Candygram!

Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not one of my personal strengths. Turns out some things are worth waiting for, though. Who knew?

No, I’m not talking about that other thing that’s happening today, I’m talking about the arrival of my package this week for the great candyswap of 2006! Bethany not only came through for me, but she must have felt awfully guilty for being a little bit late (as if I’m ever on time for anything) because WOW! what a lot of great candy. But I’m getting ahead of the story…

I completely forgot to check the mail on Monday, so the poor package might have been stuck in the community mailbox in the blazing sun and 43C-with-humidity temperatures all day Monday. I was on my way home to a house full of in-laws when I picked finally retrieved the package on Tuesday afternoon, but couldn’t justify putting off saying hello to them in order to tear into my package. (I tell ya, this being a grown up thing calls for a lot more restraint than I ever would have anticipated.)

In the bustle of our very-short overnight visit from the in-laws, I never did get the chance to open the package, but it didn’t escape Beloved’s eagle eye for candy. (I could paint the living room turquoise and puce with magenta accents, or come home shaved bald, and he might not notice. But a seven inch cubic square box of candy inside my messenger bag inside a closet he manages to ferret out. Go figure.)

He called me at work.

Beloved: “Can I open this package?”

Me: “Back off, Jack. That’s my candy! You had your chance and you decided not to participate in the candy swap. Get yer paws off my box!”

Beloved: “But I shook it three times now, and it sounds like it’s got some great stuff in it!”

Me: “Step away from the box. Don’t mess with me on this one, I’m ovulating.”

Beloved: *careful silence*

In the end, he managed to restrain himself. As he was leaving to teach his class after dinner tonight, he impelled me to open the box tonight, so he could inspect the bounty within. “It’s full of American candy,” he said reverently, his eyes glittering with expectation. “They have all kinds of candy down there that we don’t have.”

So shortly after we cleared away the dinner dishes and sent Beloved on his drooling way, notions of exotic American candy dancing in his head, my ‘helpers’ and I set about opening the package.

Inside, there was not only candy, but this really funky rainbow striped box. Is this a coincidence, Bethany, or did you know I have a container fixation?

And it was full – bountifully, blissfully FULL of snack-sized Twix Bars (mmmm), and sour Altoids, and sour Jelly Bellies, and Sour Patch Kids (my mouth is puckering just thinking about it) and a box of assorted flavours of Pop Rocks – remember pop rocks? I haven’t seen them since grade school! I can’t wait to freak the kids out by feeding them some. Watch for that excellence-in-parenting video to debut here soon! And last, but far from least, the biggest honkin’ box of Willy Wonka Everlasting Gobstoppers I have ever seen. Bethany, you ROCK!!!!

And you know what? I know the perfect time to start making a dent in this most excellent stash of candy – this afternoon at the movie theatre. Heck, let’s give that little embryo a sugar rush right out of the gate, shall we?

Thanks, Bethany, for the cornucopia of great candy!! And thanks to Andrea, too, for conceptualizing and creating the great candy swap of 2006… what a great idea!

3.. 2.. 1.. GO!

Oh look, it’s yet another post in the ongoing saga of “oh for the love of god, will you either get pregnant or shut up about it already”.

Well, we’re almost there. And when I say”we” I mean “we” as in all of us, because I’m really enjoying having a couple hundred of you along for the ride. I like knowing that a lot of you have been there (and been there, and been there) but I also hope that this has been an informative little peek into the world of infertility for some of you.

And now, on with the show, because tomorrow’s the big day! After an epic amount of waffling and no small amount of coaxing from my colleagues, I finally decided to take the whole day off. We have to show up at the clinic for 10:30, and I have to have a ‘very full’ bladder. The nurse suggested I drink a litre or more of water starting around 10:00. (Do you think a litre of Tim’s coffee would be an acceptable subsitute?)

Around the time we show up at the clinic, we’ll know whether frostie has survived the thaw, about an 80 per cent probability. The actual procedure will be at 11:30. (Are you squirming at thinking of sitting on a ‘very full’ bladder in a waiting room for an hour? Because I sure am.) I think they encourage me to have a little rest for another 20 minutes or so after the transfer – and who am I to say no to the rare opportunity for a daytime nap? – and then we should be out of there by 12:30 at the latest. We arranged for the caregiver to take the boys on Thursday instead of Wednesday this week, so Beloved will be there for the whole thing, and then we’re going out to an afternoon matinee after that.

The only decision that remains is whether to see Pirates of the Carribean, Superman, or You, Me and Dupree. I’m leaning toward a little Johnny Depp action, if only I can claim later in life that he had some impact on my fertility and reproductive capability.

Don’t you love it when a plan comes together despite a complete absence of planning on your part? Yet another sign from the universe that we’re on the right track!

I wish I had something more coherent for you today. I don’t even have a cute anecdote from the boys to apologize for this week’s relentlessly self-obsessed drivel. Bear with me, we’re almost done, and soon I will get my head out of my reproductive tract and turn my gaze back to the rest of the world. But, although it’s a tight call, my reproductive tract is still marginally less scary than the rest of the world just now.

I’m floundering for a way to end this that doesn’t seem like I’m fishing for a sea of “good luck!” comments (hey, lookit that – flounder, fishing, sea – and I didn’t even do that on purpose!!) but other than my newly discovered marine theme, I got nothing.

Um, so – how’s life with you these days? Oh wait, here’s another idea – we could play “Infertility Questions”. As in, if you have any questions about infertility treatments or the emotional rollercoaster or any of that stuff, me and my panel of experts will answer them for you. Or, you could tell me about your dog, or your goldfish, or just about anything to distract me from tomorrow.

(And if you think this is bad, you ain’t seen nothing until you’ve seen the new low in neurotic obsession that is the ‘two week wait’. Stay tuned, it’s likely to get ugly.)

Hurry up and wait

I was going to post a really big whine this morning. I’m starting to get a little impatient with the whole daily bloodletting thing (no updates because there’s nothing to post, just a lot of holes in the inside of my arm and the back of my hand), and this morning on the way into the clinic I managed to spill most of my coffee all over my white cotton blouse. Three days in a row, I went from the clinic back home or to the gym – it figures that I douse myself in coffee the day I’m heading to work. In white.

And I was going to whine that my in-laws are stopping by for a last-minute overnight visit tonight. I’m pretty lucky in the in-law department, but this is not exactly the best week for a visit. Oh well, aside from the fact they sleep in my bed when they visit, they’re pretty low maintenance and I enjoy their company – just not on a weekday, when I’m working and in the middle of a flippin’ fertility cycle!

And then there is Sassy, my parents’ gorgeous and goodnatured but absolutely dumb as a post malamute husky, who is vacationing with us this week. She has a tendency to use the rug as a toilet, and no amount of walking has encouraged her to use the outside facilities. My dad walks her three to five kilometers morning and night, but sadly, I just don’t have that kind of time just now. I’m hoping she deigns to use the back yard sooner rather than too late.

All in all, I was in a pretty crappy mood when I arrived at the office this morning, and then I saw that Nadine from heathifica.ca had extended my plea for information to her own health-related blog – wasn’t that nice? And then I opened my e-mail, and Jojo the commenter (and godmother to my boys) who really should write her own blog sent me the link to a wonderful blog called The Shape of a Mother. It’s one of the best new blogs I’ve seen – I love it!

In other words, I’ve got nothing today, but do go check out The Shape of a Mother. One of these days I might post my own saggy self over there, too!

Tummy trouble

I’m a little bit worried about Simon.

(Warning: there will be talk of barfing ahead. Consider yourself warned.)

He’s always been a great eater, but he’s been a little off his food lately. And maybe five or six times in the last couple of weeks, he’s finished most of his dinner, started to whimper, and barfed it all right back up again. Each time it has happened, it’s been a fairly hot day, and up until last week I was attributing it to the heat.

Last week, he was sick three times, but showed no other symptoms. And once he finishes yakking, he’s fine – energetic, playful, in good humour.

So Beloved took him to the ped on Friday, and the ped weighed him. He’s actually gained weight since his well-baby appointment six months ago, so that’s a good sign. The ped told us to simply keep an eye on him, and let him know if other symptoms (food avoidance, ill temper, etc) manifest. He also gave us a prescription for Prevacid, the same reflux medication both boys were on around four to six months of age. Even though he’s now two and a half, the administration of the medication is the same – with applesauce.

Just wondering if, in the beautiful symmetry of the Internet, any of you have any experience with random barfing (looks pointedly at Nancy) and any advice? Thanks to Tristan, I know from fevers, but barfing is new (not to mention messy) territory for me.

And now, as a reward for tolerating a post about my two year old’s tummy troubles, a bonus conversation and non-sequiter:

We are at my parents’ house for dinner. Tristan is downstairs watching TV and Simon is playing in the kitchen while my folks and Beloved and I are finishing our dinner. Tristan comes upstairs and asks for some crackers, which I give to him with the admonition to be very careful and not make a mess with the crumbs. At no time does Simon go anywhere near the basement family room.

Tristan is downstairs all of two minutes at most, and comes upstairs with a comically worried look on his face.

“Someone made a mess with some crackers downstairs,” he confides with wide blue eyes, “and I think it was Simon!”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

Frostie update

I’ve been promising an update for a couple of days, but I’ve been holding off for two reasons. One, I don’t really have anything of substance to report, and two, I wanted to be able to capture some of my thoughts and impressions on being back in the world of the infertile again. Whatever thoughts might have been floating around won’t float close enough for me to capture them in writing, so you’ll have to make due with a bare-bones update.

The ultrasound on Thursday showed that my lining is around 6.5 mm, which I think is right about bang-on average. The nurse to whom I spoke certainly seemed satisfied with it, anyway. (I’d appreciate any comparisons from those of you who have been through FETs before and are as neurotically obsessive about remembering and noting these things as I am!)

As of yesterday morning, I’m paying daily visits to the clinic to have them draw a vial of blood, which they analyze for the surge in luteinizing hormone (LH) that will precede ovulation by about 48 hours. There’s no way of knowing exactly when that will happen, but based on my fairly regular cycles, I expect the surge to occur Monday or Tuesday, with transfer two days after that.

Each morning, I get to the clinic between 7:30 and 8:00, and wait only 10 or 15 minutes for my turn with the phlebotomist. I have small, rolling veins, and getting a blood draw is always a pain in the arm. They’ve resorted to taking it from the back of my hand, which is slightly more uncomfortable but better than having them dig around the inside of my elbow with the needle, which is what they did the first two times. Youch! After four or five hours, the nurse calls me with an update, telling me (so far) simply that I have to show up to do it all over again the next day.

I’m still on the fence about how to go about the transfer itself. Actually, it’s how to accomodate the transfer that I’m waffling about. The wisdom on the subject of the amount of bedrest required after the embryo transfer runs the gamut from “you can leave the clinic on a pogo stick after transfer and not pose any risk to the embryos or implantation” (a favourite saying of the head of my clinic) to a week of absolute bedrest, as advoated by a lot of American clinics.

When we went through the IVF that resulted in Tristan, I took nearly three weeks off work to encompass the last few days of stims, the unexpected coasting, the retrieval and transfer (three days apart) and a few days after. The actual day of the transfer, we left the clinic and went out for lunch on the patio of our favourite restaurant, then went to the video store where I rented three movies and spent the rest of the day lying on the couch. It seemed like enough. Oh, and I ate about three pounds of fresh pineapple, shredding the inside of my mouth in the process.

This time around, I am considering working the morning of the transfer, or going back to work afterward, depending on the time of day of the transfer. I have a hell of a lot of work to get through and two weeks of vacation starting on Friday, and I’d like to get some stuff off my desk. Quite frankly, it would probably be more restfull to sit in my quiet, air-conditioned cube and work at my computer for an afternoon than be at home with the whirling dervishes that are the sunshine of my life. I dunno… I keep waffling about this. I’ll play it by ear, I guess.

I’m not even sure if Beloved will be able to accompany me to the clinic the day of the transfer. There’s no official reason for him to be there – he made his, ahem, contribution to the process five years ago, when the embryos were created. The transfer doesn’t involve any medication for me, so there’s no reason I might need assistance after the transfer. That leaves only the more intangible fact that it would be nice to have him there, but we’d have to arrange for someone to mind the boys, no easy feat on a weekday. Only a few days remain, so I guess we’ll play this one by ear, too.

If I seem a little detached about this whole process, it feels the same from here. If I really stop to think about what we’re doing, my stomach fills with butterflies – but I try my best not to think about it too much. Whatever happens happens, right? If I don’t invest too much up front, there is less to lose – and everything to gain.

Now I have to go do some laundry so I can wash my new skort and take a picture to post so Marla will quit pestering me about it, and I can settle once and for all the debate raging about how far above my knees the hem actually falls…

The Lactation Station Breast Milk Bar

Catchy title, eh?

Sometimes I have to turn over rocks and scrape barrel bottoms to find blog material, and sometimes things leap out of the newspaper and holler “Blog me!” This is one of the latter instances.

Last night in Toronto, performance artist Jess Dobkin hosted the first-ever Lactation Station Breast Milk Bar at the Ontario College of Art and Design gallery in Toronto. Any interested passers-by were welcome to try a 3 mililitres (about 2/3 of a teaspoon) sample of pasteurized human breast milk, donated by six lactating mothers.

Quoted on canada.com, the artist (who says she herself had trouble nursing her one-year old daughter) said her intent was not to stir up controversy, but to “create an environment that’s welcoming, and I welcome people’s interest and curiousity.”

While I must admit my first reaction was “Ick!!”, I do like the idea of opening up the conversation. I was incredibly curious about breastmilk and nursing before I had kids of my own, but was shy about asking any of my lactating friends anything but the most cursory questions. When considering future parenthood, the idea of nursing was always something I strongly believed in but was more than a little freaked out by.

What I can’t imagine is drinking, or even tasting, anybody else’s breast milk. For reasons I’m not sure of, the idea disturbs me on a fundamental level. I had no problem tasting my own milk (I’ve always thought that episode of Friends, where one of them said it tastes like canteloupe, was right on the money), and the boys seemed to enjoy it. After an exhausting, frustrating, and painful start (both times) I nursed Tristan for 10 months and Simon for more than 16 months.

Despite the artist’s intention, the Lactation Station performance has stirred up more than a bit of controversy. Last month, there was an outcry when news broke that the exhibit would be the recipient of a $9,000 grand from the Canada Council for the Arts. Yesterday, the performance prompted Health Canada to issue an advisory about the dangers of buying human breast milk over the Internet or directly from individuals, as breast milk can transmit HIV and other viruses, alcohol, bacteria and other pathogens.

In the end, I give kudos to anyone who encourages thoughtful debate on something as important, and yet often still taboo, as nursing. But I think I’ll pass on my free sample, thanks.

What do you think?

Ultrasound day

I’ve got nothing to say today, folks. I’ve got an ultrasound appointment at 7:30 this morning, followed by four hours of French class. (Ugh.) And yesterday, which is actually right now because I’m frantically typing this Wednesday night – see how I put myself out for you? – isn’t going to work because I have two boys who have decided sleep is optional and a husband who is out teaching and there’s just no muse to be found anywhere, let alone a few minutes to string some thoughts together. So it’s not so much as I’ve got nothing to say as I’ve got no time to say it.

And it’s a crying shame, because we’ve been having some great conversations this week!

So forgive me for not having something more interesting tposted today. If anything exciting comes out of the ultrasound, I’ll post later, but I think all they will do is check to see if there is a decent-sized follicle that will give then an indication that I’m getting ready to ovulate, and then we’ll start the daily blood tests to check for the LH surge that I used to OPKs to detect last month.

But if you’re desperate for a diversion, have you seen “ask metafilter“? I’ve been flipping through it on and off for a couple of months now, and every time I open the page, I find something that sucks me in. Then again, I have the same problem when I open a dictionary. And sometimes the phone book.

It’s late, my brain stopped working about an hour ago (hell, more like about four hours ago) and for some reason my fingers are still typing… it’s really time to shut this down…

How old is too old?

This past weekend, I was looking for a quick wardrobe fix to get me through the summer heat and I had gone out looking for a simple knee-length skirt when I found myself looking seriously for the first time at ‘skorts’. I’ve always found both the word and the concept of “skort” a bit absurd, to be honest, but one in particular didn’t have the fake skirt panel in front and divided legs in back but instead looked like a skirt all the way around – a skirt that just happened to have little bloomers sewn in like the hot pants from the 1960s. I actually thought it was a skirt when I brought it into the changeroom. I tried it on, and despite the extra material, I liked it immediately. The hem falls to two or three inches above the knee, but the straight cut and stretchy material (god bless lycra) are forgiving and it looks sharp enough for work with a blouse and nice shoes.

The problem is that now that I’m wearing it, the ‘skort’ part feels more than a little weird, like I’m wearing boxer shorts under my skirt. There’s just too much material down there. And what exactly is the point of those knickers sewn in there, anyway? I just don’t get ‘skorts’… the only reason I bought this one is because it so closely resembled a skirt and was a stellar 40% off the regular price.

If I had one signature piece of clothing in my 20s and early 30s, it was probably a plaid, kilted mini-skirt. I loved them, was pathologically unable to resist them, and had at least five versions hanging in my closet in colour palettes from black and gold to burgundy and teal. While I may have been self-conscious about a lot of my other body parts, I was always more than willing to show off my legs.

In the last year or so, since I realized that my post-pregnancy 10 lbs weight gain was going to be a permanent feature, I’ve gradually become more shy about baring my legs. Instead of moving into shorts at the first hint of a spring breeze, it was well into early summer before I hauled out the shorts this year, and even then I’ve moved from a shortie-short to a walking shorts length.

And because everything you see on TV must be true, I have also taken to heart the sign at the beginning of What Not to Wear that admonishes “no miniskirts after age 35”. My lovely plaid kilts, in addition to now being a full size or two too small, are also no longer age appropriate. It’s heartbreaking, really, but bitter as I am, I guess I can see their point.

What do you think? Are there some things you don’t wear anymore because you are a woman (or man) of a certain age? Have you taken out your belly-button stud? (Oh, how I wanted one of those when I was 24 and freshly divorced!) Weight issues aside, what do you think of the ‘no miniskirts after 35’ rule? Is there such a thing as too old for certain styles?

The mommy wars, in person

Over the last year and a half of blogging, I’ve seen a lot of conversations the ‘mommy wars’. In five years of mothering, though, I don’t think I ever actually felt judged by another mother about my parenting skills – until yesterday.

We have, in our community, a wonderful resource for parents of children under the age of six called an Early Years Centre. It’s funded by the province of Ontario, and each community’s centre is a little different, but mostly they have things like a toy lending library, a schedule of parenting courses, often a daycare centre, and the part I always loved: a drop-in playgroup. I loved the drop-in at the Barrhaven EYC so much that before I lived in the community, I’d drive 10 km just to bring Tristan in when he was a toddler. They have high quality play sets, like fully equipped kitchens, dress-up clothes, puzzles, train and lego tables, and a crafts centre. Each drop-in ends with a story and song circle.

When Simon was a newborn and Tristan was a busy toddler, the EYC was a lifeline for me. I’d put Simon in a sling or bjorn carrier, or even leave him under a mobile on a soft mat in the babies-only section, and follow Tristan around as he burned off energy and played with the other kids. The staff were well-educated and helpful, and would happily entertain Tristan while I sat with my back against a wall and nursed Simon. Tristan christened it the ‘ladybug playgroup’ because of the big red ladybug on the mats in the crawling baby section. I’ve often encouraged Beloved to bring the boys there during the day, because they always loved it and always napped well after a morning of play with fresh toys and new faces.

In the year and a half since I’ve been on maternity leave, the EYC has moved a mile or so up the road into a new facility. I’ve booked off Mondays through the summer to have extra time with the boys, and since the skies threatened rain yesterday, I brought the boys in to try to recapture some of the old fun. Turns out, like in so many things in life, you can’t go back again.

The first thing that struck me was a plethora of new and strict rules. No matter what we did, we were breaking a rule. First, I got the evil eye for letting the boys play in front of the doors as we queued up to take a number to get in. (Only 30 people allowed, and when we arrived three or four minutes after they started handing out numbers, we were the last few to get a ticket.) Then I got an outright scolding for letting them be in front of the door again as we inspected a cricket to pass the time. Then Tristan got scolded for running through the door. Okay, I get a rule about no running, but by this point I was starting to feel a little prickly.

They read out a list of house rules, and we were informed that there was to be no carrying toys from one section to another. No lego in the craft area. No puzzles in the book area. No kitchen toys outside the kitchen area. We’re talking about a room full of preschoolers here, in a room a little larger than the average classroom, and they aren’t supposed to carry the toys around? Poor Simon was distraught when he couldn’t use the spatula and the wooden spoon in the big box of cornmeal. I’m just glad he didn’t do what he usually does – fixate on one object and carry it around like a talisman everywhere he goes. (He actually shoplifted a yellow plastic spoon from the Children’s Museum last time we were there, because I forgot he had been carrying it around with him all morning. I’ll bring it back the next time we go, I promise!)

We had to fill out a registration form, and as I completed the form, one of the staffers and I chatted. She asked why it had been so long since I had been back to the EYC, and I mentioned working full time but that I had been encouraging my husband to bring the boys. I wish I were exaggerating when I tell you that her whole demeanor changed when she realized I was not a stay-at-home mother. She looked from Simon to Tristan, both happily engaged in separate play areas, and I swear I could read on her face that she saw a direct correlation to their high-spiritedness and my working. It’s the first time I’ve ever felt judged for working outside the home, and it was like a shock of cold water.

So I was feeling a little tense to begin with, and every time the boys showed any energy or spunk or enthusiasm, I felt like the two women staffers were giving me the evil eye. Sometimes it seems like my boys are a little more wriggly and noisy than their peers, and I worry about it. They aren’t bad, they just exhuberant, and in Simon’s case, relentlessly curious. So when I raised my voice because Simon wasn’t listening to me telling him for the third time not to dissemble the aquarium while I tried to complete the registration form and mop up the paint Tristan had dribbled onto the table, I was actually impressed with myself for not screaming outright. And when I say I raised my voice, I mean exactly that. “Si-mon,” in the singsong-y getting his attention voice, followed by “Simon!” in the abrupt, I mean business voice, followed by “SIMON!” in the are-you-deaf-or-just-ignoring me voice. I hadn’t even made it to the “SIMON!!” you are risking imminent death voice.

That’s when one of the other mothers decided I needed an intervention, and she approached me using that calm, soothing voice that you use on angry dogs and people about to go postal. If she had approached me collegially, with laughter and empathy, I would have likely welcomed her solidarity. Instead, she actually initiated the conversation, without even so much as a ‘hello-how-ya-doing’, by asking me if I’d ever taken any parenting courses on how to speak to my children. I was floored, and so taken aback that I could only sputter. I was far more polite to her than I should have been, and listened patiently while she recommended a course and two books on the subject. I managed to disentangle myself from her to ‘help’ Tristan with some markers, and spent the rest of the morning actively avoiding her.

In the end, the boys had a great morning and were resistant to leaving. After speaking to no-one for the entire morning except the two judgemental women and feeling more than a little like a social leper, I was more than happy to get out of there, and told Beloved when I got home that I would no longer pester him to bring the boys back.

Maybe it’s just the new culture of this particular EYC, but I’m disappointed to lose something that we had so enjoyed. I’m not sure whether I’m more surprised that it took this long for me to come face-to-face with this kind of bias, or how much it bothered me. It drives me crazy that I’d let the opinion of a couple of strangers undermine my confidence in my own parenting skills.

I think I’ll stick to playdates with friends from now on.