What If

I'm starting to second-guess myself.  Second-guess trying for another baby, that is.  

I took Tess to RMA on Groundhog Day for a follow-up appointment to discuss the possibility of another FET cycle.  It was wonderful introducing her to Nurse Anne and to Dr. Hock.  They loved holding her and cooing and cuddling with her.  I took some priceless photos that bring us full-circle.

It was such a surreal experience to bring our living, breathing frosty to the office where it all started.  We first saw her on the monitor as a follicle (perhaps Large Marge?) and then we saw her again, heart beat and yolk sack, through 8 weeks of pregnancy.  Amazing.  It is simply amazing.

Three weeks ago, I was all fired up like, "yeah, let's do this!"  I have always wanted to be done having children, however many that may be, before my 30th birthday.  The endometriosis made that less of a goal than a mandate.  Lucky me.  I am a good healer, though, as Dr. Hock said, and because I'm in otherwise great health, she sees no reason to wait.  I was cautioned that my risk of developing both complications again, placenta previa and pre-eclampsia, is high.  Like 40% high.  Still, I was undaunted.

After a quick peek inside to check the status of the uterus and ovary(ies?), everything looks quiet.  No discernible cysts, some normal follicular growth on the right side, and a really cool view of my internal c-section scar on the ol' uterus.  We worked out a provisional schedule.

I would need to have another saline sonohysterogram before proceeding, just to make sure we're clear of adenomyosis and any problematic scar tissue/fibroids post-baby.  It also helps to remap the now-used womb.  Ain't my first trip to the rodeo this time around, y'all, and things do shift.  It was reiterated that I have a rather extreme anterior tilt to my uterus and this is why the saline sono was probably so painful last time.  "A full bladder should help" (yeah, ok) but I'm not holding my breath and I'm not taking any chances. I'm going to med up.  That's right.  It was worse than childbirth.  It was worse than getting a tooth pulled.  It was probably even worse than having that abscess drained in front of me with nothing but a muscle relaxant to soothe me.  I won't go into graphic detail but imagine having a thin tube inserted into your nethers and imagine the sensation of that tube being on fire.  For 10 minutes.  AWFUL.

Alas, this is all par for my course in IVF Land and though I can't say I'm totally gangbusters to deal with the unpleasantness again, especially with Tempest to consider, another baby is worth it.  Right? 

But it's there, every third thought in my brain; that nagging voice asking me if I'm sure.

Maybe it's the relentless freeze that has come to define this winter and the seeming impossibility that the three of us, O, T, and me, will ever get outdoors together for any length of time again. 

Maybe it's the fact that I'm dreading the saline sono on St. Patrick's Day (decidedly not my favorite procedure.)

Or maybe, just maybe, it's because I've finally had time to absorb the gravity of the situation; the facts and figures and practicality of it.

A 40% chance of everything going to hell.  That's higher than my odds of even getting pregnant again.

I suppose, more than the economics or the practicalities of life with a toddler and newborn, the decision comes down to my health.

Do I want this badly enough to take the odds?

At worst, do I want to compromise my body for potentially the rest of my life?

At best, do I want to be incapacitated, should I have another SCH or previa that maybe doesn't resolve this time and thus the only course of treatment is bed rest?

As lovely as a little sister or little brother for Tempest sounds in theory, I am less and less convinced with each passing day that this feels right.  I'm usually spot on when it comes to heeding my gut instinct.  My blood pressure is still all over the place, more than 5 months post-partum, and while that can be normal for pre-e, it can also indicate chronic hypertension -- and yes, this does run in my family so I don't really want to mess with being on meds for the rest of my days.

I have done the sensible thing and set up my 6 month GYN visit with the good Dr. Convery.  I'm going to level with her and talk through everything I've been thinking/reading.  She won't pull any punches and I have a sneaking suspicion she'll tell me straight that maybe this is something to seriously consider before moving forward with RMA.  After all, she saw me at my worst.  My absolute, get-this-baby-out-of-me /as yet undiagnosed pre-e worst, just two days before giving birth.  She ordered the tests that likely saved Tempest from complications.  She also spoke to me on the phone an hour before my father drove me to the hospital to express her concern and well-wishes on the probable delivery of my child that night.

In short, I will not move forward with anything until I get the blessing or the Do Not Pass Go from my beloved OB.  (Well, now she's my gynecologist, which is weird, but at least I also get my annual out of the way.)

With everything we have in the mix - ok, everything I have to contend with, for indeed, it is my body we're talking about, not to mention that I am the primary caregiver to the loves of my life - this decision is one we very well may be discussing each and every day until we've reached a mutually agreeable conclusion.

It's not a question of want.  Of course I want another child.  I'd take two or three more!  But it isn't that simple, is it?  Not for us.  It will never be that simple for us. 

   

5 months

On President's Day, our girl turned 5 months old.  Miss Tempest is a rootin', scootin' fireball.  Ain't no stopin' her now!  She's on the move!

Since our potatty is so very active, I thought now might be a good time to try out Gymboree to see if she could burn off that energy in a new environment and perhaps, oh, I don't know...SLEEP?!  Maybe?  Just a little better?

I took her to her trial class yesterday, Level 1 for babies from birth to 6 months.  The closest facility is in Metuchen so we just shoot up 27 and we're there in 20 min.  Parking is another story but I'm hoping my habitual earliness will pay off routinely.  We caught the tail end of the toddler class.  Those kids are hysterical.  There were 12 of them, about the same mix of those at our Music Together trial, but this is a gym so they definitely separate babies by appropriate ages so there's not a Running of the Rug Rats trampling situation. 

Once everyone had kissed Gymbo goodbye, the older kids were wrapped up in their layers of sweaters and coats and boots and gloves and shuttled toward the door.  The waiting area is about the size of our laundry room so that was fun finagling the infant carrier out of the line of fire but I managed to squeeze past to safety.  I exchanged pleasantries with several of the toddler moms who said, "He's gorgeous! What's his name?"  Granted, the carrier is orange but she had a pink hat on.  Come on, ladies!  This is 2015.  Gender neutral gear has been a thing for a good 30 years now.  It just kills me that she's always assumed to be a boy first.  No one has ever asked me, "Boy or girl?"  Maybe that's the Bryn Mawr talking but I always ask.

Apparently, no one leaves Gymboree willingly.  There were at least two tantrums and one kid and his mom disappeared into the bathroom for a good 8 minutes.  We made our introductions and Tempest was proclaimed the most beautiful baby with the most unique and lovely name.  Always a good start.  Screams were heard issuing from the bathroom and Miss Liz confided in me that this particular child has severe separation anxiety every. single. time.  We laughed about everyone assuming that a baby dressed in any shade of blue - aqua, navy, turquoise - is presumed to be male.  We talked about Soft Coated Wheaten Terriers and how lovably nuts they are.  Miss Liz's friend has a female who has killed groundhogs and brought them inside as trophies.  Oscar failed at basic mouse-catching.  He's just not that into carnage but I'm sure if we let him loose with a squirrel, he'd make a toy out of it. 

Once the screamer had cleared out, we had the gym to ourselves.  The "floor" is made of those foam mats that velcro together.  There are slides and roller logs and odds and ends for the big kids to climb over but today, Tess was just getting her orientation lesson.  It ended up being private because the other little boy didn't show.  In about five minutes, Miss Liz turned to me and said, "your daughter is so active that you'd do better to move her up to Level 2.  We'll finish Level 1 today but come back next Tuesday for another trial class with the 6-10 month-olds."  Tess was not interested in lying on her back, or in singing, or in having her body manipulated.  She wanted the balls and she wanted the bubbles.  She scooted forward for Miss Liz.  She rolled everywhere.  It was fun for her but we could both tell that she was ready for the next step.

We ended up using one of the logs to work the core muscles toward sitting up.  That was fun, watching her flop back and then righting herself, laughing.  She did so well and had to be absolutely exhausted when we were through.  There was some mirror play on her belly and we ended with the classic Gymboree parachute.  Definitely not as much fun as having a mosh pit of babies under there but Tess loved it.  First we spun her on top of it and then we put her underneath.  She was watching me the entire time but she did give a smile, finally. 


Miss Liz was wonderful and explained the motor skills we were working on and the benchmarks each session attempts to achieve.  Classes are once a week with open gym time.  Gymboree is one of those activities that is only going to get more fun as Tess grows and moves and learns to play.  I'm looking forward to meeting some older babies next week and seeing how she does with the next level.

Seasons of Love

I know many people count winter as their least favorite season but I truly love it.  I love the coziness of incessant snow, I love the relative hush that falls over the street and the crisp air that sets your lungs afire.  That feeling of being cloistered away for a time is a luxury that many don't count among the riches of the season.  Call me sentimental for something that isn't very practical, but I see the earth buried beneath this temporary mantle and I know that life will begin again soon, very soon, and we should all be patient and enjoy the anticipation of spring.  Or maybe that's just my lapsed Catholicism rationalizing Lent...either way, you've gotta hand it to a religion that appropriates nature's cycle.  Maybe it is the poetry of deepest winter, those dark-skied mornings and early twilights that make us hold our loved ones a little closer, spend a little more time talking and just being together, that I hold dear.    

Of all the winter months, I love February the most.  January even holds special meaning for me now (frosties!) but February is that special time when we get to celebrate unabashed displays of looooooove.  I freely admit that I used to have a teenager's loathe it/secretly like it relationship with Valentine's Day.  I have always been a reluctant romantic so I can really get behind the red and pink splendor of pouring out your guts in the form of verbal sentiments and edible delights.  Who doesn't love chocolate?  Come on!  February is chocolate's time to shine.  The furtive nature of sending and receiving valentine's has a rather gothic quality to it.  I don't know, something about the slow burn of a flame you never knew existed is appealing.  The season is rife with possibility. 

But there's so much more to love than the romantic sort.  There's philia, or friendship, storge, affection, eros, of course, but then agape which, though deeply Christian in its associations today, comes from ancient Greece and is the most powerful of all: unconditional love.  I felt stirrings of this when I said yes to the love of my life and there were murmurs when we brought Oscar home but I have never truly known agape before becoming a mother.  Of course, I've been the recipient of apage and I love my parents truly and deeply but it isn't the same until you, yourself, transform from someone's child into someone's parent.

This Valentine's Day, I celebrated the greatest gift the world has ever known -- and yes, I had my champagne and Dove Promises, too.

My funny Valentine

  

Midnight Madness

Joi Mitchell was right.  You don't know what you've got till it's gone.

And by that, I mean the basic human right to sleep more than 30 minutes at a time.  Yes, yes, I know: having a baby means you'll be moderately-to-severely sleep deprived at various point throughout their first year or life and even beyond in times of tumult (teething, illness, nightmares) but did anyone ever say, "oh, hey, I bet I can go a whole week without making it to REM and not lose my damn mind?!"

Nope.  Not a chance.  No one in the history of the world has ever said that because it is next to impossible.

Last night, I reached full-on fever dream territory.  I dreamed that there was a formula pump that attached to my nipples; a handy tool for weaning mothers for middle-of-the-night feedings.  The liquid was brownish, as formula tends to be when it oxidizes, but I couldn't turn it off so there was formula gushing everywhere in the bed and Tess was not pleased with it to begin with so she was crying and I just couldn't stop the stupid pump so I flooded our bedroom with formula and then we went all "Bedknobs and Broomsticks," floating into the night.

OK, so I had been having weird waking dreams of our house being broken-into when it was really the neighbors slamming their toilet seat or something but this one took the cake.  I had convinced myself that this was happening, could even taste the formula, and it took me staring at the clock which read 2:59 for me to realize that we were not, in fact, in imminent peril.

Whoa.

While I try not to dwell on specifics (which might be rather embarrassing, as threats of bodily harm come to mind) I absolutely do not recall reaching this frightful state of exhaustion in my first six weeks of motherhood. Sure, I was bone tired as my body was adjusting to the new demands of nursing and my hormones were settling but then, at least, Tess slept for a few hours at a time.  Up to a week ago, we'd even make it to four hours at a stretch more than twice a week which was a huge improvement from the colicky weeks leading up to Christmas.

Dear Tempest has slept like crap since last Saturday and by "crap," I mean not at all.  She will nap during the day because poor petunia is completely exhausted but even those naps are fitful and full of stirrings.  The longest one never last more than 2.5 hours and that's only if I'm physically lying down next to her.  I feel so guilty that my almost-5-month-old is experiencing sleep deprivation.  Infants her age are still supposed to be getting at least 12 hours of sleep per day, which is laughable to me.  Crazed laughter floods my head when I count up how much time she actually spends resting, if not sleeping: maybe 6-8 hours, including lap and shoulder snoozes?  That's absurd and probably damaging to her neural development.  Must. Not. Freak. Out. This is fixable, right?  It has to be something she'll grow out of. 

It's the teeth.  It's the all the new activity.  It's solid foods causing gas.  Honestly, I don't know that it's one thing but I guarantee it's a combination of factors big enough to cause her this level of distress at night.  In the day, she's her happy, inquisitive self.  At night, we're talking Jekyll and Hyde.  Is she overstimulated?  Maybe.  Is she in constant pain?  Hard to say.  Sometimes, yes.  I see her grabbing her cheek or her ear and crying out.  I wish those little white buds would hurry up and break through to give her some relief.  I think it gets worse overnight because the ache is all she has to focus on.  The pediatrician recommended Tylenol before bed for as long as she's actively teething which "could be months" GEE THANKS.  Last night was the very first night that Tess slept for a solid hour but even then, the duration was full of fraught wakings. 

Did I mention we're back to co-sleeping?  She has flat-out refused her crib for even so much as a 20 minute snooze since Sunday.  She's happy to play in there while I'm in the shower or taking Oscar out but sleeping there?  Forget it.  The pack-n-play, formerly my go-to for mid-afternoon naps, is now a no-go.  If I hold her, she'll doze, but if I sneeze or cough or even twitch slightly, it's all over.  I feel like I'm tip-toeing around a very cuddly, adorable land mind and I absolutely do not want to disturb it.

Of course, my distress, while temporary, is nothing compared to what my poor daughter is going through.  I know all babies go through teething; I did, Rhett did, we are no worse for the wear but I suspect not all children have such an intense experience as our Tempest.  I feel helpless.  Nothing I am doing seems to be working so all I can do is provide my love, my breast, my bear-hug embrace and wait it out, as she must. 

Music Together

We were finally able to attend the demo Mixed Ages class at the Princeton Lab East Brunswick location today.  We've had to reschedule twice due to inclement weather and canceled classes so I'm doubly glad that I didn't sign us up for Winter Session.  Also...did I mention there are 6 toddlers in the class?  While I'm glad Tess has her shots up to date, I am happy to wait until after cold/flu season has run its course before making a commitment to routinely expose her to other kids' germs.  But for today, everyone seemed happy and healthy.  I brought my own blanket and rattle, just in case.

I knew more or less what to expect in terms of format from speaking with my Aunt Karen who owns her own Music Together franchise in Massachusetts.  She couldn't say enough about the benefits of starting babies early, even if it might feel a little silly at times.  She encouraged me to skip the babies classes and go for Mixed Ages because of the cognitive benefits to Tess being around older children.  A semester of classes was her baby gift to us so she instructed me to research the most convenient location and attend a preview before making the final decision to enroll in the spring.  Can't beat the commute!  It's a 10 min drive out toward Oscar's vet and located just down the road from the Starbucks with the drive-through.  (Lucky Mama.) 

Boy, am I glad I decided to have that cup of coffee this morning.  Classes are held in a dance studio next to the local Y.  Now this isn't your average small-town dance studio.  It's called Center Stage, scrawled in purple, jaunty font across the marquee.  First of all, the space is so large that it's in an industrial park adjacent to a stone mason and something to do with plexiglass.  Secondly, the windows are tinted so you can't see inside and I had no idea if the lights were on or if the door was unlocked from looking at it.  You step into the lobby and there's an actual reception desk and signs pointing to male and female locker rooms, and all kinds of doors leading to various styles of studios (Tap A, Tap B, Ballet A, Ballet B, Jazz A, Jazz B, Gymnastics, Vocal Music, Stage Door, etc.)  It was like landing in technicolor Oz.  Holy cow, I suddenly wish I had stuck with dance because something about this level of unabashed competition just makes my pulse quicken and I get so excited that I can live vicariously through my own daughter when she -- oh, I'm just kidding. 

But seriously, when Tempest is old enough, provided she has an interest, this is exactly the kind of place I'll take her first.  Go big or go home.  There were trophies prominently displayed, articles about that show "Dance Moms" because apparently in 2012, this place was featured -- which is kind of scary but it tells you how serious these tiny dancers are -- and information about their many performative offerings.  They have posters of kids of both genders doing jazz hands and others featuring very young girls wearing far too many cosmetics, advertizing their "companies" (which is code for ability level-segregated classes.) 

Before this post gets too far away from me (too late?) I have a confession: being in this performance mecca as a mom for the very first time brought out all kinds of feels.  Parenthood continues to surprise me.  Things you thought you were over or otherwise don't really think about on a daily basis bubble to the surface when you're looking at your own progeny and her future in a setting all-too familiar to you.  Me?  I loved tap.  Loved the steps, the music, the fun (compared to ballet.)  It was freedom and rhythm and athletic grace.  Unfortunately, we kept moving during my formative years so I never got to stick with it consistently enough to progress so I switched my focus to ball sports and excelled there.  I continued to perform in the theater but I know I could've been a triple threat, had I stuck with dance.  Le sigh.  I know the day will come when Tess will become a verbal child and she may ask to dance.  If she does, she's going to try it all so that when she's old enough, she can choose whatever form of bodily expression suits her.   

I digress.  The reason I found myself at Center Stage with my almost-five-month-old: a mellow, welcoming, brain-boosting music class aimed at ages 0-3.  No competition, no strings, just mama and baby out for a morning class.

Most of the other moms smiled, or at least made eye contact with me and cleared a place on the mat.   One took it upon herself to tell me that my baby was cold because she was shivering.  I very calmly explained that Tempest "shakes with excitement" in new situations, thankssomuchtho.

The first five minutes were like living in a Raffi music video and I didn't know if I had what it would take to keep it together.  I can be a champion ham-bone with Tess in my own home but in a room full of strangers, it seemed very out-of-body.   I quickly got over it.  After all, it's like the first day of a new acting workshop where everyone is silently evaluating everyone else and you don't want to be the lame kid who doesn't fully participate. 

The instructor was a sweet-faced pregnant lady with a ukelele - yes, a ukelele - like something out of Sesame Street.  The other moms knew the tunes and were clapping along while their toddlers seemed to whirl around to their own personal beats.  There was a Cassandra, an Abigail, a boy named Effe (sp?),  Aviva, Benji, and Narashti (such a helpful mom she has) and Aviva's little brother, 7-month-old Ishmael, (they called him "Ishy") who was the closest in age to Tess.  Tess was more interested in 2-year-old Benji who gave quite the Tasmanian Devil impersonation, catapulting his body around the mat in between songs and trying to put his fist through the large drum in the center of the circle.  His mother looked too exhausted to do much about it.  Observation of toddlers: holy crap, is this what they're all like?

The class incorporates 45 minutes of music beginning with the roll-call "Hello, Everybody" song (so peppy, I'm literally still humming it) and various call-and-response songs with accompanying motions.  Tess was all smiles watching the teacher with her exaggerated theatrical delivery.  She was wonderful.  From what I gather, when you sign up for the 10 weeks, you get a CD and song book to learn along with your child and they cycle through those exclusive songs for that entire semester so the lyrics and movement become familiar.  Some are relatively famous ("My Bonny," "Des Colores," which was difficult to make out over the furious shaking of maracas) and others seem like Music Together originals.  They all incorporate some element of music theory like tempo, pitch, rhythm, and are quite multicultural.  There was some African music, some Spanish, French, Olde English folk tunes.  It was clear that Tess was having a grand old time, even if we had to modify some activities since she's not walking (or jumping) yet.  She may not be able to sing but she can blow spit bubbles and squeal like a champ.

About 30 minutes in, it became clear that every child over the age of, oh, 7 months, had checked out and would rather be running around the room, jumping over the hula hoops splayed out.  This is also good to know for the future.  Attention spans: extremely limited. 

After the goodbye song, there was more disinfecting of instruments (did I mention that sanitary wipes are passed out after every song so you can wipe down your props?) and that was it.  Music Together: mission accomplished.  I think our by then 7-month-old will very much enjoy her musical education.

Beta-versary

Holy cow.  One year ago today was the big one, folks: our BFP.

(That's Big Fat Positive on my beta blood test.)

I had taken, oh, about three HPTs on January 31, my half-year birthday, as it turns out.  Every single one showed at first a faint and then progressively darker line. 

I'll never forget the flash of realization, followed by disbelief, followed by abject certainty, followed by disbelief, etc. etc.  Because we did an FET without the inundation of hormones, it was technically "safe" to test at home and get a reliable result.  No IVF nurse would actively endorse this practice but I just knew I was pregnant when I had the flushing and twinges early in the week so I had to be sure. I had secretly purchased several different brands, just in case.  I got up early before school, careful to use the morning's first urine, and I peed on that stick.  Within a minute, still sitting on the toilet, the awful deja vu of waiting, I saw the line emerge.  I let out a gasp and yelled down to Rhett, "Come here!  Come here!"  He says he knew in that moment what I was up to.  Oscar was so excited that he came running in to the hallway bathroom to hear the news.  I whispered it to him.  No reaction.

Rhett came upstairs and I couldn't contain myself.  "I'M PREGNANT IT SAYS I'M PREGNANT LOOK THERE'S A LINE." We hugged and I remained elated all day.

I even called Nurse Anne and was like, "Oh, hey, by the way the HPT was positive and I'm having spotting.  Is that normal?  Oh, you mean you can move up my beta by a day?  Awesome!"

On Sunday, February 2, Groundhog Day of 2014, we drove to Basking Ridge for the 2 minute blood test and waited an agonizing three hours for the phone call.  I was confident but nervous.  Anne shared the news and yes, indeed, I was pregnant. 

*

Hard to imagine that was exactly one year ago today, especially when I'm looking at this little goober rolling around on the floor next to me.  I can hardly imagine my life before her and I could never imagine my life without her.

The Litte Mermaid

We have another swimmer in the family!

Miss Tempest took to the pool like a newly-hatched tadpole.  She was all kicking legs and splashing arms, desperate to swim free from my grasp but since this was her first time in the water, I kept a firm grip on her.

I couldn't have been more proud.  She is, as the instructor, Erin, said, "a natural."  Not scared, not timid, not the least bit startled by total submersion.  She's certainly got the body for competitive swimming (or water polo, come to think of it) so I'm pleased she's getting a head start.  Our water baby is going to be the belle of the Plantation pool, come May.  By then she'll be in floaties and able to maneuver a little more independently but for now, it is such a joy to hold her and float her around the warm pool as an introduction to more advanced aquatic feats.