Category Archives: Infertility

And the Banjo Responds

My dear husband has the emotional sensitivity of a rhino in heat. During one of the five years we dated, we were going through a particularly rough patch over the Thanksgiving holiday, which the family decided to pack up and carry out in Des Moines. Because we weren’t getting along, Sparring Partner didn’t attend. And me, being a sappy girl in love, called him several times, and in one of the phone exchanges I wailed into the phone hoping to instill some guilt, some emotion, from him: “You don’t LOVE me!” to which he replied, “No. Not as much as I use to.”


Obviously he fell in love again and after threatening him with an ultimatum, marry me or I’m moving one (who’s PWND now, mister!), we were able to accept each other’s emotional – and lack thereof – responses.

Last night we went out with the in-laws. SIL exclaims, “Did Sparring Partner tell you the news?!” and most anyone who has gone through years of infertility will always have the first thought be that someone’s pregnant.

My first thought was correct.

“Number 5!” she announced excitedly.

So Daughter#1 is percolating Baby#3. Didn’t I mention not long ago something about Dueling Uteri. Cue the banjos:

  • D#1 had Baby #1
  •           D#2 had Baby #1
  • D#1 had Baby #2
  •           D#2 had Baby #2
  • D#1 is due with Baby #3

All within the past four years.

 Mark your calendars for next year…

But that’s not really the point, or at least the one I care to get into right now. The reason I mentioned how insensitive SP can be is when we later walked out to the car, I told him thanks for the heads up *sarcasm*.

And he said, “I didn’t know that it would still bother you.”

“You wouldn’t.” was my reply.

Yes, it still bothers me. It will for a very long time. I would love to meet that person who it DOESN’T bother and maybe they’d share their secret with me, and then in turn, share it with you.

I Miss Infertility

These were the words conveyed to me via an email from a former blogger about a month before Aitch was born in 2008. She had gone through infertility herself and was trying to find her land-legs as a post-infertility-slash-mommy-blogger. Her exact words follow:

“Slap me now, but it makes me miss infertility a little bit.  The answer was always right there.  Why am I not happy?  INFERTILITY!  And there was really very little need to look beyond that because infertility is huge and all-consuming.  All other problems get shunted aside.”

These words were like a bolt of lightning the first time I read them.

They now shake me to the core with their foreshadowing truth.

For years infertility was my scapegoat.

Depressed? It was because another negative beta; a poor ovarian response; an inevitable miscarriage.

Weight gain? I blamed the hormone injections and birth-control pills month after month.

Aversion to gatherings of friends and family? I didn’t want to hear about “God’s Plans” or how “if it was meant to be, it’ll be” or the pitiful looks when they found out that I wasn’t going to stay pregnant.

Irritability at home towards Sparring Partner and/or Doodicus? They were collateral damage in my week to week failings as a wife and mother.

So what do I blame now? Infertility was my security blanket I was able to wrap around myself and hide under – to veil the truth that was beyond what I thought was The Problem. In my head, I know what IT is, but in my heart I just don’t want IT to be THAT because I have tried to convince myself I have nothing to be depressed about. I got what I went after, a sibling to my son who is everything and so much more than I could have dreamed. I beat infertility.

Yeah…I miss infertility.

Imperfect World

We’ve all heard at one time or another how someone has simultaneously announced their second line on the pregnancy stick, taken the tour of the maternity ward, registered for baby gear, and traded in their sedan for a family van. I did that back in 2004 before I found out that miscarriages weren’t just a myth.

Once that miscarriage (or two or four) has gone by, that person (me) never thinks the same way about a pregnancy, whether their own or someone else’s. They don’t assume that a new pregnancy ends the way 80% of the population thinks they do. In fact, they (me) even begin to believe the worst before they ever believe the best.

My son’s teacher announced to the class before Thanksgiving that she was expecting a baby in June. By my calculations, she at least waited to tell them after her first prenatal appointment, which is usually around week eight or nine. I wasn’t thrilled with the school’s permission to let her announce this to her students – second graders – so early, reasoning that it would be a distraction throughout the entire school session. Inwardly it was because I didn’t want her to have to untell a bunch of seven and eight year olds. Because that’s the way I think.

But see? That never happens in a perfect world, and to me his teacher was living that ideal. She had a little boy who was just potty trained. She must have planned the pregnancy with the due date occurring early summer, giving her time to enjoy a new baby before going back to school without disruption to the class schedule. She’s also very young…

A Perfect World.

Unfortunately, she found out this past weekend that there is no such thing as a Perfect World and had to announce to the children via the school’s principal that her baby died.

When Sparring Partner picked up Doodicus from school, my son shared the update with his dad, who then called me to pass on the sad news and to let myself prepare for the questions as Sparring Partner decided to tell Doodicus that we had had that happen to us. I again did some calculations and figured that the teacher, Mrs. P, would have been in the beginning of her second trimester.

While it’s not the way I would have preferred for Doodicus to learn that not all pregnancies result in a baby, Padora’s box has now been opened. I picked up Doodicus from daycare and we went through the regular pleasantries of “how was your day?” and “what homework do you have?”, and then he said, “Can I ask you a question?” I was glad that I was driving so that he couldn’t see my face from the back seat as I anticipated what was coming. “Sure,” I responded.

“Have you really been pregnant four times?”

I wondered why Sparring Partner had said four and could only presume that as a man he probably had no idea. “Actually I’ve been pregnant six times. My first was with you and my last was with Aitch.”

“Did the other babies die?”

“Yes.” I did not ask why he asked but waited to see how the conversation would progress.

“If you had all those babies, there sure would be a lot of kids in our family.”

“Yes, I suppose there would have been.”

“We were told today that Mrs. P’s baby died. I didn’t know that could happen.”

“Normally it doesn’t,” I responded. Normally. In a Perfect World.

We talked a bit about how sad Mrs. P was going to be and that we will say a prayer for her and her family. Doodicus told me that the principal suggested that the class not talk to Mrs. P about it as it would make her sad. I could only suggest to my son that he could mention to her in private how sad he was about her baby and that we prayed for her.

“Aitch and I were lucky, weren’t we…what happened to the other ones?”

“Yes, I suppose you were lucky, but the really lucky ones are Daddy and I because we have you both.”

I then told him briefly about my pregnancy with Vivienne when he was almost three and how I remember every detail of November 2004. I told him how when Daddy brought him home from daycare that day, he came into the bedroom where I had been lying their crying all day following that fateful ultrasound and asked me if I was going to be OK, too young to know only that I was very, very sad. I had told him I would be. Eventually.

At the end of my reverie, Doodicus started to tear up. When I asked what was wrong, he told me that he was sad because he almost died. I was startled by that and asked when did he almost die. “When I was born.” He knew the story of the emergency c-section and that he was so little and spent nearly a week in the hospital. I tried to ease his heart a bit by letting him know that while he was sick when born, we knew he would be alright and that we would take him home healthy.

After he had calmed down again I said that he shouldn’t dwell on it to the point it makes him unhappy, but that if he had more questions, he could come to us. I don’t wish to keep revisiting that wound, but I think he is ready to know more than we give him credit for.

An early pregnancy announcement will make any one of us want to “protect” the expectant mother by warning her not to count her proverbial chickens, but that makes us sound paranoid or jealous. True (for me) on both counts. I have never-and never will-wish that life lesson on anyone, and yet…with a sickening thud in the pit of my stomach upon this recent news, I heard in my head “I could have told you so,” and I hate myself for becoming so fucking jaded.

Moving On

Don’t feel too sorry for me. It’s not like we were trying. I was even doing the “opposite talk” to myself when I headed to the bathroom (at work) to test. “Of course it’s going to be negative. You don’t know when you had your last period and you probably didn’t ovulate…so of course, it’s going to be negative!” because nothing fools the Opposite Gods like telling them you DON’T want to be pregnant…

Pfft. Obviously, they weren’t fooled.

Also? My period started later in the day. ‘Figures.


Aitch’s 18mos check-up is this week. I’m going to fib to the Ped and say that she’s completely off the bottle. We are just weaning her from the morning one. We’re saving the best for last, the night-time bottle. It’s easy enough to distract her in the morning with either the shouting that goes on between Sparring Partner and Doodicus or toast or juice or hurrying our asses out the door because it’s foggy/icy/snowing or there’s an earthquake.  Don’t laugh. It could happen.


We gave Doodicus a tattoo book for Christmas with “500 Plus” tattoos. He was sporting four, all well hidden since the school frowns on even the fake ones. He wanted another so he selected the black and white guitar with wings and we put it next to the Chinese word for “Fake Tattoo”. Aitch was watching us with some interest, but when I put the wet washcloth on top of the paper to release the image, she got pretty agitated and kept trying to pull it off. She thought Doodicus had an owie or that I was hurting him. When we were done, I tried to show her that it wasn’t an owie but she just looked at the guitar and shook her head.


I bought Aitch some shoes that squeak when walked on. They are quite adorable and in spite what my Facebook friends thought (that I would break the squeaker within an hour), I giggle every time we put them on her feet. And while my tolerance has exceeded even my expectations, the constant squeak squeak squeak squeak squeak (walking)…squeak…(pausing)….squeaksqueaksqueaksqueak (running) must be bugging Aitch. Now when we put the shoes on her feet, she’ll walk on her tippy-toes. Good balance practice I suppose, but not the best for the long haul. We removed the squeakers. Of course, when we put them back on, Aitch kept stomping around trying to get them to squeak. Man, she’s fickle.


They are predicting another major snowstorm for us Midwesterners next week. I don’t care. Only nine more full weeks before Spring. So what if we’ll get snow up to another eight weeks after that.

Delurk if Delusional

(This should be a good one to delurk on, especially since it will be the last post during National Delurking Week.)

Last night I was thinking about the date of my last period. I’ve never been good about tracking it, and the only time I ever did was when we were going through treatments. In fact, somewhere in the dregs of the computer system where I use to work is an excel spreadsheet that had every CD1 marked for four years. It kind of pisses me off that I never was able to save it since I was told to vacate immediately the day I was let go. It not only had the cycle days marked but every appointment, every beta level, every check amount written. It was a tidy summarization of my reproductive failures and successes clear of emotion and tripe, unlike my blogs.

I know that I should expect my period before the weekend is over, but stupid me, even with as cynical as I have let myself become, I still wonder “Could I be…?” and let myself contemplate the idea of buying a couple of HPTs.

And then I run head-long into the Wall of Reality.

It took four years for a specialist to get and keep me pregnant. That was over two years ago. I’m knee deep into my 40’s. And yet the skeptic in me still holds onto the idea of maybe….just maybe…. Reminds me of the month I actually thought about using a pregnancy test even though Sparring Partner and I had been sex-free for over seven weeks (infertility treatments are not kind to the libido). I almost convinced myself that my period might have been break-through bleeding (that would have been some kind of crazy “break-through bleeding”) and I could have been two months pregnant!

Can you say, Dee-loosh-i-null??

I knew you could.

This morning I was feeling a bit crampy. I’m not going to be one of those Infertile Urban Legends. Sparring Partner would be pissed. I would be even more paranoid about miscarrying a baby than I was when I was pregnant with Aitch who started with a donor’s egg, and if you recall I was crazy with paranoia then, what with the once a week ultrasounds and Doppler-dancing and leaving work with no notice to go home and lie on my bed and sob uncontrollably waiting for the inevitable miscarriage that never came.

Talk about a Whack-Job. Why didn’t anyone tell me?

I know that most of you are pretty much in the same place I am, which is D.O.N.E., but do you sometimes still hope?


If you haven’t heard by now about the utterly botched surrogacy arrangement between Amy Kehoe (mother) and Laschell Baker (surrogate), both of Michigan, then you’ve been living under a rock…or preparing for some kind upcoming holiday festivities. The short of it is after Amy Kehoe selected Laschell Baker as her surrogate, who then went on to deliver boy-girl twins, who then found out that Amy had a “history” of mental illness, who then decided that Kehoes were unfit to be parents so they arranged to null and void the surrogate contract and the twins were relinquished to Bakers.

That’s the short. Now for the long. Really, really long.

The nuances to this story are many and varied and all smack of hypocrisy and judgmental bullshit. Because of my google alerts set on “egg donor”, I received a notice about this gem on a message board the other day from a “mommy” site:

I’m not in the position to make judgment and I’m not making judgment, I’m just trying to understand WHY some people go to such lengths? I ask because I know someone who is personally going through this and I just don’t get it AT ALL. This might sound horrible to someone who can understand, but please know I’m not trying to be insensitive, I just really and truly don’t get it. I don’t understand how having a stranger egg and a stranger sperm donor and possibly a stranger surrogate is any different or “better” than adopting a baby that is essentially the same thing? The baby is from strangers too…what is the difference??????

Here’s me reading it, in case you want to pop into my head for a sec:

I’m not in the position to make judgment [then don’t] and I’m not making judgment [uh-oh, when someone says “I’m not making judgment”, you know they are], I’m just trying to understand WHY some people go to such lengths? I ask because I know someone who is personally going through this and I just don’t get it AT ALL [let me guess: you’ve told your friend that you don’t get it, right? In the spirit of honesty and forthrightedness?? Of course you did – pfft]. This might sound horrible to someone who can understand [there’s no “might” about it], but please know I’m not trying to be insensitive [you’re not trying hard enough], I just really and truly don’t get it [you’ve made that painfully clear already – more than once in fact]. I don’t understand […again?!…] how having a stranger egg and a stranger sperm donor [stranger than what?] and possibly a stranger surrogate [stranger than you, perhaps?] is any different or “better” than adopting a baby [that’s YOUR presumption] that is essentially the same [it is?? Anyone who has adopt care to interject] thing [she did NOT just refer to a baby as a “thing”, did she??]? The baby is from strangers too…what is the difference [I’m so flustered, I really have no idea!]??????

Baker says that being a good Christian is what prompted her to take the action and make the adoption (in most states, the parents must adopt their child(ren) from the surrogate) void. A quote from Baker, “I’m not going to be the one that’s going to feel guilty if something happens.”

So Laschell Baker, let me see if I understand this correctly: you don’t want to feel guilty IF something were to happen. You are referring to Kehoe’s mental illness – her CONTROLLED for eight years mental illness! – right?!? And you would rather worry about the “what ifs” then the harm and guilt you REALLY should be feeling now for taking Kehoes’ children away from them. And I don’t EVEN want to hear anyone bring up the fact that there’s no biological connection between Kehoes and her twins. It’s irrelevant. The only reason Baker was successful in her bid for the twins is because surrogacy laws and their contracts are basically unenforceable, not because of any biological connection or lack thereof.

So Baker considers her and her husband to be superior parents to any couple who have a history of mental illness. That means that Laschell Baker considers herself to be a better parent than either myself (mild depression) and a good many of you. What if Kehoe had any other kind of physical handicap or chronic illness? What if Amy was deaf or blind or was an amputee? While these would have been more obvious in their physical manifestation, would Laschell Baker felt as comfortable in her decision to consider Kehoe a POTENTIALLY unfit mother as she does now?

Let’s just make this an even more ridiculous argument, shall we? So again, Laschell made her judgment call based on “what ifs”, and she claims that she has no guilt now in her decision, right? She’s changing the twins’ names as a “way to leave the past behind”………as soon as she and her husband can pull together $320 in filing fees.


Translation? Ohmyfuckinggodyouhaveseriouslygottobeshittingmemotherfucker!!!!!!!

She’s changing those babies’ names in order to try to pretend that Kehoes were never the parents of those babies. While Baker claims they will someday tell the twins about Kehoes, I can’t even come up with the subject line of their story they will use without causing some kind of traumatic response from those kids:

Possible Future Explanation – The woman intended to be your mother was sick/had mental illness/crazy!

Possible Interpretation by the Children – People who are sick/have mental illnesses/crazy! cannot, should not, and will not make good parents.

Yeah. That works (make sure you read that with all the sarcastic intonation as you possibly can).

One last shaming smack to the Bakers: to disguise your stereotyping of people with mental illnesses, you try to hide behind the shield of “doing what’s best in the case of what if” and you used it to justify to yourself and others (who obviously are not buying it) the reason to take Amy and her husband’s children. What if someone came up to you and decided that since you can’t immediately put together $300 to try to closet the past, that you can’t afford to raise the twins much less the four other children you have and take away all six?

Determining who and what makes for good parents based on ignorant stereotyping always – ALWAYS – will bite you squarely on the ass.

Kehoes have since decided to stop the fight for custody of their twins. I will hope and hope and hope that they become parents again and prove to themselves what faultless parents they would have been to their first two children. I say “to themselves” because quite frankly, they don’t owe the world proof of their parenting abilities. The Bakers weren’t owed that right, but they stole it away much like they did those babies.

Mommy Mavericks

In the latest issue of More magazine, the following letter-to-the-editor was written in response to an article titled Midlife Mommy Debate in a previous issue, which was about women in their 40s and 50’s becoming new moms.

These women are incredibly selfish. I was raised by older parents whom I loved dearly. When I was born, my father was 52 and my mother was 45. I lost my father while I was in my twenties (he was 78) and my mother (then 84) in my thirties. After my mother suffered a stroke, I spent the first few years of my marriage taking care of her – and my toddler. My mother died four days after I gave birth to my second child, and I had a heart attack before the funeral. Do these ‘Mommy Mavericks’ realize how sad it is that their children’s children will never know them? ~ Martha          

I know that as a parent, I have a mountain of responsibilities to my two children, but not once did anyone ever tell me or imply that one of them is to make sure I live long enough for my grandchildren to get to know me.

When I was born, only two of my four grandparents were still living – both grandfathers. My paternal grandfather died when I was an infant. The other grandfather, my mom’s dad, I remember distinctly because he had only one hand and when he let me sit on his lap while driving the tractor, he would hold me with his good arm and steer with the hook he had on the other. He always brought us candy when he stopped by the house. Sadly, he died when I was very young as well.

I’ve written before how my husband and I are “Latecomers” as we had our first when I was 34 and our second after years of infertility treatment at 41. My husband turned 45 a couple months before her birth. Let’s say for the sake of argument that our kids will be in their 30’s before having children; and then add in the factor of when children retain a lot of their memories – say 10, that will put us in our 80s. If we’re lucky.

While I hope that I convey to my children that they should have their children only when they are absolutely ready, I know that I may also find there are times it will be tempting to warn them not to wait as long as we did. In fact, I hear my husband say in different conversations how if he was able to do it again, he would not have waited to try to have children. That being said, I think it would be irresponsible and SELFISH to guilt my children into starting a family just to make sure my grandchildren know who I am.

Getting to know my grandparents had nothing to do with how much time I got to spend with them. It’s how their memories and their spirits are kept alive long after they’re gone. I pray that my children love and respect us enough to do the same.

Once I got over the flash of anger with Martha calling me and others like me selfish, I pitied her. She obviously feels that the first precious years of becoming a mother were diminished her own mother’s illness. She states it’s sad that my grandchildren will never get to “know” me, but I think it’s a tragedy that her children will have the memory of their grandmother tarnished by their mother’s bitterness, which really? Has nothing to do with the fact that she was born to elderly parents.


This was the post I used in the Cross Pollination – edited a wee bit since of course I find the grammatical errors only when I see it via my reader and never in draft.

#30 – NaBloWriMo

Not just 30 posts in 30 days, my friends.



November, you’ve notoriously made me your bitch in the past – “Who, me? Little ole’November? Why, you certainly wouldn’t hold those two miscarriages and the subsequent D&C’s against me, now would you??” – Oh, yes, I would. And I will ’til I hit the grave, but today, you are MY bitch, November. Suck it. Suck it, but hard.

#28 – Dahm it to hell.

I don’t know what celebrity POS show I was watching, but one of the stories was about a set of identical triplets all pregnant at the same time. Not just any triplets. The Dahm Triplets of Playboy notoriety (NSFW). Or so I’ve read since I let my Playboy subscription expire years ago.

Apparently they’ve also shown up several times on The Doctors, which is due to one of them being married to the executive producer, who also happens to be the son of Dr. Phil. Keep the crazy in the family, and all that.

I love my sisters. I confide in them. One of my sisters was my Maid of Honor. But it would take a hell of a lot of liquor combined with illicit drugs to get us to strip naked and mutually admire each other’s boobs. And with them being identical, isn’t that the epitome of narcissism?

I never would have given the story another thought if it hadn’t been for the announcement that these three women are no more than eight weeks apart in their pregnancies.

Most days I feel like I’m freeing myself of the sticky web of bitterness that was spun from infertility. But literally in an instant, I am mentally right back where I was two years ago: entangled in angry bitterness.


#23 – An enormous honor and responsibility

A very good friend of mine and her husband have gone through four years of trying to have another baby with no success. They also tried four IUIs with their obstetrician, again with no success. Unexplained secondary infertility, a one-size-fits many diagnosis that while ties up their medical records with a neat looking bow, it leaves a couple falling apart emotionally with more questions than answers.

This friend and her husband told Sparring Partner and I that they put us down as a reference on their adoption application.

I nearly burst into tears over the incredible honor. That I might have a hand in helping my friends bring a baby into their wonderful lives leaves me speechless.

But after sleeping on it, I am yet again on the verge of tears. That I might have a hand in preventing my dear friends from bringing a baby into their lives makes me wonder if I shouldn’t decline. Maybe being speechless would be better than saying something that would be misconstrued. I unfortunately have a talent for that.

#8 – Do Not Be Silent

I’ve officially made it through one week of NaBloWriMo.

It’s not so bad if you’ve got one in the can and one scheduled to go out next day.

Right now this post is being written Saturday night since Sunday I will be driving two hours with my mother and SIL to go to a craft show in the big city. I then will have to drive two hours back, and I have to do it before it gets too dark. My night vision is not good.

I have a confession: it’s the first craft show I’ve been able to go to in four years. In 2004 I did go. A week after I lost my second pregnancy in its early second trimester and neither my sisters or mother would ask me how I was feeling. I needed to talk about it. I found out later that my mom had told my sisters not to bring it up.

I’m here to tell you that in many, MANY cases, your friend, your sister, your daughter…? The silence is painful. If you’re not sure, just ask, “Do you want to talk?” They’ll let you know either way.

#7 – Drawing the Line

Scan59_0059_059 (3)When Sparring Partner and I were told that getting pregnant via sex was no longer going to be the norm and that a couple of IUIs would probably get us that second child, we drew a line in the sand. We would try a couple of injectable cycles and then that. was. it.

Of course we never thought it would take more than that. We were able to get pregnant easily twice before. We thought it was a matter of poor timing.

After the second IUI, which confirmed the findings of the first IUI, which was Sparring Partner’s count and motility were not conducive to even a well-timed IUI, our RE recommended IVF or donor sperm.

The ocean’s tide wiped out the first line so we drew another in the sand. We would try IVF. Doesn’t everyone get pregnant with IVF? All those eggs and professionally fertilized embryos…which is why we justified the cost. A sure bet and a line we were confident we wouldn’t have to cross.

As most of you know and others could guess, not only did the IVF not pan out, but we didn’t get a lot of eggs to try for subsequent FETs (which was like a mini-line in the sand), so our second line drawn out in the sand which we had set further from the breaking waves was obliterated by dozens of beachcombers.

We took a step back, drew another line, this one would be two IUIs with donor sperm. Long failing story short, that line was taken out by the hurricane force winds.

Dashed and broken lines were plotted and dismissed, much like our plans for donor embryos and adoption.

We drew yet another line, this one was most certainly IT. Donor eggs. A huge financial and emotional gamble that paid off only by sheer luck.

While we said a half dozen (and really many, many more) times, that “this was it! no more!”, we pushed on. Sparring Partner was the one who would indicate where the line should go, it was me who drew it, always taking the liberty to push it out just beyond if I could.

I know some couples who not only clearly define the lines they are willing to meet and once met, they are able to stick to that. It’s admirable, the strength and the belief that the decision they made was the best for them. It’s actually more than admirable, it is enviable.

I don’t know what we would have done had our “last” cycle failed. Would it really have been “it” or the last? There’s no way to tell. However, I know that many of us draw lines in the sand only to watch them get trampled, washed or blown away, but that’s the beauty of its lack of permanence. It’s OK to change our minds and go a different route while mourning the first of what could be dozens of lines drawn and then lost in the sand.


Photo courtesy personal file: 1999

#3 – Perspective in Time

mbI never would have – nor could I have – imagined…no, DREAMED…that exactly two years ago the news I received from my clinic would result in Aitch. Only four eggs retrieved – only three fertilized normally – only our last cycle before walking away.

The news was disappointing, to say the least. Sparring Partner went out of town until the transfer so I was shooting up progesterone via an inch and a half, large gauge needle poked painfully  into my backside. I never had felt more alone, and it all seemed like such a lost cause.

THIS? This was no lost cause:

0 18 funny hat


One (of many) reasons I decided to take up blogging again was so I can be a better blogger. No, not “better” as in improved literary skills, because that would just end up being a comical waste of not only my time, but yours; but better as in not being so self-absorbed.

In that vein, would you please make sure to stop over and see my friend Shelli over at Bag Momma to wish her a pinchless frozen donor-egg transfer coming up on Tuesday.

Every time I read about someone doing a FET, I think of meat-on-a-stick. No link, but if you know OvaGirl, you know Meat-on-a-Stick.

(Good luck, Shelli. Much love, my Lady-in-Waiting!)