Wednesday, June 30, 2010

A Letter to My-20-Year-Old-Self

January 8, 2002

Dear Lindsay,

You've just found out you are pregnant. You're 20 and pregnant and in a bad for you relationship. I know, I know ... you're in love - we'll come back to the relationship thing in a minute.

You are scared right now. You are scared because you are uneducated, making less than $20,000 a year waiting tables, your mom lives in another state, and you are pregnant. I'm here to tell you that it will all be ok. You're dreams will come true. It will be a long road. You will experience many struggles and pitfalls, but you will survive.

In a matter of a few short months you will come to love that little life inside of you more than anything else in the entire world. You will also lose your dad before your child is born - it will be very sad, but also a relief. This next year will be difficult full of tough decisions. You will make the right choices.

Telling your mom that you are pregnant will be difficult, but you will survive. Hearing your mom tell you that you cannot move in with her will be difficult, but you will survive. Moving in with your grandparents will be difficult, but you will survive. You will put your baby first and you will survive.

As for the relationship you are in and the hurt it has caused you - you will survive. It may take a long time for you to move past it and get on with your life, but you will. You cannot change another person no matter how much you care about them.

When the time is right, you will meet the man God put on earth to be your husband. It will happen in due time. You will get your education. You will make things happen for you.

There are decisions you could change. You could make better choices along the way, but then I would be afraid that you wouldn't end up where you are now. And, where you are now is where you are meant to be.

You will realize that God works in a mysterious way. He connects the dots throughout your life and gives you the strength to go on. Take a deep breath. Say a prayer. You will survive.


Your 28-Year-Old-Self


A Week of Epic Mom Fails - and it's only Wednesday!

This has been a week of epic "mom fails" and it's only Wednesday!

Every New Breed Mama has her moments when she forgets things in the hustle and bustle of daily life. Moms have to adhere to a lot of schedules. Sports schedules, Sunday school schedules, work schedules, babysitter's schedules, doctors appointments, etc. etc . Sometimes moms get busy, trying to do everything for everyone, and they sometimes forget stuff. Usually, it's small stuff.

You've probably heard the saying, "Don't sweat the small stuff." (Actually, I think it may be a book too.) So what happens when the small stuff starts to add up? If you're like me, you start doubting yourself as a mother. You may wonder about your sanity. Then you laugh. You have to laugh - to keep your sanity.

So far this week...

Monday: The boys had a baseball game schedules at 7:15 and John and I had our appointment with the fertility doctor at 6:30 on the other side of town. This was really mom fail #1 because I failed to consult the baseball schedule (aka the bible) before making the doctor appointment. Here I thought I was being a smart and considerate wife (and employee) by making the appointment after the workday. But, no. That was not the case. At all.

To make this work, I had to make a plan with my mother in law to pick the boys up from the babysitters. AND, I had to make sure that the boys uniforms, etc. were packed and ready to send with them to the sitters on Monday morning.

Well, I got lazy and procrastinated - procrastination always seems to be a precursor to mom fails. Monday morning I am rushing around trying to find all the pieces and parts that make up the boys uniforms.

Found Riley's stuff rather quickly and threw it in a Walmart bag. Then I hunted and hunted for Khegan's uniform and found nothing. Hubs looked. Nothing. He had to have left it at his mom's house. When you have a child who lives half the time with you and half the time with his mother, a lot gets lost in the back and forth.

Yep, well, I was wrong. Mom fail #2. It wasn't his mom who had failed. Nope. It was me. So in a frantic hurry I left work at 5, drove home, hunted for uniform, found uniform hiding in the corner of room under a pile of books and toys, drove to grandma's dropped off uniform, and still somehow made it back across town to the doctor appointment at 6:30.

Tuesday: On Tuesday evening I had to have a dreaded conversation with our babysitter about summer rates. We have always paid the sitter for a full-time schedule for Khegan even though he is only with us half the time. This is because his mom can be unreliable at times.

Well, she has been doing pretty good lately and I decided it was time to ease up on keeping the sitter as a back up for her. Plus it would save us a little money. My husband talked to her and she committed to getting Khegan from the sitters by mid-morning on Wednesdays and having him with her on Thursdays and Fridays. Seems easy enough.

So I talked to the sitter about only paying for part-time for Khegan for the rest of the summer. She was none too happy, but I stuck to my guns and she really had no choice, so she agreed.

Wednesday: Arrive to pick Riley up from sitter's at 5:30 - babysitter says, "Khegan was just picked up 5 mintues ago. Mom fail #3.

The boys had another baseball game tonight. Riley's grandmother, that he hasn't seen in 2 years, came to the game tonight. I had told her I would bring her some pictures of Riley. Originally, I had planned to get them together on Sunday, but again - procrastination. So tonight, after I picked up Ry, I hustled home to get him changed, fed, and gather up these pictures before we left.

We were about to walk out the door, pictures in my hand, and Riley says, "Mom, what did you do with my baseball glove?" Mom fail #4. Uh, I haven't seen your glove all week son. Seven years old and he doesn't remember where he leaves his glove.

We looked in the downstairs closets. We looked in the garage. We looked in the car. We looked in the upstairs closet. We looked under the bed. Finally found it in the dirty clothes basket! WTF?! I know. Now, we were in a hurry. Out the door and to the ballgame we go. Forgot the pictures. Mom fail #5.

During the baseball game it dawned on me that today is June 30th. Something had to be done by June 30th. What was it? Oh, yeah. Crap. Deadline for early registration for next year's PSR classes. (That's Catholic for Parish School of Religion). Mom fail #6. I guess we will just pay $40 more since I forgot to get the check in the mail. I'm on a roll.

After the game is over all the kids are standing around by the dugout. Coach gives out the game ball. The kids do their cheer. Khegan says, "Where's our snacks? Coach! Whose turn was it to bring snacks?!" Fuck. It was our turn. And my kid pointed it out to the whole team. And their parents. Mom fail #7. Epic.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

A Visit to the Fertility Doctor

This is my first post in a few days. I have been living in the dark side since Sunday afternoon. The dark side is an angry, irritable, and negative place. This trip to the dark side, based on my own self-assessment, was brought on by my 3rd round of fertility medication - specifically Clomid.

After two failed rounds, meaning the drug did not cause ovulation, I am now on the highest allowable dosage of the medication. When my Obgyn's office called me to tell me that the 2nd round of the drug was not effective, they told me I had three options. 1 - I could go up to the highest dosage and do another round. 2 - They could refer me to a Reproductive Endocrinologist (RE aka Fertility Doctor). 3 - We could do both.

We chose to do both.

We really, really, really want to have a baby.

Yesterday, right smack in the middle of round 3 of Clomid, we went to meet the Fertility Doctor. To sum up the visit in one word: overwhelming. The doctor was fabulous. He founded the most prominent fertility clinic in central Ohio. He informed me that "Clomid is a crappy drug". It is supposed to trick your brain into producing the estrogen needed to make you ovulate, but in the mean time it screws with every other part of your reproductive system - which, is kinda important if you are trying to get preggers.

Dr. Fertility then laid out our options. Shots. Shots to help my body form the follicle that will give birth to my egg. Shots to tell my follicle when to release the egg. Shots that I have to give myself. OMG. How did I get here? In this place where I finally have everything I want in life - an amazing husband, a good job, a nice house in a nice neighborhood, two wonderful little boys - everything I have ever wanted. Except for making a baby with my husband.

In addition to the shots, there will be tests. Tests to make sure my fallopian tubes are open. Tests to make sure my follicles are growing. Tests to find out when I am ready ovulate. Oh, and blood tests. Lots of blood tests.

Yes, I will pay ridiculous amounts of money for these shots. Yes, I will fight with my insurance company, the pharmacy, and the billing office trying to work out all the details of my payments. Yes, I will be paying to get poked, pricked, and prodded.

How did I ever wind up in the place where my body won't work for me?

My husband was very excited after the visit. "We have a plan now!" he says. I was less than thrilled. My husband is not the one missing goobers of work to attend doctor appointments at the drop of a hat. My husband is not the one fighting with the insurance company. My husband is not the one taking the hormones that turn you into a Royal B*tch. My husband is not the one whose going to get poked and prodded. My husband is not he one going to give himself shots 8-14 days a month.

And he wondered why I was upset?!

Yes, we had a nice visit with Dr. Fertility last night. I think I am finally starting to come out of my dark place... I will do the shots. And get poked. And get prodded. And fight with the insurance company. And make arrangements with my job for lots of doctor appointments. Yes, I will do it. I will do it because, we want a baby. So badly.