Commenting on Comments

• "Holy Crap! You have bangs!"

Way to go private eye! I almost thought about labeling the post 'She Bangs', but I thought maybe it would be a smidge over the line.

• "So you actually take (or are injected with) Hcg while you are trying to conceive? Does it give you pregnancy symptoms?"

In my case I took five days of Clomid cycle days 3-7 and schedule a 13 day vaginal ultrasound. At the ultrasound they measure the uterine lining and count eggs. If you have any and they are big enough you are injected with hCG trigger. "The hCG trigger injection is a medication known as a human chorionic gonadotropin and is used after other fertility hormones, such as clomiphene citrate or menotropins, to induce ovulation (release of the egg from the ovary) or in women undergoing an assisted reproductive technology (ART), to induce final maturation of the eggs. The dose used for the trigger is dependent on the body mass index of the female."

And no, women who carry uncomplicated pregnancies and are considered fertile have NOT cornered the market on pregnancy symptoms. I am acutely aware of morning sickness, breast tenderness, fatigue, and a myriad of other symptoms that come in the first trimester. I just don't have anything to show for them.

• "WTH?"

Holy Hell Holly I miss you! I'm three minutes from getting in the car and meeting you for lunch. We could do dinner at Sea World!?! You should get to cry yourself to sleep every once in awhile. We did for like weeks after you left. :)

• "To be honest I have never looked at adoption that way but it is so true. It really does not matter how our children come to us, they are our babies and they picked us to be their mommies.."

I appreciate the honesty. Most people don't see adoption that way. I wish more would. That's why I talk about it so much. If there is anything I'd like is to for adoption to be viewed as "normal" without a hint of stigma attached to it.

If there is anything I do it is make bows. Lots and lots of bows. You can make them too, but it's a slippery slope. Pretty soon you're late for appointments trying to get the bow ready and shop based on the colors of ribbon available.

And another thing!

Whether you like the haircut or not, you have to sleep with me. Twice.


Reason #427 infertility bites- Privacy and romance went straight out the window a while back.

I don't know why I can't make a normal face while taking a picture. That has nothing to do with infertility.

The Whole Truth

I don't really want to be pregnant. Really. I'd like to give birth, but mostly because I'm just curious- and want to see if I could do it. I'm totally and completely fulfilled with adoption. The only reason we even got on the crazy making roller coaster again is because doing a home inspection while buying a house is a little much. I don't recommend fertility meds either, but... whatever. I have the patience of a gastrotich. I don't even know how patient a gastrotich is (or what it even looks like), but they have the lifespan of three days, so it can't be much.

I needed to feel like I was doing something. So, what the hell. Throw some Clomid at it and a little Hcg for a boost. We are headed down the last hill of this roller coaster. Confirmed by the doc today we're at our limit. Without trying for the Major Leagues of fertility treatments- we're done. We have two shots left. Both on my right ovary. Honestly, I'm a little relieved. And a little irritated. And a lot confused. With all that modern medicine has to offer there are no more answers today than there were months and months ago. There is no substantial medical reason for us not to conceive. Unless the reason isn't medical at all. But that's another post (or three or four or six).

What I'd really like is to feel completely satisfied with my Scrunch. It's not about not being satisfied, but the nagging and persistent feeling that we are not done. The feeling that we need to find our baby. A few years ago, some friends of ours called to tell us they were expecting their second child. They weren't planning on it and not entirely thrilled with the timing. Neither was I. It was one of the last times I cried when I found out someone was pregnant. I don't really enjoy hanging out with pregnant people, but I don't hate them either. Whether or not you conceive doesn't really affect me in the slightest. I just don't want to hear you bitch about it. I couldn't explain why it didn't bug me as much as you'd think it would, until a few weeks ago. I was talking to some other moms who had adopted and one shared her experience of being incredibly upset when a friend was placed with two babies only six weeks apart. They were still waiting for their first, and had been for a really long time. She said, "It just wasn't fair." That's when another mom piped up and said, "No, it's not fair. Those were her babies. But you don't want her babies. You want yours."

That's where I'm at today. I don't care where they come from, or what I have to do to get them here, or even how long I have to wait. I just want my babies. It chokes me up to say that out loud. My babies. That's exactly what our birth mom said to me the first time I met her, and our daughter. She turned her big 'ole belly towards me, reached out her hand and said, "Would you like to feel your baby?"

Dilemma

So, we moved. And now I'm meeting new people. And I'm afraid they might find and read my blog. See the dilemma? I'm an acquired taste. Don't judge by the blog people. Or do, and you'll quickly find that I don't give a flying fetch. And that I hate the word fetch. So if you're new and wondering...This is not a knitting blog, infertility blog, adoption blog, a family blog, a crafting blog, a whining/bitching/moaning blog, a cooking blog, or a what we've been up to blog. It is Z) all of the above.

So stick around, or don't.

Sanity Saving Strategies

Here. You make this mess while I clean up these other messes over here.

On the phone. I have no idea where she came up with that one. ha.

Utterly Domestic

I made a goal a few weeks ago that I would make something utterly domestic every week. Which is how I ended up canning. Last week it was tortillas. I have one of these now.

Thanks Flickr!

I am totally sold. I never want to buy tortillas again! That may have something to do with having to drive a round trip total of at least 45 minutes. For tortillas? Nuh uh. Not worth it.

Nothing goes better with fresh tortillas than my mother's salsa and guacamole. But something from my mother's kitchen may have rubbed off on me. I only know how to make salsa in ginormous proportions. (i.e. enough to fill a bathtub. Our master bathtub.)

This week? Using leftovers. I hate leftovers. So does my husband. But I think it is written into the regulations of domesticity that you must be willing and able to use leftovers. Totally lame. But if those are the rules, what can you do?

Monday: Grilled Steak and Cheese Quesadillas with leftover guacamole, Strawberry Lemonade If you make this lemonade I need to warn you. You will thank me, but you will think, "I used to pay $3.00 a refill for this stuff." And then you will think, "I must be saving enough to buy a new pair of shoes." And the you will find, buy, and justify these boots- all because you're saving by making your own lemonade.

Tuesday: Salsa Roast Potatoes, Grilled Garlic Chicken

Wednesday: By now I will need a break from salsa and tortillas. Sesame Ginger Spinach Salad

Thursday:I think Mexican Mozzarella is a great substitution for Swiss cheese. And I still can't face more tortillas. Chicken Cordon Bleu, Rice

Friday: Homemade Sopes with Fresh Cream, Beans

Saturday: Fair Food. Mmmmm... jalapeno nachos and a corn dog. Maybe a funnel cake. Or two.

And we made it. By now whatever is left will see itself down the disposal.

Sunday: French Toast with strawberries

Eat, Drink, and Be Messy!

Pack yer bags!

We're going on a guilt trip.

I hope somebody somewhere was painting a toddler bed Under the Sea turquoise today. You wouldn't want to disappoint this face now would you?



I did my part, and it's almost done. I hacked the artwork from Pottery Barn Kids, the curtain from BGH, the mirror was a thrift store find painted white, and I painted the knobs after hacking some I saw on Etsy. All of it was done for less than the original artwork from Pottery Barn Kids cost. There are a few finishing touches missing. And...oh yeah... that bright blue bed!

Window of Opportunity

Yesterday I explained it this way, and I let my words float around in my head the rest of day. It is not a fully formulated theory, but here goes anyway.

Ahem.

For a woman there is a distinct window of opportunity of when she begins to want a/another child. But you don't know how long that window will be open. The window may close and the desire and pull towards motherhood closes with it. And while it's closed you are content or at least resigned to where you're at. And then the window opens again. Most women will feel the tug and conceive while the window is open. Some even do it when the window is most definitely closed. It often closes during the actual pregnancy, but opens again as they prepare for their child.

With infertility and adoption it doesn't work like that. The window opens. You jump through a series of hoops. You fill out some documents. The window closes. You find contentment with the lot you have received or at least resigned to it. The window opens. More hoops. More documents. The window closes. Sometimes slamming shut on your hand. Sometimes you wish it would just stay shut. And every time the window opens you become more and more acutely aware that it will be closing again. The scary part is that you don't know how often the window will be opening for you, so when it's open you feel a sense of urgency and panic.

Last night I was given a statistic.

Less than 1% of ALL pregnancies will end in placement/adoption.

Does that even begin to give you perspective? What a miracle my Scrunch is? Do I believe a person is deserving of two miracles? While the window is open, I don't have a choice but to.

My mother says that blogging is my therapy. Does that scare you? Trust me. Not as much as it scares me to think of you as my therapist.

Bottled Up

I have so much to say that when it comes out it sounds like a really long run on sentence. And then I can't write. Anything that makes. Any. Sense.

I've got all these parenting theories on my Scrunch worked out in my brain, I have been working on projects for her room, my blood pressure has remained quite steady considering the political stuff going on, and one of my camellias got a sunburn today. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you I bought two camellias. And got a front porch love seat for my birthday. Pretty much everything I purchase from now through September is written off as "It's for my birthday." Kind of like the roving I bought for Spin Night tomorrow and the horseback riding lesson I scheduled for Monday, and don't forget the boots we're picking out on Saturday. I'm going to spare you the adventures in freezer corn and banana streusel muffins. Even though they both rocked. I can cook. Who knew? And to mix it up we're doing the Clomid thing again. There I said it. I'm on Clomid and am almost done and you didn't even know. Don't feel bad. No one knew. My husband only just remembered that I was even taking it. Seeeee? LOTS TO SAY! I hate this because I know it's going to come spewing out at around two o'clock in the morning and I wont be able to sleep until I write something.

Something.

Facesuck

I have new points.

Fourteen people have confirmed me as their relative.

Two people think I'm amazing, but I have to click forty seven times to find out who they are.

I've been challenged to more quizzes than my sister gives out in an entire school year.

Another random person I don't know has asked me to be their friend. I said no, I don't know you!

It keeps calling me "My liege!" and I don't know what they are talking about.

Everyone has beaten my score at any game they have attempted/will attempt, since I've never played any of the damn games!

Uh huh. I am currently in the hate portion of my love/hate relationship with Facebook.

Every parent's prayer.

Dear Lord,

Please don't let me screw up my kid too much.

Thanks and Amen.


Do you think this very often because I've been finding myself thinking it about forty-seven times a day?

Commemorate

Forty years ago families across America gathered around the only television in the house to watch as the US took it's first steps on the moon. They may have gathered on a sofa much like this one...


Weird, that it should stumble my way today and find itself sitting in my living room awaiting its transport into my craft room. I can now be counted with the handful of people who run across a vintage piece of furniture for a dime. Or 200 dimes. This bad boy cost me twenty bucks. For (waaaay) less than a pair of shoes, I may get to try my hand at re-upholstering.

To infinity and beyond!

Post Edit for Holly. DOES MY NEW RETRO COUCH NOT KICK TOTAL ASS?!?!?!?!?!?

Helpful Hint

Three trips to Home Depot and two to Lowe's in one weekend is too many.

Labor Day Deadline

Grami and Gramps we need your help. We have resorted to public blog begging. I have no shame. I do believe there is an antique toddler bed waiting to be painted blue and a quilt to be pieced.

In your spare time of course!

Head injury?

I must have bumped my head. And hard.

I woke up thinking I was June Cleaver and decided to can Mixed Berry Preserves. And I liked it! I also put on a London broil for dinner. My house was vacuumed, and plants watered too.

I'm half debating whether or not I should refer myself for a CT scan to make sure there isn't any real permanent damage. I do, however, know that it can't be too bad because I did not do it in a dress and pearls. Try jeans and flip flops. But the jeans were white and flip flops leopard print. Yes, I canned berries in white jeans. Afterall, I'm a progressive woman of today. I've even got one up on good old Mrs. Cleaver. I've got Oxyclean. Now that's progress!

Mirror, mirror, on the wall...

Whose the stubbornest of them all?

Ahem.

Stubborn?

Moi?

Bite me.

But I will not be beat. Even if it takes me until Scrunch graduates with her doctorate, I will finish this damned lace if it kills me. And if it kills me Jess, you can have it. I would have loved to take pictures of it, but I've frogged it three times. For you non-knitters, frog it means to rip-it, rip-it, RIP-IT OUT! Just about the most frustrating thing on the planet. I am now resorting to writing out each and every line of the chart on a 3x5 card so I can flip through them. I'm also using markers between every repeat.

This lace is hard for me, but I can do hard things. 'I think I can'. 'I think I can'. 'I think I can.' I think I want 'I think I can' tattooed somewhere.

Aeolian Shawl from KnittySpin.

Mine is a seafoam green with greenish turquoise beads. Well, someday it will be.

Paying it foward.

Maybe this sticky, sweet, syrup of Pleasantville niceness Kool-Aid is seeping into my brain. Or maybe I'm just in a good mood because our neighbor just mowed our lawn, for no reason. I'm feeling like I should pay it forward. Since I'm already planning a special treat to pay them back, I'll just share a helpful hint with you. I'm gonna help you de-clutter, thus reducing stress. To achieve the desired result it is imperative that you follow all the directions closely.

• Gather up anything you know you don't want to keep, but is too nice to give away. Say like, ugly wedding gifts, a mis-matched set of glassware you just had to have- stuff like that.
• Put it in a box.
• Drive ten miles over the speed limit along the windy road to my house.

And walah! You will have no choice but to throw the whole thing away. Now, don't we all feel better? Not that I have a box like that in the back of my car right now or anything.

Oooh, and another thing. Mr. Clean Magic Erasers really are magic.

Politically Incorrect

Cooking shmooking. Or something. So we went for Chinese food. The local (and only) joint nearby advertises themselves as the best in town. Duh! They serve Bento Boxes. Go figure. And their tip trays say Gracias on the bottom. But when I heard the elderly couple from across the restaurant tell the waitress that Gracias means thank you in Mexican- that's when I almost choked on my Kung Pao. In a world where Cultural Competency is a mandatory course in just about every field, I'm not sure how this managed to escape HR.

Landscaping

Before moving to California I didn't know anyone in my immediate circle who had landscapers. After our move, we were about the only ones on our street who didn't. After digging trenches for sprinklers through bedrock and spending countless hours weeding the hillside, we constantly asked my mom why we couldn't hire some Mexicans to do the yard work. She told us that's why she had us, her very own Mexicans. We really are a little bit Mexican, and I've lived in Mexico longer and speak more Spanish than most Cholos, so don't go getting all "Brown Pride" on me. It has become one of the longest running (if not most politically incorrect) jokes our family has. Scratch that. Definitely not the most politically incorrect.

I swore up and down that I would hire my own home's manual labor out. I lied. Yesterday we spent most of the day raking out flower beds and hacking back overgrown bushes. My husband asked me if I knew what I was doing. Trust me, I've done this before. Many, many times. Except for the mutilating bug bites, I'm not as sore as I thought I'd be. Hitting a vericose vein for a mosquito must be like striking oil. That's the only sore spot though. And a little hard work never hurt anyone. Right Mom?

Our New Hometown

Population 4,725 in 2007. Twenty minutes to the nearest large chain grocery store or Target- making it twenty minutes from most of civilization. Two minutes from the park and less than five to the lake. Around the block to the golf course and less than a mile away from the Equestrian Center.

Golf carts with car seats are spotted regularly. I mock the local ladies several times a day in their golf carts and track suits, but in all honesty the subject of a golf cart has come up around our own dining table more than once. And I make a mental note of the track suits that seem to enhance flat mommy bum and the sunglasses that are big enough (but not quite bug-eyed) so I can look for them the next time I hit Ross or Marshall's. Girl's Night is often catered and alternates between Sangrias and Mojitos. I've been dubbed the Designated Golfcart Driver. (Not joking on that one.)

Once you're in the gate and past the guards, the people are so friendly it's almost creepy. It's almost a fight over who is actually going to get the right of way. No after you. No after you. No after YOU. Oh, for hell's sake somebody just go!! That's me. Obviously new here and not used to random strangers being so nice. You can practically get cited for not waving to your neighbor. But you will most definitely get cited for leaving your garage door open or your dog in the backyard. Yes, we even have rules about whether or not a contractor's dog is allowed at a job cite. It's not.

My husband's favorite part is the sliding door onto the patio in the master bedroom. He keeps it open all night long because he says it makes him feel like he's camping. So let me get this straight...We bought a house so you could feel like you're camping?

Yes, we've moved to Pleasantville and we love it.

Who would have ever thought I'd be at a place in life where the choice would be shoes or Crepe Myrtle tree? It's going to take months years decades for me to get it just right, but this place is starting to look like our home in just a week.

Our Mary Poppins

I used to wonder what Moms needed nannies for. Life lesson learned- Don't knock it till you've tried it. When our nanny goes home on Friday, we're both going to cry. And every day for the next week when Scrunch asks "Where's Mick?" when she wakes up, I'll cry some more.

Happy Birthday Husband!

I'm coming off of this blogging hiatus just to say Happy Birthday to my husband! I was informed late yesterday afternoon that he was too old for a Transformers birthday party. I beg to differ. What dude does not want Megan Fox for his birthday?

Happy Anniversary!

I haven't even had a chance to tell my Husband Happy Anniversary yet. He's outdone himself this year. Can't wait to see what he comes up with next year!

House, appliances, and movers! I am in domestic heaven.

And if I ever move again, movers are the way to go. Even though they showed up four hours early, I can sit and blog while they load the truck. Hello!

Happy Anniversary to us!

"Hell, they can't excommunicate me. I repent too damned fast."

-J. Golden Kimball

Look him up. Other than that I'm too tired and bored with the whole debate so let's change the topic...

Pepsi or Coke?