Tis the season to be terrified....

No one told me being pregnant would be so scary. Terrifying, actually. 

I should be used to the the fear, right?  After all, there were a lot of scary moments that accompanied infertility Will I ever have a baby? Will we be able to afford all these treatments? Will my husband stop loving me because I can't do this right? Am I destroying my body?

"If I could just get pregnant, I could stop worrying all the time," I told myself. Wrong. So so wrong. 

I'm eleven weeks into this journey, and I've already had six ultrasounds (one of the perks of infertility). I have seen my baby's heartbeat, and felt my own skip a beat as a result. I have seen it move its little legs and wiggle all around. They tell me everything looks marvelous, but still. Still....

Still, I go to every appointment expecting the worst, convinced that there won't be a little flicker on the ultrasound screen. And every time, I am shocked to hear that everything is fine. See, I'm so used to my body NOT working right, that it's hard to trust that it ever will. 

Some days, I am planning nursery colors and talking names...but on most days, I feel like I'm just waiting for the other shoe to drop. 

the house that built me

It wasn't a big house or a fancy house. It wasn't a new house, either. Built in 1929,  it only had one bathroom, steam heat, and no central air conditioning. But, it was home. When I picture my childhood, 1581 Oxford is the image I see. It's where we played capture the flag on summer nights.  It's where we sold lemonade for five cents and played school in the basement. It's where I spent many nights grounded for being a bratty teenager.

I haven't lived there for fifteen years; my parents have long since moved away, along with most neighbors. Yet whenever I visit Grosse Pointe, I make sure to drive by "my house." And when I do, I am always struck with a sense of sadness. I'm not sure why.  Maybe there's a part of me that longs for the simplicity of childhood. Maybe it's where I was happiest. I've always wanted to stop and go inside. I want to see if the house still smells the way I remember it, and if, just for one fleeting moment, I can once again feel at home.

Have you heard Miranda Lambert's song "The House that Built Me"?  In it, she sings about going back to her childhood home for a moment, to see if it would help her find herself. It totally resonated with me, especially the part where she sings "You leave home, you move on, you do the best you can / I got lost in this old world and have forgotten who I am."

So, last week, during my Tour d' Grosse Pointe,  I decided to knock on their door. I had a plan:  I was going to explain that I grew up there and ask to take a picture of the hand prints in the back yard, and hope (hint) that the current owners would invite me in. The owner was a lovely lady, and she was happy to let me take some photos of the back yard.

 Before I left, she came outside and said, "I don't mean to make you feel awkward, but would you like to come inside?"  Um, yes please!

So, inside I went. We walked around, chatting about different updates and improvements that have been made in the past 15 years, over the course of three different families. They added central air, painted, and finished the basement. Everything has been modernized and updated.  It looks beautiful. Beautiful and different. In all, there were only a few remaining traces that my family had ever lived there at all.

As I was leaving, the lady's teenage daughter ran downstairs.  I introduced myself.  "Are those your hand prints outside?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh. I always wondered who lived in my house," she said. My house. 

And like that, I realized that it wasn't my house, anymore. It never was. We're all just passing through, hoping to leave our mark.

Want to win ad space on The Bloggess? Link up your best post at lovelinks on free fringes like I did!

boogers and bluntness

Physically, pregnancy seems to suit me quite well thus far, knock on wood. I feel sublime.

But mentally?  Well, that's a different story.  It appears I've developed a new-found bitchiness  bluntness.  Case in point - yesterday's hallway exchange with a middle school nose picker:

Nose Picker: "Mrs. N, can you help me with my locker? I can't get it open." 

Me: "No."

Nose Picker: "Why?"

Me: "Because you've been knuckle-deep for the last 60 minutes, dude.  I watched you.  But you know what's worse, kiddo?  I watched you eat them. So no, I will not help you because I don't want to touch something you've touched." 

Nose Picker: "Oh. Well, that's not very nice." 

Me: "It's a lot nicer than what your classmates will say when they catch you eating your boogers in 7th grade...."

Nose Picker: "So how will I get it open?"

Me: "Hmmm. Maybe you could ask  Mrs. Smith? She's GREAT at opening lockers." 

For the record, Mrs. Smith falsely accused me of jamming the copier that day.

Well, hello there, little creature.

It's real! It really happened.

We saw and heard a heartbeat last week, and it was such a beautiful sound.  Oddly, I didn't cry, which would surprise most people who know me, as I usually cry at the drop of a hat. Hallmark commercials do me in every time. And Sarah McLachlan REALLY needs to stop narrating those animal cruelty ads. Seriously - waterfalls every time.  But alas, no tears for the heartbeat; I think I was just overwhelmed with awe.

This little blob is now affectionately known as 89Q. Symptom-wise, I feel great, just REALLY tired. Like Rip Van Winkle style. I really think I could sleep for years, so don't be surprised if I wake up looking like Blanche from the Golden Girls. I even nodded off in class the other day while my students were watching a video clip. Oops.  I am still a nervous wreck over everything, and I Google any ache and pain, but so far, so good. The doctor estimates that there is only a 5% chance of miscarriage at this point. Or, as I like to think, a 95 % chance that I will get to meet 89Q in April.  Staying positive.

reason to leap

The locusts are singing their song again, reminding us all that summer is coming to an end. And with the end of summer comes change and challenge. 118 names to learn. Papers to grade. Kids to inspire. And of course, the return of the alarm clock. It's been off for three months, just the way I like it. 

Some wake-ups are easier than others. If you've ever left before dawn for a vacation, or had a first day of school, you know exactly what I mean. See, when you have something to look forward to, waking up is a breeze. 

So it's no wonder that I've been springing out of bed for the past two weeks. I have something to look forward to, something I've wanted for a very, very long time. 

I am pregnant. 

We aren't really telling people yet; it's still very early.  I know we're not out of the woods, but being in the woods by yourself is lonely. Very lonely. So I'm inviting you in. (If you know me in real life and you read this blog, shhhhhh.)

 After wanting this for so long, we're over the moon, but we are both very nervous. Nervous and anxious. Excited. Terrified. Blessed. Thankful. Apprehensive. Unbelieving. Awe-struck. Scared. The list goes on and on. 

I know that sometime in the near future, I may not be leaping out of bed.  But today, my friends, I am. Today, I am pregnant.

you've gotta hear this

It's a windows-down, blue-skies kind of song. It will make you smile. Promise. The best line: "She told me she loved me like fireworks."  mmmmmmmmm. 

Catch my Disease by Ben Lee.

Listen. Smile. Repeat. 

I didn't pick her

Since beginning this blog, I knew I wanted to write about my friend Jamie. But each time I tried, I fell short.  I've spent many hours in front of my computer, staring at a blank screen, trying to figure out a way to explain what she means to me. How much I value her. Cherish her.

The word "friend" doesn't work; she's so much more than that. And the funny thing is, I didn't pick her. She and her husband came into my life as part of a "package deal" when I began dating their best friend (now my husband).

That was seven years ago. Throughout those first few years, we were friendly, but I wouldn't say we were friends. We didn't have much in common, to say the least.  After all, I was 22, fresh out of college, and still trying to figure out how to do laundry correctly.  Jamie, on the other hand, was four years older, married, and preparing for children. I remember thinking, "Wow. She is so....adult-ish. She probably irons things."

And I know she was thinking, "Wow. This chick has a lot of growing up to do." And she was right.

I can't say exactly when it happened, but sometime over the past seven years, something changed. I stopped simply looking up to her, and started looking to her. Big difference. She went from being one of my husband's best friends to one of mine, too.

I don't know how she expertly manages her many roles: wife, mother of four (under four), daughter, sister, teacher, blogger, and of course, friend. Her plate is full, yet she executes each role with such grace and love.  It's truly astounding.

Why do I love her? I love her because she's the kind of friend who asks me the hard questions and remembers the answers. The kind of person who grabs my arm when she's talking about something that she's passionate about, and makes me feel it, too.  I love her because she won't let me off the hook if I say "I'm fine," when she knows I'm not. And she's asking, because she really, really cares.

She's the kind of friend who worries with me. Loves with me. Hurts with me. Hopes with me. She's the person I go to for advice, for comfort, and especially if I need to process something - she has an uncanny ability to verbalize exactly what's on my heart. When my dad had to have emergency open heart surgery, she was the first person I called.  During surgery, she sent me hourly text messages reminding me that we were one hour closer to seeing him.  You see, she knows exactly what I need, sometimes before I even know it myself.

It's hard to imagine what I ever did without her in my life. And I didn't even pick her.

25 things

I inherited a love of all-things-celebrity from my mother and grandmother. Hence, I adore Us Weekly magazine. One of my favorite features in each edition is the "25 Things About Me" section. So, in that spirit, here you go!

1.  In 1996, my friend and I bought a vintage tandem bike and rode it around town all summer. Because what high school freshman doesn't look cool on a tandem?
2. I don't like to exercise, so I don't do it.  I once grape-vined out of an aerobics class in college and never went back. Truth. 
3. I don't eat pork or ham because I was disgusted to see pigs roll in the mud at Upland Hills Farm in 1988. Yet I love bacon. Go figure...
4. In the past ten years, I have probably consumed no more than five glasses of soda. I love water!
5.  I caught the kitchen on fire four years ago while making bacon. (see above)
6. By the time I was four, I knew all the words to "Only Lonely" and "Shot Through the Heart" by Bon Jovi. I have the proof on a Beta tape. 
7.  Until high school, I thought ALL parents took a bath together every night. Mine did. 
8. I think that life should have a soundtrack in the background. 
9.  I get really nervous speaking publicly in front of adults, yet I have no problem acting like a fool, singing and dancing around  in front of my students. 
10. I never bought laundry detergent in college. I just used everyone else's! Confession!
11. I've known my best friend for 26 years. We take an annual picture in the same pose every year, and have done so since 1986. She knows me better than I know myself.

12. I can't wear nail polish because I will pick it off by the end of the day.
13. I am going to be an aunt for the first time in October, and I can't wait to meet my niece or nephew!
14. Growing up, whenever I couldn't sleep, my mom would sit on the edge of my bed and bounce it up and down. This was (and still is) the definition of comfort for me.
15.  I tend to think that deadlines don't really apply to me. 
16. By the time I was 18, I had been in 17 fender benders. Thus, I was voted "worst driver" in my high school class. 
17. I sang in Carnegie Hall when I was 17, but didn't realize what a unique experience it was until years later.
18. On the same trip (see above) I got my belly button pierced in NYC, which was forbidden by my parents. I had it in for three weeks until my mother caught me and chased me around the house, threatening to pull it out. 
19. Driving at night makes me very nervous. 
20. Living 220 miles away from my family is getting harder as the years go by. I miss them terribly. 
21. If I could eat one food for the rest of my life, it would be sourdough toast and butter - real butter only. I don't eat margarine.
22. I used to think that everything happens for a reason, but I am starting to believe that isn't true.
23. My biggest pet peeve is when adults misuse their pronouns in writing (there / their / they're and your / you're)
24. I don't believe in "the one." I believe in good decision making based on locality. 
25. If I could hire one person to work in my household, I'd hire a cook. 

All the right words

I've got a thing for words. More like a passion, actually.Sometimes, words can touch us in ways that people cannot. I analyze every song lyric, every quote.  Don't you love that moment when you hear the perfect song lyric? They're the kind that make you stop and say, "Yes. That is exactly it."

The other day, a friend and fellow word-lover told me to check out a blog: Tell Us Something Good. The author posts quotes and beautiful pictures every few days. Her blog description simply says: Things I wish I would have known when I was 22. 

Here are two of my favorites from her blog:

"The ride to get where you want to go may not always look the way you think it will. "

"There may be someone in front of you who wants what you want- but it doesn’t mean that you won’t get yours, too. "

Hey, Jealousy

The thing about infertility is that you can't escape from it. It's always there. Sure, there are moments I forget about it, a few precious minutes when I am too happy or preoccupied to remember that my body doesn't work right. But they're just moments. Not days, not weeks. Moments. And then, if only for a second, the pop of a pill or the stab of a needle forces me to remember.

Most days, I am able to smile through it and soldier-on.

Then there are days like today. Days when the emotional tidal wave hits without warning, and I am overcome with fear, anger, resentment, and doubt.  And the jealousy. Oh, the jealousy. Sometimes I feel like it's eating my soul with its wickedness and I wonder who I've become. Last week, I was actually jealous of a pregnant dog. A DOG.

Over the past few weeks, no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to turn my good moments into a full day. There are just too many triggers. It makes sense, though, when you think about it:  There are people all around me. People created by people who could make people. People who could do something that I cannot.

I am annoyed, volume II

Dear Hospital Administrator,

Congratulations! You are not infertile.

Relax,  I didn't hack into your medical records. I didn't need to. In fact, I don't even know your name or your gender. All that was required for me to make this diagnosis is a quick drive around your medical center's parking lot and a short ride in your elevator.

Let me explain. Yesterday, I was running five minutes late for an infertility appointment at your hospital's medical center, and I was having trouble finding a parking spot. As you know, your parking lot is massive. So massive, in fact, that you employ a shuttle service to transport patients to and from their vehicles.

I circled the parking lot three times, but it was completely full. It was 98 degrees and the shuttle wasn't running. Not good. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted eight open parking spaces right next to the door!  Eight! I didn't see any handicapped symbols, so I scooted over toward Mecca.

I pulled in, put the car in park, and was about to get out when I noticed the sign: Reserved for Expectant Mothers Only.

Awesome. Not only am I unable to have a baby, I am also destined for a life of shitty parking spots.

Fifteen minutes later, out of breath and covered in sweat, I was finally in the elevator.  I scurried  in just as the doors were about to close and asked a very dry (great parking!) and very pregnant woman to press the the button for the fourth floor. "Oh! That's where I'm going, too!" she said. Of course she was.  Of course.

See, I know you're fertile, because only a fertile person would plan a perinatal/multiples ultrasound center next to a fertility clinic. It's like putting a chemotherapy center next to a hair salon. Way to go.

Love,

Dorothy

Am I indecisive? Maybe. Maybe not.

I am a very bad decision maker. If you don't believe me, here's some proof: I purchased four wedding dresses. Four. Quatro. Dresses 1 and 2 were returned, dress 3 was butchered in alterations, and dress 4 was purchased a mere ten days before my wedding. 

See, when required to make a decision that is lasting, costly, or life altering, I simply can't make up my mind. Some call it being indecisive. Some may call it crazy.  I call it being prepared. Hence why I currently have 36 paint chips sitting on my coffee table. Yep. I am already stressing about making a paint-color decision for walls in a home that we don't even own yet. When I have to make a big purchase, I research my options obsessively, sleep on it, contemplate, and research some more. The Best Buy salesmen now run for the hills when I approach. If I don't go through this obsessive charade, I end up with major buyer's remorse. Trust me. I had four wedding dresses, remember?

But two years ago yesterday, I made the easiest big decision of my life --I married my husband.  The dress may not have been  the one of my dreams, but saying "I do" was a piece of cake. 

The Truth about House Hunters

Sometimes, the truth hurts. Do you remember the disappointment you felt when you first learned that Santa Claus wasn't real? Or the utter heartbreak when you discovered that Milli Vanilli weren't really the ones singing "Girl You Know It's True"? Sure,you probably suspected the truth for awhile, but part of the magic is gone.

Well, once again, I have been duped. Bamboozled. Horns-waggled. The proverbial wool has been pulled over my eyes. Ladies and gentlemen, House Hunters is a sham. 

For years, I've loved my daily 30-minute peek into strangers' lives as they search for the perfect house. I loved guessing which house they would pick, and especially hearing their price range (and subsequently feeling like a pauper when 22-year-olds reveal that they are looking at half-million dollar vacation homes in Malta. Who are these people, and where the hell are they getting this money?). 

So, a few months ago, we sold our first home and began house hunting.  I figured this was the perfect time apply for the show! The application was long and involved, including several essay questions about your personalities, living situation, price range, and desires. I peppered it with humor and personality, checked the box that said, "both parties are willing participants" (This was a stretch lie.  My husband had no idea I was doing this. He would rather drive nails in his eyes than be on TV. Oopsie!) and sent it on its merry way. 

And then, a few days later, I received this email:

Hello Heather,

Thanks for your interest in House Hunters! I'd like to help you get on the show, but first I'll let you in on a secret about how the show works – because the way it looks on TV and the way it’s made are 2 very different things.  Don’t be disappointed.

The show is only filmed with people ONCE they find a home that they ARE BUYING.  So we don’t consider people until they have an offer accepted on a home.  The show is filmed right around the time you close on the property (Before you move in AND while you are still living in your current living situation).

We’d love to consider you and here’s how that works:
Once you make an offer on a home, let me know.  Then we need a home video (audition) within 5 days, preferably one done with your agent.  So please keep me posted and I will keep my fingers crossed for you!

Sincerely, 

House Hunters Lady

After recovering from my initial shock, I felt a little stupid. For years, I naively believed that these people really sat down, discussed which of the three homes they would buy, made a decision, and had a nice little neighborhood wine party and the token newborn to celebrate. Nope! The other two houses are just decoys to prompt the viewer into making a decision. I was crushed.

And with that, my House Hunters days came to an abrupt end. I just can't deceive the viewing public, and my husband probably would have divorced me if he came home to a camera crew.  I'll probably get over it in time. After all,  I forgave Milli and Vanilli and eventually Blamed it on the Rain instead. But the magic, my friends, is gone. 

let's talk dirty

Words are powerful. Think about it.  They can spark major decisions, both good (Will you marry me?) or bad (Let's take shots!) They can crush you (Sorry, test results are indicating.....) or give you hope (It will happen. Let's keep trying).

Words can make you sound really intelligent.  Want to impress someone? Throw an "albeit" into a casual sentence. Stuck in a conversation?  Tell the other person that the conversation is producing an unbearable ennui. They'll be so confused that they'll stop ear-banging you for a second, which provides the perfect opportunity to slip away from your verbal rapist. 

But there are some words that I refuse to utter. These words are so disgusting, so vile, they immediately produce a little vomit in the back of my mouth.  My best friend and I have been compiling these very words in a list for fifteen years.   If you know us, you know "the list." Some of these words may appear innocent at first, but they're sneaky offenders.  Trust me. Try rolling them around on your tongue for a few minutes and you'll see what I mean. These, my friends, are the true dirty words. They are the grossest words in the English Language.

ample                

ballpark                   

blouse                     

bowel movement     

bush                        

casserole                

caulk                      

chunky                    

clogged
crusty
curdled
dallop
damp
discharge
dookie
dump
feminie napkin
hosiery
hump
insert
load
loaf
loin
lump
mammary
moist
Nickelback
nugget
ointment
ooze
orifice
penetrate
pimple
poo poo
puberty
pubic
pus
rouge
secretion
seepage
shrubbery
sloppy
smear
squat
stump
succulent
supple
swap
tube

any word ending in "ule" (pustule, globule, tubule, etc.)

Have I missed any? What words do you hate?

No place like home: My week in pictures

Whenever I tell people that I grew up in Detroit, they give me "the look."  It's a mixture of confusion (Detroit? Are you sure? Gee, you certainly don't look like a gang member )  pity (Awww, you poor thing. Did you live on 8 Mile?) and relief (You survived! You got out! You moved to Ohio, the land of plenty!)

And I get it.  About 90% of the actual city of Detroit is horrible. It is desecrated, burned, and crime filled. What most people don't realize, however, is that Detroit has some beautiful suburbs.  Just a few miles up the river from downtown, on the shores of Lake St. Clair, lies Grosse Pointe. It's picturesque, safe, and filled with country clubs instead of crack houses. It's where I grew up, where I still call home.

After I graduated from college, my parents moved 45 miles away from Grosse Pointe, so when I go "home" to visit them, it's often hard to see my friends all in one visit. Thus, every summer, I spend about four or five days staying with my high school friends in GP. This year, I chronicled it with pics.

Wednesday: The picture above is Lakeshore Drive in Grosse Pointe. In my opinion, it might be one of the most beautuful views in Michigan.  Growing up, I saw this view every day. I wish I could go back in time tell my sixteen-year-old self to appreciate it more. 

Wednesday: Ahhh, Boones. The Kool Aid of the 90s. Have you ever had Boones Farm Wine legally (read: as adults)? We hadn't, either. So, in the spirit of reminiscence, my friend Terri bought a bottle over to Andrea's house and we split it in little plastic cups before going out for the evening. Strawberry Hill, of course.  It smelled and tasted just as we had remembered it: a mixture of rotting fruit, sulfur, and rebellion. 

Thursday: This is my friend Cooper on our lunch date last week. Isn't he the cutest little guy?! He is extra-special for so many reasons, but especially because I love his Momma to pieces. Kelly and I have been dear friends since high school.  To me, Cooper is so much more than  just my friend's baby - he represents hope, faith and determination. 

Thursday evening: This is my adorable mother chasing Davy Jones from the Monkees down the streets of downtown Detroit (post happy hour) after realizing that we'd been standing next to him while waiting for valet.  Poor Davy. I wonder which is scarier: Being chased by gangs in Detroit, or a lady in a pantsuit? 

Saturday: Ahhh, the Fish Flies The sign that summer has arrived in Grosse Pointe. In case you aren't familiar with them, they're flying insects that hatch in Michigan's fresh water lakes every year near the end of June. For three weeks, Grosse Pointe is covered with these rascals, especially near the water. They're harmless, but they reek like rotting fish. Is it weird to say that I miss them?  They remind me of home. Here I am next to an ATM near the lake.

Saturday: On the last night of Summer Bender 2011, my parents dragged invited my brother, sister-in-law, and me to a reunion concert by one of their favorite 1960s bands, the SRC.  Apparently, this band was quite big in Detroit at one time, and they were reuniting for a special concert. Keep in mind, the last concert my family attended together was New Kids on The Block in 1990, where my parents were the oldest people in the audience. We owed them one. Talk about a role reversal - at Saturday's concert, my brother and I were by far the youngest. We went in with an open mind, but it was bad. Really bad. This would be the equivalent of my husband and I taking our kids to a Pearl Jam reunion tour in 2040 and then realizing that Eddie Vedder can no longer sing and sounds like a dying cat. We all left after three songs

So there you have it, my week in random pictures. There's no place like home.

There's a new man in my life

 His name is Bob. It's still new, but I can really see it going somewhere. He's totally into me, inviting me over to his patio after my husband leaves for work. I hope the other neighbors don't get the wrong idea. But they probably aren't too worried. He's 80.

I knew Bob was friend-material from the moment we met. He called me over to his patio and offered me a graham cracker.  He's a sharer, that Mr. Bob. And I know that sharers make good friends.

See, the best thing about friends is that there is a choice.  You get to choose what kind of people you want to share your graham crackers with, so to speak.   As little children, choosing our friends is the first important, autonomous decision we really get to make.  Our parents teach us to share, to be kind to others, and to make good choices.  Then, they set us free in the scary world of preschool and hope that we make friends who have the same values.  But what they don't teach you is what makes a bad friend. That, we must learn on our own, through experience.

It's heartbreaking when you realize that a friendship just won't work, but you learn to be more selective in the future, and you develop a  checklist of traits to avoid. My checklist is short and sweet. For example, I know that a friendship between us will not work if you are:

1) Overly negative

2) Judgemental (of me)

3) Anti-animal (Now, you don't have to LOVE all of them. I hate rats and possums (big rats), for instance. But if you are one of those people who makes the blanket "I hate all animals" statement, then I think you must probably hate babies and rainbows, too, therefore violating Rule #1. ) 

4) A home wrecker (My home, or anyone else's.  If you are ok with having a hand in ruining someone's marriage, then I am not ok with you. Trust me on this, our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will not work.) 


5) A Nickelback fan (Sorry, but if you're a Nickelback fan, we should probably go our separate ways right now. It's not you, it's me Nickelback.  The same also applies for Shinedown, Creed, Daughtry, and other variations of Nickelback.  Again, trust me on this. Our morals are vastly different, and a friendship between us will probably not work.)

6) Growing or currently sporting a mustache that isn't part of a goatee or beard. (When was the last time you saw someone with JUST a mustache and thought, "Hey, that guy is probably awesome." The answer is never. (Except my father-in-law. Family doesn't count.)

Yep, Bob made the cut. He's positive, likes my dog, doesn't try to hit on me, and he's clean shaven.  We haven't discussed music preferences, but I'm really hoping that he's decidedly anti-Nickelback...because I feel that this is the start of something good.

So you know that Superman essay?

Well, I won. Shocked. And I was pretty happy about that.  I think my dad was, too, until I told him that he had to clean the house because the reporter was coming over to interview us. Oops! Sorry I forgot to tell you about this whole essay thing, Daddy.

So I drove up to Detroit today to be here for the "big interview." They're not only publishing my essay, but they're doing a feature story on my dad and me, too. Pretty cool if I do say so myself.

So reporter lady gets here, and she wants to go "in depth" (because that's reporter speak for gossip) about the boyfriends my dad "grilled." Then I got all nervous and stuff. If you know me, you get it. I got all fidgety.  Couldn't make eye contact.  Because I totally wanted to link this whole Free Press article on facebook! And what if those boyfriends read it?! Because they have nothing better to do than click on a link I post, right?!

But I went for it anyway. I mean, who am I to stand in the way of her Pulitzer? I let it fly, ok? Yup.  All the "woe is me" tales of broken hearts and Daddy making it all better. And don't worry -  I didn't forget to talk about all the other stuff that makes him cool. Like his amazing speech at my wedding. Or the fact that he used to open for Bob Seger. I pimped him out. Hard.

And then, toward the end, I happened to mention his recent open-heart surgery.  "Wow!  That seems like a really big moment in your lives! Why didn't you mention that in your essay?" she asked.

Why?  Because having your chest cut open and your heart stopped at 61 years-old isn't nearly as admirable, noteworthy, or challenging as being an amazing father for 29.

What NOT to say to someone experiencing infertility

I am an open person about most things. Probably too open. If I have a problem with something or someone, I talk about it.  I write about it. I complain about it. I may will probably even talk behind your back about it. (I'm trying to quit that last one. It's on my list of things to stop before I'm 30). That's how I roll.

So it's no surprise that I chose to be open about our experience with infertility and PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  To give you a little background, with my severe PCOS, we have a 1-4% chance of conceiving on our own without treatment. I know that our road has been short compared to so many infertile couples, but I don't know any of those couples. So to me, it sucks. A lot.  So we have been trying fertility drugs and IUI to help us, which increases our odds to 15%.  So far, no dice.

Even though I don't regret being open about this whole process, I totally understand why many (heck, most) infertile couples choose to keep it quiet - because when people hear news that makes them feel uncomfortable, their first reaction is to try to make the other person feel better. Often, they try to accomplish this by making  well-meaning, yet annoying (and sometimes hurtful) comments like these:

What NOT to say to someone who is experiencing infertility:

1) Just Relax!
I tried relaxing. In fact, I relax all the time because I don't have kids, remember?  That's why I want kids!  So I can never, ever relax again!  

2) Don't worry about fertility treatments. It will happen when you least expect it!
What are you? A wizard?  Infertility is an illness - something is wrong with my body.  Would you tell a cancer patient that their cancer will be cured when they "least expect it?" 


3) "Just enjoy the time to yourself right now.  After you have kids, you'll never have peace and quiet. "
I'm not an idiot. I know that kids take an insane amount of time and energy.  They're messy. They're loud. They're expensive.  They're exhausting. And that's ok! See, I don't just want a baby - I want the mess, the exhaustion, and everything that comes with it. And I won't stop wanting that. 

4)  Just be glad you don't have to deal with this horrible morning sickness / sore boobs / swollen ankles, etc. (And other complaints from pregnant people)
I would give anything to be sick if it meant I was pregnant.

5) You can always adopt!
Really?  Thanks!  I didn't know that! And next you'll probably tell me some great story about a couple you know who adopted a baby and then "poof!" They got pregnant.

6) It just isn't meant to be right now. 
Thanks, God. 


So what SHOULD you say?  If she brings it up, ask questions. Be supportive. Acknowledge that it sucks. Let her have time feel bad about yet another negative test. Go out for drinks. Ask her about testing dates, and tell her that morning that she's in your thoughts. If she doesn't want to talk about it, give her space. You can't go wrong by just being her friend.

My Superman

 My Superman

My father does not have a red cape in his closet. I’m certain because I looked once, when I was five. “There has to be one in here somewhere,” I told my friend. “My dad is the REAL Superman. He’s always there at the perfect time, and he makes everything better. He can probably fly, too.” But instead of a cape, all I found were some Rolling Stones T-shirts and a pair of red Reebok High-Tops. Even as a five-year old, I knew this was a fashion “don’t.”  However, being the good daughter that I am, I covered for him.  “See!  His Superman shoes are here!” She didn’t buy a word of it.

He may not have a cape, but to me, my daddy is a Superhero.  He’s the strongest man I know. Invincible. He knows the answer to every question, especially about the really important stuff like family, finances, and fertilizer. He mended my broken bike and my broken heart. He grilled the perfect hamburgers and my not-so-perfect boyfriends. And every time we talk, he always tells me “I love you more.” I ‘d tell him it’s not possible, but I can’t argue with Superman.