"No, I think I know exactly what I want now."


And with that, I slipped my card back into my wallet and closed my purse. When I looked up, my friends looked at me knowingly and snickered. "We knew you would change your mind."


And I think now, looking back, I knew it all along too.