One and done?

In the past I'd always believed that I would become a mother to multiple children. I grew up in a large family...the youngest of 5 girls in a blended family, so it seemed natural that I would birth my own gaggle of kiddos in due time.

After marrying my husband and his two kids from his previous marriage those plans changed somewhat. Not because I didn't want multiple kids or that he wasn't willing to father more kids per se - he definitely felt his "boys" were up to the task. But we would have three total if I birthed just one - three kids to finance, support, love, and hopefully/prayerfully usher into successful adulthood. Three is plenty. Three is a lot. Three is the reason that a lot of parents stop at two.

So the question of quality vs. quantity left us feeling pretty certain that we would adopt the "one and done" philosophy for my uterus. One pregnancy. One kid. No mas. And let's face it, after the first few weeks of morning sickness with my first pregnancy, I wasn't exactly eager to be a frequent flyer on that airline, thank you very much.

Even though I previously thought I'd be mom to many kiddos, never in my wildest dreams did I think that I would be a mom to multiples. So to learn in my first ultrasound that I was expecting twins was quite a shock - one I'm a bit ashamed to say I didn't take too well.

To my credit, I didn't have the benefit of warming up to the idea of pregnancy for several weeks before my first ultrasound. I was sent straight upstairs to the u/s techs immediately following the emergence of positive pregnancy lines on that first urine test. My doctor was trying to rule out an ectopic pregnancy based on symptoms I'd reported.

When you're happily married and of a responsible age (does 30 count?), the expectation is that the pink plus sign is the start of many momentous celebrations - dinners with baby peas and baby limas to announce your bundle to your spouse, bottles of champagne that you can't drink being popped by the grandparents-to-be, baby showers and paint-the-nursery parties. Rattles are supposed to shake and tears of joy are supposed to overflow.

But I had no tears of joy. Just tears. Overwhelming sobs with ragged breathing and snot running down my face might be a more accurate description.

I was devastated.

I had closed my brain off to the possibility of being a biological mom and to have that door flung wide open by not just one baby, but two completely overwhelmed me to the point of breakdown.

What was I going to do with two babies at once? Where would they sleep? Where would they go while I went to work? I can't afford daycare for two! That's another mortgage payment!!! How would I breastfeed them? Change them? Heck, how many diapers a month do TWO bums go through? Where do you put two babies in the grocery cart while you shop? Sleep? Ever? Yeah, right. Bye, bye one and done. And those were just my fears assuming that I was able to successfully carry two healthy babies and birth them. What about all the stuff that comes before?

It's enough pressure to worry about caring for one human inside you - eating right, exercising (when you can lift your head from the toilet), prenatal care, yada yada yada. But two of 'em?! The stakes were definitely higher, but they felt like more than just twice as high. Already a high risk pregnancy candidate, I just entered a new level of high risk...like going from national security threat level yellow to level orange. The risks of premature delivery, complications, fetal health issues are significantly higher with multiples. Add to that the fact that it appears that these two share a placenta - meaning they're eating off the same kitchen, but more than likely pushing and shoving at the refrigerator door. They're not necessarily getting an equal share of nutrients. It was all very daunting.

I felt defeated before I'd really broken from the start line and gotten started running.

And speaking of running, while laying there in stirrups with vaginal u/s in progress being told "Look! There's your baby! Ahhhh.....and here's baby B!", I had never wanted to run more. Talk about a bad time to be caught with your pants down. Literally. My brain knew I couldn't run, but my knees didn't know it - they shook so badly that my poor u/s tech had to steady them. Good thing she had a probe stuck in me and her hands on my knees, or I might have been a feature on the evening news for having run down 15th street naked from the waist down.

After handing me a bunch of kleenex, my nurse offered to call my husband to come pick me up. I declined. She offered to call and pay for a cab. I graciously declined. She jokingly offered me a shot of liquor. If it weren't Crown Royal (bleck!) I probably would accepted as I grabbed the bottle and ran. Instead I took only a follow up appointment card and stash of prenatal vitamins as I thanked the staff and headed home.

The weather outside was beautiful. Blue skies. Sunny with bits of clouds scattered here and there. It was a gorgeous fall day - my favorite days of the year. Nevertheless, I drove home in a fog.

What was I going to say to my husband? How would he react? How was I going to do any of this?

I prayed. And prayed some more. Someone - not me - drove that car home. Someone - not me - opened the car door. Someone - not me - put my feet on the ground and placed them one in front of the other until I landed at my door.

And someone - not me - blessed me with the most fantastic human to share my life with. He greeted me at the door with a smile. When he asked how the appointment went, I hesitated to respond, but eventually found the words:

"You, dear sir, need a drink. Make that a double - one shot for each baby we have on the way."

I bawled. And he laughed. And hugged me. And said he loved me. And said everything was going to be okay and that somehow we would figure it all out.

He gave me the courage to put on and wear these shoes that God has given me.

I'm not going to lie - they're tight and wearing some serious blisters on my feet. But I'm going to wear them with a smile on my face from now on. I know they'll get more comfortable with each day that I break them in.

Thar she blows!

I would have back handed Captain Ahab or Ishmael had either of them really uttered those words at me. But for some reason, "Thar she blows!" is the line I find shouting in my head each time I catch a sideways glimpse of myself in the mirror.

I look like a whale.

No flippers thank goodness, but I stay sweaty and wet looking. My face is breaking out in what look like barnacles, I'm so pale I'm almost glowing, and I would swear I gaining an extra layer of blubber. Not to mention the fact that this "bump" is more like a hump that popped up overnight. Not too far from Melville's description of the elusive Moby Dick, huh?

And the bump keeps growing! Don't get me wrong. I'm NOT complaining because I know this means (in theory) that the 2 people inside of me are also growing and I'm very grateful for that.

I'm just so confused! How is this happening already? I'm throwing up at least twice a day. I've gained a total of 3 lbs. And the 2 kiddos inside me are no bigger than the size of limes and don't weigh even that! So where is this newfound mass generating from? I'm not even 14 weeks along. Yeesh.

While I don't make a habit of complaining about my size out loud to others (except my husband when he rubs my belly), I am incredibly self-concious of this orb in front of me. For now, others don't seem to notice the resemblance between me and aquatic creatures - that or they're just kind enough not to mention it. I have had a few random belly rubbers (ps...not sure how I feel about that just yet), but at least no one's chasing me around with a harpoon.

Thank goodness! Don't think I could run (or swim) fast enough to get away.

The one percenters!

The baddest of the bad call themselves "the 1%" - or the one percenters. It's a group of bikers, including such groups as the Hells Angels, Banditos, or the Outlaws to name a few. But no matter their name, they share in common a reputation for rough riding and law breaking, which is how their nickname came to be.

In defense of the motorcycle community at large following the outbreaks of several melees between motorcycle clubs, or MC's, for short, the American Motorcyclist Association, issued the following statement:

"99% of bikers are law-abiding citizens, but there's that one percent who are nothing more than outlaws...."

The ONLY reason that I know this is because my husband is an avid two-wheeler. He lives and breathes motorcycles. I sometimes fully believe that motor oil, rather than blood, pulses through the man's veins. It's not just that he knows how to change oil, readjust clutch cables or install any part that J&P Cycles advertises....the man knows the culture, as well - even if he doesn't live it in his seemingly "white collar" life by comparison. And there is a separate culture for motorcyclists, make no mistake. If you've ever watched Sons of Anarchy then you know exactly what I'm talking about. If you ever meet a MC member, not to mention a 1%'er (because they are not one and the same necessarily) then you'll understand. MC stands for something that goes way beyond the ingredients of an oil change and a frat party.

In another life, given the opportunity, I'm sure the hubs would be a "one percenter". Not because he's an outlaw, but because he shares a lot in common with what some MC's stand for - he's a loyal guy, always up for a good time, and loves to ride fast and hard. He'd be speeding through the Black Hills of South Dakota with his braided goatee flying in the wind and fingers full of skull rings, complete with a leave-at-work job for greasy hands, and an "ol' lady" at home keeping cold suds in the fridge. 

But in this life, as it turns out, he's just become a different type of one percenter - and so have I - only I won't be wearing a "Property of _____" patch on a vest. Members of this one percent club say it's pretty cool - adventurous and extreme for sure. Elite even, by some standards. And it's not horribly common. There are no cool hats or leather vests with 3 rocker patches like the Hells Angels, Outlaws, or the very handsome Sons of Anarchy (hellloooooo Jax Teller!), though. Gray hair and the relief of knowing you survived are probably the only souvenirs to be gained through membership.

I'm dubbing this our very own one percent club because I found myself asking "What are the odds?" while staring at the sky in hopes that God would offer a response. But when I didn't get one after repeated questioning I decided to do some research on my own. Turns out members of this club are the 1 out of every 89 - or 1.123596% of the population of people becoming parents.

We've just conceived twins. Naturally.

Au naturale. No meds. No in vitro. No acupuncture - Ha! We couldn't afford those things even if we were interested. No crazy kama sutra positions or fertility exercises or consultation of the Chinese calendar. Not even the first drop of Robitussin.

We did it all on our own. My lazy ovaries and misshapen uterus and his "super sperm" have outdone themselves.

So not only do I have to get the man a cape to signify the superiority of his sperm, but now I've got to make him his own one percenter vest. I'm thinking instead of a skull and cross bones I'll have a teddy bear and crossed rattles, though.

With his goatee braided and combat boots on, surely he can toughen up the look.

Stirring up dust

Just when you think things are settled, the wind often blows and stirs up dust again. 

That's just what happened to me.

After 9 months of still not conceiving, I'd finally gotten to a mental place where I was completely comfortable with the idea of not being a mom. So comfortable in fact, that I had applied for admission to my specialist program at the University of Alabama. I was working a 2nd job on the weekends (still am). I was dreaming of trips to Italy. I was even encouraging my husband to consider a vasectomy so that we wouldn't have to worry with the "what ifs", such as "Do I really need to drink this 3rd glass of wine? What if I'm pregnant?" I just became tired of feeling in limbo all the time, so I made a decision. No motherhood. Not for me.

I realize that 9 months is no time by most standards. In fact, most aren't considered to have issues with fertility until after a full year of trying to conceive without success. But I was working on a serious timeline, albeit self-imposed. I needed to conceive within a certain window, or not at all. And that window was closing.

It's not that I'd stopped wanting to be a mom. I'd just come to accept what seemed like my reality - I might not get to be a mom in the traditional sense. And let's face it, I've had the pleasure (not really) of dealing with lots of natural moms who quite frankly suck at it and some of whom hate it altogether. So I figured I could "mother" in other ways and probably be more successful. I've got 2 step kids who already have a mom. They don't need another, but who couldn't use another responsible adult who loves you? I've got 2 dogs that are my heart. Who would feed them and rub their bellies if not for me? Okay, my husband probably would. But speaking of my husband, who would nurture him? He's got a mom and doesn't need another, as he is so apt to tell me, but that never stops him from asking for a back scratch, favor, help cleaning, yada yada yada...some of the things that children ask of their mothers. And then there are the 450 kiddos at my school. They're enough to keep me busy for a lifetime - well, at least for the next 25 years and 92 days until I retire.

That's right. I counted.

But then something happened.

My cycle didn't show up.

Having some familiar symptoms like moodiness, pain, and skin breakouts, I didn't have the slightest belief that I was pregnant. In fact, I was certain that I was not. I had taken a pregnancy test just 2 days before "Aunt Flo" was scheduled to arrive out of concern for a medication that I was about to begin taking - Bactrim....another one of those irritating "what ifs". I had an abcess that required immediate treatment, and some small voice in my head told me I should make sure I wasn't pregnant before I took it. But with a negative test result I proceeded with confidence that I wasn't "pickling" anything.

Two weeks later the abcess was gone, but so was any sign of a period.

After a great deal of prodding from my husband, I went to the doctor. And peed in a cup - and peed on my hand....again...surprise, surprise, I know. I'm horrible at aiming into those stupid little cups.

What I had no preparation for was the crazy surprise that stupid little cup held.

Robitussin - it's not just for a cough, my friend!

Combing the aisle of my local CVS, I found myself price checking and ingredient checking several medications....and not for the reasons you would assume. I wasn't sick.

In my fifth year working in a school, I felt I'd finally built up the steel strength immunity for which so many teachers are known, but had eluded me in previous years. Since stepping into the school I'd had countless stomach bugs, strep throat, bronchitis, ear infections, sinus infections, pink eye (twice), laryngitis, and staph infections. I felt at times, the only disease I missed was hand, foot and mouth disease. I was a germ magnet. I can honestly say, I've never been so sick in my life as I have been the last 4 years.

Well, that is until this year.....

But this particular reason for visiting my drug source was quite different. I needed some Robitussin.

A coworker brought to my attention a research study that compared conception rates in women who did and did not use Robitussin during the period of time surrounding their ovulation. Turns out, the women using the cough medicine saw higher preggo rates! Whodathunk?

It seems that Robitussin, as well as many other cold medications, has a very helpful ingredient - guaifenesin, which is an expectorant. In its traditional use, this drug thins the mucus lining the lungs so that it can be expelled, and clear the way for better breathing.

In a less traditional use, guaifenesin can be used to thin the mucus lining the cervix, thus making the passage easier for sperm, and (hopefully) lead to a baby being expelled 40 weeks later. So, I guess it still serves as an expectorant in this use, as well.

Robitussin. Turns out, it's not just for a cough.

I didn't buy any that day, but you can give it a try and let me know how it works out for you!

http://www.babyhopes.com/articles/robitussin.html

By definition...

Merriam-Webster is constantly adding new words to its dictionary as they arise in the world's lexicon - words like "swag", "f-bomb", and "sexting" just joined the official ranks in 2012.

Side note: What is our world coming to?

Beside the side note: Forgive me for ending the above in a preposition, please. At least I didn't say "swag".

And back to the matter....The dictionary is a great resource that I use frequently in the classroom - it's the ultimate reference tool that teaches kids to search out the answers to their own questions and empowers them.

But I must say, I've been pondering the meaning of one particular word of late, and the dictionary has brought little resolution.

Family.

What is family?

Merriam-Webster defines it as the following:

1) a group of individuals living under one roof and usually under one head

2) a group of persons of common ancestry

3) a group of people united by certain convictions or common affiliation

4) a group of things related by common characteristics

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/family

Not so sure that I agree with Mr. Webster, though.

Over the years, I've come to learn that family is what you make it. It may include relationships that are biologically based, and some that are choice based. Some can even be both!

But, why is it that some of the very people who you feel are guaranteed lifelong members of the family club aren't always the ones who act the most like family should?

What are the rules for family? We're taught that the golden rule applies to the way we should treat "others", so why is it that this rule is typically tossed in true family relations? Why is it that we often treat our "family" like strangers? Or even worse, why do we treat them like enemies? You would think that if the golden rule is appropriate for others, then surely something extra special, like say a platinum rule would be more fitting for someone as special as family, right?

Sadly, the logic I'm using here doesn't always ring true. We often treat our family worse than we do strangers, assuming perhaps that their forgiveness is certain. But the only forgiveness I've heard that comes with a guarantee is the heavenly sort. And the only love and respect I've heard that comes with a guarantee is also of the heavenly sort.

So, I'm challenging myself to redefine the term family in my world. It's a serious task so far, for the black-and-white thinker that I can be, but I'm working on it. Because along with learning that no relationship comes with a guarantee (family or not), I'm learning that many things (alright....most things) are not in my control, but some can be within my choice.

With that in mind, I'm reminding myself that ALL of my relationships can be of choice, whether or not they're rooted in common DNA. And if I choose a relationship, then I naturally choose the effort required to sustain it. And this quote is helping me keep all of this in mind:

"The mark of a true family is not one of blood, but of joy and respect in each other's lives. Members of the same family do not always grow up under the same roof." - Anonymous

D-Day

Woke up one morning in a funk and didn't understand why. Didn't want to turn loose of the sheets. Didn't want to leave my husband's side. Didn't want to shower. Had tears well up in my eyes without provocation.

Didn't want to do anything.

Took just a glance at my cell phone to figure out a potential underlying cause.

It was my due date - July 11th.

At the time when the doctor told me what the due date would be, I can recall making jokes with my husband about "7-11" and how we should be concerned that this kid could be open 24 hours like a convenience store, too.

Turns out, my due date turned out to be my very own version of "D-Day". Sure, it's extremely dramatic to compare something so tiny that it's barely a blip on the radar, to something as momentous as history's "D-Day". There are no mass casualties, intense sacrifice, insurmountable pain and loss of friends and heroes associated with my d-day. And there's definitely no need for a monument to memorialize such an event.

But through all of the differences, I have found one undeniable similarity - both days were game changers. The events of June 6, 1944 forever changed the course of WWII and subsequent world history. The landscape of France's coastline is still riddled with scars from battle. And, however small the events of July 11, 2012 were, they have forever changed the course of my life.

It stinks. Not what I had hoped for. Not what I had planned. And it will completely change what I expected to be the landscape of my own life.

But it is what it is.

What I thought would be the beginning of a new chapter in parenting, has in fact become something very different. For me, giving birth is most likely not an option in the traditional sense.

But it might be time for me to "give birth" to something else.

Maybe zucchini in my garden can be a starting point for now???

If that doesn't work, I'm moving on to a mini-cow........my husband just doesn't know it yet. ;)

Why you have to go and make things so complicated?

It should be as simple as a + b = c. But it isn't.

Sitting in my 8th grade algebra class, I can recall staring at the pages of my text book thinking my assignment was easy enough, only to come home that evening and realize while doing my homework that it was much harder than it initially looked.

Our health teachers would have us think that another math problem is simple, as well:
sperm + egg = screaming, pooping, expensive baby in 9 short months

But getting pregnant and having a child hasn't been as easy as they warned. The mechanics of it may be simple for some. In my case, however, none of it has been simple. Becoming a parent is by far the most complicated matter I've dealth with in my 30 years.

Why is it that some of the most basic things in life are so riddled with complication?

The decision to have a child is incredibly complex, or at least it is in my world. As strange as it may seem, I envy people who have such lackadaisical approaches to marriage and family planning. They make it seem as though their "accident" was their intention all along and it's no big deal. While I agree that everything happens for a reason, I prefer to think that my meager influence over my destiny can help make it for the right reason though....whatever "it" might be. 

The old adage of "first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage" may be true for some people. But for me it breaks down to a math problem with a lot of additional variables that make it incredibly difficult for me to solve....even harder than that algebra homework. My problem looks more like this:

love + marriage (+ # of years we've been together - impact on children from husband's 1st marriage + folic acid - serious expense of 2 previous D&C's from miscarriage + unpredictable amount of joy to our lives - cost of daycare - sleep + potential regret) = baby in a baby carriage

Or does it?

I just don't know. I make it a point to remind myself that my life is not in my hands, but instead God's.

But, I sincerely hope He's better at algebra than I am.

They're everywhere!

Ever noticed something for the first time, and then you can't help but notice it everywhere you go?

I'm an avid Nissan Murano fan. Bought my first one in 2007 and just traded that one in for another one last month. I love them. They're comfy, roomy, sporty, decent gas mileage. I can remember when I bought the first one thinking that there weren't many of them on the road and I wouldn't blend in everywhere I parked.

And then I actually got out on the road and noticed they were everywhere.

When I traded in my first for the second, I thought for sure I would be driving something pretty unique - a pearl white, double sun roof beauty.

Yeah, right! They're everywhere, too! I see at least 2 of them each morning on my way to work.

And speaking of everywhere.......so are babies. And pregnant women.

I feel sometimes like I need to exit the building I've just entered and double check the sign on the door, feeling certain that I've just entered a day care or OBGYN clinic rather than a grocery store/nail salon/post office.

It's like someone spilled water on a Gremlin or a baby bomb exploded!

It's happening in my circle of family and friends, too. One niece is 7 weeks pregnant. And her sister (also my niece) is 8 weeks pregnant. And a dear friend is 9 weeks pregnant. And my coworkers, friends, sorority sisters are conceiving and expanding and birthing left and right!

I never took much notice of babies or preggo waddlers before my own stint with pregnancy - much like I never noticed that many Muranos until I drove my own.

And now that I look around, it's all I see.

Maybe, it'll be all I see when I look down one day, too.

Why can't you be frugal outside Winn Dixie, too?

I am so sick of working hard to be nice, and being surrounded by impolite people.

My entire life, I've worked hard to be polite, kind, welcoming, and accommodating to others. Sometimes, I've been more successful than others.

More frequently than not, I tend to worry about others' feelings more than my own. I've been known (and criticized) for apologizing for things and circumstances that are not within my control. And yet I apologize anyway.

I'm at a point in my life now, though, where I REALLY DON'T CARE to spare anymore....spare others' feelings, that is.

I know what I like. I know who I like. And I also know the opposites.

I no longer feel it necessary to spend my time accommodating people in whom I have no vested interest and who I know wouldn't pee on me if I were on fire, even if they were tasting salt and seeing yellow and I'd done them no disservice.

And yet somehow, I can't help but feel that this makes me a b*@ch. Why is that?!

When I go to the grocery store, I know exactly which items I should put in my cart and pay money for at check out. I know exactly which ingredients I need to make meals that will not only nourish, but please my family and myself. And I know which items to completely avoid because they're a waste of my money and time. For example, my family won't eat a bunch of bananas before they go bad and I wind up throwing them away, or making banana bread, another item which my family won't eat and I wind up taking to work. My family won't eat certain vegetables and my family won't eat a large jar of salsa before it goes bad.

So why buy it? Why invest in it?

Any logical person would tell you not to do so....you'd be wasting your money.

But when you're talking about people, instead of groceries, it's not quite the same. If you refuse to waste your money/time/emotion and invest in someone, you're regarded as a b*@ch, regardless of whether or not they are useless, detrimental, or beneficial to your life.

Why is that?

I can't say for certain that I'll ever truly understand it.

But I can say for certain that my grocery bill has been significantly lower since I've started shopping with detailed grocery lists. I simply do not buy an item that I've not deemed necessary enough to write down.

As a result, my life is much simpler, and my family's diet doesn't seem to be suffering whatsoever.

I might try writing another type of list soon, too.......

Gross vs Net?

Have you ever paid close attention to the numbers on your pay stub?

I usually don't.

Unfortunately, I work in a field that believes paychecks are needed only once a month, so by the time my paycheck arrives, I'm so relieved to have SOMEthing, ANYthing that I don't pay any attention to the fine print on my check. I just care that there's no minus sign before the amount.

For some odd reason though, I peeked at all those tiny lines above my check amount this past month. And I kinda wish I hadn't.

I make a decent living, so that's certainly a plus. But there were a whole lot of minuses that made me completely forget the pluses. State tax, federal tax, short term disability (that's really just there in case I ever require maternity leave again, since my employer doesn't offer that benefit....apparently birthing a child is considered a disability! But, hey, it's only short-term, so at least I can look forward to a cure or healing.), insurance, retirement, yada yada yada. One quarter of my gross earnings disappears before I ever see it.

Thinking about this depressing payout made me think about my miscarriage, too. They seem a lot alike. I'm working a whole lot of hours for something that can be taken away in a matter of moments...for something that can disappear before I ever even get the chance to see it, much less hold it in my hands.

What's perhaps the most depressing about it is that those negatives, though painful, seem so big that they outweigh the positives.....when in reality they truly don't. I can quit my job and start working "under the table" and storing my money in coffee tins buried in my backyard, sure. I can give up on the idea of ever being a biological mom and send my husband for a vasectomy. But are either of those truly going to eliminate all those negatives, or just create a new set?

Regardless, I've got to keep in mind that whether or not I'm looking at the glass as half full or half empty, at least it's got something in it. Just like my pay check. Maybe one day I'll be able to say the same about my uterus :)

Hello. My name is Murphy. (Not) So nice to meet you.

It was just one of those days. The kind where you are certain you must have jinxed yourself from the first waking moment by doing something silly like putting your left foot onto the floor before your right, or simply putting your underwear on inside out. The kind where you just want to crawl back in bed, pull the covers over your eyes and deny the passage of time. A Murphy's Law kind of day.

Merriam-Webster even knows all about Murphy! It defines Murphy's law as the observation that if something can go wrong, it will do so. And boy, did it.

First, I woke up late. I hate being late. As a result, I forgot to put in earrings. I happen to believe that leaving the house without earrings is seriously bad juju, and the events of this day are further evidence. Noticed our mailbox had completely fallen off the post on my way out of the driveway. Forgot I had to stop for gas on the way to work. Managed to spill coffee on my pants while driving. Got mascara on my cheek while applying it in the rearview mirror at a red light. And once I arrived at work thoroughly annoyed with myself, my office phone began to ring incessantly. None of these things is catastrophic. None of these is worth "wasting a heartbeat worrying over" as my husband likes to say. But on this day, my trivial happenings, compounded with the fact that I was beginning my 62nd straight day of bleeding (yes, I counted), it was enough to make me want to wave the white flag.

Background: I was 2 months post-miscarriage and subsequent surgery hooplah and still bleeding. And it was really starting to get the better of me - my color and patience were seriously waning. Not to mention the feeling that I was perpetually in a diaper was no bueno. I held off calling the doc because I assumed that prolonged bleeding post-DNC was appropo, and more pressing to me was the desire to just be left alone "south of my equator" and avoid any more requests for money in my mailbox (health insurance bites, but that's a blog for another day).

There was even an evening half-way through this seemingly never ending red marathon in which I would've sworn I was miscarrying again...only that was impossible, unless immaculate conception was a possibility. But it was a complete re-run of what I'd earlier experienced while miscarrying at home.

Ultimately, I caved and called the doctor while at work that afternoon, and described my symptoms: excessive, constant bleeding, pain, lethargy, etc. He asked me to come in for an ultrasound immediately - not my idea of a good lunch break, but then again, I usually have a working lunch anyway, I'm just usually clothed and not lying on my back.

The ultrasound turned into an escorted trip by the technician to the doc, which resulted in a one way ticket to the hospital. Talk about the VIP treatment.

The ultrasound seemed to show excessive endometrium and what looked like placenta - could I have conceived again, or was it simply the result of an unthorough previous surgery? According to the doc, only a scope could tell, and a second surgery was the best option to stop the bleeding. If there ever were a day to go buy a scratch-off lottery ticket, this certainly was not it. The bad news kept mounting and pretty soon, so would the tears.

Strangely enough the straw that broke the tear ducts' dam was literally a straw.....pine straw to be exact.

My trip from the hospital parking lot to patient registration left me with a sticky hitchhiker on my shoe and an unstoppable flow of sobs.

They say there's no use crying over spilled milk, and the same may be true for spit gum, but I did it anyway. I cried and cried and cried - while registering for surgery, while reluctantly forking over $400 that we intended to spend getting new tires for my car, while getting hugs and prayer from a hospital staff member, while leaving my husband a voicemail letting him know where I was (he was asleep because he worked the previous evening and was scheduled to go in again that night), while calling my boss to let her know I wouldn't be back to work for a few days, while calling my mom to let her know I'd be spending the day before my 30th birthday under anesthesia, while they took my vitals, while they drew my blood, and while I attempted to pee in a cup and instead pee'd all over my hand.

And when I went to reach for paper towels and noticed only the cardboard roll with no towels in sight, all I could do was shake my head, dry the tears with my clean hand, and laugh out loud.......Hello Murphy! Nice to meet you.

Don't know what to say?

I, too, have been in positions where I wasn't sure what was best to say. Whether a loved one passed away, or a job was lost, or a pet had to be put down, it's always been difficult to find the right words.

I frequently have clients visit me in the counseling setting and I'm faced with the same predicament. What can you say?

Unfortunately, there is no magic phrase, but the start of the conversation about it is always a relief - almost like naming the elephant in the room.

While I don't necessarily agree with her "19 kids and counting" philosophy (I spent only 16 weeks pregnant and it was rough...have no idea how she has spent almost 19 years being pregnant - minus the premies and 2 sets of twins!), Michelle Duggar had some advice to share on the TODAY show this morning regarding how to address the loss with others. Check it out!

Duggars talk about their miscarriage, next pregnancy

Missed opportunities

Ever missed an opportunity you can't get back?

I once sat at the dinner table with my parents anxiously awaiting an impending lunar eclipse. I was a total geek as a kid (still am) and LOVED all things to do with space. I memorized constellation patterns and spent hours lying on my back on the trampoline testing myself. My future goals included 1) having my very own car, 2) living at the beach, 3) having a pig (I've since completely scratched that one off my list), 4) having straight hair (don't want that anymore either), and 5) being an astronaut.

Sadly, my dreams of a career with NASA completely disolved when I realized how much math was required. But at the age of 9, I was still deep in dreams of floating in space, which is exactly why I was so excited about that eclipse. I'd had the opportunity to share information about it with my 3rd grade class and had a telescope set up in the front yard ready for action - ready to take mental notes to share with my teacher the next day. And as the minutes ticked more closely to "lift off", there I remained at the kitchen table.

It seems my mom and I were in a battle of the wills - and her lethal weapon of choice was....green beans.

I'd been duly warned (complete with glaring stare and pointing finger) that I couldn't get up from the table until I'd cleaned my plate, including the green beans. And I HATED greenbeans! They were slimey and felt gross in my mouth, tasted old, and most importantly, they were GREEN. The only green thing I ate at that time was green jello, and even that was a stretch.

I couldn't eat the green beans, therefore I couldn't get up from the table, which meant I couldn't watch the eclipse. I was in complete hell. I wanted so desperately to see that eclipse with my own eyes - I'd only ever seen pictures in a book! But I also wanted desperately not to swallow those green beans! As an effort to encourage me (though I took it as a taunt), my dad would go outside and then come back into the kitchen every few minutes to report on the happenings in the night sky.

When I could stand it no longer, I shoved spoonfuls of green beans into my mouth, swallowing more than chewing, in hopes of avoiding the taste, and quickly shoved my chair from the table. I ran outside to see the eclipse, which was already in progress.

I didn't miss it entirely, but I'd missed enough of its' beginning to hurt my feelings. I felt like I'd missed something I would never see again.

In some ways, the way I felt at 9 years old is similar to how I'm feeling after this miscarriage, though with the miscarriage I missed the ending rather than beginning. I feel like I've missed a plain/train/automobile that may never come around again. It feels as if an opportunity has disappeared.

I don't know why I feel that way. I just do.

I hear all the time that these things "happen for a reason" and "you've got to empty your hands of the past in order to accept your gifts of the future". And these are true, I'm sure. But in the present, you just never know. There are no guarantees.

My nearly-missed-eclipse evening did however result in one lifetime guarantee - my mother never made me eat another green bean. Apparently cleaning up puked green beans is no fun.

What's in a name?

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." - Juliet (or Mr. Shakespeare if you want to be technical)

Sure. Whatever you say crazy lady. You also stabbed yourself in the gut over some dude you'd only known for a few days and then secretly married him. Forgive me if I find your judgment a bit askew.

I love Romeo and Juliet, but I completely disagree with Juliet's famous balcony line above. I think names do matter. I think what we call things and people directly influences how we view them. While I could give you tons of examples of crazy baby names such as Pilot Inspektor, Orangejello, or Sparkle (just look to the celebrities), the most recent name on my hit list is MISCARRIAGE.

Why do they call it that?
Think about it....how many words exist in the English language that begin with the letters mis- and don't have some negative connotation? Mistake. Misunderstanding. Misplace. Misery. The list goes on. Sure it's true that miscarriage is also a less than positive experience, but does it have to be labeled with such a negative and guilt ridden term?

While medical professionals say "spontaneous abortion", the term miscarriage is the more commonly used term by others....and it is my personal belief that it implies blame. The baby was not carried properly, ergo, mis-carriage. And who else can carry a baby but a momma? Unless you're a sea horse of course.

Another of my favorites is "lost"....as in "She lost the baby after only 16 weeks and she says her water broke, too! Can you believe that?!" This term is more comical to me because it implies that one has simply misplaced their child in a crowd, or perhaps left them in the shopping cart in the Walmart parking lot!

The sad thing is, I don't need a simple mis- to make me feel any more to blame than I already do.

I can list a ton of things that worry me and make me feel guilty as if I may have contributed to this somehow. I drank wine before I found out, had xrays on my shoulder, couldn't stomach 3 different kinds of prenatal vitamins, wasn't taking folic acid in advance, stayed sick throwing up for weeks and couldn't keep food down, ran a 5k, did crunches, rode my motorcycle.....yada yada yada. In some ways it makes me feel like I deserve the mis- in miscarriage for being such an unfitting mom-to-be. Maybe I made some mis-take and had my mom card revoked. I have since cried to my husband that I can't grow plants and I can't grow babies. Neither my thumb or uterus are green, apparently.

But the other side of my brain knows better. The logical side of me knows that miscarriage is very common, especially with first pregnancies. The reasonable person in me knows that I did the very best I could to be a healthy mothership once I learned I was not alone in my carnal universe. That's the side of me that ignores insensitive comments following news of the miscarriage like "What's wrong with you?" That's the side that talks me off the ledge and reminds me that lesser people with wayyyyy worse behaviors and health conditions have delivered healthy babies before me, and my case was simply God's plan for something better, maybe something healthier later on.

Or not. Either way, I'm going to leave it up to Him.

I'd still be interested in talking to someone about this misnomer though.....the term miscarriage has got to go. The blame game...or in this case, the blame name does nothing to help the situation.

No one ever tells you this stuff...

I learned 2 weeks ago that I miscarried and was shocked by the events that followed. I was completely unprepared for what was to come.

The entire 16 weeks that I spent pregnant were rocky. If I wasn't sick, I was constantly worried about the viability of the fetus (we didn't exactly have the fairy tale beginning....see previous blog on roller coaster ride).

And sadly, the pregnancy ended much the same way it began. Not one single day of this journey did I feel prepared to handle the unknowns that lay ahead. Nor did I feel like I was getting answers from the folks who should know, but then again, every pregnancy is different....or so I hear.

My family of 4 met our dear friends for dinner out one evening. During a restroom break I noticed the first sign that trouble lay ahead - a faint pink tinge to the toilet water and something dark quickly flushing away. I had no idea what it was and didn't have time to look before it disappeared. I quickly dismissed it. But during a second restroom break (I was drinking water and preggo so frequent pee breaks are to be expected), I passed something else that terrified me. It was approximately the size of a silver dollar and flesh toned (I have since learned that it was a mucus plug - a protective barrier just outside the cervix meant to protect the fetus from the passage of bacteria. Ps. It would have been helpful to know that ahead of time, as I was seriously concerned that I had unknowingly been host to an alien.). I walked back to our table giving myself a pep talk the whole way. I didn't want to say or do anything that would give reason to worry. Unfortunately, I'm a crappy actress and my face blew my plan out of the water. Despite sputtering reassurances, my husband knew better and frankly told me in front of everyone that I was a "sorry liar". Diversionary tactics were my only resource after that.

I continued to pass fleshy bits and lightly spot the remainder of the evening and the next day. I eventually filled my husband in on what was going on. Being the nurse/science-minded dude that he is, he immediately went to researching. Digging through his undergrad maternal care textbooks and simultaneously typing madly into Google, he offered a quick assessment: Spotting is normal and not always indicative of problems, but should be monitored closely and if worsens or continues for more than a few days should be discussed with the physician. He and I both breathed a little more deeply for a moment.....but that breath wouldn't last us long.

The bleeding began the next day. And our positivity disappeared down the drain with those undeniable signs of blood.

My husband called the doctor and they immediately squeezed me into an ultrasound appointment, which visibly confirmed what the blood had already declared. This pregnancy was not viable. I only made it 16 weeks.

What happened from there is a series of events and feelings that neither of us were prepared one iota for. Though I'd been warned by a friend that miscarriage was painful, NOTHING could prepare me for what was to come.

No one tells you this stuff - not even the people who have experienced it themselves. Why is that? Is miscarriage really that taboo? Why isn't this discussed more freely when you first learn of a pregnancy? After all, the statistics on miscarriage are pretty high...something like 20% of women experience at least one in their child-bearing years. So why wouldn't the positive pregnancy test come with a pamphlet/disclaimer providing information about the possibilities...ALL of them, good or bad? I mean McDonald's has to put "Contents are HOT!" on their coffee cups and blow dryers have to have tags on them not only warning of the danger in blow drying your hair while taking a bubble bath, but also illustrating it for you! Why in the world, can't preggos get a disclaimer, too, for crying out loud??? Something that warns "This may not work out and here's what you can expect...." All I got was a supply of prenatal vitamins, a booklet on healthy eating while preggo, and some coupons for diapers. Some insider information would have been preferred.

Putting together scant info from the doctor and research online, I've learned this much:

According to the ultrasound, I suffered a spontaneous abortion. And it more than likely occurred around week 9, unbeknownst to me (and my doctor at my 12 week appointment, I might add). This is what I've since learned qualifies as a "missed miscarriage" - the end of a pregnancy that goes completely unnoticed because signs or symptoms are significantly delayed. My symptoms were nearly 2 months delayed. What is even more perplexing is the fact that I spent those 2 months still throwing up in the mornings and any time I went more than 4 hours without eating. Or when I brushed my teeth. Or when I smelled something foul. You get the idea. In addition to the barfing, I was growing (even bigger) boobs, seeing bright blue veins pop up throughout my torso, growing fur in places that were previously (and thankfully) bald (my husband and I both now have goatees), crying at any commercial that involved an animal, and the list goes on. For someone who has never been pregnant before, you would've been hardpressed to convince me that I wasn't with child up to the point of bleeding. The only sign of pregnancy which eluded me at that time was weight gain. Though my figure was shifting greatly, the numbers on the scale were not. I might have gained 1-2 pounds, but I could gain that just looking at a chocolate cheesecake! Big whoop.

Strangely enough in my case, despite that the fetus abruptly stopped developing, the gestational sac, placenta, yolk sac, etc. kept right on track preparing for a baby, which is probably the cause for the continued hormonal flow and pregnancy symptoms which deceived me.

After the negative ultrasound, we met with the doctor to discuss options. He said that I could pass things naturally or I could schedule a D&C suction (dilation and curettage named for the 2 steps in the procedure....first they dilate the cervix, then they scrape its' contents with a tool called a curette...something else I learned after the fact). The word "suction" alone scared the bejeezus out of me, but I was also too ignorant to fully understand the details of option A or option B, and too overwhelmed to ask for clarification. The entire conversation lasted no more than 5 minutes. I opted to go home and sleep on it/pray on it. Two days later, I called to schedule the D&C, but it would have to wait until the following week, when I could fit it into my work schedule and my husband would be off work to hold my nervous hand.

For 5 days following the ultrasound I cramped severely and bled just the same. In my naivete, I thought this was nothing more than the natural (and entire) process of miscarriage.

Boy, was I wrong.

On the 6th day, as I sat on the couch watching movies with my husband, the cramping intensified. He was the first to notice that the pain followed a pattern and began timing me. Sure enough, my cramps were 2 minutes apart. After 4 hours of timing them with little to no change in severity, we opted to go lie down and try to get some rest. That plan worked for all of 15 minutes. We had both just gotten comfortable enough in bed to stop tossing and turning when I bolted upright and jumped out of bed.

My water had broken. And even though I knew nothing "bout birthin' babies", I recognized this sensation instantly. I've pee'd on myself before in fits of laughter, and trust me, it's not the same. For once, my pea-sized bladder was totally innocent.

No one told me that miscarriage would be much like childbirth...not even my doctor. And why or how would I know any better? I've never done this before. Why on earth would you expect to have that happen at only 16 weeks? And for there to be so much amniotic fluid already? My husband and I both were in disbelief.

And the pain! Oh dear heavens.....my hat's off to any/every mother out there who labored with no pain meds. My poor mom delivered all 8 lbs. 8 oz. of me as I arrived in this world butt first and doubled over! With no pain meds. Nada. Zilch. The woman deserves a Nobel Peace Prize for not killing everyone near her in those moments.

Water broken and bed sheets soaked, I quickly ran to the shower with a husband on my heels. What followed was frightening, emotional and much bloodier than I would have imagined. Suffice it to say that I sat in the tub for another 2 hours bleeding, contracting, and pushing what I could out of me. And he never left my side.

The look in my husband's eyes was absolutely painful. It was the look of a helpless person, which was a new look for him. He's a phenomenal nurse and can multitask like no other, so he certainly isn't unaccustomed to blood and gore. If you're in a crisis, he's the man you want beside you because he maintains his cool and his focus the whole while. Years of working as an ER nurse, medevac flight nurse, and hospital supervisor can do that to a person.

That evening...or early morning, I should say, he ran circles around me running warm water over my back, rubbing my shoulders, holding my hair, changing out the trash can that I kept vomiting into, getting cool cloths for my forehead. At one point, he even lit a candle and put it on the tub beside me! I guess he thought it an appropriate time for mood lighting?! But in actuality, it was nothing more than the effort of a partner to do something - ANYthing - that might help. And his support in that moment has only made me love him infinitely more than I did before.

What I was most pleasantly surprised to learn during this time was that we both maintained our sense of humor. Not once did we "lose it" and snap on each other. Instead, we cracked a couple jokes. Sounds crazy, I know, but the saying that "laughter is the best medicine" couldn't be more truthful. And laughter would be the only medicine I got in those 8 hours of contracting.

Despite the fact that I'd managed to evacuate the majority of the contents of my uterus on my own, the bleeding didn't stop and the vomiting only worsened, so my 24/7 nurse carted me off to the ER. Once there (after driving through ridiculous fog), I was met with several probes "down there", more contractions, lots of needle sticks (they couldn't get an IV started on me because my veins kept blowing, more than likely due to the loss of blood and dehydration) and thankfully some pain medication. Luckily, the OBGYN doc on call was fantastic and squeezed me into the OR for a D&C only a few hours later. Every professional that I came into contact with that day was kind, understanding of our circumstances, and informative - I learned more on this occasion than I did during the 16 weeks of pregnancy before.

And then it was over. I got to come home that afternoon. My husband and I laid down together after being awake for 36 hours and stared at the ceiling. Neither of us had ever been through something like this. Neither of us knew what to do or what to say. What I couldn't understand was how something that was initially so difficult to grasp could simultaneously be so difficult to let go. But as we both laid there exhausted in every sense of the word, I knew one thing was certain: I wouldn't want to go through something like this with anyone else.

I have always prayed. I have always had daily conversations with God. But my prayer time has steadily increased during pregnancy. My repeated prayer from the moment I first learned I was expecting was for this pregnancy to enhance my family, rather than take away from it, and to also have a healthy child. So, if strengthening my marriage is the purpose that this brief pregnancy served, and a difficult life was spared, then I consider it an answered prayer. And I'm okay with that.

Or at least I will be. One day.

Toddler training courtesy of Miss Oink

When I first learned that I was pregnant I was terrified - well, to be honest, I still am, but I've got a better grip on it now. Not only was I certain that I have NO idea how to care for an infant, but I was sure that the discomforts of pregnancy and challenges of infancy wouldn't initially go over well with a whiner and control freak like myself.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no baby hater. I love the way they smell (with a clean diaper mind you), but they seem so complicated when shouldn't it be the exact opposite? There's no teenage crush to talk them out of, allowance to negotiate, chores to remind of, or arguments about the importance of hygiene. It's feed them, burp them, rock them, lay them down to sleep, change them aaaaand repeat. Seems simple enough, though surely exhausting. But the difficulty comes in the communication gap. They can't tell you what's wrong with them when they're screaming their heads off, which is exactly why they terrify me so. It's a guessing game filled with trial and error efforts to find the magic formula/motion/outfit/pacifier/lullaby/back rub/clean diaper that fits the bill and shuts the pie hole. Or that's how I imagine it to be anyway. I've never done this before and acknowledge that I am no expert on the subject.

The silver lining that has guided me through these last few months has been the reminder that pregnancy and infancy are temporary. I get very enthusiastic thinking of the fun to be had with a walking, talking toddler and beyond (minus the teenager part). I want desperately to teach my kid how to "potty" and wash their own hair, tie their shoes, read, write their name in cursive, ride a bike, throw a ball, be a friend, show compassion to people and animals, never give up, etc. I have catalogued ideas for fun activities for a boy or girl for years and stashed them in the corner of my brain for later reference like many women buy baby outfits and hide in a hope chest.

But that silver lining I've relied on got a serious reality check this past weekend when my family and I fostered a miniature pot bellied pig. Oy! Or, Oink, I should say!

That little pig hand delivered a wake up call regarding the challenges that lie ahead for me as a parent at any stage...not just infancy!

Miss Oink, previously known as "Respusha", was a gag birthday gift bought for a friend, by another friend. My husband and I were let in on the gag and being the animal lover that I am, I said that I'd be glad to take the pig off their hands if the gag lost its' luster over time.  I may sound crazy....I'll give you that, but come on, who could deny this sweet, pudgy oink?

I have begged my husband since we bought our house and accompanying 4.5 acres to let me have some farm critters. I thought a pig was a fitting start to my collection.

Wrong, wrong, and WRONG!

Miss Oink was approximately 10 pounds of screaming, snorting, running, misbehaving, demanding furry beast. A friend made the comparison between Miss Oink and a toddler, and after further thought, I couldn't agree with her more.

Like a toddler, Miss Oink could walk on her own. And doggone it if she couldn't run, too - and FAST! Those four stubby little legs beat my arse and my husband's as we chased her through our front yard on the first night that she arrived and then escaped her leash. The only way we were able to catch her is because we got her cornered on the front porch and attacked quickly. We threw a towel over her and snatched her up, squeezing and holding on to her as she kicked and screamed bloody murder all the while.

Incidentally, I drew inspiration for Miss Oink's capture after I saw a mom do the same thing to her lollipop-fueled 2 year old in Winn Dixie. He was throwing his shoes at the produce and before he even realized what was going on, his mom had acted. I watched that mom very carefully as she wrapped her son up in a pro wrestling move/chicken wing and secured his tail in the front seat of the shopping cart. She was smooth. She didn't lose her cool once. She simply swooped in and handled business, or "bidness" as I like to say. I made a point to look down at my belly and issue a verbal warning to my own nugget: "Throw tantrums if you like, little one, but trust me, your mother here can out do you."

After her first stint as a free agent, Miss Oink backed out of her leash once again (shouldn't I have learned by now?) when out for a potty break. What ensued was a 2 hour marathon of chasing her through the yard, cornering her in brush, trying to lure her with food, and chasing her some more. Somehow, our two dogs also joined the party and began chasing her through the yard. It was chaos. Eventually Miss Oink was cornered in the crawl space beneath an old house on our property. Though I initally refused to go spelunking to retrieve the critter, my conscience got the better of me.  So I adapted Miss Winn Dixie's strategy of shock-and-awe....only this time, I brought tools.

And it worked! Me + headlamp + mask + safety glasses + gloves + shock and awe technique = One caught pig.

Also true with toddlers - sometimes the only advantage you have is size and resource. Those 2 things are the only reason we were able to capture that pig. Pigs are ranked the 4th smartest animal behind primates, whales and dolphins. With those smarts and some more meat on her bones, Miss Oink could dominate. It became very clear to my husband and I as we slowly approached her ready for capture that if she were another 100 lbs, we'd be in serious trouble. She assumed her charging stance and snorting glare and dared us to come closer. Thankfully, we won that struggle, but it can't be said that Miss Oink didn't put up a valiant fight - much like that Winn Dixie 2 year old. They both protested adamantly, but eventually tired from the screaming.

Like most toddlers, Miss Oink could feed herself. She just made a mess.....which I cleaned up....repeatedly. She would root through her box with her nose and intentionally knock her water bowl over so that I had to clean and refill, clean and refill, yada yada yada. It was a game that she thoroughly enjoyed, and a cycle I couldn't seem to shake. I felt like I had to clean up after her no matter how many times I was rewinding myself and telling myself that I was only reinforcing her negative behavior....I kept doing it....and so did she.

And the last comparison I could find between Miss Oink and toddlers is their demanding nature. I made the grave error of introducing this pesky piglet to raisins in hopes of training her to sit and rewarding her for "pottying" in the appropriate spot outside. That plan backfired - big time. Not only did she not grasp the fact that the raisin came each time she did something positive, but she just shut down and refused to do anything until she got a raisin. Then she refused to eat anything other than raisins. No pig feed. No carrots or cabbage, despite gobbling them down the night before. Only raisins. And like many parents of toddlers (and swine) before me, I caved from pure exhaustion. I kept raisins in my pockets and issued them at the first squeal.

So, my newly revised silver lining is simply this: There will be tough times when I have no clue what I'm doing, but it will also be an adventure and an opportunity to learn, both of which I love.

And it's a good thing I enjoy learning, because I'm going to have to learn A LOT. I seriously doubt the family who adopted Miss Oink from us will be interested in taking on a miniature pot-bellied human, too.

To sex, or not to sex?

Shame on you! Get your mind out of the gutter.

That's not what I mean by that question. I'm simply wondering whether or not we should find out the gender of this baby.

In the past, I always thought I'd prefer to be surprised at childbirth. But I also said I'd never ride a motorcycle, date a man who wore jewelry, or live in Alabama. Never say never, right?!

Take a look at me now!

It's hard to tell, but my husband (fiance at the time of this photo) is wearing a silver chain around his neck that he still wears and refuses to take off for any occasion. He's actually sitting on the same bike that we rode on our first date. We've since added two more Harleys to the collection - one of which was a wedding gift for me. And we now are proud homeowners in the sticks of Alabama! In my defense, it's hard to argue with lower property taxes and plenty of land.

Here's the house:

Not bad for 'bama, huh?

And here's me riding the wedding gift:

So, my point is this: The only constant in life is change and that's true for preferences as well. 

What makes this gender debate a more difficult dilemma for me is that this will be my only child.

 "Sure!" and "Yeah right. You say that now." Is what I hear a lot of people tell me, but rest assured, this is it. One time. Done. Finito. No mas.

Because my husband was previously married and already had two children (who were 3 and 9 years old when I first met them), asking to double his brood was a bit much. And considering that I spend all day every day with children, my previous dream of having 3 - 4 kids was quickly readjusting itself. Those buggers are a lot of work and ridiculously expensive! Add to this the fact that there is a 12 year age gap between my husband and myself. He's no spring chicken (despite acting like one) and understandably doesn't want to be a grandfather before he fathers his last child. So, we made a compromise that we both could live with: We'd only have 1 child of our own and blend our family of 5 as best we could. 

So this is my one shot and I'm left with this question.

To sex, or not to sex? To be surprised? Or not? On the one hand, a surprise could be pretty cool (unless it's a boy, in which case my bonus daughter will be devastated and probably suggest sending it back from whence it came). On the other, knowing the gender would lend itself for better shopping and name selection. What to do?

I recall having to sex fruit flies (aka Drosophila melanogaster....don't be too impressed - it's the ONLY thing I remember from that dang class) in freshman year genetics at Furman. I found the task not only quite tedious, but very boring. Though admittedly, how excited can you be when you have to wake up at the butt crack of dawn every morning, including weekends, and schlep yourself all the way across campus simply to check out some fly crotches? Not very, as I learned. I hated doing it, but understood it was a requirement for class, so there I was in the lab each morning at 6:30. The purpose was to isolate males from females so as to selectively mate them for certain traits and watch the passage of genes from parent to offspring....blah blah blah. But sexing those little bugs left me feeling like I was violating them somehow. You wouldn't just pick up a human, or really any other animal unless you're a veterinarian, and spread their legs apart so that you could identify them by their nether-parts would you?? It's just rude. Not only that, but I had to sedate them before I could put them on the slide and then zoom in on their junk with the microscope. Not cool. That'd be considered lewd and lascivious in the human world - that or a really bad first date. 

So I made a point to at least knock on the glass jar that held them as a warning that an invasion was ahead. It was the least I could do.

I should probably find some way to warn this kid, too.   

What just crawled in my mouth and died?!

If you're a fan of fishing (especially catfish) then perhaps you've heard of Catfish Charlie. It's a type of bait used for catfish that comes in little red, doughy balls. And it smells like death! My husband bought two packages years ago and brought them home before a fishing trip. One of those packages - though opened - didn't get used, got tossed into the back of our pantry, and forgotten about. Trouble is, we have a 110 lb. bloodhound named Moonshine who didn't forget about the Catfish Charlie. Elephants never forget....and we've since learned that Moo's don't either.

Poor Moo's nose kept luring her near our pantry for weeks. We'd find her pawing at the bi-fold pantry doors with her neck craned and head glued to the floor trying to catch the scent of deliciousness wafting from beneath. I assumed her goal was peanut butter - a global weakness for pups, but especially a pup with a pro sniffer like her. So I moved it to a higher shelf. Why was this necessary, you may ask? That's because we had come home months before to find the pantry doors cracked open and a JIF jar with lid and peanut butter MIA. We still haven't figured out how something with non-opposable thumbs managed to get the lid off the jar, let alone get the bi-fold doors open, locate her desired snack and remove it from the shelf. My husband thinks she secretly knows how to use his tools. I personally think she's a Houdini. Either way somehow she figured it out and the evidence was all over her paws and face. Check out Moo in action with peanut butter:

I promise I'm getting to my point.......I came home from work one afternoon, opened the door and was slapped in the face with some serious foulness. The pantry was open again, this time with the Catfish Charlie bag in shreds, and red giblets of smelly dough smashed into the kitchen tiles. It was wretched, with an emphasis on wretch. Our whole house smelled like Catfish Charlie. It took 2 hours of cleaning and mopping, plus a whole can of Febreze to get things to a tolerable level, not to mention the time I spent trying to scrub the stuff out of Moo's fur and brushing her teeth. No amount of shampoo and toothpaste could eliminate that rotting flesh smell. Her breath smelled like death for DAYS.

Meet the culprits!

Suspect #1 - Moonshine

Suspect #2 - Catfish Charlie

And here's how years later, this all ties to the growing lump in my uterus........since week 6, I have been left with a horrible taste in my mouth all the time. It tastes like something crawled in my mouth and died! It tastes like Catfish Charlie - or at least what I imagine it would taste like. My husband insists that my breath doesn't smell like Moonshine's did, which is a great relief. I'm glad to know I'm not single-handedly burning the nose hairs of everyone around me. But this reassurance does nothing to kill the taste.

The only time it backs off is the first 10 minutes or so after brushing my teeth, which I do - A LOT. And for some unknown reason, pregnant women all over will tell you that brushing their teeth is risky business. It doesn't matter if you're delicately brushing your canines in that prescribed circular motion or scrubbing the back of your tongue like you mean business, YOU ARE GOING TO GAG! So it's a delightful vicious cycle of barfing and brushing.

And Charlie still comes back.

At least I won't get scurvy

They say you can't compare apples to oranges. That may be true, but it hasn't much concerned me for the last 3 months as I've not been in a discriminating mood with either. I just want to eat them. All of them.

These little flavorful fruits have proven themselves full of many benefits such as:

-easy to conceal up to 6 in your purse for when your stomach opens up like the continental divide
-not as smelly as warming up some frozen entree at work, and smells can be quite bothersome at this stage
-you can sneak quick bites of them in a bar (when you're playing DD of course) without anyone noticing and looking at you strangely
-craving salt? stick some peanut butter on that apple! craving sweet? stick some caramel dip on it!
-no one ever looks like a pig eating an apple or orange
-think of all the vitamins!
-great snack between meals to keep nausea at bay
-crunching on that apple burns calories, though I'm concerned about TMJ lately - my jaws are getting sore from all the chewing
- you can eat apples and oranges in places that don't allow food much more easily than pulling out a hamburger with fries
-you can throw the trash out your car window without threat of littering fines
-no one ever says to you, "I think you've had enough apples and oranges for one day." - you're never cut off from the fruit bar so to speak
-think of the immunity boost from all the vitamin c! lord knows you need it, because you dang sure can't take any medicine to treat ANYTHING while preggo

I have become so reliant on apples and oranges that I make sure to have them handy any time I visit a grocery store (pray that I don't get mistakenly arrested for shoplifting fruit). A recent walk past the meat counter of Fresh Market left my senses assaulted - and seriously questioning the freshness of said market. The only thing that kept me from losing it in the store was to stick a fresh peeled orange in my face and carry it with me through the store as if I was wearing a mask to ward off the bird flu.

I may have looked like a crazy lady, but I'm sure it won't be the last time in the next 6 months that people think that of me. Crazy or not, at least I won't get scurvy....or bird flu.

Would you rather ________ or ________?

As a teenager growing up in an average size southern town, with less than average excitement, my friends and I found ourselves creating our own entertainment. We did a fair amount of building bonfires in open pastures, fishing, shooting aluminum cans with .22's, playing hide-and-go-seek in the woods on mules (the motorized kind), dressing up in random outfits and driving around town pretending to be foreigners....you get the idea. When topics of conversation and gossip ran dry we'd sometimes turn to a game of "Would you rather?"

The concept is very simple and there's no real winner (kinda like truth or dare)...provide two scenarios for the interviewee and they must choose one or the other - no in-betweens allowed. For example, "Would you rather drink urine or eat cow poo?" Some questions were more benign, such as "Would you rather swim in gummy bears or Skittles?" Easy enough.

Three weeks into what I consider to be profound morning sickness (though admittedly, I have no base of comparison), I found myself lying in bed playing this game all alone. Only this time it centered on which items I would rather vomit. Gross, I know, but true. Here are a few that crossed my mind:

-Would I rather vomit rice? Or oranges?

Tough call, but I'm going with oranges. True, they're more acidic, but they're much easier to blow out of your nose once you've vomited through it. Rice just gets stuck and leaves you feeling like you inhaled a bug. Trust me.

-Would I rather barf milk? Or red jello?

Hmmmmm.......milk, I think. Though milk tastes particularly foul coming up, jello is a giant pain-in-the-arse to clean up. I had no idea just how tenacious red gelatin could be until I had to scrub it from the walls, floor, and toilet of the faculty bathroom at work lest anyone should enter it and fear a dead body had just been dragged from a murder scene. That stuff stains something fierce.

-Would I rather yak spaghetti? Or granola?

Hands down granola! Though it can get stuck in your throat, granola doesn't come up looking much like it did when it went down. Spaghetti does, which is gross enough to make you even more sick. Take my word on this one.

I could keep going with questions considering I've spent weeks 5 to present (which is 15) sick and sampled anything that didn't sample me first in effort to find the magic/pallatable combo, but I'm growing nauseous as I type.

Perhaps the toughest "Would you rather?" is inherent to morning sickness itself: Would you rather feel sick all the time, but never barf? Or feel sick at random and get some relief after puking?

I most certainly can't answer that one. Both are miserable. I pray that this game disappears entirely from my list of activities very soon.

Heeeere's your sign!

If you're a fan of comedy, then surely you've heard of Bill Engvall. If you're a southerner, then you can probably relate to his sketch on identifying idiots called "Here's your sign". Being from Georgia and now living in Alabama, I run into specimens I would swear were his inspiration on a daily basis.
But I must admit, I found myself deserving a sign of my own after learning I was pregnant.

I first found out when I was almost 5 weeks along and quite sincerely had no idea, which is a little bit better than those chicks on the Discovery channel claiming they didn't know they were pregnant 'til the kid called them by name. After the urine and blood tests told me as much though, my hindsight kicked it up a notch and I recalled a number of symptoms that should have tipped me off sooner:

Here's your sign #1 - I threw up randomly while driving down the street one day. And I mean random - without the mouth-watering notice that typically affords you enough time to run for the bathroom or find something to barf in. I attributed it to the fact that I had started exercising and had changed my diet drastically, not realizing that this was the first clue that I my eggo was preggo.

#2 - My hands and feet itched like crazy - maybe ka-razzzzy is a better descriptor because they felt like they were on fire and no amount of scratching or running them under cold water quelled it. Turns out this is a side effect of pregnancy that my older sister also experienced. I attributed it to the fact that I had started jogging and training for a 5k and my hands and feet were simply swelling after exercise. Here's me at my first 5k and unknowingly about 2 weeks preggo:

#3 - I got raging heartburn a couple of times after eating meat, which was completely foreign to a carnivore like me. There again, I blamed it on the change in diet and the fact that I'd cut down on my meat consumption significantly.

#4 - I woke up three nights in a row at 2:00 am from a dead sleep feeling like there was a bottomless pit in my stomach that had to be filled. I wasn't ambitious enough to get out of bed and fill said hole, so I just drank some water from the bedside and went back to sleep. Though it was puzzling, I assumed that my training and diet had just increased my metabolism (I'd lost 15 pounds in one month!). I resolved to start eating breakfast earlier in the day and that seemed to make the late night growling disappear.

#5 - My period, which traditionally arrived every 22nd day was a no show on its' ETA. My deluded self thought this simply meant that diet and exercise were the missing ingredients to a routine 28-30 day cycle. I even saw my skin improve with the new regimen, which was previously giving me routine breakouts.

What an idiot!
Heeeere's your sign!

Are you sure admission isn't required for this ride?

I love roller coasters - the loops and quick turns, even changing directions is exhilirating. Odd for a person prone to motion sickness, but true nonetheless. This ride I've been on lately is something altogether different though and leaves me feeling like I should've paid admission ahead of time.

What should have been a routine appointment with my OBGYN turned into something else. First, I was scolded for not having visited in the last 2 1/2 years, but then the discussion took a turn I wasn't prepared for. I reported having irregular cycles - every 21 days and lasting 7-9 days to be exact - and severe cramping. This inconvenience had just become the norm for me, but when I reported it to my doctor, he acted like it was more than just a nuisance. He asked about birth control. Nope. Hadn't used it in a couple years. He asked about pregnancies. Nope. Hadn't had that happen either.  He asked a series of other questions I can't recall and then mentioned "infertility". That was the first loop on the ride.

All I could think was "WTH??!! I'm only 29! How in the world could my eggs be rotten already?" I had always planned to be a mom someday, I just didn't know when. Did I totally miss the bus?

I went home from that visit with a tiny appointment card for further testing and a big feeling of failure. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I had always worried that I wouldn't be able to conceive children, though I have no idea where or why this thought originated. I'd never really given my uterus the chance to prove its worth because I'd taken birth control for so long in the past.

That evening I went for a run and made the decision that I wasn't going to punish myself or anyone else if having a biological child wasn't in my cards. I'd do the testing, but I wasn't interested in going to any heroic lengths to conceive. I was a bonus mom to two great kids already. And I had the pleasure of watching 500 kids grow each year- I swear I'm not a stalker or pedophile.....just a school counselor. A mom isn't necessarily someone who gives birth, right? I was reminded of a quote that I keep on my desk: "The mark of a true family is not one of blood, but of joy and respect in each other's lives." And it comforted me knowing that regardless of what my ovaries were producing, I was still capable of leaving people, children in particular, feeling welcome, safe and loved whenever they left my presence - and that's what being a mom is all about in my opinion. My own mother perfected the craft. And father. I won the parent lottery.

Fast forward two weeks and I'm going for testing. (Here comes loop #2) Through blood and urine screenings that were apparently of different design than those I did previously, I learn that I'm pregnant. No kidding? Me? The gal with the faulty reproductive system and wonky periods? Me? Are you sure???

Yep. She was sure all right. Apparently the plus sign is all knowing. Turns out, I was almost 5 weeks along and didn't even know. After crying my eyes out due to the impending embarassment I was sure to face from losing a bet and having to call my husband "Super Sperm", the nurse congratulated me with a hug, another tiny appointment card for an ultrasound in two more weeks (that seems to be the magic number doesn't it?), and a big bag of baby paraphernalia.  But my favorite souvenir from that visit is a note that she wrote for my husband. Check it out!

Loop #3 came (true to form) two weeks later at my first ultrasound. Having just wrapped my head around the fact that my pipes and his boys were actually compatible, it was a bit of a blow to see that there was no heartbeat. And there should have been. The embryo was measuring nearly 7 weeks in size, and heartbeats are detectible from 5-6 weeks. The poor ultrasound tech didn't want to tell us. She printed off the picture with a forced smile on her face and asked us to wait in the lobby. Then she asked us to follow her downstairs to my OB's office. The whole while - even pre-picture printing - I knew something was wrong and kept insisting as much, but my husband refused to believe. He is typically the cynic among us, so to see his assured positivity could be considered loop #4 - but a good one, of course. He insisted that the tech wouldn't print a picture for us if the pregnancy were not viable. Downstairs, he was proven incorrect. My OB explained that there wasn't a heartbeat, which was not a great sign, and I could expect bleeding and more than likely the need for a D&C. Though he wasn't optimistic, he wasn't giving up 100% on the pregnancy and insisted that another ultrasound be done before the procedure to make sure.

I dreaded that follow up appointment. I was thoroughly convinced that I needed to be braced for bad news - no heartbeat and being shipped off for a painful procedure. Then the little bugger threw me for loop #5 and proved himself to be a member of the family he is entering. This human apparently does things only when he gets darn well good and ready.Within seconds of appearing on the screen, the flutter of a heartbeat was as plain as day. We could even see the spine!

It's a good thing, too. He (or she) is going to need a steady beat and solid backbone to survive the four of us.

"Here I come to save the day!"

Mighty Mouse sang those words, didn't he? He wore a cape, too, right? That caped vermin is the image that popped into my head when I saw a faint plus sign appear on the pee stick. Strange association to make at such a crucial moment, which probably leaves you asking "Why are you thinking of outdated cartoon characters?" That would be because my 40-something-going-on-19-year-old husband (who is a nurse by trade and clown by habit) had reassured me time and time again that his "boys" could do the job. He thoroughly believed (and still does incidentally) that his sperm were super hero strength, even suggesting at one point that they carried side arms to blast anything that obstructed their path to victory.

Though we weren't trying to conceive, we weren't diligently trying not to either. And we hadn't been for quite some time - at least 2 years. The fact that this modus operandi hadn't resulted in any screaming, crying, smelly humans left me a little concerned that my plumbing was not up to snuff, especially since he was so confident that his was. He had such faith in his "boys", in fact, that we made a bet....and I'm not one to wager. The terms were simple: If I got pregnant I had to refer to him on all occasions, in all places as "Super Sperm". If I didn't get knocked up then he had to say those four dreaded words - "You are right, dear." Seemed fair enough. I risked the possibility of embarassment from saying the word "sperm" in public, and he had to eat crow. Given our history, I knew I'd win.

That darn plus sign blew it for me though. Guess I better find him a cape.