Archive | November, 2011

Bob on Commercialism

28 Nov

The other morning we were looking through the Toys R Us Catalog and I told Bob there were a lot of cool toys in there for Bea.

Bob: Hmm. I wonder what the next Furbee is.

Me: There are no Furbees.

Bob: Aren’t there?

Me: Wait do you mean like metaphorically?

Bob: Yes. The metaphorical Furbee.

Me: (Shoulder shrug)

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The Story of Sarah and Abraham

23 Nov

I got a note this week that another blogger is following my blog.  I don’t know how they found me, but I’m truly honored.    This is the first (I think?) person that I don’t know personally that has signed on to follow me.   So this could mean that I’m actually entertaining and–gasp–poignant? (Insert flashback to that scene in “Julie and Julia” where Amy Adams innocently begins her blog journey by asking if anyone was there, and then flipping out when she got her first follower… could a book deal be in my future???)

Here is the link to THEIR blog…

http://stillcountingstars.wordpress.com/

The cutest things come out of petri dishes!

It looks like maybe they just started their blog, and are in the beginning stages of their fertility journey (and that I could REALLY use some blog design tips from them).   I wish them luck.  Everyone wants to hear that they will get pregnant, and that treatments will work.  But the reality is that not all of them do.   So, what do you tell someone, around the holidays (which, my good friend Dr. Jen D will tell you is actually a very depressing time of year, clinically speaking) surrounded by friends and family, hoping they’d have good news to share, but are faced with yet another negative test? Wishing, wishing, wishing for a child?

One of the best, most profound pieces of advice that I got during this process (and yes, I’m fast forwarding a bit in the story, a la “How I Met Your Mother”), was something that I clung tightly to, and got me through the very difficult first couple of months of pregnancy.  I have since re-told it countless times to others, furthering my reputation as a wise, yet youthful looking, modern sage.   So, I’m outing myself by revealing that this is not my own material.

That advice–no–that TRUTH is this:  Your child will choose their own path to you.  My husband (yes, of “Bobism” fame), was adopted, and so were his sisters.  My daughter was created in a petri dish.   My uncle was a pleasant ‘surprise’ to my 44 year old Grandmother. When all is said and done, no matter how you end up with your child or children in your life, you will look back and know that they are exactly who were meant to be yours.   And, yes, of course there are childless couples, and I can’t even begin to justify why or how that happens.  I’m wise and sage, not omnipotent.

So if you happen to read Sarah and Abraham’s story, tell them I said hello and to have a Happy Thanksgiving.  Their baby is finding his way as we speak.

Bob on Real Estate

20 Nov

Bob and I are beginning the long and arduous process of looking for a new home.  Our present home isn’t anywhere near ready to sell, and we’re nowhere near ready to move, but we have started to look at houses anyway so we’ll be sure to know what we want when the time is right.

Last night, I went to bed early due to a head cold.  I showed Bob the MLS listing site that our realtor sent us.  I think he’s hooked.  He said he looked at 39 houses.   Apparently one of them was in a new sub division that I’d never heard of.

Bob: I looked at a bunch of houses tonight.  I found this one near Cub Grill.

Me: Cub Grill? What’s that?

Bob: It’s a subdivision near Harford Road.

Me (laughing hysterically):  That’s Cub Hill!

Bob (after a long pause, and listening to me cackle):  Nevermind I don’t want to see that house anymore.  I hate Cub Hill.

I know, I know, you’re saying “Uhh, I thought this was a blog on parenting and a tribute to Bea?” Well… if Bea said hilarious stuff like this every day I’d write a blog about it.  C’mon Bea, you’ve got some catching up to do!

Bob on…. shnarfing??

15 Nov

I don’t even know if there is a word for what happened the other night, but it had me laughing so hard there were tears streaming down my face. I affectionately named it shnarfing.

We’re sitting on the couch watching TV–Bob drinking a beer, me with the laptop. Bob gets a tissue to blow his nose and I hear the sounds of normal nose-blowing followed by “bwehhhhhh.”

I look up. Bob is looking down at his shirt, with a face that said something clearly did not go as planned.

Me: What the hell was that.

Bob (laughing): Beer came out of my mouth.

Me: What?

Bob:  I was blowing my nose and beer came out.

Me (hysterical): Soo… you blew your nose while you still had beer in your mouth?

Bob: Yes I guess I didn’t swallow it all the way.

Me: You didn’t finish swallowing your beer.  And you decided that was a good time to blow your nose. So it just all dribbled out?

Bob: I guess so.

And that, ladies and gentleman, is a shnarf!

Unbearability

10 Nov

Like the pun?  I’m picking up where I left off in the tale of how we became parents to the lovely miss Bea.   Between Bobisms, Jury Duty and Halloween, I haven’t had much time to sit down and recount my tale, so thus I begin again.

When last we left, your heroine was recuperating on the couch after a procedure called a hysterosalpingogram. What’s next for your protagonist, you ask? Yep, more torture.  New battle scars, allies and enemies.

Cautionary warnings and disclaimers in effect: if you don’t want to read about a ‘lady procedure’ or if you just don’t want to know me that intimately, stop here.  If you are about to go through fertility, or are going through it right now, don’t let these stories scare you. I tell them with humor so others like me will know they are not alone (and, again, the whole guilt thing when Bea is older, remember? Maybe she’ll hire the nice nurse for me and Bob when we’re old and decrepit, not the cheapest one that insurance covers. Right? You remember).  If you know anyone going through this, after hearing my stories, maybe you’ll be able to empathize or offer support, knowing what is involved.  Most people don’t talk about this stuff as openly as I do. 😉  And, of course, if you’re having a bad day, just picture me all laid up in various states of undress, in the most unflattering of poses and I guarantee your day will lighten up just a bit.

Back to the story. Ok, so no blockages were found during the Hysterosalpingogram.  This was in Spring 2009.  The next ‘test’ (and this is meant to be read while you picture me saying it with my most sarcastic air quotes) was a uterine biopsy, scheduled for July 2009.  This one, I believe, was to test me for endometriosis and to make sure my uterine wall was in good shape.

SO.  When I asked my Doctor about this procedure and what kind of, ehem, candy she could prescribe to me, I was told I’d only need to take a few Advil.   “Take 4 before you leave the house,” she said.

Hmm.  Ok.  4 Advil.  Can’t be that bad if narcotics aren’t involved, right?

WRONG.   Again, without getting too “familiar,” with you, a uterine biopsy is exactly what it sounds like.  They cut a piece of your uterine wall out to test it.  Every time I’d heard the word ‘biopsy,’ it was usually associated with cancer, so, right off the bat we had a bad connotation, me and Mr. Biopsy.  Most biopsies are done either local or general anesthesia.  Not this one.  So, how do they get to one’s uterus for said test?  Exactly how you think.

At my doctor’s practice, there are 3 doctors.  You don’t always get your particular doctor.  See, a fertility clinic has to be open 7 days a week.  The timing is too precise to miss a day. As a matter of fact, I think they only closed for a week around Christmas, and even then, they had stop all IVF procedures at the end of November to ensure no one would be missing necessary tests or treatments while they were closed.  So, in order to get days off, there has to be more than one doctor in the practice. This was my first time meeting Dr. Bell.  She was so super nice.  She made a joke about meeting under these circumstances.  I lay on the table, and she says “Carrie, I need you to lay very very still.  I have a sharp object in my hands, and if you move, I may cut you or not get enough tissue and have to do it again.”  Oh yeah, y’all.  There was a pair of  long-handled, glorified surgical scissors you-know-where.

So I take a deep breath.  Now, I’m not sure what I expected this to feel like, but I trusted that if this was going to be anywhere north of 6 on the pain scale, that I would have been amply prepared with pain killers.  Or perhaps a good swabbing of lidocaine or something?  When I say that I was having my insides cut out, that is exactly what it felt like.  I felt pain like I’ve never felt in a place I never knew existed (sounds familiar, right?)  Tugging, then cutting, more tugging.  Like the inner-most core of my gut was being pulled out.

Holy shit.  I started to holler and grab the sides of the table.  The nurse ran over so I could squeeze her hand.  While the last procedure felt like it lasted forever, the biopsy was only about 5 seconds.  But if you cut my finger off in half a second, I wager that would still hurt like hell.  The pain of this was much worse than the HSG.

“Ohh, Carrie I’m so sorry, I didn’t get enough tissue,” she says.  “I have to do it again.”

Ok, so now I’m legitimately crying.  “No, please…”  Like a damn child!  This time I know what’s coming.  Tears streaming. Yelling, lots of “Oh God”s.  It was over again before it started, and she told me I did well.  I said “Do you tell everyone that?”  She assured me there were much worse.  That made me feel a little better.

As I would hear MANY more times throughout this journey, “a little bleeding might occur.”  Turns out, everything with this test was normal too.  This was good news, but also troubling because it ruled out two major, very fixable problems.  What to do next?

Oh, and I almost forgot the best part!  When you go for fertility treatments, you pay UP FRONT. They already know what your insurance covers, and you have to pay the rest when you get there, or pay whatever balance you have.  So, I had to go into the billing room to chat with the ladies about payment.  (Sidenote:  One of the girls happened to be an ex classmate of mine named: Beatriz!)   Still mortified from my outburst (the exam room I was in shared a common wall with the billing department), I sat down.

We made small talk and she looked at my paperwork.  “Ahhh, so you had a uterine biopsy today?”

“Uhh, yeah, I’m shocked you couldn’t hear me yelling from in here.”

“Oh that was YOU?!”  Nice.

Bob on Coffee

5 Nov

For those of you that don’t know my husband… well, there is a lot to know, but for the purposes of this Bobism, you need to know that:
a) he does not drink coffee. Ever.
b) he was adopted from Colombia

So while eating breakfast the other day, I’m reading a magazine in which Folger’s has an ad promoting their new K-Cups. One of them is called “Lively Colombian.”

Me: Look, babe, that’s you! Lively Colombian!
Bob (peering over): Oh yeah. {pause} What’s ARA-BEE-KA?
Me: That’s Arabica.
Bob: Oh yeah what’s that.
Me: Its a type of bean.
Bob: Well I don’t know I don’t drink coffee.

Bobism #9

1 Nov

Wow, I’ve been so behind in my posts lately. Mostly because I was called for jury duty and ended up sitting on a case for 7 full days. Sort of set me back a little. Then, of course I had to go and volunteer for a Halloween parade in the neighborhood. Why do I always overload my plate so much? Anyhoo, October is over with and I am looking forward to a fun November.

Withour further ado…

Bob and I were at a wedding last weekend. One of my old roommates got married and I did her makeup and the makeup of her bridesmaids. I had to get to her house early so Bob took Bea to my mom’s where he got ready.

It was only when we got to the cocktail hour that I noticed his tie.

Me: Oh hey, look your tie matches my dress.
Bob: Yeah I did that on purpose.
Me: I didn’t know you could do that.
Bob: Yeah I think you’re allowed to coordinate like that right?
Me: No I mean I didn’t think you could match something.
Bob: Oh, well, all I knew was yellow.

Classic Bob. The man who defines a ‘new’ shirt as anything under 6 years old.

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