I honestly did consider calling the clinic and telling them about bleeding/spotting. Isn’t it “funny” how so many of those who have experienced multiple miscarriages always seem to have early pregnancy bleeding of some kind of another?

I’ve had absolutely none. Zip. Nada.

Now that’s not saying that occasionally I don’t feel something and make a dash to the bathroom in blinding fear. I would also have to confess that during those all-too-frequent breaks, I flash myself in the mirror just to see if there are any new veins; any darkening; any “swelling”, to which there is nothing new. One of these days I will forget to lock the door.

I also considered calling my old OB on a favor and ask for a Mercy Scan. Unfortunately, I cannot get over the jinx I think surrounds that particular machine as it was the one that found that Vivienne had died and that we supposedly had an empty gestational sac with Wolf.

Now let’s say that I did get a Mercy Scan with the OB and found that Murdock did indeed crash and burn since Thursday. What then? I would have to call the clinic and tell them that out of desperation I went behind their back for a scan? I would feel foolish. Illogically so, but still.

Here’s what I must do instead.

I have to practice believing that this could work out. My counselor (who again has not called me back since the last time I had to cancel due to a conflict – and no, I won’t be going back) said that I don’t need to figure out what to do if the donor cycle doesn’t work, but how do deal with what happens if it does.

In less than four days after my scan I was out of my mind with worry. If I was to get a scan tomorrow, would that really tie me over until next Thursday? By the weekend, I would be in the same mental state. I would have 24 hour reassurance – max. That is my fate right now as someone who is pregnant (by technical terms) but has had nearly impossible success in staying pregnant.

At least this way I am practicing that positive reinforcement. If I get lucky next week and actually get to see something besides a yolk sac then it will be a couple more weeks where I will repeat this whole process again, but at some point I’m either going to have to trust in this pregnancy (or not once proving otherwise).

One last rather morbid caveat: if by the next ultrasound it is confirmed that Murdock became the last victim of a Body Gone Bad, then I’ll be able to say I made it to 8 weeks.

This will either work or it won’t. There’s no middle ground, so I’m trying really, REALLY hard to convince myself it will but I assure you, Tony Robbins isn’t going to be knocking on my door to award me any prize for Positive Thinking anytime soon.

no. 557 – Six

There was a quite a shift in the spacetime continuum over the last 24 hours.

My son turned six December 3.


My first pregnancy. My first birth. It all spoiled me as I thought having a baby was pretty easy with relatively little effort. Not that we didn’t have some scares along the way, but they have been nothing compared to years of infertility and multiple miscarriages that followed.

But he made it, and we marveled at our ability to keep him alive considering we had nothing but common sense (more from me than his father) on our side.

The challenges are much different now that he’s school-aged. He still uses the "you’re not the best Mom! (he’s dropped the Mommy for the most part *sob*)" to try to goad me, but I’m accustom to it. Mr. DD on the other hand, is not, and falls for the power struggle every damn time.

I can almost feel the color drain from a strand of hair some days with XBoy. He’s utterly frustrating!

However, he easily counters those moments with a sugary-sweet counter-attack that while my hair continues to gray, my teeth are rotting from saccharine overload.

There was an afternoon where I was on the computer in the kitchen and he had lost television privileges for one of his outbursts so he had went to play in our bedroom, quietly.

Too quietly.

I tip-toed down the hall to spy on him, thinking that he had switched on the TV. Instead I found him with one of my bras on, stuffed with his baby blankets and walking around in a pair of my heels.

When he realized he had been caught, he just flashed me a cheesy smile and then put on a different pair of shoes.

And then this weekend he was asking how Santa gets down chimneys. I explained that he used magic which he was able to make by putting a finger to the side of his nose to slip through any size chimney. His response?

"That’s not magic! That’s how Santa picks his nose!"

Happy Birthday, my dear son.