I grew up in a house of girls. There was me, my two sisters, my mom, and my poor dad. (Even the dog was a girl!) Estrogen ruled the roost. And it was comfortable for us ladies. By comparison, I remember my mom shuddering any time a neighborhood boy would enter the home.
"They touch everything!" she would hiss. "My silk wallpaper just absorbs oily little handprints. And they don't know how to treat antiques!" In truth, our house was not set up for young males. All our rambunctiousness had to take place out-of-doors or in the basement. We learned very early on not to enter the "no-no rooms," Mom's formal sitting parlor and the dining room. We had strict rules to obey when it came to the house and its upkeep. It just was what it was.
Fast forward some 20-plus years. While pregnant with Becca, I just KNEW she was a girl, despite our decision to be surprised upon delivery. I coveted swirls of pink and chocolate brown and fell in love with girly outfits. And I was right: Our life was soon overrun with princess gowns, fairies, dressy shoes, and bows.
This time around, I had no such certainty. However, we know FIVE sets of fraternal twins--all of which include one boy and one girl. It seemed like a nice balance, less competition, the best of both worlds. I think The Banker and I sort of assumed this was what I had rolling about in my quickly growing abdomen.
So when the sonogram showed one boy, we weren't surprised. However Baby B remained demurely hidden behind the umbilical cord, causing us to wait some two additional weeks to know for sure what we were having.
Yet when that umbilical cord moved, it did not hide a little girl. It hid another little boy. TWO BOYS. Oh boy, oh boy, indeed.
My friend texted me: "Welcome to the world of balls." This seems an understatement. I don't know boys. I wasn't raised with them and haven't a clue how to go about molding them into respectable young men. Everyone has told me the energy levels are higher. The common sense can be lower. Becca and I will be outnumbered. And oh, my antiques.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
Friday, December 09, 2011
Looking forward, with a quick look back
It's not often that I look backward. I'm more the kind of gal who assesses what needs to be done in the future and concentrates her efforts there. I find that waffling over what-ifs really only leads to melancholy. So when I last wrote, months and months and months ago, I was focused on moving ahead. I was attempting to overcome disappointment and a whole menagerie of emotions so we could focus on what was next.
That was until our Reproductive Endocrinologist called; that sorta-famous doctor from another state, who's now even more well known because he helped a reality star discover her breast cancer in the midst of infertility treatment. It's a rare thing to get a call from this doctor, so when he calls, you kinda have to listen.
When you're world-renowned, I think getting an ego comes with the territory. And this doc thought we'd be a slam-dunk case. An effortless boost to the clinic's (already) impressive success rates. So when our first round of IVF failed, I think it hurt his ego. Perhaps even pissed him off a little? So while The Banker and I were moving on, this doc wanted us to put on the breaks. He wanted to try again, only this time he would use an entirely different protocol--one that would hopefully keep me from hyper-stimulating while simultaneously being gentler on my body.
I told him we'd think about it. And then we sat on his offer for a few weeks. He'd dangled this giant, glittering carrot in front of us, causing me to rethink our future plans. I dreaded the thought of months of hormone injections. I feared the cost to my body and my longterm health. Our bank account could only handle one more large expense--and if IVF failed again we'd have to borrow money for the exorbitant cost of adoption. It was a decision that quite literally made me sick with nerves.
Still, I told The Banker that I didn't know if I could ignore this opportunity and move forward without having severe doubts, without suffering from huge what-ifs that would swallow me whole. Never one to push me, I think he was relieved by my decision. We would try again.
So in July, The Banker and I left Boo with our families and traveled to the clinic. I stuck to a strict diet of no sugar, no white flour, no alcohol. I religiously saw the acupuncturist. I injected day after day until my stomach turned the most amusing shades of green, purple, and blue. And the clinic was able to retrieve a good number of healthy eggs, which then went to the lab to grow into embryos while we returned home.
And waited.
And waited some more, wondering if these embryos, like our last ones, would fall apart.
When the lab called with the good news--healthy embryos, Grade A for transfer--I was numb. Until the tears came. And then the sneaky paralyzing doubt, because there was still so much left in our journey.
So we took a vacation, both mentally and physically. We recognized that the past few years had been hard on all of us, and that Boo's love of princesses and all things Disney could be fleeting. So along with my parents (and THANKS to my parents, who offered the trip as our Christmas gift), we all headed to Orlando in September with one agenda in mind: Blow a 4-year-old's mind. Needless to say, between the Bibbido Bobbido Boutique, lunch with the princesses, and the amazing magic that only Disney can provide, Becca was in heaven. She literally shook with excitement as she waited to meet Mickey, Minnie, and all her beloved princesses. So often her excitement, joy, and wonder would make me smile until tears crept up. It was an amazing vacation and helped steel The Banker and me for our return to the clinic the next month.
Leaving Becca once again with our family, we returned to the clinic for the IVF transfer in October, three days after my birthday. What followed were a few very long days of achingly dull bed rest in a hotel room. Then upon our return there was a strict regimen to follow: no lifting anything over 5 pounds, no exercise, rest often, and try not to stress.
Try not to stress! This is awesome advice, akin to "don't breathe." But I stayed busy--while trying so hard not to overdo it--and waited for the days to pass so I could take the blood test to determine whether this gamble had paid off.
Thankfully, as the sky-high HCG test results practically screamed--we'd been very, very successful. To the blessed tune of TWO little babies. Holy cow, TWINS.
Not that The Banker and I quite believed it as first. After so many years of disappointment, it took a little bit of time to accept that we'd finally found what we'd been working and praying so hard for--and then some!
I'm battling through the end of a bumpy first trimester, complete with violent sickness, headaches, a few complications, and sporadic bed rest. It hasn't been an easy ride, but it's one I'm not taking for granted. After the holidays, we'll begin to cautiously gear up for the drastic changes that will be coming our way this June, give or take. But in the meantime we'll be taking the time to celebrate all our blessings this year, because they've come to us two-fold.
That was until our Reproductive Endocrinologist called; that sorta-famous doctor from another state, who's now even more well known because he helped a reality star discover her breast cancer in the midst of infertility treatment. It's a rare thing to get a call from this doctor, so when he calls, you kinda have to listen.
When you're world-renowned, I think getting an ego comes with the territory. And this doc thought we'd be a slam-dunk case. An effortless boost to the clinic's (already) impressive success rates. So when our first round of IVF failed, I think it hurt his ego. Perhaps even pissed him off a little? So while The Banker and I were moving on, this doc wanted us to put on the breaks. He wanted to try again, only this time he would use an entirely different protocol--one that would hopefully keep me from hyper-stimulating while simultaneously being gentler on my body.
I told him we'd think about it. And then we sat on his offer for a few weeks. He'd dangled this giant, glittering carrot in front of us, causing me to rethink our future plans. I dreaded the thought of months of hormone injections. I feared the cost to my body and my longterm health. Our bank account could only handle one more large expense--and if IVF failed again we'd have to borrow money for the exorbitant cost of adoption. It was a decision that quite literally made me sick with nerves.
Still, I told The Banker that I didn't know if I could ignore this opportunity and move forward without having severe doubts, without suffering from huge what-ifs that would swallow me whole. Never one to push me, I think he was relieved by my decision. We would try again.
So in July, The Banker and I left Boo with our families and traveled to the clinic. I stuck to a strict diet of no sugar, no white flour, no alcohol. I religiously saw the acupuncturist. I injected day after day until my stomach turned the most amusing shades of green, purple, and blue. And the clinic was able to retrieve a good number of healthy eggs, which then went to the lab to grow into embryos while we returned home.
And waited.
And waited some more, wondering if these embryos, like our last ones, would fall apart.
When the lab called with the good news--healthy embryos, Grade A for transfer--I was numb. Until the tears came. And then the sneaky paralyzing doubt, because there was still so much left in our journey.
So we took a vacation, both mentally and physically. We recognized that the past few years had been hard on all of us, and that Boo's love of princesses and all things Disney could be fleeting. So along with my parents (and THANKS to my parents, who offered the trip as our Christmas gift), we all headed to Orlando in September with one agenda in mind: Blow a 4-year-old's mind. Needless to say, between the Bibbido Bobbido Boutique, lunch with the princesses, and the amazing magic that only Disney can provide, Becca was in heaven. She literally shook with excitement as she waited to meet Mickey, Minnie, and all her beloved princesses. So often her excitement, joy, and wonder would make me smile until tears crept up. It was an amazing vacation and helped steel The Banker and me for our return to the clinic the next month.
Leaving Becca once again with our family, we returned to the clinic for the IVF transfer in October, three days after my birthday. What followed were a few very long days of achingly dull bed rest in a hotel room. Then upon our return there was a strict regimen to follow: no lifting anything over 5 pounds, no exercise, rest often, and try not to stress.
Try not to stress! This is awesome advice, akin to "don't breathe." But I stayed busy--while trying so hard not to overdo it--and waited for the days to pass so I could take the blood test to determine whether this gamble had paid off.
Thankfully, as the sky-high HCG test results practically screamed--we'd been very, very successful. To the blessed tune of TWO little babies. Holy cow, TWINS.
Not that The Banker and I quite believed it as first. After so many years of disappointment, it took a little bit of time to accept that we'd finally found what we'd been working and praying so hard for--and then some!
I'm battling through the end of a bumpy first trimester, complete with violent sickness, headaches, a few complications, and sporadic bed rest. It hasn't been an easy ride, but it's one I'm not taking for granted. After the holidays, we'll begin to cautiously gear up for the drastic changes that will be coming our way this June, give or take. But in the meantime we'll be taking the time to celebrate all our blessings this year, because they've come to us two-fold.
Wednesday, March 09, 2011
A Plethora of Pink
It's been a process--mourning in ways (hopefully) hidden from Becca and finding concrete steps to help us move on. And while we've not yet arrived at that (mythical?) place of acceptance, I think we're closer.
Having something to throw myself into helped a great deal. And what better focus than someone's 4th birthday? We had a visit from Sleeping Beauty that wowed the wee princesses in attendance and certainly made the Birthday Girl's day.
There were ample decorations, cake, and presents. It might have been a bit much. But I'm okay with that. Because I want Becca to know how incredibly important and loved she is--and I certainly don't want her memory of this period in her life darkened by our attempts to grow our family.
Having something to throw myself into helped a great deal. And what better focus than someone's 4th birthday? We had a visit from Sleeping Beauty that wowed the wee princesses in attendance and certainly made the Birthday Girl's day.
There were ample decorations, cake, and presents. It might have been a bit much. But I'm okay with that. Because I want Becca to know how incredibly important and loved she is--and I certainly don't want her memory of this period in her life darkened by our attempts to grow our family.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Where I get a little technical (and depressing)
I've been quiet, so, so quiet here, for months and months because I needed every ounce of "me" to denote to what we'd undertaken at life. And now? Well, now I'm just a bit lost as we've discovered that much of this all-encompassing focus was for nothing.
The Banker and I traveled to a world-renowned fertility clinic, where we were told we were ideal candidates for IVF. The expense would be massive, but if I returned to the Really Big Company during Becca's preschool hours and continued to aggressively freelance, it would make the smallest of dents in the massive investment. So I went back to work on a special project, threw myself at every freelance opportunity, and started the slew of medicine concoctions, injections, and invasive sonograms to monitor my process. When it came time to harvest the small army of eggs, The Banker and I hesitantly, sadly, left Becca behind with family and moved into a hotel room for the remaining duration of the process.
Then things went wrong: I hyper-stimulated, producing too many eggs, and my body started retaining water in my body cavity. (Should the fluid have migrated to my lungs, hospitalization would have been required.) The doctors harvested the eggs but refused to transfer the embryos until my body had time to recoup. The postponement was crushing, as we returned home early, empty-wombed.
Then things went wrong again: For some unknown reason, and to the shock of the doctors and nurses, our embryos reacted poorly to the lab setting. What had begun as a large supply of eggs, turned into an assortment of embryos that were under-grown and fragmented. Our odds of eventual success dropped considerably.
But there's always hope, right? So we took two months off. Took Becca to the beach with my family, tried to focus on our family, our marriage, and all that we did have. And then we returned to a hotel room in another state for the transfer of the few embryos deemed the healthiest.
Then the waiting began. The excruciating waiting accompanied by a bevy of medicines, injections with 1.5-inch needles, a carefully monitored diet, and an almost total lack of physical exertion on my half. I tried not to be too hopeful, though the doctor thought our odds were roughly 50 percent. I tried not to be stressed out by my sister-in-law's upcoming baby showers and how difficult my attendance would be should we fail. I tried not to see everything and anything as a sign. Of success. Of failure. Yesterday, I was practically vibrating with anxiety as I had my blood drawn at 6:30 a.m. to determine if the pregnancy hormone HCG was present.
And as I discovered minutes before having to pick up Becca from preschool, the blood test was negative for the pregnancy hormone. Two years, an immense financial burden, untold damage to my body from incredible dosages of hormones...all for nothing.
In the time it's taken us to desperately try and fail for one child, friends have had two. I am surrounded by pregnant family members and friends. And every day I wait to see if my body will crack and fall apart, my outside finally mirroring how broken I feel inside. I wonder how long it will take for me to lose my sanity. After all, during this process I've lost my faith. (It's hard to go to church and praise God for the hellish existence we've endured these past 2 years while we're surrounded by others blessed repeatedly with what we can't have. I feel like a dog that continues to be kicked.) I've lost untold sums of money. I've lost time. And Becca has lost out on what she continually asks for (and all her little friends have)--a sibling.
Becca will be 4 in March. We're fast approaching a potential age gap between siblings where she'll not have a built-in friend but someone she has to "babysit" or care for (I know, as I've lived it). I feel like a complete failure for not being to able to give her the larger family she (and we) so desperately, heart-achingly want.
So what now? There's truly no revisiting the option of IVF. Cost aside, there's no guarantee our embryos will react any differently to a lab setting, essentially falling apart. (And we've tried everything leading up to IVF, including a painful D&C to prep my body, countless meds, meds and IUIs, and more.) Likely as not, we're going to take some time to mourn the loss of this dream. And I can't adequately express how crushing this is. And then, once we've had a chance to internalize this hell, we'll look to the long, emotionally exhausting, and expensive option of adoption.
Because despite how difficult this has been--and hands down it's been the hardest, most miserable experience of my life--I won't give up. Becca deserves to be a big sister. And The Banker and I really would like for someone else to call us Mom and Dad.
The Banker and I traveled to a world-renowned fertility clinic, where we were told we were ideal candidates for IVF. The expense would be massive, but if I returned to the Really Big Company during Becca's preschool hours and continued to aggressively freelance, it would make the smallest of dents in the massive investment. So I went back to work on a special project, threw myself at every freelance opportunity, and started the slew of medicine concoctions, injections, and invasive sonograms to monitor my process. When it came time to harvest the small army of eggs, The Banker and I hesitantly, sadly, left Becca behind with family and moved into a hotel room for the remaining duration of the process.
Then things went wrong: I hyper-stimulated, producing too many eggs, and my body started retaining water in my body cavity. (Should the fluid have migrated to my lungs, hospitalization would have been required.) The doctors harvested the eggs but refused to transfer the embryos until my body had time to recoup. The postponement was crushing, as we returned home early, empty-wombed.
Then things went wrong again: For some unknown reason, and to the shock of the doctors and nurses, our embryos reacted poorly to the lab setting. What had begun as a large supply of eggs, turned into an assortment of embryos that were under-grown and fragmented. Our odds of eventual success dropped considerably.
But there's always hope, right? So we took two months off. Took Becca to the beach with my family, tried to focus on our family, our marriage, and all that we did have. And then we returned to a hotel room in another state for the transfer of the few embryos deemed the healthiest.
Then the waiting began. The excruciating waiting accompanied by a bevy of medicines, injections with 1.5-inch needles, a carefully monitored diet, and an almost total lack of physical exertion on my half. I tried not to be too hopeful, though the doctor thought our odds were roughly 50 percent. I tried not to be stressed out by my sister-in-law's upcoming baby showers and how difficult my attendance would be should we fail. I tried not to see everything and anything as a sign. Of success. Of failure. Yesterday, I was practically vibrating with anxiety as I had my blood drawn at 6:30 a.m. to determine if the pregnancy hormone HCG was present.
And as I discovered minutes before having to pick up Becca from preschool, the blood test was negative for the pregnancy hormone. Two years, an immense financial burden, untold damage to my body from incredible dosages of hormones...all for nothing.
In the time it's taken us to desperately try and fail for one child, friends have had two. I am surrounded by pregnant family members and friends. And every day I wait to see if my body will crack and fall apart, my outside finally mirroring how broken I feel inside. I wonder how long it will take for me to lose my sanity. After all, during this process I've lost my faith. (It's hard to go to church and praise God for the hellish existence we've endured these past 2 years while we're surrounded by others blessed repeatedly with what we can't have. I feel like a dog that continues to be kicked.) I've lost untold sums of money. I've lost time. And Becca has lost out on what she continually asks for (and all her little friends have)--a sibling.
Becca will be 4 in March. We're fast approaching a potential age gap between siblings where she'll not have a built-in friend but someone she has to "babysit" or care for (I know, as I've lived it). I feel like a complete failure for not being to able to give her the larger family she (and we) so desperately, heart-achingly want.
So what now? There's truly no revisiting the option of IVF. Cost aside, there's no guarantee our embryos will react any differently to a lab setting, essentially falling apart. (And we've tried everything leading up to IVF, including a painful D&C to prep my body, countless meds, meds and IUIs, and more.) Likely as not, we're going to take some time to mourn the loss of this dream. And I can't adequately express how crushing this is. And then, once we've had a chance to internalize this hell, we'll look to the long, emotionally exhausting, and expensive option of adoption.
Because despite how difficult this has been--and hands down it's been the hardest, most miserable experience of my life--I won't give up. Becca deserves to be a big sister. And The Banker and I really would like for someone else to call us Mom and Dad.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Merry Christmas to All
Not much to say here, other than the last few months have not been as kind as I would have hoped. There were doctors, injections, long stays away from home, and a large dose of disappointment. Maybe someday I'll be up for writing about it, but needless to say it still causes tears to burn in my eyes and my throat to constrict painfully. But I have to be thankful for what I do have, and it's this little amazing creature here, who had herself one helluva Christmas:
Wishing us all a kinder, gentler, more prosperous 2011.
Wishing us all a kinder, gentler, more prosperous 2011.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
An important first
Boo has begun preschool. It seems like a small step after her experiences with Mother's Day Out, but at the same time there's something quite different about this "first." She's officially started school--a foray into an education system that (hopefully) won't spit her out again until she has a college degree or two. Here she is on her first day:
Although I suppose I wouldn't be a true yuppy parent if I didn't also have her in a small Spanish class once a week. I so hope she can effortlessly master the language that her mother pitifully destroys during infrequent use.
But we're also doing some "school time" on our own as well. Becca has asked to learn to read. So, in a move that will no doubt make her preschool teachers hiss with disapproval, I've started giving her daily lessons from the book Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. The book came highly recommended by some homeschooling moms I know and teaches reading based on phonics, which is the way I learned to read too many years ago. But only four years later when Sister #1 entered school, the curriculum had changed and she learned to read based on sight recognition alone. The difference between our love and ease of reading is immense. I only hope my efforts will make Boo a voracious reader rather than someone who takes years to finish a single novel. (Still love you anyway, Sis!!)
So this fall is one of many firsts, where my toddler towers above her classmates, forcing her mom to recognize she's not so little anymore.
Although I suppose I wouldn't be a true yuppy parent if I didn't also have her in a small Spanish class once a week. I so hope she can effortlessly master the language that her mother pitifully destroys during infrequent use.
But we're also doing some "school time" on our own as well. Becca has asked to learn to read. So, in a move that will no doubt make her preschool teachers hiss with disapproval, I've started giving her daily lessons from the book Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. The book came highly recommended by some homeschooling moms I know and teaches reading based on phonics, which is the way I learned to read too many years ago. But only four years later when Sister #1 entered school, the curriculum had changed and she learned to read based on sight recognition alone. The difference between our love and ease of reading is immense. I only hope my efforts will make Boo a voracious reader rather than someone who takes years to finish a single novel. (Still love you anyway, Sis!!)
So this fall is one of many firsts, where my toddler towers above her classmates, forcing her mom to recognize she's not so little anymore.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A home for tumbleweeds
It's been a veritable desert on this blog, eh? I can almost see the pixelated tumbleweeds, hear the deafening roar of silence.
I suppose I put the blog on hold because, in many ways, I've been in a holding pattern. Life, not so much. She is charging ahead, riding the slippery rails of time. In the past several months, Becca turned 3. The Banker got a new job. We escaped to Colorado to celebrate our 8th anniversary. Becca finally got in to a great (and previously booked) preschool down the street. So many wonderful things clicking into place after so long. That is, except for the one thing that I struggle to keep from overwhelming me altogether. I kept thinking, "With this month's treatment, surely there will be success. And then I can post something triumphant." Then nothing. And it's a heat-rending, soul-sucking, obliterating nothing to endure. Repeatedly. For 2 years.
So we're changing things up. We've "fired" our local doctor and been accepted at a clinic in Denver nationally renowned for fighting infertility. Tired of putting life on hold, we were stupid and got a new puppy. We're shopping for antiques, making improvements to the house. I attended a writer's conference, and while I still don't have the time or wherewithal to write a novel, I have a much firmer grasp on the process...not to mention a load of books to help "walk" me through the steps. And we have contacts at two different adoption agencies. Because we will grow our family one way or another. Despite the chaos, we still have more love to give. And who wouldn't want to have these two for sisters?
I suppose I put the blog on hold because, in many ways, I've been in a holding pattern. Life, not so much. She is charging ahead, riding the slippery rails of time. In the past several months, Becca turned 3. The Banker got a new job. We escaped to Colorado to celebrate our 8th anniversary. Becca finally got in to a great (and previously booked) preschool down the street. So many wonderful things clicking into place after so long. That is, except for the one thing that I struggle to keep from overwhelming me altogether. I kept thinking, "With this month's treatment, surely there will be success. And then I can post something triumphant." Then nothing. And it's a heat-rending, soul-sucking, obliterating nothing to endure. Repeatedly. For 2 years.
So we're changing things up. We've "fired" our local doctor and been accepted at a clinic in Denver nationally renowned for fighting infertility. Tired of putting life on hold, we were stupid and got a new puppy. We're shopping for antiques, making improvements to the house. I attended a writer's conference, and while I still don't have the time or wherewithal to write a novel, I have a much firmer grasp on the process...not to mention a load of books to help "walk" me through the steps. And we have contacts at two different adoption agencies. Because we will grow our family one way or another. Despite the chaos, we still have more love to give. And who wouldn't want to have these two for sisters?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
For the Kindness of a Stranger
The Banker and I are preparing to leave for a long weekend to visit his sister and her husband. It will be our first get-away without Boo in over a year--and trust me, it's overdue. Between the horrendous turn in the banking world, my mother's broken foot and the subsequent care she's needed, our ongoing frustrations with fertility, and the difficulty in remaining honestly thrilled for the 25-plus friends who have recently delivered or are expecting, a weekend away from it all seemed a good idea.
Today I threw myself into the world-wind of required preparations: a trip to the grocery store, cleaning the house, packing for Becca's stay at my parents' house and The Banker's parents' house, getting the pets set up for their respective stays, and our own packing. Thankfully, it was Becca's day at Mother's Day Out, which simplified my to-do list...that is until they called at noon saying Becca was screaming and crying that her ear hurt. Damn. What perfectly awful timing. She was right as rain this morning. So I rush to school, and Becca's inconsolable. She's not a crier, so I know it's bad. And of course the pediatrician's office is closed for lunch hour. Despite my inability to procure an appointment, I drive there anyway; Becca in the backseat sobbing.
Becca's screaming has all the parents in the waiting room shooting us sympathetic looks. The nurses, to their credit, manage to get us a room, even though they don't have an open slot for another hour-and-a-half. Another pediatrician in the practice has me hold a writhing, sweating, screaming Becca as she removes enough earwax to determine that yes, we do have an ear infection. She quickly writes me a prescription and tells me that the medicine is flavored, but not a big hit from what she's heard. "Immediately give Becca some in the pharmacy. If she doesn't like the flavor, pay to have one added right then and there."
It seems to take hours for the pharmacy to fill the scrip, the entire time Becca is crying and I'm trying to cradle her in my lap. Finally, the medicine is ready. But when I turn to try to give Becca some, she runs to the corner, curls up in a ball and wails. And wails. And screams until she's gagging, threatening to vomit up what little lunch her teacher said she ate. There is nothing I can do to entice her to take the medication she so desperately needs.
I remove her from the pharmacy and we sit in the hallway, Becca sobbing and struggling to breathe while I try to calm her down, cajole her, and threaten her in turn to please, please, for all that is holy, take the medicine. A woman waiting for the elevator walks over to us and asks Becca if she held her in her lap if Boo would take the medication. Amazingly, Becca--who shies away from being held by strangers--nods her head. And this dear, sweet woman held Becca in her lap, cooed and sang to her while I gave her the medicine. Sure enough, she hated the flavor. We needed to have another added if the grandparents had any hope of administering it themselves. I was so taken aback by this woman's gesture and by how successful it was. I couldn't thank her enough. She had the most calming influence on one tired, sick toddler and one exhausted, panicked mom.
So whoever you are, thank you. I told you that you were a Godsend, and boy did I mean that.
Today I threw myself into the world-wind of required preparations: a trip to the grocery store, cleaning the house, packing for Becca's stay at my parents' house and The Banker's parents' house, getting the pets set up for their respective stays, and our own packing. Thankfully, it was Becca's day at Mother's Day Out, which simplified my to-do list...that is until they called at noon saying Becca was screaming and crying that her ear hurt. Damn. What perfectly awful timing. She was right as rain this morning. So I rush to school, and Becca's inconsolable. She's not a crier, so I know it's bad. And of course the pediatrician's office is closed for lunch hour. Despite my inability to procure an appointment, I drive there anyway; Becca in the backseat sobbing.
Becca's screaming has all the parents in the waiting room shooting us sympathetic looks. The nurses, to their credit, manage to get us a room, even though they don't have an open slot for another hour-and-a-half. Another pediatrician in the practice has me hold a writhing, sweating, screaming Becca as she removes enough earwax to determine that yes, we do have an ear infection. She quickly writes me a prescription and tells me that the medicine is flavored, but not a big hit from what she's heard. "Immediately give Becca some in the pharmacy. If she doesn't like the flavor, pay to have one added right then and there."
It seems to take hours for the pharmacy to fill the scrip, the entire time Becca is crying and I'm trying to cradle her in my lap. Finally, the medicine is ready. But when I turn to try to give Becca some, she runs to the corner, curls up in a ball and wails. And wails. And screams until she's gagging, threatening to vomit up what little lunch her teacher said she ate. There is nothing I can do to entice her to take the medication she so desperately needs.
I remove her from the pharmacy and we sit in the hallway, Becca sobbing and struggling to breathe while I try to calm her down, cajole her, and threaten her in turn to please, please, for all that is holy, take the medicine. A woman waiting for the elevator walks over to us and asks Becca if she held her in her lap if Boo would take the medication. Amazingly, Becca--who shies away from being held by strangers--nods her head. And this dear, sweet woman held Becca in her lap, cooed and sang to her while I gave her the medicine. Sure enough, she hated the flavor. We needed to have another added if the grandparents had any hope of administering it themselves. I was so taken aback by this woman's gesture and by how successful it was. I couldn't thank her enough. She had the most calming influence on one tired, sick toddler and one exhausted, panicked mom.
So whoever you are, thank you. I told you that you were a Godsend, and boy did I mean that.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
Ouch.
So this child informed me last night that I was a bad mommy:
(She'd gone without a nap and come bedtime was a MESS, wailing and trying to wriggle out of bed. So being a "bad mommy," I forced her back into bed.) My God, did it feel like she'd ripped the heart from my chest and trampled it underfoot. I admit it, tears sprung to my eyes. The Banker keeps telling me that "she's only 2, she was tired, get over it." But man, oh, man. I don't know if I'll survive the eventual teen-I-hate-you phase.
(She'd gone without a nap and come bedtime was a MESS, wailing and trying to wriggle out of bed. So being a "bad mommy," I forced her back into bed.) My God, did it feel like she'd ripped the heart from my chest and trampled it underfoot. I admit it, tears sprung to my eyes. The Banker keeps telling me that "she's only 2, she was tired, get over it." But man, oh, man. I don't know if I'll survive the eventual teen-I-hate-you phase.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
2009 Musings
I realize, as I reluctantly schlep back here, that it's pretty pathetic to post Halloween photos almost a month later, at the end of November. Yikes. Sorry about that. It just seems that I've been neglecting this space--not for a lack of things to write about, but a lack of POSITIVE things to wax on about. And I don't want to be a "bitching blog." (Not to say I haven't bitched here. Far from it. Don't get my wrong: I'm a Class A Complainer. But if that's ALL I had to write about? Geez, painful.)
So I've been waiting, waiting, waiting, oh God, waiting for an upturn of sorts, something shiny and beautiful to offer forth here. Only it's really not arrived, this shiny, happy bit of something. It made writing my yearly Christmas letter a monumental feat of b.s.ing and hemming and hawing. We went to TENNESSEE, people! Wooo-hooo! We had a spate of family weddings, and we have more to "look forward to." (As my best friend commented, "You really were desperate for content to go that far. Let's look at what's coming in 2010 since nothing happened in 2009!")
Not that nothing happened in 2009. It's just not the sort of stuff you put in Christmas letters. The banking business bombed, making The Banker miserable. (The stuff runs downhill, they say, right back home to roost.) His one hope to find a new job in a better environment has gone nowhere. We have tried and repeatedly failed to add to our brood. The stuff of doctors and medicines and exhaustive medical visits are not Christmas letter fodder. Two loved ones decided to end their marriage. We had to get rid of one of our dogs. We have a 2-year-old who is funny and brilliant and headstrong--something to most assuredly be thankful for--but who continues to blatantly refuse to use the potty at home. At Mother's Day Out? REPEATEDLY. At home, where we can be comfortable and everyone loves us, well, that bulging, stinky diaper is just more to love, right? Exotic vacation plans were shelved. A long-time freelance client up and moved its operations to LA, effectively cutting its writers free. So...all things said, plenty occurred in 2009, just none of which I really want to repeat in a letter to loved ones, let alone here.
It's so much nicer to condense such fist-gnawing into one navel-gazing post, huh? (Before anyone clucks that things could have been so, so much worse, I absolutely agree. The Banker still has a job, albeit one that makes him a bear. We have an amazing daughter, and for her I thank God daily. We're housed and fed, warm and healthy. These are the big blessings, and I don't mean to undermine them. But we had many hopes and desires for this past year, and the gaping holes these unfulfilled dreams have left behind are truly painful.)
Still, there is this:
So here's to 2010. May it be better than 2009. May it be laughter-filled, love-renewing, family-gathering, and oh-so rewarding. Please, please, please.
So I've been waiting, waiting, waiting, oh God, waiting for an upturn of sorts, something shiny and beautiful to offer forth here. Only it's really not arrived, this shiny, happy bit of something. It made writing my yearly Christmas letter a monumental feat of b.s.ing and hemming and hawing. We went to TENNESSEE, people! Wooo-hooo! We had a spate of family weddings, and we have more to "look forward to." (As my best friend commented, "You really were desperate for content to go that far. Let's look at what's coming in 2010 since nothing happened in 2009!")
Not that nothing happened in 2009. It's just not the sort of stuff you put in Christmas letters. The banking business bombed, making The Banker miserable. (The stuff runs downhill, they say, right back home to roost.) His one hope to find a new job in a better environment has gone nowhere. We have tried and repeatedly failed to add to our brood. The stuff of doctors and medicines and exhaustive medical visits are not Christmas letter fodder. Two loved ones decided to end their marriage. We had to get rid of one of our dogs. We have a 2-year-old who is funny and brilliant and headstrong--something to most assuredly be thankful for--but who continues to blatantly refuse to use the potty at home. At Mother's Day Out? REPEATEDLY. At home, where we can be comfortable and everyone loves us, well, that bulging, stinky diaper is just more to love, right? Exotic vacation plans were shelved. A long-time freelance client up and moved its operations to LA, effectively cutting its writers free. So...all things said, plenty occurred in 2009, just none of which I really want to repeat in a letter to loved ones, let alone here.
It's so much nicer to condense such fist-gnawing into one navel-gazing post, huh? (Before anyone clucks that things could have been so, so much worse, I absolutely agree. The Banker still has a job, albeit one that makes him a bear. We have an amazing daughter, and for her I thank God daily. We're housed and fed, warm and healthy. These are the big blessings, and I don't mean to undermine them. But we had many hopes and desires for this past year, and the gaping holes these unfulfilled dreams have left behind are truly painful.)
Still, there is this:
So here's to 2010. May it be better than 2009. May it be laughter-filled, love-renewing, family-gathering, and oh-so rewarding. Please, please, please.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Parenting FAIL
This post right here? This is where I admit a serious parenting FAIL. Me? I'm holding the TV hostage...in exchange for successes on the potty. One successful potty trip=One Mickey Mouse Club House show (plus candy, sticker on potty chart, and more).
Why the cruel tactics? The kiddo is 2-and-a-half and the last girl in her Mother's Day Out class in diapers. Next year she'll have to be potty trained to attend preschool as well as her spanish class. Maybe she's not ready, some would argue. What they don't understand is that she TOTALLY GETS IT. I caught her peeing in her diaper the other day and asked if she wanted me to change her. She put out her palm and informed me, "The feeling will go away soon." Yea. That's called an absorbent diaper, which DOES make the wet feeling go away "soon." BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
It's not like we haven't tried previously. A lot. A sticker chart, M&Ms, and a cool ride-on toy were not motivation enough. (I even succumbed to watching an episode of Dr. Phil in which he guaranteed potty training in one weekend. I bought the peeing doll, the party horn blowers, the whole nine yards. Dr. Phil is full of crap, and my hardwood floors were immersed in pee.)
So we're trying again, with varied success over the last three days. And oh, is this child stubborn. And oh, do I really, really, really hate this process. Because denying the girl TV is punishing me as much as it's motivating her.
Why the cruel tactics? The kiddo is 2-and-a-half and the last girl in her Mother's Day Out class in diapers. Next year she'll have to be potty trained to attend preschool as well as her spanish class. Maybe she's not ready, some would argue. What they don't understand is that she TOTALLY GETS IT. I caught her peeing in her diaper the other day and asked if she wanted me to change her. She put out her palm and informed me, "The feeling will go away soon." Yea. That's called an absorbent diaper, which DOES make the wet feeling go away "soon." BUT THAT'S NOT THE POINT.
It's not like we haven't tried previously. A lot. A sticker chart, M&Ms, and a cool ride-on toy were not motivation enough. (I even succumbed to watching an episode of Dr. Phil in which he guaranteed potty training in one weekend. I bought the peeing doll, the party horn blowers, the whole nine yards. Dr. Phil is full of crap, and my hardwood floors were immersed in pee.)
So we're trying again, with varied success over the last three days. And oh, is this child stubborn. And oh, do I really, really, really hate this process. Because denying the girl TV is punishing me as much as it's motivating her.
Sunday, October 11, 2009
The Little Things
I've been taking the easy way out when it comes to this blog as of late. I post rarely and only to write a funny quirk about the kiddo, to share a photo or two. I lamely assert that there's nothing going on worth writing about. But the truth is that there's plenty to write about, and for whatever reason, I'm reluctant to put it down. As if by not writing about it, it will somehow go away. Because there's quite a bit of sadness going on. Maybe because I'm the oldest, maybe because I'm accustomed to putting on a brave face, a forced smile, I don't share the sad news. But so it remains. And I'm not doing myself any favors by keeping it bottled up inside, an ache in my belly, a lump in my throat.
Yes, a lot has happened. We were forced to find a home for one of our dogs because after 5 years the two female pugs had evidently had enough and resorted to mauling one another. I patched and bandaged. The vets stitched and medicated. We sought the help of an animal behavioralist. We set up strict routines. But when it came down to it, our original pug had settled into bitchy old ladydom and had had enough with the rescue pug. The rescue pug, an acute fighter, wasn't about to give up her alpha role, however. Thank God Boo never got between the two during a tussle. But I most assuredly did. Still have the scars to prove it, too.
Thankfully, we were blessed with a wonderful retired couple who took in Ginger to keep their elderly, blind male pug company. The two are fast friends, sleeping in the same bed. The situation couldn't have ended more happily. Yet Boo still asks about Ginger, and I am left with the guilt that accompanies crappy pet owners. I did what I never thought I'd ever do: I gave away a family member.
In the same vein, more disappointment reigns in our ongoing failed attempts to give Boo a sibling. We're currently seeing a specialist who has prescribed medication to force my body to regulate itself, which it apparently never did naturally after Boo's birth so many years ago. The treatment is expensive, not covered by insurance, and at the moment leaving me sick. Tomorrow we will revisit this doctor and see what the next plan of action entails. I'm feeling very much at the end of my rope.
BUT there's no time for pouting (this post aside, really). I'm drowning in freelance. While my friends lose their jobs at my respective former employers, I'm awash in work. There are TWO family weddings this upcoming year, God help me. And at the moment, I'm awaiting the arrival of some Chicago friends. So I'm plastering on that smile, pushing aside the disappointments, and making it look like that things here? Well, they're just hunky dory!
Yes, a lot has happened. We were forced to find a home for one of our dogs because after 5 years the two female pugs had evidently had enough and resorted to mauling one another. I patched and bandaged. The vets stitched and medicated. We sought the help of an animal behavioralist. We set up strict routines. But when it came down to it, our original pug had settled into bitchy old ladydom and had had enough with the rescue pug. The rescue pug, an acute fighter, wasn't about to give up her alpha role, however. Thank God Boo never got between the two during a tussle. But I most assuredly did. Still have the scars to prove it, too.
Thankfully, we were blessed with a wonderful retired couple who took in Ginger to keep their elderly, blind male pug company. The two are fast friends, sleeping in the same bed. The situation couldn't have ended more happily. Yet Boo still asks about Ginger, and I am left with the guilt that accompanies crappy pet owners. I did what I never thought I'd ever do: I gave away a family member.
In the same vein, more disappointment reigns in our ongoing failed attempts to give Boo a sibling. We're currently seeing a specialist who has prescribed medication to force my body to regulate itself, which it apparently never did naturally after Boo's birth so many years ago. The treatment is expensive, not covered by insurance, and at the moment leaving me sick. Tomorrow we will revisit this doctor and see what the next plan of action entails. I'm feeling very much at the end of my rope.
BUT there's no time for pouting (this post aside, really). I'm drowning in freelance. While my friends lose their jobs at my respective former employers, I'm awash in work. There are TWO family weddings this upcoming year, God help me. And at the moment, I'm awaiting the arrival of some Chicago friends. So I'm plastering on that smile, pushing aside the disappointments, and making it look like that things here? Well, they're just hunky dory!
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Blogiversery
Yesterday marked my fourth blogiversary. But I can't even bring myself to read the old entries just yet. Too cringe-worthy, I think. Still I must admit, I've had more success keeping this blog than any diary I've ever started. So that's something. And I'm sincerely hoping that this coming year--my 31st as of the 3rd of October--will hold more than this past year has. Less spinning of the wheels, more forward movement and accomplishment. Here's to hope!
Monday, September 21, 2009
Whirlwind
Last week we returned from our family vacation to the Smoky Mountains, but before I could post anything about that particular adventure, I flew down to Santa Fe to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday (sans Boo and The Banker). I returned home today to a child with a 100 degree fever, a husband who's D.O.N.E. being Mister Mom, and a staggering load of freelance. But first this:
A trip to the aquarium, which was a BIG hit.
And a trip to a questionable petting zoo.
See just how questionable? Check out this stellar sign. And don't even get me started on the Zonkey.
It was an exhausting trip, though I think Boo had a good time. We stayed in a log cabin, searched unsuccessfully for black bears, hiked to a waterfall, had M&M pancakes, and of course the aforementioned aquarium and petting zoo. But four days was clearly the kiddo's limit, and she was a pill on the return flights. As in running madly about the airport until we forced her into her stroller, where she arched her back and planted her feet on the ground, effectively putting the brakes on. If you saw an exhausted mom putting her kid in "time out" in the middle of the Cincinnati airport last week, it was probably me.
It was with great relief that we returned to our hometown airport. As I was getting the bags, I called my mom to let her know of our safe return. I handed the phone to Boo so she could talk to her grandma as I struggled with a bag, and this is the conversation I overheard:
"BaBa? We've got a problem. I got in a fight with Mom and Dad."
This child never ceases to amaze, frustrate, and amuse me. And if she sounds like this at 2, what in the world will 16 hold?!
A trip to the aquarium, which was a BIG hit.
And a trip to a questionable petting zoo.
See just how questionable? Check out this stellar sign. And don't even get me started on the Zonkey.
It was an exhausting trip, though I think Boo had a good time. We stayed in a log cabin, searched unsuccessfully for black bears, hiked to a waterfall, had M&M pancakes, and of course the aforementioned aquarium and petting zoo. But four days was clearly the kiddo's limit, and she was a pill on the return flights. As in running madly about the airport until we forced her into her stroller, where she arched her back and planted her feet on the ground, effectively putting the brakes on. If you saw an exhausted mom putting her kid in "time out" in the middle of the Cincinnati airport last week, it was probably me.
It was with great relief that we returned to our hometown airport. As I was getting the bags, I called my mom to let her know of our safe return. I handed the phone to Boo so she could talk to her grandma as I struggled with a bag, and this is the conversation I overheard:
"BaBa? We've got a problem. I got in a fight with Mom and Dad."
This child never ceases to amaze, frustrate, and amuse me. And if she sounds like this at 2, what in the world will 16 hold?!
Thursday, September 03, 2009
The Lecture-Stopper
Becca is whining that her diaper hurts her, so I walk her up the stairs to change her, along the way lecturing.
"You wouldn't hurt if you went potty on the big girl potty. Then you could wear pretty big girl panties just like your friend Holly does."
The lecture continues as I lay her down to change the diaper. She's squirming, playing with her hair, rolling her eyes.
"You know, Big Boy and Big Girl School is only for those who learn to use the potty. This is the last year you can go to school in diapers. After that, they won't let you go unless you use the potty..."
And then Becca cuts me off, saying, "I understand. Just change my diaper."
At that point, I'm slack jawed. I've been summarily dismissed by my 2-year-old, who somehow has channelled the attitude of a 16-year-old. God help me.
"You wouldn't hurt if you went potty on the big girl potty. Then you could wear pretty big girl panties just like your friend Holly does."
The lecture continues as I lay her down to change the diaper. She's squirming, playing with her hair, rolling her eyes.
"You know, Big Boy and Big Girl School is only for those who learn to use the potty. This is the last year you can go to school in diapers. After that, they won't let you go unless you use the potty..."
And then Becca cuts me off, saying, "I understand. Just change my diaper."
At that point, I'm slack jawed. I've been summarily dismissed by my 2-year-old, who somehow has channelled the attitude of a 16-year-old. God help me.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Flower Girl
She seems to be cheering that her "job" had been successfully completed. Let me tell you, I was cheering with her. It was dang stressful trying to ensure that all would go according to plan. You want a 2-year-old to walk down the world's longest aisle in a huge tulle dress with a wreath of flowers pinned tightly to her head, remain quiet through a Catholic wedding mass (never the shortest in the world), and then walk up the aisle once more? While we're at it, let me train my cat to do your taxes...
Still, we succeeded. More or less. And I'm so thankful that's behind us. A big WHEEEEW. Now a few more days until we escape to the mountains with some dear friends. This vacation has been so earned, and so desperately needed, in so many ways. Yippee!!
Friday, August 14, 2009
First Pony Ride
So Mom had to fib and say that Becca was 3 (though she's big for her age, I think), but it was totally worth it. She'd only been begging for this for 4 months:
Friday, July 31, 2009
Guess who can FINALLY rock the pigtails?
It only took over 2 years for her to finally grow enough hair, but here it is:
Smooches all!!
Smooches all!!
Monday, July 27, 2009
A city to remember
Full disclosure: I have a goldfish's memory.
Don't know what a goldfish's memory is? It goes a little something like this..."Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
So I'm constantly reminded by family and friends of long-ago memories. High school, for instance? I don't have many memories of my entire first year. My childhood is more about fleeting, slippery images rather than chunky, firmly-held recollections.
And another confession: I have zero sense of direction. None. Couldn't find my butt with both hands, a flashlight, and a map. I can get lost ANYWHERE, and I have: Rome, Mexico City, Perth, and the list goes on and on and on.
So it was utterly shocking that as soon as we entered Chicago I suddenly, inexplicably knew my way around from memory. The Banker was fumbling with his GPS system on his Crackberry, and the directions were all wrong. And he couldn't accept that I instinctively knew my way around downtown. And what frightened him even more was that I kept bringing up recollections of our time living in the Windy City that he'd forgotten about. It was like we'd switched bodies.
And the city did feel like home. The energy, the sites, the hustle and bustle, the endless culinary possibilities. Just amazing. But I missed Becca something terrible. When we visited The American Girl Store to watch little ones race about in consumptive delight, both The Banker and I wished we'd had Boo along, so she could share in the delights.
So we've decided we need to return to Chicago sometime next year, and this time, take Becca with us. She'll probably not understand what it is about the city that makes her mom re-centered and happy. She probably won't understand that this busy, busy place is where her mom and dad used to call home. But I've no doubt she'll entirely understand the premise of The American Girl Store.
Don't know what a goldfish's memory is? It goes a little something like this..."Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
"Ooohh, castle!!"
So I'm constantly reminded by family and friends of long-ago memories. High school, for instance? I don't have many memories of my entire first year. My childhood is more about fleeting, slippery images rather than chunky, firmly-held recollections.
And another confession: I have zero sense of direction. None. Couldn't find my butt with both hands, a flashlight, and a map. I can get lost ANYWHERE, and I have: Rome, Mexico City, Perth, and the list goes on and on and on.
So it was utterly shocking that as soon as we entered Chicago I suddenly, inexplicably knew my way around from memory. The Banker was fumbling with his GPS system on his Crackberry, and the directions were all wrong. And he couldn't accept that I instinctively knew my way around downtown. And what frightened him even more was that I kept bringing up recollections of our time living in the Windy City that he'd forgotten about. It was like we'd switched bodies.
And the city did feel like home. The energy, the sites, the hustle and bustle, the endless culinary possibilities. Just amazing. But I missed Becca something terrible. When we visited The American Girl Store to watch little ones race about in consumptive delight, both The Banker and I wished we'd had Boo along, so she could share in the delights.
So we've decided we need to return to Chicago sometime next year, and this time, take Becca with us. She'll probably not understand what it is about the city that makes her mom re-centered and happy. She probably won't understand that this busy, busy place is where her mom and dad used to call home. But I've no doubt she'll entirely understand the premise of The American Girl Store.
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