Up and Down, Down, Down

I’ve been thrown into another funk. I’m not sure if they are more frequent or if it feels that way because I have happier days followed by hard crashes.

While I knew what the outcome would be, the response to my follow-up email to the HR department still made me flush in humiliation, “While the position has not yet been filled, Management is not interested in conducting a second interview.” Don’t take it personally? How else should I take it?

Also, I have been anticipating a trip to Boston later this spring specifically to meet up with some friends I have never met. Yes, blogging friends. However, the anticipation and excitement has been dampened by my fear of traveling by myself and trying to get around a city I’m utterly incapable of alone. I thought I would surprise Sparring Partner by planning a covert getaway as it would be on the weekend of our anniversary (I was even able to line up care for Aitch and Doodicus), but after all my hinting to a holiday without the kids, SP is adamant he does not want to go anywhere. Finally I just asked him if he would come with me to Boston. He said no. And that was that.

So now I don’t know what to do. If you’re from the Boston area and you have some advice on how to overcome my fears as a small town farm girl getting around a big city by herself, feel free to impart your wisdom and advice.

Combine the above with my ever increasing perception of my dysmorphism issues; I’m just feeling more than a little malaised.

True Blue

There are only two reproductive endocrinology (RE) clinics in the state we live in. Even with that kind of severe limitation in number, I never thought for one moment that we had limited choices in seeking quality care and treatments. We could have traveled outside the state if we had felt it was necessary, though it wouldn’t have been easy or convenient. Before we decided to go with donor egg, we did consider going to that Mile High Clinic that seems to be so popular, but their success rates didn’t justify the risk in starting over.

Through blogging and research, I didn’t find much difference in our clinic’s protocols when it came to IUIs and IVFs, but their donor program was very different, especially in regards to the egg donor. Based on the numerous donor blogs I’ve read in the past few years, almost all share how they poured over donor profiles and stared at pictures – if available – all in an earnest and well-thought out desire seek a donor of similar temperament, physical characteristics, or both. I can only imagine how exhausting that kind of decision must be. I say imagine because with our RE, the idea of choosing an egg donor was nonexistent.

In short, the patient indicated their desire to try donor eggs. The staff put their name on a waiting list and when that name reached the top of the list, a potential donor was contacted for availability and if they were, cycles were coordinated and that was that. The only “matching” done was by the staff themselves by race and if requested, blood by the patient.

With everything else being completely left to fate (eye color, hair color, build, heritage, intelligence, etc.), any resulting offspring truly was like a box of chocolates. It’s all by sheer luck that Aitch was my favorite kind of chocolate in the whole of the group. Her blond, fine, straight hair leaves my mother, who doesn’t know about the donor egg, bemoaning the fact that she was “cursed” with hair just like mine. Her personality, which facilitates between painfully shy around strangers to bossy chatterbox among her peers and family, also seems to reflect mine (except it’s cute on a toddler; not so much on a rapidly approaching middle-aged woman). The only trait she seems to have that’s unexpected is the blue of her eyes.

I’ve wondered over the past couple of years what would have happened if our clinic was one of those that have their patients review dozens of profiles and make educated choices for their donors. I have to admit that if that had been our situation, I might have felt Aitch was less of me and more of our donor’s. I also admit I worry about how easily it actually would be to completely disregard the donor’s existence the older Aitch gets. What I think will keep me honest is the very trait that makes her exceptional to our family: those blue eyes. I have to believe that she will always look at me with trust, love…unconditionally.

My bra shouldn’t come with a “front cup size” and a “back cup size” option.

To celebrate most of the snow being melted in this part of the world (I say, “most” because I noticed that the 10 foot drift that was in the ditch by our road still remains, but only in an ankle deep pile of mud encrusted pile ice crystals), I decided to do some shopping. My first mistake.

My second was trying to do it during Bloat Week. You know the one: the one that precludes the first day of your period? Oh yeah, baby. At least I’ll know that no matter how much an article of clothing shrinks in the wash, it will fit me the other 3 weeks of the month.

My third mistake was to go again the following weekend with my sister to a store that apparently doesn’t follow the norms in sizing. Seriously? When did my butt suddenly require double-digit sizes to get covered??

A question I posed to my sister when the following conversation took place as I examined aforementioned ass in the three-to-fifty-way mirror.

“How do this look?” I asked, as I peered at the rear-view taking in the back-fat and muffin-top and newly emerging upper arm flap.

My sister grimaced.

“Man, I’ve gained a lot of weight. Why the hell didn’t you notice me getting fat so I could have stopped getting fat?!”

“Well…” she started, tentatively.

“What?!”

“I did notice. It was when you were trying to get pregnant.”

A thoughtful pause.

“Oh. I guess that really wouldn’t have been a good time to tell me, would it have?”

“No.”

“I was pretty homicidal then, wasn’t I…” I concluded.

“Yes.”

My goal now is to lose 10 pounds within the next couple of months. We have a Wii Fit but I don’t care for it. I’m going to see what classes are available while Doodicus is doing his soccer thing at the Y. I can’t stand the way I look anymore and since I don’t have $50,000 in the bank to pay for lipo, I’m actually going to have to start sweating it off.

Physical exercise has a tendency to make me a bit homicidal as well, but I hear prison can have a nice fitness regimen.

My Charmed Life

For a couple of years I’ve been trying to find some way to honor and give a tangible presence to the babies  conceived but never experienced their first breath. I entertained the idea of a tattoo but there were too many obstacles, one being Sparring Partner who has threatened divorce if I ever got inked.

A couple of months ago I saw Joyfully Crafted’s items highlighted on Try Handmade. After looking at my options, I realized that her charms would suit my taste very nicely. They were simple, solid, and pretty.

I placed my order and although her store indicated it might take 4-6 weeks, I received my order within two. Here they are:

The two little charms have Aitch’s and Doodicus’s names and birthdates on them. They flank the large charm. 

of my heart

11.04     05.05

12.05     09.06

10.06     06.07

05.07     02.08

The first date of each line is the month and year I found out the baby had died; the second date is my due date. I was a bit shell-shocked to see all those dates lined up like that – 5, 6, 7, 8. I honestly never realized it before.

A marching of time to a single drum, one only I can hear. While the dates are forever in the past, I hope the charms will be a part of me long into my old age after my memory fails.

No Fence Can Be Built Tall Enough To Make Us Better Neighbors

When I lost my job (OVER A FUCKING YEAR AGO!), the only positive thought I had is that at least I’m not that VP who also lost her job and will have to sell her house and move to find ANYTHING even close to her prior salary or position. I knew I’d have to start at the bottom again because there’s no way we would or could move. I’ve done it before and can do it again.

That being said, I am SO over looking on job websites and newspapers and sending out resume after resume with only a smattering of responses that always say, “Upon review of your resume…blahblahblah….we have already filled the position….blahblahblah…” so fuck off. Oh. That’s me, not them.

I had submitted a resume to a large, local company via an email a few weeks ago. Almost immediately I got a rejection email back. The position had been filled. Do-wa-ditty-ditty-dum-ditty-do.

But last week I thought I caught a break when I had a voicemail message from the company’s HR department letting me know another position had opened up and I was instructed to complete their company’s app, which I did immediately the next day. Within 24 hours, I had an email from the HR person requesting an interview. I was seriously pumped.

Today I had the interview. Kind of. Actually, I sat across from one of their HR people and verified what I did and have done and then took their typing and 10-key test (with most excellent results – thank you). The rep then told me that the next step would be her presenting my resume to her boss, Mrs. Jung.

What? You don’t remember the infamous Mrs. Jung??

Our neighbor whose building permit I protested in public?

Our neighbor who absconded Aitch’s personalized birth day gift because it was mailed in error to her home?

Yah….

I better go. Looks like I’ll be sending out more resumes.

Ugh. Just one more disadvantage to small town living.

Up to Speed

I understand now how some bloggers find themselves overwhelmed with how to update their blog when enough time has passed that there’s just so many things that they wish to cover, but know that there’s no way to do it in one post so why bother updating at all. Right?

It’s been one of those weeks (since my last “real” post). I haven’t even had time to download a bunch of pictures from my camera to my computer and to use one as post filler.

Aitch has become quite the parrot recently. Either she’s mimicking words or she’s using some commands very well in context:

  • “Down” and then she pats the floor, indicating where you are supposed to sit. At this time, you are not to play with her, but to merely observe. (“Don’t you dare touch my toys!”)
  • “Cmon,” followed by the open and closing of her outstretched fists, her command for us to follow
  • “Be back!” She used this one the other day while we were outside as she walked away from us and up the concrete steps from our shop to the house. She’d take a couple of steps, turn to look down on us and yell, “Be back!” and then take a couple more steps and repeat. When she got to the top, true to her word, she turned around and headed back down (right after I sprinted up the steps to hold her hand to prevent her from spilling her brains).

She is also getting a crash course on time-outs. Up until the past couple of weeks, she’s only been in a T.O. a few times, but lately? The throwing and hair-pulling and biting and bullying have been unwelcome and frequent occurrences. And the drama that ensues when she realizes that we are NOT! playing! Bamboo shafts under the fingernails would illicit less screaming and tears. The girl has a temper and I can tell you without hesitation that she certainly doesn’t get it from me. Ah, the one of many advantages of donor egg…

I’ve had several strangers remark how little she is, which I totally do not get. In one case, the woman who after she asked how old Aitch was and then offered up that her daughter was of the same age, said to me, “Oh, she’s really small, isn’t she?” Yeah, I suppose she would look really small to you considering that she’s sitting quietly on the floor while your daughter is standing over top of her, drooling and unblinkingly staring at Aitch’s cheerio snacks. Could you tell her to step off, please? It’s a bit creepy, even if she IS only 20 months old. I wish Aitch had stood up to show the other mother that while her daughter may have been…how shall I say…more robust, Aitch was taller.

The other topic I’ve been meaning to bring up is in regards to Aitch’s hair. She’s got moppet slash muppet hair (really. like this picture except it covers her eyes, too). Sparring Partner thinks she looks adorable with it in her face (and she does), but sorry, that’s not a doable ‘do. Because I am projecting my long-hair envy unto Aitch, I’ve been reluctant to get it cut. Should I continue to clip it or band it up and hope that eventually it trains to lie nicely on her peanut head or do I cut her bangs and bob up the back to reduce MY headache? She’ll leave in the clips and whatnot until she gets tired, which is when she starts to play with her hair and is reminded that something is up there. However, at daycare, by the time they notice her actions, the hair band or clip has disappeared, which means by the time I pick her up, she’s developed a couple of dreads that take forever to pick through.

And…*exhale*…for now.