no. 627 – The Thaw

I’ve made it no secret that I’m having a hard time accepting that everything could work out just fine with this pregnancy. Not to overuse a bad pun, but a positive outcome seems…inconceivable in my head.

But I really do try to out-shout those thoughts daily. I make myself walk by the maternity and infant sections in the department stores. I make myself look at sites like Babies R Us so I can know what’s out there. I am trying to make plans for July.

I thought I was making some headway when this weekend I showed Mr. DD some items that I would like to get for the baby, including a play-yard nursery set and a stroller/carseat set. That was Saturday and he did nothing more than make a remark about the color. I expected nothing more or less as he is a guy after all.

Then last night as I was quietly sitting on the bedroom floor, folding the week’s laundry, he came in and asked me to wait until April or May to make any purchases. "Just in case…"

I felt defensive about it and told him that having those things in the house even if something does go horribly wrong will not make it hurt any more, but he quietly insisted and asked for my patience.

After having him be so optimistic at almost every turn and twist we have gone through since 2004, this threw me, and hard.

I already felt like I’ve been letting down Murdock. Not believing in him/her. Not believing in myself has been hard enough and now in a way that I’m sure Mr. DD did not intend, I sense his doubt as well, even though it stands to reason that he is finally admitting that all of the failed cycles and miscarriages have impacted him more than he’s ever vocalized before now.

Instead of him trying to convince me everything will be alright as he’s done in the past, I find the roles reversed, forcing me to commit more of my heart into something I’ve been trying to keep an emotional distance from. Somewhere along the line, I’ve fallen in love with this baby and that has led to feeling something that I thought had been frozen so deep inside it would never thaw: Hope.

no. 626 – She’s Got Balls and Ovaries

I don’t know if it makes me feel better or not to hear that Angelina Jolie  is rumored* to have used fertility drugs to help her ovulate, producing her current boy/girl twins.

I’ll chalk it up to ovary-envy.

* OK, so I’ve edited for you persnickety readers. You like potato and I like potahto; you like Gonal-F and I like Follistim, … for we need each other, so we better call the calling off off. Let’s call the whole thing off!

At least there’s no talk of her just wanting it so badly, it happened by sheer will-power or that it’s because everything she touches turns to gold. Not yet.

no. 625 – Linked

I have added several links to blogs on my sidebar since the huge majority of you do like to see your name in lights.

I’m sure I’ve missed someone along the way, so let me know with an email to or a comment.

As I was going through this I remembered why I stopped trying to keep it updated: TypePad only alphabetizes on the blog itself, not in its file. So I have to print off the list from here; print off my list from bloglines and cross-reference the two….I’m sure there’s an easier way but I have yet to be enlightened. (hint hint to any TypePad gurus)

Have a great weekend everyone. It’s the first weekend in four consecutive that we haven’t had to travel to either The Metro or to The Capitol to look/drive/buy a new mode of transportation. What’s done is done. We said our final goodbyes to our Sequoia and I am actually enjoying my new status as a minivan driver (it looks just like the picture).

I may be driving a van, but I’m still repeating in my head, "Lead, Follow, or Get the Fuck Out of My Way!".

no. 624 – It’s a Veritable Wild Life Reserve Around Here

Besides the rootin-tootin time my husband had shooting up my parent’s house, this past weekend was just full of events that I had to mentally file away under "potential blog post".

Friday night I was heading to our basement (basement of a newly constructed home, unfinished – just so you know it’s not a "cellar" or something like that – relevant) to do something irrelevant to this story. The steps go halfway before stopping at a landing, turning and more steps down. When I got to the landing I saw something at the bottom of the stairs sitting on a remnant of carpet. Here are some of the thoughts that ran quickly through my head:

  • Did the dog poop down here? Oh wait, we don’t have a dog.
  • Did a raccoon get in the house and poop? Naahhhhh.
  • Did XBoy poop on the floor?! No way.

With those thoughts, you can get an idea of what I might have been looking at.

Then part of the "poop" moved.

(EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeekkkkkkk!!!!!!!!!!) *me silently screaming*

Mice! Again!

I dashed back upstairs just as Mr. DD and XBoy were getting home. What do you think the first thing I did was?

I grabbed my camera, of course, and told Mr. DD to keep XBoy quiet and occupied.

I popped on the telephoto lense, headed to the landing and snapped a couple of pictures. Want to see? Well, you can’t because our good laptop is still under repair and this old one is like using dial-up even thought it’s not.

Then I went upstairs to tell Mr. DD to take care of the problem. Except he suddenly has a heart attack.

OK, he didn’t have a heart attack. It was a stupid case of indigestion that made him turn into a big pussy. (Get pregnant and then tell me what heart burn feels like, you ass).

I took the plastic bag out of his hands, put on my winter gloves (oh, shit, I just realized I wore them today and haven’t washed them – Ick!) and headed down the stairs again.

I should mention that these were baby mice, but they weren’t in a nest. There were no pieces of fabric or paper that indicates a nest. They were just all huddled together. I bent down and scooped up the cluster and one little fucker jumped and got away. The other three were dumped in the bag.

Another trip up the stairs with my prey. I stopped to let XBoy peer into the bag to see three tiny, furry mice trying to climb up the side of the bag, pleading for mercy staring up at us with their cute beady black eyes.

Xboy asked what I was going to do with them. I told him that I was going to let them go outside. When he asked to come with me, I told him no and that it would only take a second. I felt like the cruelest person in the world as I tied off the bag and placed it inside the cold burn barrel.

Even worse? Later that night, Mr. DD went down to the basement and found the fourth baby mouse had returned to find his siblings, squeaking for them. He bagged that one, too, who found himself faced with a similar fate as the other three.

We both felt pretty sad about those little vermin critters. That is until I realized there are at least two more mice running around. Sometimes, this prairie living is for the mice, deer, birds.

Guess Who’s Still Pregnant?

You all ready for an update on Murdock? I know, I know. Another pregnancy-related post from an infertile blogger…how dull!

22 weeks and 6 days. Good enough for me to say “23 weeks”.

I have actually gone up to three days without using my doppler thanks to enough Easter candy consumed to keep Murdock buzzing for hours. It takes a lot of sugar to get him/her to kick hard enough to feel it through that annoyingly placed placenta…and stomach fat.

Women often describe the feeling of having the baby kick with such sweet sentiments like, “it feels like butterfly wings” or “softly popping bubbles”. To me it feels like gas except I know that my intestines have moved too far out and up to be that. Or here’s another description I gave to my husband the other night:

You know how you get a muscle twitch in your back or your eyelid and no matter how many times you rub or squeeze or poke at it, it continues to twitch involuntarily? Yeah. Now that’s what it feels like.

My boobs have morphed into those of a 40 year old wet-nurse. Oh, wait. Never mind.

I wish I could brag about my “bump”, but it’s in a rather sad state. Because of the weight I gained during the years of treatment, all in the middle section, it’s like I have a double decker bump: above the belly button is the top deck carrying my stomach and then below the belly button is the bottom deck with Murdock. Another way to imagine it (if you dare) is take a regular inflated balloon and squeeze it in the middle for a while then let go. See how it goes bump, indent, then bump again?

My thighs have become things of beauty, if the Rubenesque figure was still in vogue.

So there you go. An honest disclosure of pregnancy at six months. All told, it’s not been too bad. Hell, I’m still pregnant, right?

Three more months to go, give a week or two. All I have left to do is buy the necessities for the baby since here is the list I have:

  • Crib

And here’s what I need:

  • Everyfuckingthing else

I’ve got plenty of time, right?

no. 622 – While It Could Have All Gone So Wrong, Everything Is Alright

Easter Sunday we went to my parent’s farm for dinner. After the normal amount of bickering between my Mom and Dad, good-heartedly refereed by my brother, sister and myself, we started to get ready to head back home.

My Dad and brother went outside to do "chores" (sit in the shop and bullshit), Mr. DD woke up from his hour-long nap on the sofa and XBoy was getting bored and antsy. As we sat around the table, chatting about nothing, my husband wandered into what we call the den. It’s just a very small room that doubles as an entry-way that has space for nothing more than some hanging plants, a few items of taxidermy, an antique writing desk, phone and the gun cabinet.

Mr. DD is quite the gun fancier, unfortunately. He gets the "hobby" from his dad who has enough rifles, guns and ammunition collected that when he showed a small group of Japanese business men his safes, I’m sure they thought he was his own personal militia as firearms are a no-no in Japan.

On the other hand, my own father’s collection is just a handful of old rifles, most probably not in working condition. My husband pulled out an old .22 rifle from the cabinet. He discovered it was loaded and proceeded to unload it (safety first). He took out two rounds and then found one jammed. I can’t describe exactly what he saw or what happened since I was in the next room. All I can say is suddenly a loud BANG came from the room.

I jerked around in my chair at the table to peer around the corner. There stood my husband, dumb-founded. Without even touching the trigger, the rifle had gone off. He was holding the rifle, barrel up at the time so we looked to see if it had actually discharged a round, or if somehow a blank, like a "bird-banger", had gone off. We didn’t see a hole in the ceiling, so we figured it was a blank.

However, on the wall, up high there was a display of pheasant feathers and upon closer inspection, we saw the hole hidden behind the feathers, which was about 10" from the ceiling.

At the same time, XBoy called me from the bathroom, which was on the other side of the wall. He was doing his thing when he heard the bang and wanted to know what was going on. There he was, still sitting on the toilet and I saw something in his hair: white flecks of plaster.

I looked up at the wall adjoining the den and bathroom and saw the exit hole of the .22 and another entry hole into the ceiling, which leads to the attic (luckily).

I have to admit that we all initially found the whole situation rather funny. My husband just shot up my parent’s house. I reminded him that this was much worse than the time I shot the bat in our old house with a pellet gun. But as the shock and surprise wore off, we all started to realize how badly this could have gone.

Mr. DD could have been holding the rifle differently and hit himself; hit my sister sitting in the doorway; or what if XBoy had been in the room and Mr. DD had held the rifle at another angle, say looking down the barrel? Or the angle of the shot could have gone a little lower and shattered the wall-width mirror in the bathroom instead of shooting over it with XBoy opposite? The what ifs when it comes to the bad things that could have happened…

I find myself asking "what if I hadn’t lost Vivienne in 2004", trying to imagine how better things might have been. To have to wonder what could have happened Sunday has given me nightmares. A million other scenarios could have happened. We were lucky it ended with this one. Very, very lucky.