Category Archives: Pregnant… AGAIN?!


I had a Pregnancy Pal when I was pregnant with XBoy. We didn’t start off as friends who had planned pregnancies at the same time. Instead we had met during our late 2nd trimesters at the YMCA where we both were taking the swim class. We even worked for the same company, but had never met since we worked on different campuses.

Pregnancy Pal and I were due within a week of each other in December 2001. We both were going through our first pregnancies. She was in her late-20s. I was in my early-30s. Looking at us as we climbed out of the pool you might have thought she was at least 8 weeks behind me as her bump was just that – a bump – whereas I bulged.

We became good friends.

Her son was born at the end of November. I remember coming to visit her and her baby and holding him and marveling at how small he was. Less than a week later, I delivered XBoy.

During the first couple of years, all four of us spent a lot of time together. We compared milestones in both our babies’ lives and our own. We dressed them similarly for holidays and took pictures. Soon we were talking about having our second children. Early summer 2004, she announced she was pregnant. By the end of August, I told her I was, too. We were again Pregnancy Pals.

I specifically remember how we packed up the now three-year-old boys in my SUV and made a trip to The Metro for a day at the zoo, something we had done the year before together. The boys were in the second row trying to outdo each other in noise levels, silliness, and snack consumption. My friend looked at me and announced, “Next year when we go, our baby girls will be in the second row and the boys will be in the far back!” jokingly said since neither of us knew the sex of our babies, but it was a lovely image to have.

As most of you know, in November 2004, the path my Pregnancy Pal and I had started on violently diverged. I miscarried at 15 weeks. She went on to deliver a healthy baby girl in the spring. Obviously I did not.

A rift was created that November between us. We still got together for play dates with our sons. We got together to discuss flooring options and pour over paint chips as we both were building new homes. But those times weren’t as often as before. Part of it was the constant time demand of dealing with construction decisions, but what went unsaid was the fact that we were no longer Pregnancy Pals.

Compared to her first baby, who I held when he was less than 24 hours, I did not see her daughter until she was almost two weeks old. She was on maternity leave and I was still working full-time so getting together to go for a swim, or lunch or shopping, were moments few and getting further between.

A couple years later, her husband was transferred to another region and they moved away. For the first year, she would call up when they had returned to town to visit family so that our sons could get together (XBoy took his friend’s move pretty hard, and he still talks about him), but even those times came to a stop. I don’t know when exactly the last time I saw her or her children, but I know it was before our donor egg cycle.

The other day I typed in her name on Facebook’s search and I saw her face for the first time in two years. It wasn’t just her I saw, either. Her profile picture was of her and flanking her, in a group hug, was her son and her daughter. They were both wearing back-packs. I assumed the picture was of their first day of school.

As I stared at the postage size picture on my screen, I saw what might have been.

Angrily, I also thought, what SHOULD have been.

I closed her profile screen without sending a friend request. I shut off the light above my computer, kissed my husband goodnight who was watching TV, and went to bed with my heart heavier than it has been in a long, long time.

I lost a baby and a good friend that fall. I really miss them.


Clover from Hidden Clover has graciously offered to update her blog with any immediate details, which I will text her with (maybe even a picture). Her blog is password protected so she will also stop by here and put in comments any information she is sent.

Clover and I go waaaayyyyyy back. She was the first SIF blog I read and she reached out to me knowing that our sad little genre covered those weird little gray areas of infertility after having children.

Thanks, Clover. Love ya, you cheeky monkey, you.


I started a rather serious post about how terrified I am right now: scared I’ll won’t bring home a baby – scared that I actually might.

Unfortunately, I just can’t spend a lot of time at a keyboard right now as each tap is like keying over shards of glass. That should also explain my limited commenting. That is, if you noticed.

Today I am supposed to finish up some preadmission bloodwork. Tomorrow I check in by 10:00 a.m. and if all goes well I will have my c-section at noon and meet Murdock. Sounds so simplistic, doesn’t it?

I don’t know when I’ll get a chance to update again. I suspect that I’ll be discharged by the weekend, barring any complications. Depending on how I feel, I might even be able to hijack a computer at the hospital since my laptop will be useless. And as I mentioned before, I will update via Twitter when I can.

As for the rest of my day, I will try to pack and work on convincing myself that I might actually be able to pull this off, this birthing a baby thing, without waking up and finding out that the past year has been nothing but an elaborate dream sequence of which the likes haven’t been seen since the TV show Dallas reincarnated Bobby (if you have no idea of what I’m referring to, I envy your youth). A year ago, I was recovering from my 4th miscarriage and my XXth Birthday, waiting for a donor match.

A million years ago…

A millisecond ago…


At this point, the idea that I may have had to wait until at least the 25th – my actual due date – to deliver Murdock seems absolutely ludicrous.

If it wasn’t for next week’s scheduled c-section, I would not only have NOT given up using the riding lawn mower, I would have loaded up a suitcase or two and driven that sonofabitch to South Dakota this weekend.

Aside from the contractions I experienced a few weeks ago, I’ve only had what have been identified as “irritated muscles” by my OB. Trust me, it’s not just my muscles that are irritated. This morning I was trying to fish my contacts out of my case, except my fingers, which are nothing less than kielbasa sized, would not fit past the opening. Plus, even if I was able to get a pinch on a contact, I couldnt’ feel it. Cue helpless tears before finally getting contacts in.

XBoy has been quite a trooper. I especially appreciate his nimbleness. While I feel a deep guilt for asking him to pick up things I drop, he’s so damn cheery about it that I assuage my guilt a bit by thinking he must enjoy feeling useful to his blimp of a Mom.

I did catch him peeking under the frosted part of the shower door this a.m. I’m not sure if he was confirming what I have been telling him for ages and that is girls don’t have penises, or if he was checking for the unnatural eclipse of the recessed shower light.

A couple of weeks ago, I called one of my favorite photography places to get pictures taken of Murdock and XBoy for announcements (I know! …how presumptuous of me!). I told the girl who answered the phone I wanted newborn pictures. She informed me that the soonest opening was in September. Not sure about you, but Murdock won’t be a “newborn” in September. Mr. DD and I have decided to try to tackle this task ourselves. Frankly, I’m worried. Lots of camera toys and attachment a photographer does not make. For either of us.

Related to that, I asked OB what he thought of us bringing a camera into surgery. While he stated he has no problems with it, the hospital has a policy against it. I guess they are afraid of the chance there might be documentation of someone fucking up. No matter. We are bringing our small, pocket digital in with us. Actually, Mr. DD will be bringing it as I will be crucified to the table. It’s not that I want pictures of my uterus laying on top of my abdomen or anything as graphic, but I would like to have a picture of Murdock covered in cottage cheese and blood while being held up by his/her freakishly large head to put in my still yet to be purchased baby book.

Makes you almost want to be there, doesn’t it? You can be in a way if you have a Twitter account. I finally figured out how to tweet from my phone and since the hospital does not have wi-fi, (and even though cell phones are supposedly not allowed on the unit….like, seriously?), I will try to give some brief spurts of info through Twitter. You can either click on the link over there on the right if you don’t have an account, or if you “follow” me, you’ll get the info automatically.

I seriously am flattering myself thinking you care, aren’t I? Delusional or hormonal? You be the judge.

And with that, I suppose I will start a pool as a continuation of me believing you are invested enough to guess Murdock’s stats at birth:

  • sex
  • weight
  • length

I’ll put together a little prize package of some kind or another to send to the commenter with the closest guess. I promise it will contain either chocolate, liquor or a combination of both, as well as a plethora of foam peanuts or packaging pillows.

If you would rather not guess, your comments are always welcome.

(How’s that for comment whoring?!)


Sometimes a quickie is just more satisfying, isn’t it? OK, this won’t exactly be a “quickie”, but just like when your man makes that promise and then falls through, so will I. I’ll at least apologize for the lack of foreplay and post-cuddle.

Still looking for drawer pulls for the “new” dresser. Zandra, I loved the idea of the blue/transparent legos. Unfortunately, they need to be a bit bigger – like duplos – but duplo doesn’t make transparent pieces. We’ve been toying with using band buttons (like Green Day, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Johnny Cash, etc.), but we’re still open to ideas.

Here’s the first-dining room/then-den/currently-spare bedroom, before:


And after:

The colors don’t come across very well via a photograph, but there it is. The sofa is a sleeper and my dough trough is peeking out in the lower right corner and stores quite a bit of bedding. It still needs some minor touches, but you get the idea.

My sincerest thanks to Scissorbill for the crib bedding; to Portlairge for the night-time soother; and to Katrinafor a stack of goodies (pictured below) for Murdock (and a little sump’n-sump’n for XBoy).

I have two NSTs remaining. One this Thursday and another yet again next Monday, which seems a bit much, especially since Wednesday is the c-section (scheduled at noon, which means maybe by 3:00 p.m. or later…stupid ENT and orthopedic surgeons – hogging the OR).

My edema has reached maximum capacity in my feet. To give you an idea, if you are a closet croc wearer, you know how roomy they are. And normally they are for me, too. Except now when I put them on, not only are they a bit of a squeeze, but when I take them off it’s like my feet have been put through a play-doh fun factory and every croc hole, bump and indentation is clearly visible.

Sure, you can say, “keep your feet up”, but that’s not possible with an office job. Nothing shy of laying absolutely verticle and on my side helps with the swelling. Add to that the continued discomfort in my hands, which I’ve nearly grown accustomed to, especially the non-stop tingling that one normally experiences when a limb wakes up.

So yeah. It’s getting down to the wire and I don’t feel any more prepared for us to bring home a baby than I did seven months ago. I have to remind myself constantly that after next week, instead of *it* finally being over (it = pregnancy), we are only just starting over.

Just as I had hoped, even as I have feared.


Thanks for the Birthday Wishes, everyone. For those of you who saw the pwp post and were like, “pfft! not going to bother typing in that crazy-ass password for another crappy post…” you? Are a party pooper and I’m keeping track of your party-pooper-eyness. I’m squinting my evil eye at you Dino, Kath, and Cricket (and several others, but I don’t want to humiliate any more of you then I need to).

My husband gave me Milky Way candy bars, Riesen chocolates, and vacuumed.

Yes, vacuumed!! Plus, he even added the brush attachment to vacuum the baseboards!

*sigh* I think I wuv him.

You have time for a rant?

While “enjoying” my NST this morning (overstuffed recliners suck monkey-ass at 37 1/2 weeks pregnant), I read some letters to the editor in one of those pregnancy magazines about elective c-sections. Keep in mind that my c-section is actually considered “elective” when done as a repeat. Some hormonal bitch wrote this long, spewing letter on how c-sections result in 99% infant mortality rates, congenital rickets, vaginal warts, illiteracy, and ringworm (OK, not really, but she really was laying it on) whereas vaginal births produce babies who qualify for Mensa and mothers who never experience postpartum depression (again, I exaggerate…a little…).

In a perfect world, sure, I would have loved to have had a vaginal birth, but for those who keep shoving the preconception that c-sections are solely being done because certain egotistical women don’t want to stretch out their vaginas or want to plan around a dinner party really need to watch their judgemental mouths. I know there are risks, but my risk for this “elective” c-section is much less then if I tried a VBAC. And personally, my emergency c-section seven years ago was preferable over a dead baby. Call me crazy…

Plus? I’m not going to end up with a torn taint with stitches catching in my underwear like freakish wild hairs AND my vagina will remain as purty as it was 20 years ago, with or without kegls.

So there.


I had my third NST as well as another ultrasound to measure fluid levels. Everything is still normal as far as the baby is concerned. Not so normal is the worsening of the carpal tunnel, especially in my left hand.

Imagine running your finger tips over some low grit sandpaper. At first it probably doesn’t hurt, but if you keep doing it over and over again eventually you’re going to feel first irritation, and then pain. The first two fingers and thumb tingle non-stop; flexibility is severely limited and performing simple tasks is becoming more difficult because of how weak my hand is. I can’t even insert my left ear-plug using the left hand. YOU try doing that with the opposite hand and you’ll quickly discover it’s not as easy as you would think. Additional suckage? It’s not just when I sleep anymore. It’s all day. Yesterday I sat with an ice pack wrapped around my wrist and hand to see if I could bring some comfort. Unfortunately, it didn’t help in the slightest.

My concern now is that it won’t diminish after Murdock is born, and that the damage has become more or less permanent (OB stated that if it doesn’t go away, it’s not related to the pregnancy). If my hand has become less than useful now, I’m worried about caring for a newborn if the tunnel remains blocked after the delivery. Then I will have to try to figure out when to have surgery while caring for said newborn since I’d want to get it done before returning to work in September.

It’s all speculation of course, using the worst case scenario, but what I thought was going to be a simple inconvenience has now become potentially serious.

I tell myself frequently that caring for a newborn with one useful hand is better than not having a newborn at all, right? I give myself reality checks frequently. Don’t even ask how many times I’ve worried myself almost sick about a stillbirth, especially after extended periods of quiet from Murdock. I also worry if it’s possible for an unborn to suffer from shaken baby syndrome…

I would like to write more about those fears, but something inside me makes me wonder if I’m not just trying to stroke my own ego when I should be focusing instead on the continuing preparations of the birth of Murdock and on just how lucky I am to be at this moment, especially when I am noting yet another of my shoulda/woulda due dates (Wolf) for myself, but the dates of a couple of other bloggers still either waiting or who have decided to put the painful processes of treatment behind them.

Par for the survival guilt-trip, I guess. I can’t imagine that it’ll ever go completely away.


Thank You!

Mr. DD called me and said a package had been delivered to the house to “Baby Murdock”. It took him a while to figure out who the hell that was since we don’t actually refer to Murdock as Murdock in real life. It’s just usually an equal usage of “he” or “she”.

The package was from Summer at Worrier/Warrior who is just now teetering into her second trimester through donor egg, and I couldn’t be more pleased with her progress. Thank you, Summer, so much for the sterilizer. I learned the first time that cleaning bottles with brushes and dishwashers was a real pain in the ass.

Also, my friend Mel from Minnesota deserves a public thank you as well for loaning me her playmat, boppy and jumper-thingy. In just six short years jumpers have evolved from the door jam hangers to saucer-like contraptions that require nothing more than three square feet of space. Genius!

I would also like to thank Shanna at Shinny Laboo for the gender-neutral newborn items she sent me a few weeks ago. When the box showed up, its size belied how many tiny things can actually be stuffed inside and it seemed I’d never reach the bottom!

That concludes the “Thank You” portion of this post. Now onto the “Bad Night”:

Bad Night(s)

It seems as if I’ve been stuck in a nightmarish loop of “just three more weeks” for the past six. Groundhog Day for the Pregnant Woman, perhaps? And that’s just three more weeks before my c-section. It’s actually four until my due date. It didn’t help that while out and about doing an errand last night, an acquaintance I hadn’t seen for some time asked if we were having twins.

I must be delusional as I thought most of my hugeness was originating out of my ankles. Want proof?

I have sharpei legs!! AAAiiieeeeeee!

Sleeping is still a much dreaded ordeal. I’ve become such a hormonal and whiny, crabby mess that when I wake by the fourth time each night, usually at 3:00 a.m., I’m literally in tears from the pain in my wrists and exhaustion. I never thought I would be such a blubbering mess at this point. At the same time, I wonder where I get the energy to answer the question, “How are you feeling?” with “Great!” when obviously, I’m not.

The Other Stuff

I did finally get someone scheduled to clean the  house. They will come for the first time July 11th. I went to that website to get my gift certificate for the service only to find that the GC is no longer available. You snooze, you lose.

Obviously nothing new to see here, move along. More interesting is the new reality show, The Baby Borrowers. I don’t know what is more insane: teenagers hoping to show they are ready to start a family now; or couples handing over their baby to clueless teenagers (of which there are one or two girls I’d love to slap across the face with a poop-filled diaper, especially the one who got so frustrated trying to feed the baby she ground out, “Fine, you can starve!” I’m looking at you, Alicea.).

If you’re not into picking up ONE. MORE. REALITY. SHOW! then I would also like to recommend that you stop and see Jessie over at Life As I Knew It Has Changed, who had a D&C as a follow-up to a biopsy that came back as pre-cancerous. A little stroking never did anyone harm, and she especially likes it…you dirty, dirty girl, you.


You know what 34 weeks of a relatively normal and uneventful pregnancy will do to you?

It can make you totally unprepared for when you start having contractions five to ten minutes apart as you drive home from the water park 45 miles away and the only other person in the vehicle is your six year old.

It’ll make you take note of each mile marker, just in case you have to call 911.

And even after you make it home and put your feet up, and the contractions finally space to 15 to 20 minutes apart you feel it’s necessary to call your OB.

Mr. DD fretted nervously and asked what me what I was going to do. I told him that if it got worse I would go to the hospital, they would give me some drugs, and then I’d come home the next day.

Talk about putting on a brave face and bullshitting.

Today will be a quiet day of activity for me, even though the kitchen floor crunches as I walk over it and the laundry has reached Everest proportions. I’d say it’s time to use up my house-keeping gift certificate (as well as temporarily hire their services over the next several weeks).

So while 34 weeks is pretty close to the end, I was also reminded that it’s still too damn early.


I’d like to believe that I’m not vain, but who the hell would I be kidding? Maybe “vain” is too strong. Let’s just say that it takes a certain self-indulgence to get breast implants, wear make-up, dye my hair to keep the roots at bay, keep nail polish on my toes, and of course daily maintenance of the unibrow even though I’s gots me a man.

Several weeks ago, I gave up the keeping up.

Because I refused (OK, I procrastinated) to purchase a bra that would better accommodate my implants while they compete with boobinitis, I have moments of regret for ever having surgery. I also am flashing back to those weeks after XBoy was born that not only would I fail the pencil test, I’m sure I would have failed a 2×4 test.

The only times I bother now with any make-up are when I have a meeting, church, or an evening outing with the in-laws (they don’t need to see how dark my eye-bags are or how I’m spontaneously morphing into a Trill. Yes, I know: sun screen).

The parting of the Great UniBrow has been complicated as I prefer to lean over the bathroom counter to remove the strays with a tweezer. Murdock, being the big-headed fetus that it is, objects to me mashing him/her against the counter’s edge, so I try to use a hand mirror. Since it is not my usual means, it’s awkward, and the daily sweep has been reduced to two to three times a week. Well, you know those hormones that are “Trilling” my face? They also make hair grow faster so the plucking  is now really just foraging.

Actually the hardest part during all this has been watching the scale. I was 15 lbs heavier when I got pregnant with Murdock than when I got pregnant with XBoy, thanks to years of stress, injections, stress, over indulgence, and stress. I also have gained in 8 months with Murdock what I had gained in 9 with XBoy, which probably explains why the current estimate of Murdock is sixish pounds, when poor little XBoy was 5 lbs and 12 oz at term.

It’s all fine, I guess in the big picture since it still is all within range of normal, but I can’t help but worry about what I’ll be dealing with in another nine months. I’m not the most physically active person in the world. Truth be told, I’m lazy. I use the excuse of asthma to not participate in anything cardio-related. The running joke I have right now is that I have two choices to get back into any of the clothes I had before October: Bulimia and Anorexia.

Bulimia’s appeal is I get to eat and eat and eat, but damn it! Then I have to puke and the thought of once again having vomit go up and out my nose *shudder*…not to mention that pesky side-affect of losing one’s esophageal lining after repeated purging, not to mention my back side feeling the “burn”.

Anorexia: not eating and exercising religiously? Neither of those options appeal to me. Refer back to my statement about being lazy. Admittedly, I’m not eating much now. While I was able to finish off full course meals a few weeks ago, enough food to put a Husker football player to shame, I’m now to the point that a couple of chocolate chips or maybe a handful of marshmallows fill me up. You wouldn’t want to imply that maybe the chocolate and marshmallows may be part of my problem, do you? Keep in mind that it’s nearly summer, I’m eight months pregnant, I feel, look AND walk like a troll, and my husband said to me this morning as he kissed me good-bye: “You look like a beach bag.”

Yeah. I dare you to go there.

I’m sure I’ll be pretty distracted by a certain needy little being who won’t care how many stomach rolls I have when I sit down or that there appears to be more shadows under my eyes than above. I’ll just have to take baby steps, now won’t I?


If you or someone close to you has suffered from either Bulimia or Anorexia, please do not take my literary jesting as not caring or that I take the diseases lightly.


When the Twitter Bandwagon rolled out, I was of the mindset to let it just float on by like so many blogging “trends” out there (Facebook, anyone?). Of course I was sucked in by peer pressure, like the lemming I am, and signed up. So just wanted to let you know that I have a Twitter account and if you would like to join in the fun, just click the little pin-up cowgirl over there on the right of your screen.


I was able to get the last of my TypePad posts moved over, thanks to Kate’s suggestion about deleting x-number of posts to get within the 100 maximum posts TypePad is currently allowing to export (due to some fucked up update they installed, which may or may not have been fixed by the time my agreement with TypePad expired). I have seen a handful of blogs deleted over my few years of blogging, and I have to tell you that I can’t imagine how difficult that must be since it caused me a few heart palpitations just to delete a few posts, even though they had been exported already to here. I’m still working out some bugs as a result, though.

Wow. This is some exciting shit, no? Sorry, I’m feeling a bit uninspired since Bloglines is still not updating my feeds and have not responded to my help ticket(s), nor to the threads started by hundreds of others with the same problem.


I had my 34 week ultrasound today to double-check the growth of Murdock’s kidneys. While they measure appropriately enough, OB wants to check them once again after Murdock is born.

Is born.

I still haven’t been able to visualize it, quite frankly.

Other than that, I was shown Murdock’s hairy head and pug-face (head measures at 37-plus weeks, so at least s/he will have something in common with XBoy who measured 90% in the cranial department for, like, forever. I’d like to believe it’s grey matter, but I think it’s just a predisposition to ego, thick-headedness, and physical imbalance) (XBoy has very little propensity for athletic ability).

Murdock is also currently head down and has thus far refused any attempt at getting a 3-D facial image that doesn’t look like something or someone either crapped on his/her face or beaten him/her with an ugly stick in utero. Hell, it could be a little of both for all we know.

Next appointment in two weeks in which we do the non-stress test (contraction and heart monitoring).

Vive la Reader.Google!


I’ve never felt as dirty as I do right now being pregnant. Dirty in the moral way, not the literal way.

When a couple is struggling with trying to get pregnant, the advice that comes spewing from anyone who knows they are trying is overwhelming.

Granted, most of the time, the suggestions, such as wearing boxer shorts, and certain positions, and propping up the hips are presented rather innocently even if wholly unwelcomed. Kind of like advice on how not to burn your vegetables when grilling the chicken at the same time. Of course, there’s always the pig in the bunch that’s willing to “help out”. Hey, if that’s the fantasy he needs to get his own job done, fine, but I certainly don’t need to know.

But now, I have tolerated much waggling of eyebrows and winks and fist pumping motions and not just from friends, but strangers passing me by with looks that say loud and clear, “I know what YOU have been up to”; or as a friend of mine from ages ago would say when he spotted a very pregnant woman, “She didn’t sleep with her feet in no bucket.”

My favorite  reaction was one that took place after mass on the church steps. The husband of a couple we were neighbors with at our old house told me how it seems that he just saw me a couple weeks ago and didn’t even know I was pregnant. I replied that yes, I really have popped recently. He said back to me, “That’s not all the popped, now is it?” *wink, wink, nudge, nudge*

As he stood there smirking at me and my husband, I was a breath away from replying back that Mr. DD wasn’t even around when I got myself “popped”. What an asshole. An unfortunate side affect to his comment was that now I had the image of him and his cold-fish of a wife fumbling about in the dark. Gah!

It’s as if I want to tell everyone the cold, clinical details of Murdock’s conception so they can just stop imagining Mr. DD and I getting our freak on and then making nasty innuendos. Why do people think that’s appropriate?! In fact, it’s too bad that they don’t know I’m nearly back to virginal goodness and purity at this point, trust me. Well, as close as I can be considering it’s me. Whatever, back off, Smutty McSmutmouth.


I have tried a variety of pillow forms to gain some comfort sleeping. It’s hard to determine if they help since they only seem to add to the sauna-like feeling of my bed and of course there’s the additional mass, which if it gets much bigger will surely alter the ocean tides. But I keep trying different combinations of pillows because if I didn’t, I couldn’t bitch to you and hope for more suggestions, now could I?

I’m not ready to give up mowing yet. It’s not like I’m pushing around any devices. Remember I live on an acreage. Anything that doesn’t take out about a five foot swath of grass weeds is worthless. If my husband had been around on Sunday while I was mowing I would have had him take a picture.

Imagine if you can, me in a sports bra, covered by a tank top “matched” with a pair of my husband’s old sweat pants cut off raggedly above the knees. Add to that, ankle socks and my (bright) yellow crocs. Finally to add the capital “K” to the klassy look I was sporting, a green bandanna to cover my hair and safety glasses. While I always tell friends and family they are welcome to stop by anytime, I’m sure I would have hoped to be swallowed up by the yucca plants if anyone had actually stopped by that day.

Generally, it’s low impact, minus the bouncing over the ruts, so I consider it relatively safe. Plus, as soon as Murdock starts objecting, I take a break.

Remember the family picture we were going to take for the church snoop bookdirectory? We got the picture back and I have it scanned. I’ll share the final look below, but first you should know that it’s obvious I’m pregnant; and secondly, my hair is NOT that color. I don’t know what the hell they did to it, but it doesn’t have that red in it anymore and it has blonde highlights. It’s like they painted over my hair. Ugh. Good thing the actual published photo will probably be the size of a postage stamp.


 P.S. Today is XBoy’s procedure. Think painless thoughts for him.


Sleeping, which use to be one of my fave past times, has basically become the stuff of nightmares. Pardon the pun (that counts as a pun, right?).

Basically I wake up every hour, on the hour. Not because I have to go to the bathroom. I wake because my hips, cranked now to maximum width (just ask my trousers), cannot handle the pressure of laying on them for more than an hour and I wake in pain. I do take that moment to waddle into the bathroom to empty my bladder, and then go back to bed to lie on the opposite side.

This process is actually easier than trying to roll from one side to the other, which is not entirely impossible but most certainly comical since it can take me one than one try to get enough momentum for the weight of my girth to pull me to the other side.

The heat of the waterbed, which I thought I would miss once we got a conventional mattress (now on the back burner) now is like a bed of coals, even with it turned to its lowest setting. As someone who required a cover on them when they sleep, regardless of the ambient air temperature, I now am flinging the comforter off the bed in sweaty aggravation. I’ve even migrated to the spare bedroom to sleep on the regular mattress because it is nice and cool. The downside is that it makes my hips hurt all the more.

Apparently I am now competing with Mr. DD in the snoring department. What slays me is when I wake up to Mr. DD’s snoring and give him that poke to get him to stop, he’ll then wake and say, “Well, you were buzzing wood when I was trying to get to sleep!” Hey, genius…YOU  got to sleep. I’M  the one awake now.

And then a recent appointment I mentioned one other strange symptom to OB: my hands are falling asleep at night. Both of them at the same time. I have tried holding them in different positions thinking maybe, just maybe, I was laying on them weird, to no avail. Come to find out that the swelling that turns mild-mannered ankles into earth shattering Cankles? It can actually bring about carpal tunnel in your hands, hence the man-hands. To minimize this, OB suggested I wear wrist splints to bed. I tried it and it didn’t help. It’s even getting so bad that when I was mowing, my left hand kept falling asleep.

My once much anticipated part of the day I use to have, the sleeping, has been reduced to suckage. You’ll have to take my word for it when I say that when the baby gets here and is waking every three hours for a feeding, it’ll be a dream come true. Three straight hours of sleep? It makes me smile just thinking about it. 

Any suggestions about the hands will be welcome. While I can make due with the achy hips and back, this is beyond my tolerance for the next six weeks.


So it’s no big secret that I’m pregnant through a fresh donor-egg cycle. However, it has been rather difficult for me to really talk about being pregnant. You know, all that survivor-guilt bullshit added to the idea that I’m might just be tempting the gods to rain their fury down on me.

But it’s due time for me to just dump it all out here.

I’ll be 33 weeks tomorrow, the 29th of May. I had an OB appt today and I’ve gained a respectable 26 pounds. Only couple more than I did with XBoy. Then again, I was probably 20 pounds lighter seven years ago. I feel like a lumbering cow, thank you. My friend told me that at least my face doesn’t look fat…she’s lucky I like her.

It’s been an unfortunate act of nature that my placenta is anterior. Movement from the baby is greatly reduced. I never feel Murdock’s movements when standing. I would also have to say I rarely ever get any kicking. Instead it’s rolling, or as Michelle described recently with her pregnancy, the baby seems to be practicing a lot of yoga poses.

I cannot bend over to pick up things. Hence the reason I feel like crying when I drop things, which is often. Last night I sat on the floor, legs stretched out in front of me and tried to reach my toes. I could barely touch my knees. According to books and websites, when purchasing maternity clothes, purchase your regular pre-pregnancy size. They are fucking liars. Or, let me put this less harshly: purchase your regular pre-pregnancy size for your first and maybe your second trimester, but kiss anything size Small to Medium good-bye in the third. No matter that you may have been a size 2 before pregnancy, you will be a large or x-large by the 8th month. I dare you size 2 girls to dispute this openly.

I will have another ultrasound in two weeks to check Murdock’s growth and to see what is going on with his/her kidneys, which were measuring a bit large on our last ultrasound. I try not to think about it, nor google it, since OB said it’s usually  nothing to worry about. I will probably also do a non-stress test as an added precaution since that is what showed us that I required extra monitoring when I was pregnant with XBoy.

My OB also was swayed into letting me schedule a c-section a day earlier than 39 weeks. He said that the problems that have surfaced regarding earlier c-sections have to do with women who really don’t know when their due dates are. You know? Those women who get pregnant without either the low-tech ovulation sticks, or high-tech ART? So the next time someone dares to say to me, “You’re  the reason the cost of healthcare is rising,” in response to my c-section announcement will not only get a size 7 (OK, size 8. Shoe sizes don’t remain the same, either) shoved squarely up their ass but an earful of how it’s couples who don’t know the difference between ovulation and ovation; or luteal phase and lunar phase, that may be to blame.

So there you have it. Me at a mind-numbing 33 weeks pregnant. Still with no boy’s name*. Still with only the baby clothes that Shanna sent me (Thank you, again!). And still using the doppler after Murdock refuses to be poked, shoved or sugared up to move after what I think is still too long of a time motionless, which may only be 30 minutes.

Housekeeping notes (I almost typed “Hosekeeping…”):

Currently, there appears to be only one feed for this blog:

I don’t know if I need to do something else, or if this is the only one that I will have. Someone will have to let me know. Update/Add as you see fit.

I know how difficult or uncomfortable it can be to ask for a password. I feel a little intrusive and self-conscious when I have to ask, so I get it. The password protected posts are there to protect me from co-workers who continue to feel morally compelled to get information about my pregnancies, IVFs, and miscarriages from my blog rather than myself; and to keep my husband’s family from putting a hit on me. If you have asked for the password and I have not responded, it’s not because I don’t want you to have it. It’s because I didn’t get your email or it dropped into the spam bucket. Just let me know if I’ve missed you. If you feel more comfortable getting the password from a blogger you recognize from here, I don’t have a problem with that, either, as long as you as the blogger giving it out can vouch for the requester.

* Seriously, we have no idea one way or another if Murdock is a boy or a girl. It’s just that I have a girl’s name ready, but no boy’s name. I’m starting to stress a bit about that.