Addendum: Mach and Daddy

Maybe someday I'll get it right. "Pasame la Botella" is not a Daddy Yankee song, but a Mach and Daddy song. All these daddies. For the record though, I did first hear Daddy Yankee during our year in Ecuador. "Dame la Gasolina" blared out of every tienda in Quito. Just in case anyone took issue with my musical credit error, I thought I'd make a public statement.

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Leftover Oatmeal

Unless some other force of nature has taken over my body causing me to wish I was constantly horizontal, I believe I must still be pregnant. Normally I am really good at using leftovers- a roasted chicken shows up as dinner, then tacos, then soup. Quinoa moves from a salad with beets and winter squash, to quinoa patties. This week, things have changed. Nausea is here. Not in full force, but the land does pitch and rock from time to time, and I am experiencing a dire need to eat all the time coupled with a complete lack of interest in food. Or cooking. Hence, the beets from the CSA are piling up, the leftover oatmeal I so dutifully render into muffins sits in the fridge. Maybe tomorrow. In the spaces of time when I feel ok, when my tummy is quiet and I have energy, I panic. Am I still pregnant? Is that it? Are we through? And then when the waves roll in, I think why didn't I just enjoy that window of respite?

Four more days til the ultrasound. Hoping and praying for some beating hearts. Or just one. One would be fine, too.

Leftover Oatmeal Muffins

1-1.5 cup cooked oatmeal
1 egg
1 TBSP melted butter, coconut oil, or Earth Balance
1/2 cup milk (or milk substitute)
2-4 TBSP honey/sugar/maple syrup (If your oatmeal is already sweetened, err on the light side)
1.5 cups + 2 tbsp. Pamela's gluten free baking mix OR
1.5 cups flour or gluten free baking mix plus 2 TBSP baking powder

Dash of salt

Splash of vanilla

*1/2 cup extra grubbins- raisins, chocolate chips, berries, sunflower seeds, etc. (Optional. If your oatmeal already is chock full of grubbins, use more oatmeal instead of adding extra grubbins)

Bake at 400 for 20 minutes.

Yields one dozen

Happy

I woke up Friday morning and a weight had lifted. I felt awake, a lightness characterized by absence- no racing heart, no crushing anxiety, just my body feeling warm and snug in my bed. Maybe it was fertility yoga the night before and the good cry the safety of fellow infertiles allowed. Regardless, I was finally feeling some joy in this hard earned pregnancy.

Friday has always been my Zumba day, and though I don't feel comfortable shaking it right now, I threw on some Daddy Yankee, Pitbull, and Shakira and moved a little. Sometimes I wonder how many middle aged women drive around in their cars rocking out to Daddy Yankee because of Zumba? I first discovered him 8 years ago on the Caribbean coast of Colombia riding in taxis listening to "Pasame la Botella," but he is the king of Zumba. Brene Brown talks about one of the qualities of the whole hearted being that they dance or sing and aren't afraid to be silly. When I first started doing Zumba, it fed a piece of me that had been starving, shriveling from lack of attention. I love to dance. I love to do ridiculous moves on a dance floor with loud music pumping. For months I cried every Zumba class, seeing all those people of different sizes, shapes, ages, colors, moving and smiling, jumping around as best they could. It has been an infusion of joy in my life. I keep wondering if I could go and just sort of move, not jump around so much, but I tried that once on injectables for an IUI cycle, and I couldn't contain myself! Half way through the class I just let go and shook it with abandon. My ovaries swelled huge and I was in terrible pain for two days. The consequences are greater now and I want to do nothing to put these little beans in danger, so no Zumba. But lots of laughter! I had my third beta and it came back perfect. Now we wait for the ultrasound. November 20.

 

Friday was also Megan's birthday, and after a delicious meal at Navarre, a few of us moms headed over to Buelahland, giddy in our freedom from our children. They drank whiskey, I club soda and cranberry, and at some point all three of us huddled in the dirty bar bathroom to do my progesterone and estrogen shots. One friend held alcohol pads and sterile packages of needles while I filled my syringe. Another friend peed and some guy rattled the door. "Occupied!" We shouted. I'm sure that bathroom has seen a lot of needles, but probably not fertility treatment hormone shots! Everything went pretty well despite all of the laughter and a bit of inebriation, until blood starting squirting out of the injection site on my ass after they removed the needle. I said "oh, sometimes there's a little blood," and then realized it was all over the floor. So weird! That had never happened before. Maybe needles and whiskey don't mix. We wiped it up with paper towels, and emerged as if nothing had happened. The door bangers had gone, having tired of listening to us shriek and deciding they had better look elsewhere for a place to pee. We moved on to Lord of the Rings pinball and inspection of a candy machine that sold pregnancy tests, Carlos Castaneda books, and ouija boards. All in all, a good day.

 

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Vulnerability

“I define vulnerability as uncertainty, risk and emotional exposure. With that definition in mind, let’s think about love. Waking up every day and loving someone who may or may not love us back, whose safety we can’t ensure, who may stay in our lives or may leave without a moment’s notice, who may be loyal to the day they die or betray us tomorrow — that’s vulnerability.” - Brene Brown

Do you know Brene Brown? If you don't, stop reading this instant and go watch this video instead.  I am in a scary, vulnerable place right now. I want to open my heart up to these little beings inside me that could become babies, I want to love them, even though they may not stay, and yet I can't seem to let myself.  I am anxious and scared and stressed. I know there is no way to protect myself from the pain if I miscarry again. As Brene Brown says, I can't beat vulnerability to the punch by not getting excited. But. I don't want to miscarry again. I don't want o to bleed. I don't want to feel that sadness, that emptiness, that physical sensation. I am terrified. Here I am though- I chose to pursue these fertility treatments knowing there are no guarantees, knowing that choosing this path was to choose the possibility of another loss. I would like to experience more joy in my current pregnancy. It seems I am in need of release, something to loosen this knot in my chest, my belly. I feel like I am curling in a ball to protect myself, but maybe what I really need is to get a little more vulnerable, let go, cry. All I can really do though is try to be here, try to hang with all these scary emotions each step of the way.

Just got my second beta results back. 689.1 All is well.

First Beta

294.7
I am officially pregnant. Next blood test is Wednesday.

"Being angry doesn’t make you a bad person, just someone with unmet needs."

Caden woke up at 4:45 this morning. To him it was 5:45, which is early, but almost a reasonable time to get up. Today, however, is Daylight Savings Time, an evil wrought upon parents with small children. Unmet needs? Yes. I really needed to sleep today. Cameron got up with Caden to try and let me sleep a little more, but I couldn’t get on top of my thump thump thump anxious heart and wound up getting out of bed. I went to a meditation thing, and sat on a cushion and breathed and calmed a little, but then there was a discussion part where people aired their woes in relation to practice and I wanted to say it, to tell those strangers, “I am pregnant, and I am scared.” I sat there, my heart racing, my hands growing heavy, anxiety creeping up my spine anticipating my turn to speak. But when everyone had gone except for me, the facilitator said “Well, we’ve actually gone over time so we’ll have to stop there.” What? I was pissed! Time spent in meditation flew out the window.


Back at home Cameron went to get his hair cut and I tried to put Caden down for a nap. His body relaxed against mine as we read Shel Silverstein poems, and he asked for “It’s Time for Sleep, My Love," so I thought I was golden, but sleep was to play no part in his afternoon. Nothing triggers me like no nap. My eyes were heavy, my tongue slow, my limbs dragging. I did not want to give up the nap. I shoved him into some warm clothes, pulled out the stroller, and started walking. Surely he would sleep. Resentful that I was walking instead of sleeping, I stomped, breathing heavy, trying to enjoy the gusty leaves and sunshine, but just stayed stuck in anger. I furiously scrolled through my phone for something calming to listen to. Dharma talks, guided meditations, positive affirmations, it was all just pissing me off. I walked into the wind,  pushing my kid up a hill, as he sang and swung his feet, being cute, but I couldn’t see it. He doesn’t nap every day anymore, and I know I need to just surrender to the unpredicatability, but the allure of a quiet house, time to rest my head. I find it hard to let that go, so I kept walking, growing ever more angry with him. I reached a point where I was scared to go home because I was so angry, that I was scared I would be an evil horrible monster to my child should he be set free from his stroller. I finally settled on Ray LaMontangue on the headphones and told Caden I would be unavailable for conversation. I kept walking until my husband got home and took over and then, blissfully, I got to sleep for half an hour.

I have been trying, since Caden turned two, to find a way to parent my child that is loving and gentle, yet also sets firm boundaries. I read the book Peaceful Parent, Happy Kids, and it resonated deeply with me. It is based on a few guiding principles, one that you must model appropriate emotional regulation for your child to learn how to regulate their own response to their emotions, and two, that the more connected you are to your child the more they will listen and respond to you. When I’ve got my act together, I feel really great about parenting in this style. When I am calm and can provide a safe container for my son to have all the big emotions he has, when I put down my phone and stay present with him, when I find ways for him to help me cook, when I take the time to look in his eyes when he’s telling me a story, it’s the best. Heart melting and warm and yummy. The thing is, this philosophy of parenting asks you to dig deep. To find your triggers, stay calm, take care of yourself, stay present. It is hard inner work. And since we have been going through infertility treatments, it has become even harder to stay present with my kid as I fret over the result of this test, day dream about more children, take time many times a day to offer support t friends on line going through all of this with me. Regulating my emotional responses has been near impossible as my hormones have fluxuated, soaring and crashing. And now that I am a little pregnant, my anxiety is sky rocketing. I am tired and hungry and scared, and I am angry a lot. Recently this article came across my facebook feed: "Healthy ways of dealing with anger in the family and in yourself," and I figured I should give it a read. It was helpful in that, like everything Genevieve Simperingham writes, she advocates compassion with oneself and an exploration of the deeper sources of our anger. The line that struck me the most,” Being angry doesn’t make you a bad person, just someone with unmet needs.” When I am angry with my son, my miracle, the baby I prayed and cried and waited for for so long, I feel terrible about myself, so I need people to tell me I’m not a bad person. I need reminders to forgive myself.

So how do we go about meeting those unmet needs? We tried. My husband let me sleep in. He gave me the space to go to a meditation session. Maybe there was something else I needed that I was not even aware of. I have so much support in my life, and yet I am struggling. It is such a strange dichotomy to be trying so hard to bring another child into this world, maybe even two, and at the same time be struggling so much with the child I have. Many buddhist teachers advocate to stay present with these uncomfortable feelings, the anger, the anxiety, the self loathing, to sit with them, accept them, befriend them, not try to change then, but witness what the power of self -compassion and accepting life as it is can do. I’m not sure I know how to do that. I love my son so fiercely, and want to do right by him, and it is this same ferocity, this fire, that gets me into trouble. And he has it, too, man. My boy is all fire.

Lucky Number 7?

I am pregnant. It's four in the morning, rain pouring down, and my third pee test shows a dark second line. It's just me in the dark with a speck of baby, maybe two? growing inside me. Holy Shit. Yesterday was my first positive test, a faint line, and then one of those digital tests that says clearly "Pregnant." Pounding heart, jittery grin. I left it on the kitchen counter so I could keep looking at it, but then the elation began to fade. Really, am I really pregnant? And worse, does it mean anything? This is my seventh pregnancy, even though I have just one little guy sleeping soundly in his bed. Is it ridiculous to think that I can have another one? Another soft downy head asleep on my chest? Screaming at two am, making funny grunts and coos nursing, learning to smile and laugh and walk and talk. I have been reminded that science is behind me- these embryos inside me are genetically tested, they are chromosomally normal, even though most of the embryos we made through our IVF process were not. It is possible, that this will happen. I hear that in Judaism, seven is sacred, and signifies completion. Maybe this seventh pregnancy is the one that will complete our family. I hope. I can hope.