Caution: Live Animals

I'm supposed to be working on a grant application right now, but that's not gonna happen. Fuck you, Career. No one gives a shit about you. I know you thought that after Crushing Depression went away to college you'd be the center of attention, but guess what! Baby on the way! Count yourself lucky if you get your basic needs met and don't get abandoned in a grocery store parking lot.

Instead, I am producing a belly shot flip book for Mr. Bunny's stocking. (And you thought my efforts to make those shots look the same were purely aesthetic!) It's not going to be the most amazing flip book ever, but just wait for Part Two. Because I love multitasking, I'm simultaneously marveling at the fact that there's a live animal inside my body.

I seem to have entered the Phase of Reliable Movement. Monday was Bun Bun's first really wiggly day, where rather than a little bloop! here and a little flutter! there I got successive minutes of good, solid bumping. In the past few days he's even developed a bit of a schedule of kicking in the morning and evening. Holy shit. A schedule.

And I'm sorry if I'm pouring salt in your open wounds, but...it's the Most Amazing Thing Ever. It also brings home to me the fact that this experience is likely to be a succession of the most amazing things ever. That positive pregnancy test was the most amazing thing ever. Hearing a heartbeat was yet more amazing. Seeing a human-shaped fetus was more amazing still. You get the idea. I suspect it goes on like this until Bun Bun becomes a foul-tempered teenager.

I mean seriously, who could care about her career at such a time?

Some small consolation?

I recall how, back in the sad days before I was a glorious fetus-bearer, I used to revel in the massive asses of pregnant women. It was about all there WAS to revel in, since their whining and complaining made me want to stab them, and was thus not a good source of Schadenfreude. I can't promise that my ass is particularly huge yet, BUT I thought you might draw some comfort from the fact that I have become a person who drools.

I wish I could tell you that it's constant and I'm like a stroke victim, but it's only when I'm sleeping. And it's because I've got a particularly unrelenting case of rhinitis of pregnancy. Did you know that was a thing? It totally is. Its name should be Exploding Snot Head of Pregnancy, 'cause that's more accurate. After fifteen weeks of this shit, I'm amazed I haven't sneezed Bun Bun to death. Anyway, I'm now a mouth breather, and that means that when I'm asleep, I generate a big puddle of slobber. Yes, when I wake up, I have to wipe my face. I hope that makes you smile.

Meanwhile, I had another OB appointment this morning. I'm amazed at the extent to which I can generate serious anxiety in just a few days. I mean: fetus alive on Thursday. Probability that fetus will be alive on Monday = high. Probability that fetus will be alive = high in general. But I became convinced that the hot bath I'd taken on Saturday had killed my baby and the round ligament pain I was feeling was the precursor to a wonderful stillbirth experience. Probably not, as it turns out. I suppose this phase of feeling movement only every few days is a tough phase. (Maybe not quite as tough as experiencing six losses in a row or a failed donor egg cycle or an incompatible with life diagnosis or endless cycles of nothing at all, but who can say. Ha. That was me being funny. You can tell because you were laughing super hard.) I guess there's just something about the reality-check nature of these appointments that makes it impossible not to fear them. Anyway, four more weeks of, Deo volente, not being freaked out.

Fetus report

This whole live fetus in the uterus thing is the SHIT! You should get yourself one!

Little IF joke there. Too close to the bone to be funny? Sorry... I had my anatomy scan this morning and am recovering from the anxiety that attends these things, so I'm even more insensitive than usual.

Bun Bun is alive. Okay, this is what I was expecting. But the whole time we were waiting, Viking Rune Candle Lady's very vivid description of discovering (at 20 weeks, in a room somewhere in that imaging suite, perhaps even the same room) that her twins were dead kept running through my head on endless repeat. But my baby's not dead, and has all the right parts in all the right places, including sex organs that remain a secret. It was pretty incredible to watch him moving around and to feel nothing at all. (I've got ye olde anterior placenta so it will probably be a while yet before I can be certain anything I'm feeling is really him.) Beautiful spine, awesome little feet, kidneys...all the good stuff a baby needs. After the nice sonographer had finished, a mean doctor came in and told me about how ancient I am and made sure I knew I could have amniocentesis. Go away, mean doctor.

So that was pretty awesome. Then I dragged my almost-advanced-maternal-age carcass to work where I will spend my day dealing with angry students who want me to know that getting a B in my course will prevent them from getting into medical school and pretty much ruin their lives. And I'll be like FUCK YOU. RUINING LIVES IS MY FAVORITE THING.

Hot tip: Picture of my baby's mashed up face on Bun Bun's page.

Feeling low?

Perhaps these pictures from my students will cheer you you up. (These in response to a question on their final exam, which can be seen below.)

This one is awesome because it includes a sketch of ME! Now you know what I really look like!

I'm sorry to say she scored a 44/50. I feel pretty bad about dooming her to banishment, but oh well.

The male perspective...

My personal favorite. But then, I'm a sucker for talking unicorns.

The obligatory Roughly a Year Ago... post

Roughly a year ago, I'd just started writing this here internet web journaly thing. I'd been through four IUIs and was about to have the laparoscopy that would achieve...basically nothing. I'd recently asked my clinic whether there was any kind of support group I could join,  and had been told I wasn't infertile enough to join their group. I'd been lurking in this community for a month or so, but felt like I couldn't comment because I didn't have an identity. So I decided to write. Indeed, I wrote a post while sitting in my large lecture class, administering a final exam to a bunch of sweaty kids, like I'm doing right now.

I'm not going to write a so much has changed in a year post, one about the fact that I never ever EVER thought I'd be one of the lucky ones who escaped so easily (and who knows what might happen in the next few months--I was just thinking this morning, hey, two more weeks and I'll be officially in stillbirth [as opposed to miscarriage] territory!), or about how much having your support has meant to me or improved my ability to cope or made me feel connected (but re-reading my angsty first post sure makes that clear!), or about how long this sentence is. I've read a lot of brilliant posts like that and I just can't compete.

Instead, I'm going to write a little something for the Me that might be out there, wondering whether she should start her own internet web journaly thing. You totally should. Maybe you think you'll pour your heart out, and no one will hear you (except the spam bots). Hey, it's possible. It's possible you'll be the most unpopular person on the entiiiiiiiiiire internet. Maybe you think you'll be boring. Trust me, we're all boring. Maybe you feel self conscious, like nothing you could write would be worth reading, like you could never be as witty and poignant as me. And of course you can't, but I promise that there's someone waiting to hear what you, and you alone, have to say. Whatever other reservations you have, put them aside and get started. It's not that having a blog will get you pregnant. Though having a social support network is linked to better outcomes and better psychological recovery after unsuccessful treatments. And for true support, there needs to be reciprocity. (Just reading ain't enough.) I think the main reason I'd urge you to start has to do with a general principle I tell these very students (most of whom have now finished their exams). Labeling affect allows prefrontal cortex to downregulate activity in the amygdala. In English: putting your feelings into words gives you control over them, and reduces their negative impact. So even if no one ever reads a word you write, it's worth it.

Like last year, I've got a question on my final exam where students are asked to draw a picture representing their current state of mind. I promise to share any particularly brilliant ones.

Sidney

If you have read The Fir Tree, you might understand how I come to be completely unable to have a real Christmas tree. The story is pretty fucking intense. If you don't agree, you must have read some disneyfied version that skips the tree's loneliness and agony. I'd include some illustrative excerpts, but I don't want to drag you into my dark world. 

Perhaps because this story was read to me at a tender age and my mother never allowed us to have a Christmas tree because it was cruel to kill trees, and perhaps because I happen to be overburdened with empathy for living things, a Christmas tree has never been possible for me. I understand that in principle it's no different from picking a head of lettuce, but this is not about logic, it's about emotion.

Anyway, Mr. Bunny and I are staying home this Christmas all by ourselves, and we're working on generating our own traditions. After discussing my immobility on the question of real trees*, Mr. Bunny raised the possibility of a fake tree. I was ambivalent. I mean, fake plants? Yuck. But on the other hand, perhaps it would work. So we purchased Sidney (Mr. Bunny named him). We shelled out the big bucks for true needle technology. He's a "baby napa redwood". (Sure he is, people at fake trees dot com.) We decorated him yesterday, and while I miss the piney smell and the magic of having a tree in your house (a TREE! in your HOUSE! I've experienced it at other people's places), Sidney is a total success in terms of simulating Christmasness. Mr. Bunny is thrilled. More to the point, I got to make the tree skirt pictured below, which features trim with those little jiggley balls. I LOVE THAT SHIT! I'd decorate my FACE with it if I could.

(Why yes, that ornament IS a potato.)

*If you're like you should get a live tree, you must a) think I live on a farm where I can plant an endless succession of trees or b) want me to tell you some stories about the long-suffering live trees I've witnessed...weighed down by ornaments, clearly contemplating suicide... not for me, thanks.

THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE

Almost every day, Mr. Bunny asks me if THE QUICKENING has occurred yet. And of course I respond with THERE CAN BE ONLY ONE! and make like lightening is crackling out of my belly. As has every pregnant woman since 1986.*

Like everything else associated with reproduction, this whole "feeling movement" thing is not what I imagined. That whole area is increasingly active (I hear tell it's because my intestines are being gradually shoved up to my chin), so I've established some guidelines to keep me reasonable. Like: if it makes a gurgling noise, it's not Bun Bun. Or: if it's followed by an unpleasant smell, it's not Bun Bun. All the same, friends, this weekend I had a moment where, all logic aside, I was viscerally (HA!) certain that I felt Bun Bun flourishing his little broadsword in there. It happened as I was pulling out of a Dunkin Donuts parking lot. Can you imagine a more beautiful setting? I can't. It was just a little bloop! but there was something about it...

There were two other fetus related firsts this weekend.
1. I bought new bras. When I brought them home, Mr. Bunny I and stood there marveling at how huge they are. Like TENTS. I mean, I don't appear particularly huge in the bosom, so it was odd to suddenly have these enormous bras in my house. That are ostensibly for me to wear. Which I did immediately, because YOWZA! The old ones don't fit no mo'.
2. I got my first surprise attack of the belly rub. We attended LP1's Chanuka party (the same party at which, last year, she announced that she was pregnant with her second and I spent the rest of the event wanting to die), and when I gave her a hug, she sneakily seized the opportunity rub me. WOAH! I'd always figured I could avoid the belly grope, but now I see that more craftiness and strategy will be required. Like, I should avoid hugging people. Or...people, full stop.




*In case you have no idea what I'm talking about.

A little ART mockery

Mr Bunny came home after a few days out of town last night. He gazed thoughtfully at me.

I think you might be...pregnant, he said.

Did we engaged in any unsafe activities about...four...months ago?

Like...maybe having a nurse practitioner inseminate you with my washed sperm?

You can get PREGNANT that way? I replied in horror.

I didn't THINK so, Mr. Bunny said, but...

We plan to visit local sex ed classes to spread the word: IUI is not the effective form of birth control we once believed it to be.

In other news, today is my last day of classes. Sure I've got a hideous pile of terrible papers to grade, and after my teaching assistant slaves finish grading the final exams for my big class, I've got the unpleasant fallout to deal with (E.g., e-mails reading: why did i get a F in yr class bc i never came or did my hws but i tried really hard on the final and i don't think its fair.), but the most energy consuming part of my semester will be over in a few hours. HOT DAMN. I aim to fucking celebrate by eating a burrito and going to bed.

No shower for this Bunny

I spoke to BFB on the phone last night. I made horrible faces when she talked about her baby, and kept my responses to her queries about my fetus pretty minimal, so it wasn't bad. At the end of our conversation, she asked what I would like in the way of a baby shower. She was sweet about it, actually, saying she wanted to make sure I felt loved and supported. I'm coming down on the side of nothing at all, though. There are a few reasons, but it boils down to this. When I think about what I'd want, it's clear that I can't have it.

Here's what I really want. I want time to stop for me* for a few years. While I'm frozen, I want all of you who are not already pregnant to become so. I want you to have healthy and joyful pregnancies wherein you enjoy...almost...every moment of the experience. I want you to have trouble-free deliveries and rosy-cheeked, happy babies. I want you to go through early parenthood and learn all there is to know about raising infants. Then I'll rejoin you. I'll invite you to my house. Teleportation will have been invented so it won't be a pain to come. We'll eat cupcakes and you'll share your accumulated wisdom with me. We'll commiserate over our various journeys and talk smack about Fertile Whores. You'll get drunk and I'll be envious.

But I can't have that. 'Cause teleportation is a long way off.

In reality, I have a small group of non-local friends, most of whom could not come to Ohio. Even BFB herself would have a tough time flying from CA with a baby and a teaching schedule, and she's also on the job market so may have interviews and campus visits, but it will all be up in the air for a while. (She intimated that I could come to CA [where several of my friends live] and I was like FUCK YOU.) In addition, most of my friends don't want kids, so have no wisdom to offer on the subject of which stroller to buy.

I feel slightly sad about it, but only because the IDEA of being surrounded by loving, wise women is pleasant. However, that's not my reality. And I should keep in mind that if I did have a lot of women in my life with loads of experience with babies, I'd have spent the past two years hating them and wanting to stab them in the throats.





*Um, and I guess for Bun Bun, too, or that could be pretty problematic. And Mr. Bunny. And my tenure committee.

Our calendar

Every year, Mr. Bunny and I produce a letterpress calendar. It's a nice Christmas gift that doesn't take up much space during the year, and can be recycled at the end of it. Designing and producing the calendar is a pleasant part of our December, too. I do drawings (which are then turned into letterpress plates via..uh...magic, by the people at Box.ca.r P.ress) and Mr. Bunny does the layout of the dates and stuff and all the printing, on a five thousand ton proof press that lives in our third-floor studio. It requires a lot of collaboration (so it's always like going to marriage camp--can we get through this without fighting?), but is very satisfying. Last year the calendar featured pop-ups (pop up animals and stuff). This year, it features little doors, advent calendar style. One is opened each month, and behind each door will be found a recipe for a seasonally appropriate cocktail. (Because I want a fucking drink.) It's always a bit crude and funky, but that's part of the charm, we think. And while we do it mainly for the fun of it, I regularly get e-mails from people when they turn to the next page, so it provides this sweet link to loved ones over the course of the year. ANYWAY, during the design phase, we were talking about what to do with May, the month that Bun Bun will theoretically arrive. Did we want to do something baby-related? For example, some balloons or flowers at the door to signify the new arrival? A baby in a basket? We stroked our chins. HELL NO, we decided. Because if something goes wrong, that would be extremely fucking sad. We'd have to send everyone a big black X to paste over that month. But in the end, I couldn't let the opportunity pass entirely, because I can't think of May without thinking of Bun Bun. So here's the May door, modeled after my very own front door.

No-one but us will think anything of it: May is, after all, a season when one starts to see tons of bunnies if one lives in an area with bunnies. Or they'll be like, Bunnies, whatever, and rip it open to get at the liquor. But for us...hopeful anticipation.

No AIDS or syphilis here!

My fetus is still alive (shoop shoop shoop!) and kicking (sploosh! sploosh!). My OB went over the results of my genetic screening and other blood tests and I was pleased to learn that I am still AIDS/syphilis free that that my blood type hasn't changed. Anatomy scan in three weeks.

When I have an appointment, I always think about my OB practice relative to others in town. As I've said before, I LOVE the fact that my RE's office is across the hall, that I had my surgery and recovered in a room three floors above, and that, God willing, I'll deliver and recover two floors above. I love the continuity of the experience, the way that I am always reminded both of how lucky I am and also of what I had to do to get here. And of course I love the fact that it's a mile from my house and across the street from my office. But there's another interesting feature to the practice. This is not a practice where people from my socio-economic bracket come. Not to put too fine a point on it, the middle-class white folk all go to offices in the suburbs. Even fellow faculty members, for whom this office is obviously convenient. As I sit there surrounded by 15 year old African American girls, I often wonder: Is this avoidance of a perfectly nice practice just classism, or am I missing out on a better experience? I think the service I receive might be a little slower (in the sense of waiting times) and more harried. (E.g., today I sat in the exam room for quite a while. When my OB came in she said she'd just come from the ER. I couldn't help but feel a chill, and found myself inspecting her coat for blood spatters.) The flow of information might be a little less clear (e.g., I had no idea how to get my NT scan results). There are no cashmere exam robes or lavender-scented organic doppler jelly or whatever. And the fancy pants OBs don't practice here, so if I wanted someone with fancy pants, I'd be out of luck.

But you know what? Regular pants are just fine with me. And I guess, as a formerly poor person, I'm more comfortable with my old bracket than my new one. What's more, Bun Bun needs to learn early about the real world, even if that means being probed through a layer of low-rent jelly.

The book *I* need

My mother sent me a couple of pregnancy books. I don't think I could ever have bought one myself, so I guess I should be appreciative. And I am--I feel incredibly lucky to be able to look through them, like any other one of the extremely naive women who appear to be their target audience. Having flipped through them, I have a few observations.

First, no matter what color your skin is, it seems that your baby will be white as the driven snow. There are plenty of pictures of Asian, African American, Latina/Mexicana women during pregnancy, but the babies are all white, white, white. I guess you need to specify in your birth plan that you'd like your baby to be of a particular race/ethnicity, and a lot of women forget in the heat of the moment? I don't know.

Second, the chapters on preparing for fatherhood are all about financial planning. PATERNALISTIC BASTARDS.

Third, these books are no fun for a woman who has no choice about her cesarean. The first few chapters are pretty much pointless (Here's how reproduction works! Oh yeah? FUCK YOU YOU FUCKING FUCKERS. Here are some positions for comfortable intercourse during pregnancy! Ain't gonna need 'em. Here's a chapter on things that can go horribly wrong! I am SO not reading that.) and then it's all about childbirth. I've learned that childbirth is a miraculous process involving a beautiful ballet between myself and my baby, that there are many important ways my partner can be part of the process (which will be an amazing source of tender bonding between us), that I'll be astonished at what my body can do, that I'll be able to look back on the experience as one in which I was tested and triumphed... I've also learned that c-sections are evil. That my baby won't breastfeed, will have asthma and other respiratory problems, and will pretty much grow up to be a serial killer. Okay, I get why they feel the need to get all scoldy about c-sections. But I have to say, it feels pretty shitty to read. Every chapter seems to insinuate that I am unworthy of this experience in some way.

So here's the book I need:
You are going to have a healthy, happy, baby and kick some fucking ass at this mothering biznass. Let's take a look inside.

Chapter 1: Getting pregnant the hard way: You are a bad ass.

Chapter 2: Survivor's guilt: Yes, you're less of a bad ass than your infertile internet friends who have been through so much more. But you can't do shit to help them get/stay pregnant except show your love. Their journeys are their journeys.

Chapter 3: A hundred thousand reasons why you will NOT lose this baby and why it's okay to want sleep more than sex. And yes, you can eat that fucking snicker's bar. Have two.

Chapter 4: Having a c-section: It won't turn your baby into a murdering cannibal who stabs kittens in the eyes, and your husband will love you despite your inability to do any of this like normal women. And yes, you won't be able to compare labor stories with other women, but fuck them anyway.

Chapter 5: Breastfeeding will be fine.
 
Chapter 6: Why formerly infertile couples make better parents.

My next OB appointment is on Monday, and I've pretty much run out of faith that everything's okay, so I could really use Chapter 3 right now.

OH MY BOWELS!

Back when I first started trying to conceive, I made sure to plan ahead and request an afternoon teaching schedule. So that morning sickness wouldn't interfere with teaching, see? Let's all just take a moment to point and laugh at my stupid former self.

Luckily, the internal woes I've suffered have interacted fairly well with needing to teach. There have been a few times I thought I was gonna spew in the middle of my lecture, but I had my air sickness bag, a quick exit route planned, and I was just going to hope I'd remember to turn off the microphone I have to wear in my larger class. So far, so good, on that end. But Thursday, in my smaller class, the other end of my digestive tract reared its ugly head. The students were working on their papers, and I was chatting with one guy about his outline, when suddenly...ATTACK OF THE SUPER-INTENSE INTESTINAL CRAMPS. I knew what was coming. My jammed up bowels were finally ready to evacuate, and when they did, they were going to evacuate with a vengeance. My eyes glazed over. I  felt faint. Cold sweat sprang from my brow. I thought maybe I could play through the pain. But...no. With a trembling hand, I passed the student's outline back and said, I have to step out for a moment. THANK GOD I knew where the nearest restroom was. THANK GOD it was empty, because, oh lord, no one deserved to be exposed to what ensured thereafter.

Anyway, my intestines are now totally ready to start packing it in again! So that maybe we can repeat the experience this week.

P-A-I vs. F-F: Battle to the Death?

Lately I've been thinking about the relationship between the Pregnant-After-Infertility woman and her Fertile Friend. This thinking was inspired mainly by my own relationship with the only fertile friend I've got, BFB. (Most of my very few friends don't want kids or are men, so may technically be fertile, but don't count.) But also by Trinity's Baby Shower Series. The issues she was grappling with are very different from mine, but there are some common threads. Because issues have threads. Love me, love my mixed metaphors. And by a post of Sienna's about a friend who is due shortly after S. and is so excited to share the experience. But I don't want to make any assumptions about their thinking, so we'll just focus on me.

I've been struggling with the fact that I still resent my best friend for getting pregnant so instantly, for the pain I endured while watching her be pregnant, and for the pain I endured while watching her be a mother. I don't want to tell her about my pregnancy, I don't want to hear about her baby. And because those are the major things going on in our lives, we have nothing to talk about. We've been making a good effort via e-mail, but she wants to talk on the phone and I'm thinking...what's the point?

On the surface, there's nothing much to ruminate about here. IF = baggage, friends with babies = hard to navigate, pregnancy ≠ magic cure. But then there's the part of me that thinks I need to get over myself already. I mean, am I seriously never going to open my heart to her? Am I trying to punish her by holding back on the details and keeping her out? Am I trying to make sure she remains "other" so I can shore up my identity as someone who has Been Through Something? Is it just that I don't know if I'm going to have a baby for reals, so I'm protecting myself? I know if Anonymous were here (not the nice Anonymous who just happens not to have or want to share her internet identity, but the Anonymous who is CRAZEEEE) she'd say u shud get over ursel you stupid inferil cow you don't diserve a frend at all b/c u r 2 self involved and unable to see beyond your own petty, artificially magnified sense of your own suffering. Or something like that. And she ain't entirely wrong.

When I last posted about this intensely fascinating relationship, y'all mainly advised me to give it time and accept that relationships change. Excellent advice. But...what do I do while I'm giving it time?

"Necrotic" + "your uterus" = not in the same sentence, please

Normal Glumness is back in effect. I'm particularly glum for Roccie, not that my glumness will do her one bit of good. Fuck.

Anyway, I wanted to mention something that might be of interest to other Sisters of the Fibroid. At my very first pregnant ultrasound (lo, these many weeks ago) my RE noted that there's a new meatball a'growin' away in my poor pelvic cavity. When we discussed the surgery he'd mentioned that should I ever become pregnant, any existing fibriods would grow more rapidly than usual because they like yummy estrogen. So this was not a big shocker. At my first meeting with my new OB she commented on the new meatball. She said she might do more ultrasounds than normal to keep an eye on it. She explained that "the pregnancy" (you mean my fetus? What's up with referring to it as THE PREGNANCY?) would draw blood supply away from the meatball. As a result, she said, it might become...she looked at me. I looked at her. Necrotic we said in unison. It was a cute little bonding moment. There's no particular cause for concern at the moment, but...fucking fibroids. They just don't quit.

I also finally got the results of the NT scan. Normal. I had to call--they don't tell you anything unless there's a problem. I'm not sure that's my favorite approach, but that's the price I pay for going to a hospital office rather than some cushy suburban OB with an aromatherapy doppler or whatever. I'll get the more specific details at my next appointment.

I'm not THAT happy

(Today's title change is for you, Egghunt.)

For heaven's sake, can't a girl express a little gratitude without everyone thinking she's HAPPY? I have a reputation for pessimism and snarkiness to protect. In fact, Friday I had a department meeting that left me fuming with rage (my colleagues are such jackasses, and when I try to divert their jack-assery, I just end up being a jackass too) and hating my job, and I felt like shit all weekend and snarled at my husband and didn't get the ironing done. SO THERE! (But I suppose you guys will see through this pathetic pretense, because it's true that, globally, I am happier than I've been in a super long time. It's just that there's a heavy layer of real life on top of that happiness.)

Anyway, I wanted to share an awesome dream I had last night in which some stupid, insipid woman showed me her positive pregnancy test (it was a new-fangled design with a huge happy face and like pink and blue balloons on it) and I hurled it across the room in horror and disgust. Just so you know I am still  a hater.

This job ain't so bad

Yesterday I met with my Department Chair to reveal the existence of ye old fetus. He stared at my belly, with an expression of obvious astonishment that there could be anything in there. (Yeah, I'm not showing. But I swear it's not an elaborate ruse to get a reduced workload.) The meeting was totally fine. One of the glorious things about academia is that there are clear policies about all this shit, and, because a university is supposed to be a sensitive, family friendly place, they pretty much have to be nice to me. But there is bureaucracy. I got to draft a little letter to go up to the Dean. Here's how it reads.

 In accordance with Section II.E of the faculty handbook, I am requesting workload release from teaching and service duties for the Fall semester of 2011. I expect to give birth in May of 2011. I will be the primary care-giving parent of this child.

Isn't that romantic? Nothing says bundle of joy like quoting Section II.E of the faculty handbook. But I have been experiencing a renewed sense of gratitude for my job. Partly because one of my students recently asked me when I decided I wanted to be a professor. I was fifteen. And I made it happen. If you know anything about academia, you know that's not easy. I'm very lucky. And partly because I've been doing real work this week (as per my resolution), which has begun to remind me ever so vaguely of a time when I loved my research. And partly because I've been experiencing a renewed sense of gratitude for EVERYTHING IN THE WORLD. Okay, except poverty, and hunger, and oatmeal (blech!), but all the other stuff.

Caution: Wheat-related post

So if you're not up for reading about hot, delicious, buttery rolls, click away.

Mr. Bunny has been doing a lot of baking lately. Last night he made rolls. You see, an important part of my Thanksgiving tradition is those nasty brown-and-serve rolls you get from the supermarket. But much as I love their amazing softness, I'm a little horrified by the 5,000 word ingredient list. So this was our first effort to make our own, a sort of test run for Thanksgiving. And they were perfect. Little bites of heaven, slathered with oodles butter. We had them with my delicious cream of spinach soup, and I probably ate about three hundred. Okay, wheat part over, the rest will be about babies.

I'm 14 weeks today. No matter how you count, this is definitely the second trimester. Morning sickness is OVAH! And I do have slightly more energy, but it's hard to say whether this is biological or psychological. It takes a lot of cognitive effort to worry about miscarrying. And sure, I still spend some of my time on that each day, but...less. And I'm more willing to do things that presuppose this will work and might seem hubristic and invite the Fates to punish me. For example, tomorrow I am giving a lecture on cognitive development. I begin with brain development in utero. And how could I not include a picture of my very own fetus's brain? I mean, I'm not going to be like HEY CLASS THIS BRAIN IS CURRENTLY RIGHT HERE IN MY UTE! LET'S TALK ABOUT MY VAGINA NEXT! but I can't resist casually pointing to a picture of "a thirteen week old fetus" and noting the lumpen little brain. Because every time I've given that lecture over the past five years, I've dreamed of getting to use video of my own child to illustrate certain things, like object permanence and conservation. So instead of feeling sad this year, I plan to have a little nugget of joy all up in there. God willing, this is where Bun Bun's exploitation in the name of education all starts.

Daylight Saving Time Resolution!

I'm always on the lookout for opportunities to make resolutions about how I'm going to get my shit together in some area or become a better person, and hey! Daylight Saving Time ended this week. The perfect opportunity for a resolution. Of course my resolutions all fail. Expect...I do floss my teeth now. But that's about a 1/1,000,000,000 success rate. And yet if one does not persevere, how can one ever succeed? So this latest resolution was as follows: I resolved to do some actual fucking work pretty much every day so that I can save my floundering career. I'm coming up for tenure, and my file has to be ready by August. Before August, I need to get a couple of grant proposals out, and I should really have at least four papers in the pipeline. I currently have zero grants applications planned, and one paper in the pipeline. So...work to be done! Today I succeeded in my resolution. I probably do not deserve any medals just yet, but thank you.

Stuff about my fetus. (1) A bit ago I had some mild but scary cramps. The scariness comes from the fact that they were entirely new and different. Damn, this shit is precarious.  (2) This weekend was the big reveal to the family. Mr. Bunny told his mother. She was gratifyingly excited, and when I spoke to her, said (among many other things) that she was so grateful to me for getting pregnant so she can become a grandmother. This would be an awful thing to say, except for the fact that she has never ever said a word to me about being impatient or wanting to know what the hold-up was. Mr. Bunny told his father. He was apparently not very excited. Whatever--he's a bit odd. I told my mother. She only said one horrible thing that made me want to hang up the phone. I told my older brother. He was excited, but cautious. His wife had a miscarriage, and so he said things like, that would be so cool. I get the caution. I FEEL the caution. But I also think that would be so cool is slightly more hypothetical than is really necessary. I imagined telling my dead father and cried. I told my little brother. He was like whatevs, I'm 24! What do I care! But in a nice way. So that's done. *Dusts hands* (3) Finally, we went to Crate and Barrel to buy some article of cookware, and while I was there, I looked at their selection of gliders/rockers. I sat down in one to test its comfyness, and tears immediately started flowing. Please let Bun Bun make it.

Fetus A-Okay, and...Viking Rune Candle Lady Baby

This is the kind of post that used to make me bawl with sorrow and desperation, just a few months ago. I'd read it because I cared about the person, but I'd know I'd better close my office door and get out the tissues. I'd sob and sob, and then I'd recover. Now it's my turn to break your little hearts! Sweeeeet! No, for serious, you don't have to read this. I'll never know.

This morning was my NT scan, or ultrascreen, as the kids say. That shit was pretty mind blowing. First, we got to go to the classy ultrasound room, the one with a big screen and a vastly less clinical feeling. Second, the tech told me to sit down on the table. I was like, with my CLOTHES ON? I mean, dude, I didn't even have to take my SHOES off! It felt a lot like walking into the living room of someone who selected all white carpeting. Then I had an ultrasound FROM THE OUTSIDE. Like in the movies. And then I got to see my fetus. There's one little picture on Bun Bun's page, but I wish I could keep the memory of the experience crystal clear. All these little bits of amazing anatomy flashing by... Spine! Hands! Feet! Cerebellum! Heart! Little beating heart! I have to say the part that really got me was an axial view of Bun Bun's brain. TWO hemispheres, people. And plenty of room for the frontal lobes to expand. I really wish I'd gotten a keepsake picture of that, but I'll just have to treasure the memory. Anyway, all extremities present, heart beating away at a great rate, measurements perfect. I won't know for a week or more what the test results are, but my plan is to not worry. And we all know plans work flawlessly.

But on to part two. The Viking Rune Candle Family is in town this week and came over for dinner last night. I got to meet Viking Rune Candle Lady Baby. (I know, he'll get no end of shit at school for THAT name.) Because I have so few friends with babies (one), it was awfully nice to just fucking talk about babies with someone with whom I have ZERO baggage. She also told me that her life has pretty much transformed from sad to happy. How she used to just drag herself through the days, and now every day is a fucking treasure. Yeah, I puked a little, too, but if anyone is in a place where she'd be able to draw comfort from an RPL success story, there you have it.

Thrilling tidbits! Getcher hot, thrilling tidbits right here!

Most important item first: I busted out the BIG COAT this morning. It's an ankle length down coat, and keeps me warm and snugly all winter long, as I wade through waist-deep snow. Some might mock me for  wearing such an extreme coat so early in the year, but while they're mocking, I'll be cozy. Suck it, mockers.

I have a due date now. May 11th. That should work out nicely in terms of getting my grades in before having my uterus cut open. I know. I talked about having a baby as if it's actually going to happen. I'm practicing.

My new OB was totally fine, and who really cares as long as she's not overtly freaky. I don't seem to need a whole lotta hand holding, perhaps because I'm so fucking sick of doctors. But she said one thing that earned her a place in my heart: Brisk walking is the perfect exercise for pregnant ladies. HOT DAMN! Music to my ears. Now don't you pregnant exercise buffs get all up in arms about this. She also gave me the speech about how other kinds of exercise are totally safe, etc. But we're focusing on the part where she said that the thing I do every day as part of my routine, and enjoy doing, is perfect. Aaaaah!

I've scheduled a meeting next week with my Department Chair. The purpose of which is to tell him about this fetus. Gulp!

Heart still a'beatin'!

That's right, y'all, my fetus is still alive. I had my first OB appointment, and it was pretty pointless. Except for the 30 seconds of doppler, when we got to hear that magic shoop shoop shoop! There were also some delightful noises that apparently indicate movement, a sort of pinging sound. Wow. Then Mr. Bunny had to rush off to catch a plane and I got to do super sexy stuff like PAP SMEAR! FLU SHOT! LISTEN TO A BUNCH OF STUFF I ALREADY KNOW! RECEIVE AN INFO PACKET I'VE ALREADY RECEIVED, and that consists mainly of little "magazines" that are 99% advertisement and 1% inane bullshit. I ditched those in the exam room. Fuck you, beatifically smiling pregnant ladies advising me to buy pampers.

Uh, anyway, I was initially heartbroken to not get an ultrasound. I mean, why would they not give me a damn ultrasound? WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?!?! But I scheduled one this Friday for the NT test, and, for once, I won't even be (too terribly) worried. I mean, what's the probability that Bun Bun will die between now and Friday? Low.

On my way out, I happened to look down a hallway where I could see into one of the IF clinic exam rooms. Through the half-open door I saw the big poster titled INFERTILITY, the one with all the reproductive organs. I know that poster well. I've been in that exam room many times. It was a nice bit of symbolism--the hallway, the distant, half-open door... My old world is right there, but I have entered a new one.

I'm not as smart as I think I am

I know you've all been tossing and turning, unable to sleep until you knew what had happened with my terrible little plagiarist. WELL! I met with her yesterday and informed her she'd be getting an F on the assignment due to the fact that her new paper still contains plagiarism. She signed the report form admitting responsibility with no particular reluctance, or show of emotion, or really anything. But something she said made me go back and look over all the weekly papers she'd been writing over the course of the semester. I suppose most of you in the teaching profession would have done this long ago. For whatever reason, it didn't occur to me that she could possibly have plagiarized BEFORE! But BOY HAD SHE! Almost all her papers (these are little one-pagers) had cases where she'd pasted stuff from websites into her assignment. So no wonder she thought she could get away with it! She totally HAD. No wonder she thought she could fool me! She totally HAD. Uggh.

Anyway, I'm done with the little WHORE and am passing her off to other bodies. I have more important shit to do. Like worry about my fetus. Think of me on Monday morning, as I'll be having a major moment of truth.

No promises broken here!

I promised Mr. Bunny I wouldn't write negative things about him here. It's our bargain--he's not allowed to read what I write, I assure him that there's nothing about him he'd be upset by. Which I hope is true. So just to be clear: this post is not about him. It's about someone else, Mr. Nunyb. Totally unrelated.

Mr. N. is about ten pounds overweight. He's got a bit of a gut. And he feels really bad about it. He's always saying things like I'm so fat, I'm disgusting, etc. He doesn't get any exercise. He travels a lot and it's exhausting. When he's home, he doesn't want to work out, he wants to relax. Unfortunately for him, he happens to be married to someone who is naturally thin, and who gets a lot more exercise as part of her daily routine (she walks a lot). She's pretty much in control of his diet when he's home, and she doesn't always make things that are low in fat, in part because she's been underweight before and needs to keep the pounds on. He wants to lose weight. She wants him to lose weight. But he can't seem to stick to a routine. The only times he's been good about it are times when she's worked out too, and she's not going to be working out any time soon. For various reasons. She's worried if he doesn't develop good habits now, he'll be overweight forever and then die of something sad. But she doesn't know how to encourage him. Nagging is not a good strategy, but is there any way of bringing up the subject that doesn't count as nagging? She could cook better food, which would probably be wise anyway, but cream is so goooood! And diet alone can't fix these things. He says that at some point he'll just decide to start exercising again. But that point hasn't come in the past three years. She feels bad for him and also just fucking selfishly wants him to be healthier. But it seems like there's nothing she can do.

Any suggestions for my unfortunate friends?

Pardon me, miss...I think your uterus is showing.

I don't look pregnant. Or, if I do, it's only because I'm bloated. The bloat-to-gravid transition that will presumably occur (someday) reminds me a lot of going directly from acne to wrinkles. Where was the part where I got to have nice skin? There was no such part. Similarly, where is the part where I get to be pregnant and not have a beer belly? There may be no such part. Whatever, I don't care. But this morning in the shower while groping myself (as one does) I thought I might have felt...something. Something sorta firm where before there was not too much firmness. I think my uterus might be poking out a little.

(The thing is, there's a lot of confusing stuff in that area as a result of my surgery. First, there's the scar. Not coincidentally, it's right over my uterus, and it's rather firm too. Then there's the little flesh shelf of displaced fat that sits over the incision, which also interferes with being able to palpitate my guts. Finally, there's what I think of as my Novocaine Belly. The severed nerves are still regrowing (it takes a looooong time) so there's a large area of really OFF-feeling skin from navel to incision. The closest analogy I can think of is that really icky feeling your face has after Novocaine starts to wear off. It's not exactly numb, you just don't wanna touch it. It feels too...grody.)

Anyway, when I felt the possible-maybe-there firmness, I burst into tears of joyous amazement. I was like MAYBE MY BABY'S NOT DEAD! A minute later I was like, no...that's totally the same as it's always been. Sigh.

I'm twelve weeks today. I've got a secret page where I'm keeping offensive things like my floating fetus and belly shots, and any future ultrasound pictures, if I am so lucky. If such things don't disgust you, you can see a picture of me looking not pregnant.

Someday I might have to tell my mother I'm pregnant

And if I don't stay pregnant, I'll need to tell her I miscarried. The thing is, I haven't spoken to her in almost a year, except for one phone call in which I told her to stop calling me.

I know some of you have genuinely abusive or neglectful parents. It makes me a little ashamed to complain about my mother, whose only parenting flaw was a certain selfishness and lack of grasp on reality. But my childhood was filled with poverty, chaos, and anxiety because of her crazy-ass choices, many of which resulted from (or resulted in) unplanned pregnancies. I've always been angry with her about that. She also said some wonderfully selfish and insensitive things when I tried to confide in her about my infertility. After a couple such interactions, I just couldn't bear talking to her. I started dodging her calls, then eventually explained to her that if she wanted to support me, she needed to fuck off.

Part of me wishes I hadn't created this situation. But I kinda had to. As CGD recently wrote, "I do not think I am a selfish person, but this is a selfish experience." I totally AM a selfish person, but I agree wholeheartedly that this is a selfish experience. Sometimes (often) you have to protect yourself at the expense of other people's feelings, and that applied to my mother. But it can't go on indefinitely.

I know calling her up and telling her I'm pregnant won't fix anything. I'll still be pissed at her. And I think when you have a damaged relationship in your life that you want to change, you have to first figure out exactly what you want to be different. I don't want a close, loving relationship with her. I never have wanted that. But I need to have a civil relationship with her. For the sake of my brothers, and because...it's uncomfortable. And I need to figure out how to let her be part of this experience I might just be having some time in May.

Due date superstition

Al recently asked me when my due date is. Thus far, I've managed to avoid having one. Sure, I know more or less when Bun Bun will be cut out of my ute, should we reach that point. It's not like I can avoid thinking about it. And even if I could resist, there's the fact that when we first started trying to get pregnant we did it in August so it would work out optimally with my teaching schedule. (HA!) So I know it's MAY. But my RE didn't give me a due date and I haven't calculated it. I don't want to know. Partly it's that I'm so scared of having it burned forever into my brain as the day my baby was supposed to begin its life and, you know, didn't. I've watched that day (in some cases, those days!) pass for so many of you and it's heartbreaking to see from a distance; I can't imagine experiencing it. Logically, I know that hiding from the date won't change a thing. And yet it's oddly comforting to not know exactly. I presume my OB will give me one if there's a thriving fetus in there. By then, I'll be almost to the Much Safer Zone, and I might be ready to hear it.

Meanwhile, IMPORTANT UPDATES
1. Votes on the doppler question were more or less split, so I'm going with no. There's no logical reason, and it's not like the Pro Doppler Contingent was not convincing, but I guess until I get a strong sense that it's the right choice for me, inaction is where it's at!
2. I met with my plagiarist today. She explained that she'd submitted the wrong version of the assignment. The version I got was a DRAFT, see, with some filler that she later replaced! But of course she'd never cut and paste material from the web into a REAL paper! So I was like send me the new version and I'll decide what to do next, given that I have no way of knowing whether you're telling the truth. So she did, and LO! Not only was it clear in the "new" version that she'd simply rephrased the plagiarized material, but some of the plagiarized material was still there. And, better still, there was NEW plagiarized material! I know this shit is not all that thrilling to most of you, but it totally boggles my mind, and is way more entertaining than the usual grading and whatnot that comprises the teaching part of my life. Stay tuned for the next chapter!

This is going to seem contradictory...

I spent the weekend as well as Monday and Tuesday (Mediocre Institution's fall break. YAY!) lying around being feeble. I've developed an Endless Headache, which mixes nicely with the Perpetual Nausea and Transitory Yet Reliable Heartburn. I actually didn't know headaches were a thing that went along with pregnancy. THEY ARE. And it sucks. I find that waking up with a headache makes the whole day really hard to face. So that was me whining about how hard it is to gestate a fetus. Wah.

You'd think all these symptoms would be nice and reassuring. They are not. The thing is, I know too many tragic stories where women felt just the same as they had been feeling, then showed up to an appointment to learn that their fetus was dead. I can't help but imagine that possibility. It makes me want to google things like "how to know if your fetus is dead" or "how long does a dead fetus stick around before your body notices", but, uh...I really don't want to see the results that such searches would turn up.

This is why people get a doppler. But I can't make up my mind. Pros: reassurance. Cons: terror, which may or may not turn out to be unnecessary. You'd think I could just come down on one side or the other, but I can't. I think part of me feels like buying one would be giving in to some level of anxiety and obsessiveness that I really don't want in my life. Like, shouldn't I be able to get through this on faith alone? And it feels like further medicalization of what has already been a very medical experience. (No offense intended to those of you who have gone for it--these are just my own personal crazy feelings.) Part of me feels like it's silly to live in the age of science and not take advantage of it. So it's up to you to decide for me. What should I do?

Blech

Sigh. One of my students submitted a paper with massive chunks of text copied from the interweb. And not just the interweb, a really stupid website. I do a lot of plagiarism education and practice in that class, and I design assignments where you can't easily plagiarize. So that's disappointing. In addition to the hassle of meeting with her and filing an academic integrity violation report, I'm just so damn offended! Did she really think I wouldn't notice? PULEAZE! Even if the jarring difference in tone and content hadn't caught my attention, the idiot failed to notice the cut and pasted text was in a slightly different color! (We're talking dark grey here, not, like, red, but still.) It just pisses me off to have a student think Professor Bunny is that stupid! I am not. She's the stupid one. And I'm gonna FUCK HER UP!

Of course I'm not actually going to fuck her up. I'm going to have a meeting wherein I show her the documentation and gently inquire what happened. And do you know what she will most likely say, based on my previous experience? I don't KNOW how that plagiarized text got into my paper. I have no idea. It is a total mystery. And then I will FUCK HER UP! With my academic integrity violation report.

In the elevator

This morning I got on the elevator with two women who were in the middle of a conversation. (I've seen them both around, but don't know them.) It turned out they were talking about one's pregnancy and delivery. The deliverer was saying how hard it had been. The second woman got off one floor later. I smiled at the deliverer, because, you know, trapped on an elevator, and she repeated, It was haaaard! I found myself asking whether it had been hard all along, or just at the end or what. The moment I got off the elevator I was appalled at myself. Why on earth did I stick my nose into their private conversation!? I mean, okay, she kind of gave me an in, but that didn't mean she wanted some relative stranger quizzing her about her experience. And then I wondered, how would I have felt about finding myself privy to this conversation just a few weeks ago? It would have been another one of those interactions where I'd have mustered up a fake smile and felt bitter about the whole fucking thing until I complained about it to you and we all bitched about her. And now I'm like, TELL ME MORE, LET ME TAKE SOME NOTES! Ugh. Pregnancy after infertility doesn't change everything, but it sure changes some things: now I'm more obnoxious!

(I know, you guys are like, NO SHIT, Bunny.)

Take that, students

It's midterm week, and I'm preparing the exam for my large lecture course. Now is the time when I get to retaliate against the students who have been irritating me with their insufficiently rapt attention and their stupid questions and remarks. (E.g., Me: What's your intuitive understanding of what consciousness is? Student: It's that voice in your head telling you what's wrong and right.) And yet, I find I'm not that inclined to make the questions super hard. Maybe it's some kind of newly awakened maternal instinct. Maybe I'm just too tired to deal with all the outraged e-mails that inevitably follow a nice, tough exam. Whatever. There's always the final exam.

Meanwhile, today I randomly picked an OB from the office where I want to be seen. (Receptionist: And what's the purpose of your visit? Me:..........Uh........I'm pregnant?) It's in the same suite as my clinic, and you might think I'd never want to see the place again. But it's so damn convenient. Plus, I started out with an OB in that office, long ago when I thought could just get pregnant, no problem. I like the sense of returning after a detour down the hall to the Land of Pain and Suffering. I set up an appointment for November first. It feels very odd to randomly choose someone, but I have no friends to advise me, and it turns out to be rather hard to find information sans personal referrals. It also feels very odd to not have an appointment for three weeks. How am I supposed to believe Bun Bun is okay until then? But I guess that's what I have to do.

Goodby, garden

It never ceases to amaze me how smart and thoughtful and...willing to be nice to me you guys are. Thank you. I slapped BFB around a little and she apologized. (Actually, she apologized before I even had to slap her around.) You're right that it will take a while to find our new equilibrium, but I think we will.

This weekend I put the garden to bed for the winter. When I did my first round of planting this season I posted a photo along with a request that it not be a totally barren year. It has instead been a pretty fucking fruitful year. I finally had enough tomatoes, and I even got a volunteer butternut squash plant (or pumpkin, for my Australian and New Zealander friends) that must have sprouted from a seed in the compost. I love butternut squash, and this plant produced two little beauties, one of which made a delicious soup for us last week (with fried sage leaves! Mmmm!). And then there's the little fruit presumably still ripening all up in my womb. I can't believe it. I would have bet a considerable sum on the reverse outcome, for reals.

Also this weekend: Mr. Bunny accused me of glowing. I was like, Whatever! You've just forgotten what it looks like when I'm HAPPY because it's been so fucking long.

Telling BFB

After my ultrasound on Tuesday, I shared the news with BFB. (That's Best Friend with Baby, my sometimes very sweet, sometimes totally insensitive best friend. For a good picture of our relationship, you could read my interview with her.) E-mail might seem a little cold for a best friend, but it's a totally normal medium of communication for us. Except...after she moved to California, I requested that we not speak for a while. Every e-mail from her just reminded me of what she had that I didn't, and I thought maybe if she just left me alone, I'd actually get some benefit from her absence. She was totally cool about it. In fact, I didn't even get the impression that she particularly minded. As a result, this was the first she'd heard from me in about two months. She was very excited, and we planned to have a phone conversation last night. So we did. Most of the conversation was fine. I got to tell her about every last detail of my adventures and she was enthusiastic. But two things were not fine.

1. I still found it painful to hear about her baby's antics. Jane is seven months now, and doing all sorts of remarkable things. It still hurt my heart to hear about them. This should not have surprised me. First, although I might be looking at my golden ticket off IF island, I might not. There's a long way to go before I find out. So it's not like my journey is over. And I spent a long year being tormented by the sight of her all pregnant and then having a cooing, gurgling infant. There's no reason why the pain would evaporate without a trace. Everyone says that IF leaves scars; even if I had my baby in my arms right now, I'd still be a changed person as a result of my experience.

2. After a perfectly reasonable conversation, BFB revealed that my asking her for some space left her feeling like shit. I can totally see how this would be the case. I bet that's how I'd feel! And she's had to do a certain about of bending over backwards to accommodate my precious feelings during the past year, much of which has probably been painful for her (as bending over backwards tends to be). Still, I wish she hadn't hit me with that at the end. It blindsided me and made me feel like the whole conversation had been false. That she'd just been putting on a pretense of interest and happiness while actually seething with resentment.

I'm so tired of negotiating things in this friendship, of apologizing for not being able to put my own feelings aside, of feeling guilty for whatever dampening effect I have on her experience of motherhood, of not being a good enough friend. I found myself wondering whether a friendship that requires this much delicate handling is really worth it. The thought of just giving up on it felt wonderfully restful.

I expect that I'll cool off and feel ready to work this kink out soon enough. The anger is probably mainly a reaction to learning that I hurt someone without really knowing it. And maybe I should have renewed contact with her before telling her about this development, so that we could have had a conversation about the period of non-communication before we talked about babies. I don't know. I just feel like shit.

What happened to sex?

I'm too embarrassed to actually admit how infrequently I've had sex since the obligatory post IUI bout. (And even then, doctor's orders were to screw that day and for the following two days and we managed only that same day.) And since you know all about my uterus and orgasms and whatnot, you know the number is SMALL if I'm not willing to spit it out, 'cause I'm pretty frank with y'all. But it's even smaller than you think.

My sex drive is deader than it's even been, and that's saying something. It was dead leading up to this IUI. It was dead during it, and it has remained dead. And yeah, the never-ending cold and not sleeping well and being extra tired and feeling a little pukey and not wanting my breasts touched isn't helping, but I don't think those factors would stop me if I were actually hankering for some man meat.

What the fuck, y'all? Frankly, it's becoming a bit alarming. I've heard that the more sex you have the more you want, so maybe I just have to force it until I warm up again. (Gee, doesn't that sound both healthy and enjoyable?) I've also heard that the second trimester can revive the sex drive. But what if it doesn't? What if I never want to have sex again!? And I also know that most of us go through periods like this, but this feels extra severe, and, I dunno, weirdly continuous with the whole IF has killed my sex drive experience. It seems like things should be DIFFERENT, now that things are, you know, different. Any words of encouragement? Any tips for rekindling the flame?

Remember Viking Rune Candle Lady?

Long time readers may recall the woman who gave me the VIKING RUNE CANDLE. She's the wife of a friend of Mr. Bunny's, and while we are not at all close, she knew about my IF because she herself had been through six miscarriages and was very open about the whole thing, so I opened up to her a little. At the time the VIKING RUNE CANDLE (it has to be capitalized) was presented to me, she was early into her seventh pregnancy. Mr Bunny mentioned to me last night that she had a baby boy a few weeks ago. I was totally overjoyed. She is a really weird lady, but it makes me so happy to think that she MADE IT. I know success stories for RPL abound, and there's no reason why this one should mean anything to those of you suffering through the experience, but... After the VIKING RUNE CANDLE had been sitting around the house for a few weeks, I finally lit it and said a secular prayer for all of us. It worked for her. (Yes, I'm taking credit for her successful pregnancy.) It looks like it might work for me. Who knows how far-reaching the power of the VIKING RUNE CANDLE will turn out to be!

Bun Bun lives

All was well at this morning's ultrasound. Bun Bun has grown the right amount, is sporting a head (Sweet! Definitely going to need that later in life!), some fine lookin' limb buds, and a heart beating away at an appropriate rate. I got to say goodbye to my RE. I told him how grateful we were and he was like, I'm a freaky little doctor man and don't know how to deal with human emotions, despite the fact that I do it all damn day! He gave me a hug, patted my knee, and then patted the top of my head. I don't know, man. But the end result is that I have to find a fucking OB. Holy shit.

There's a long way to go, and I'm not going to take a single day for granted. But I have to confess that while part of me is still so very scared, a much larger part of me believes this is going to work out. Foolhardy? Perhaps. But I'm sick and tired of protecting my heart. I'm ready to live a little!

That's how I feel today, anyway.

Oh drugstore.com order list, thou art a mirror of my soul

I buy all my drugstore-type-products online, partly so I can purchase embarrassing things without human contact, and partly because we're a one-car family, so it's often not convenient for me run out and get something. An interesting consequence is that I have a record of all my IF purchases. To wit:

The last order for birth control pills.
The fertility monitor.
The sad series of test sticks for the fertility monitor.
My first box of pregnancy tests.
A pathetic string of orders for fertility monitor test sticks and pregnancy tests.
Just pregnancy tests. No need for the test sticks once we started ART.
Magnesium citrate for the BOWEL PREP prior to my laparoscopy.
More pregnancy tests.
Vitamin E oil for my myomectomy scar.
The fateful box of pregnancy tests that contained one lucky test destined to be my first real positive.
Morning sickness drops.

I wonder what will come next? Will I get to order a series of alarming products from the heretofore detested "baby and mom" section? Or will my next order come from the "my baby turned out to be dead at my nine week ultrasound" section? I haven't thrown up since I wrote that complainy post, so I'm not at all sure it won't be the latter. I hope they sell liquor in the dead baby section.

Dreams are just dreams...

BUT...I had one last night in which I started bleeding profusely. You know, from my lady region. I'm guessing this is just a symptom of the fact that I am preparing myself for bad news on Tuesday. It's happened to so many of you, why not me? Am I a special princess or something? Okay...I totally am a special princess, at it happens, but bad things happen even to special princesses. Like that one time my favorite pony got eviscerated by a dragon--there were charred pony guts everywhere. Huge bummer.

Anyway, here's what I'm hoping for this weekend.
1. That Bun Bun grows and thrives, that I experience no evidence to the contrary.
2. That my fucking cold goes away and I get some motherfucking sleep.
3. That all of you get pregnant. Yeah, even you, JB, and even those of you who are already pregnant. I don't want to hear your complaints. Just do as you're told.

Ha!

Last night I was bragging to Mr. Bunny about the fact that I get to experience the miracle of life growing within my body.* He said, Yeah, well, you're merely a vessel for my seed.

I love that man.

If Bun Bun is alive and well at next week's ultrasound, I'll see if Mr. Bunny is okay with me telling a few friends. (Weirdly, neither of us is particularly interested in telling our families!) Part of me is really looking forward to telling BFB. Part of me doesn't want to. Maybe I'm afraid she won't understand that my pregnancy, should it continue, is not going to be like hers, all carefree and shit. That what I've been through--minor as it is compared to many of your journeys--is not going to be erased just because I get to move forward. Or maybe I just don't want to hear all her assvice. Whatever. I'll cross that bridge if I'm lucky enough to come to it.




*You know, today, at least...as far as I can tell.

Grey days are still grey days

I know some of you feel that any sign of complainy-like-behavior from a Miraculously Pregnant One is an insult to those still striving, plus an invitation to the fates to kill the Pregnant One's baby, and perhaps all babies everywhere. I hear ya, I really do. However, I wonder if we don't do each other a disservice by putting a brave face on this experience. I hope I can express some things that are not exactly rainbows and puppies without filling your hearts with hate. Perhaps if I enclose them in a impenetrable wall of gratitude, the babies of the world will be safe. {I'm so grateful to be pregnant} Today is a grey and rainy day. I just slogged through the rain to a meeting that no-one told me wasn't taking place anymore. The thought of teaching a roomful of listless disease vectors who don't want to be there any more than I do just makes me want to cry. I haven't slept well in a million years, and am utterly useless. I don't like vomiting (I've started vomiting) and perpetual nausea. (I keep thinking, I'll never drink again!, then remembering I'm not hungover!) My cold won't go away. My house is a mess because I'm too feeble to pick up, and my husband is too lazy and oblivious to take over my duties. {I'm so grateful to be pregnant}

I'm not looking for sympathy or anything, just telling it like it is. Plus, it's been a long time since that ultrasound, and it becomes difficult to imagine Bun Bun is still in there. I'm not exactly worried, just incapable of really believing in a good outcome.

Chapter 12

When I was finishing my PhD, I got this book called The Academic Job Search Handbook. I skimmed the whole thing, then read the first couple chapters on preparing your materials and so forth. I figured I'd never get past those chapters. (In fact, the first time I opened it, I happened to find myself in the section entitled handling negative feedback, and I expected to spend most of my time right there.) But then I got interviews! So I read the chapter on interviews. And then I got an offer! So I read the chapter on offers! And next year I may get to read the section on changing jobs after you don't get tenure!

When I became officially infertile, I got Mel's Book. I skimmed the whole thing, then read the first couple chapters on being diagnosed and the section on IUI and so forth. I figured when the time came, I'd read the section on IVF. And perhaps later the chapter on adoption and the one on living child-free. Unlike the job search book, I expected to have need of most of the sometimes grim territory Mel's book covers. Except for chapter 12, the chapter on pregnancy. But after my third beta, I had the amazing experience of skipping ahead to that chapter. (And it genuinely felt like skipping ahead, like I might get to read some fun stuff now, but I'll for sure have to come back and read the chapters on pregnancy loss, IVF, etc...There might be a quiz, you know.) As with the rest of the book, there is some sound advice to be had. The part that struck me the most was this. Mel says that while it's normal to feel a crapload (paraphrasing...) of anxiety, you don't want to look back after your pregnancy and think If I'd known it was going to work out fine I'd have spent more time enjoying the experience. And that while it's normal to feel deeply reluctant to believe it might work out, if you lose your baby, it won't be the happy memories that hurt you, it will be the loss itself.

I don't know if the latter is true. It seems like those of you who have had losses suffer extra when you think about those happy moments. So maybe she's full of shit. But her general suggestion is to live your life as though you're going to have a healthy baby. It seems like a reasonable approach to take, and I might try it.

Meanwhile, can I just note how totally bizarre it is to have people giving me advice on something pregnancy-related? Really, really, really weird. And, today: no bleeding, no cramping, no reason to think Bun Bun is dead. Long may it remain thus.

Nature, your plan does not make sense

Since Monday, nausea has coated my entire day like a greasy film. Thus far it's just resulted in some regular gagging, but no actual vomiting. (I did steal some air sickness bags on my recent trip and have one with me at all times in case I need to puke in class. Oh, and this morning I also woke up with a cold. There's a constant trickle of snot down the back of my throat (YUMMY! Custard, anyone?) which has increased the retching to every five minutes or so. Hrraaccck!) The only thing that keeps the nausea even remotely at bay is eating something every few minutes, but eating is not what you want to do when you're constantly gagging. I'll force some raisins between my clamped-together jaws and every fiber of my being will scream out, WHAT ARE YOU DOING, INSANE LADY? DO NOT PUT THAT IN HERE! On the one hand, this is clearly a crazy arrangement. On the other hand, it's par for the course given how utterly bizarre the whole conception and gestation business is.

Am I complaining? Of course not--I'd do anything for Bun Bun, including purchasing a product called Queasy Drops. I have no pride. How could I, locked in my office, gagging over my trash can?

Another romatic vision dashed

So when you finally get pregnant after not-really-that-long-when-you-are-able-to-have-some-perspective-on-the-whole-thing, you get to experience things you've read about and dreamed about so wistfully. Like telling your partner about a positive test. As you know, that was not the romantic vision that I'd anticipated, and I don't care. But one of the next thrilling events is supposed to be telling your loved ones, right? You think about who you'll tell first and how excited they'll be and blah blah blah.

Well, I blew it. You see, I had coffee with the Lady Professors. I'm fond of the Lady Professors, and we're close enough that they know about my struggles, but we're completely not Real Friends. We're Close Work Friends: you know a lot about each other, but don't really want to take things to the next level. Before going to meet them I told myself, Bunny, you're going to want to tell, but you mustn't. And I tried to keep the conversation away from myself, but LP1 starting really pressing about my reproductive plans. And before I was able to stop myself, out came the truth. On the one hand, no big deal. I'd want them to know if I had a miscarriage, so it's not that I'm worried about telling them so early. On the other hand, why does a random group of women know this amazing secret?

(In case it's not obvious, you guys are not a random group of women. Your my Special Secret Anonymous Friends! Even though that sounds like I'm touching you in your private place and trying to convince you not to tell your parents.)

Also, I can't tell Mr. Bunny I spilled the beans. He's enjoying the just-between-us nature of the situation and would feel betrayed. So I feel like a terrible lying traitor, too. This is probably coming off all waaah, poor me, I told the wrong people about my pregnancy! I DO realize this is not a genuine problem. I guess I'm just eternally surprised that Life ≠ Imagination.

I haz two hearts

With the aid of modern medicine, Mr. Bunny and I made an embryo with a heart. Bun Bun (that's our embryo's name, and he's male for the sake of simplicity) is measuring 6w6d, right on target. I actually forgot what his heart rate was, as I was too busy being amazed. I've never felt anything quite like I did when I heard that sound. I've read so many of your descriptions of that moment, and I've certainly imagined it, but it defies all expectation.

I'd like to blather on about how badly I want this experience for those of you still waiting, how desperately I want Bun Bun to grow and thrive, how pleased with himself my RE was...but I have a shit ton of grading and class prep to do before I'm off to teach. So for the moment... me = dumbfounded.

Talk = OVAH

Me = still alive. I didn't even get pelted with rotten fruit. In fact, some famous people were complimentary! I'm going to focus on that and ignore the inner voice reminding me that there were things I could have done better...

So now there's just Tuesday morning to worry about. Mr. Bunny had a dream in which we had a real live baby. He was holding it. I'm a little jealous, but also kinda glad not to have anything quite so real in my head.

I wish it were next week

I vacillate between thinking my talk is perfectly fine (maybe not the amazing piece o' genius I dreamed it would be when I was first invited to give it, but probably not the worst talk anyone in the audience will have ever heard--possibly not even the worst talk at the conference, though that's a bit cocky) and being convinced it's a shameful piece of shit that will make everyone avoid eye contact with me for the rest of my short and painful career.

I vacillate between thinking the embryo can't possibly die and thinking it can't possibly live. I remind myself that I'm not bleeding or cramping, and myself reminds me that I don't feel any symptoms other than the eternally sore rack.

I just want it to be next week. But then I think about the fact that next week may rank quite high on the list of worst weeks of my life...and I crawl under my desk. Literally. It's very cozy down there.  But then I have to come out to grade stupid papers.

Meanwhile, I was telling Mr. Bunny that you guys had totally reassured me about flying, but that I was still worried about being trapped in some crappy middle seat and having to climb over a stranger in order to walk around. It turns out Mr. Bunny had secretly used his frequent flyer miles to upgrade us to first class! He was planning to surprise me, but figured now was the time for the surprise. He wanted me to be as comfortable as possible during this trying time. It made me feel really loved and cared for.

We talked about a moment in hypothetical future in which our fetus is alive!

As I said yesterday, thus far the talk in our house has been all I hope this ultrasound reveals a live fetus! BUT...yesterday Mr. Bunny asked when you can find out the sex of your fetus, and he was so endearing about it (prefaced with a hundred caveats about how we're not there yet, and it's too soon to talk about this stuff and etc., etc.) that instead of agreeing that it is indeed waaaay too early to talk about such things and scowling at him, I told him the answer. Then he asked me if I wanted to know, should we get to that point. Years ago this topic came up and I'm pretty sure he said he'd want to find out, whereas I like the mystery, so any time I've allowed myself to contemplate the idea, I wondered how we'd handle it. Turns out he wants to do whatever I want to do. Sweet. Problem solved. I said, It's one of natures best surprises, why find out early? He said, It's got to be one or the other so it's not that big of a surprise. Then I delivered a lecture on intersexuality. That ought to shut him up for a while.

Still, this was a big moment for us, and I hope we are not punished for daring to think beyond the 21st.

The optimistic husband

I've mentioned before that Mr. Bunny is an optimist. What with my considerably more cautious attitude, this is making for some interesting attempts to talk about ye olde embryo. I mean, mainly we're both too scared to mention anything beyond the ultrasound, and you can only have so many conversations that go, I hope our baby doesn't die! I also hope that! But when we do discuss the topic, he keeps saying things that make me want to reply with a depressing piece of information. (E.g., Him: That third beta is so great! In My Head: Yes, but plenty of people have rising betas and then miscarry.) Thus far, I've been biting my tongue. I figure if he can be happy, why get in his way? But I do worry that he won't be prepared if things go south. And, selfishly, that he won't be ready to support ME. Or maybe that he'll be all we got pregnant once, we can do it again! while I'm being all I can't fathom living. A good solution would be for me to not miscarry, huh?

I'm partly sorry my clinic doesn't scan for a gestational sac--it would be cool to have a little more information sooner rather than later. On the other hand, I'm grateful that, God willing, I'll get to go to this conference and take my Big Career Step in a state of ignorance. Because trying to put on a brave show of professionalism while utterly devastated...well, many of you know all too well how undesirable that is.

Speaking of which, I leave on Tuesday. The google embargo is still in place, so I can't research the dangers of flying early in pregnancy. Can you guys reassure me that it will be fine? I asked Nurse Idiot and she said it wasn't an issue, but with a particular note of uncertainty in her voice that I have learned means, I don't know what I'm talking about.

Tips from someone who is definitely going to stay pregnant and have a healthy baby for sure, no doubt about it.

Now that I am an authority on how to get pregnant (Universe, that's a JOKE. Please don't kill my embryo just because I still have a sense of humor!), I thought you might like to know how I achieved this miracle. Of course we can't know for sure, but I'd say there were multiple factors leading up to the (temporary, one-day-at-a-timey, please let this not endy) success of my fifth IUI:

1. Red Raspberry for Fertility jelly doughnuts.
2. Being inseminated on four year wedding anniversary.
3. Having oppressive Best Friend with Baby move away. (I mean, seriously, I got pregnant on the first cycle after she left town.)
4. Following clinic instructions regarding alcohol, exercise, and caffeine.
5. Random chance.
6. Having three large meatballs removed from my abdomen.

And here's the approximate contribution of each factor.

So while most of you can't arrange to have 2, 3 or 6 come to pass, 1 is under your control, my friends. (And not to worry, I asked my RE and he says you can adapt the recipe to a gluten free, wheat free, dairy free, sugar free diet without the treatment losing any of its efficacy.)

As for how to STAY pregnant...I'm still conducting research. But I hope--with every fiber of my being--to have some data to share in a few months.

News Flash: Data suggest embryo still alive

Beta hCG at 19dpIUI = 1416. Seven week ultrasound booked for September 20th. I kinda want to puke with relief and anxiety and hope and dread and...but I have to go teach two back-to-back classes.

The availability heuristic

I'm in the office because I promised myself I would finish my talk for the California conference today. And I did! Yay ME! Now I just have to grade a few more of these craptastic papers (Sample: But, as time went on and great minds became exposed to head injuries as well as the effects of said injuries on a person’s personality and a person’s ability to function the thought that the brain and the mind are closely related to each other began to surface. The problems with that sentence, they are many.) and I can go home and watch more terrible movies.

But it seems that finishing the talk has created a little empty space that is now filling up with worries. It may also be the case that three days without speaking to another human being (except the grocery store clerk who sold me toilet paper) is taking a toll on my ability to stay chill.

I'm not freaking out. I'm still doing the one day at a time thing, but there's a growing sense of unease. And it's all thanks to the stupid availability heuristic. This is a basic bias in human thinking, and describes the fact that people think things are more probable as a function of how many examples they can bring too mind. It also captures the fact that simply thinking of an outcome makes us believe that outcome to be more likely. So this fucks me in two ways. I can bring to mind a great many examples of cases where rising betas were followed by miscarriage. I can bring to mind very few examples where rising betas were followed by healthy pregnancies. Second, because of the former and because of my own chemical pregnancy, I can vividly imagine the outcome where this pregnancy doesn't survive. But for whatever reason, I can't really imagine an outcome wherein I get a baby out of this. When I try to, my brain is like, WOOOOAAAH NELLY! Let's not go there. Let's just focus on this step. So does this mean I should go home and imagine a healthy pregnancy and a fat baby bunny as many times as I can to make that notion more available? I dunno, that just seems so reckless.

If you've got any words of comfort, let's have 'em. And please let this whole discussion not be moot after tomorrow's beta.

Two weeks down, thirteen to go

Of my SEMESTER. You probably thought I was talking about babies. As if. I have a rich and fascinating life that does not revolve around babies.

That was a joke, in case my deadpan humor did not translate. Anyway, I'm starting to get into the rhythm of my semester. Both my classes seem to have a reasonable dynamic, and although I'm still very nervous about standing up there in my large class, I thought the worst was over. But last night I had another classic anxiety dream in which I couldn't get some piece of classroom technology to work, and was getting increasingly freaked out. And then I had an orgasm in my sleep. Because it turns out I have a fetish for being terrified in front of a lecture hall full of undergraduates. So of course it woke me up, and I was like AAAHHH! There's something IN that uterus! It shouldn't be contracting! AAAH! What have I done! But it wasn't my fault! I didn't mean to! I've made a pact with myself not to google /pubmed anything baby related. I know there's a world of fear out there, and I've got enough of my own without going looking. But if anyone happens to know of studies indicating that sleep orgasms in week four have no detrimental effects on an embryo, feel free to hook me up.*

This is going to be a bit of a mélange of a post.

Ever since That Fateful Tuesday, I've been waking up around 3am. It's like I was instantly conditioned to think that waking up at 3 results in wonderful things. So my brain is like WHAT WILL TODAY BRING! A PONY? But all it brings is a trip to the bathroom and a day of exhaustion, because of course I can't fall asleep again for an hour, and then I wake up at six. And today I officially switched to decaf. I know there's caffeine in decaf coffee. In fact, I'm counting on that small amount to stave off a withdrawal headache. I'll keep you posted on this exciting detail.

Finally, I meant to mention in the list of things I've learned since Tuesday that I am finally convinced a girl can be pregnant without feeling anything different from any other cycle. I had pretty much come to believe it after repeatedly reading posts where a woman was like I'm definitely getting my period tomorrow and then, the next day, OMG I'm pregnant! But I tell you, everything was exactly the same as always, down to the very specific cramps I get right before I'm due. So I'm now a True Believer in the doctrine of If You Feel Exactly Like Always, That Don't Mean Shit. (Though this obviously only applies to people who have not been pregnant before.)

Anyway, I'm looking forward to several days of being able to assume I have an embryo in my uterus, barring evidence to the contrary (e.g., geysers of blood), and of fun stuff like walking to the store to buy toilet paper.



*HA! I happen to know that there are no such studies, due to exhaustive research on everything related to implantation.

Science says: still pregnant

Beta hCG at 15dpiui = 227.

Wow. I'm flooded with relief. And I was able to talk to Mr. Bunny before he got on his plane. (DUDE! I just realized I totally should have had the airport paging system make the announcement! Mr. Bunny, Mr. Bunny. Second beta was 227. Please pick up the white courtesy phone.)

I'm going to see if I can get some work done now (i.e, watch movie trailers on the internet) but since I will be aaaaalll alone aaaaallll weekend, I expect I'll discover I have lots to say later.

Beta #3 on Tuesday.

Talismans

When it became evident that Mr. Bunny and I were going to get married some day, I made sure he understood that I didn't want an engagement ring. Don't get me wrong, I think the symbolism is lovely, but something about it just isn't ME. At the time, I wore two rings I'd been wearing since I was sixteen, both purchased from a jewelry table on Telegraph Avenue when I first moved to Berkeley. I didn't want to replace either of them unless it was with a wedding ring. So when he did propose, Mr. Bunny got me a necklace instead. It's a silver acorn, and you can see the vague idea of it in my wedding photo. I wore it to my first beta blood draw and I'm wearing it today.

It's not that I believe it has any power to protect me. Shit, if that were the case...I'd rent it out to all of you, and become a BAJILLIONAIRE. No, I guess touching it reminds me that we will survive if today's news is bad. It seems impossible right now. But I've seen with my own eyes that women can survive this not working out. Thank you for the courage you've shown me. I know you didn't do it for my benefit, but it benefits me anyway.

Meanwhile, this time they've got the right fucking phone number, so I may actually find out by 1pm. AND, today's phlebotomist was not the normal mean lady (because lord knows what you need when being stuck with needles is a lady who's like PUT YOUR ARM HERE! HOLD THIS! SNARL! YOU INTERRUPTED ME WHEN I WAS SHOPPING FOR SHOES ONLINE, IN THIS HORRIBLE LITTLE HOLE THEY PUT ME IN, AND I RETALIATE FOR THIS AWFUL HOLE BY HAVING LOADS OF STUFF ABOUT JESUS AND GOING TO HEAVEN ALL OVER MY WALLS! which is not to say I object to Jesus or going to heaven in principle, but it just makes the experience feel a little...judgey), but instead an awesome young guy with a bleached afro mohawk, who was chatty and told me all about how he hates having blood drawn. So that was nice.

On the side of bad, Mr. Bunny had to leave town again today. His father decided to spend his retirement driving around the national parks in an RV, and thinks it's a good idea to have people visit him and camp out in the RV, and Mr. Bunny's turn has come. (I happen to think asking people to visit you in the most inconvenient places and ways imaginable is selfish, which is why I refused to go along, and thank god I did.) So it's South Dakota for Mr. Bunny. I'll text him the news, and we're going to try to squeeze a phone call in between his layover in Minneapolis and my department meeting. God, it's absurd.

This is one MANIC post, isn't it? It's just 'cause I'm scared.

While we wait some more...

I'm taking today as a day of rest...from worrying. In part because you guys totally set my mind at ease regarding this first number (you utterly rock!), in part because I want to squeeze as much joy from this experience as I can, given how tenuous it is. So I'm doing my best not to think ahead, either by imagining the best or by imagining the worst. Which is not to say I don't do both, but I try to quiet those thoughts.

Meanwhile, I've been ruminating on the following since Tuesday morning.

1. I was amazed at how posting that positive test made me feel instantly like a horrible pariah in blogolandytown. I wish one person's happiness didn't exacerbate another person's sadness, but I know (from personal experience) that it can, if only for a moment. If you feel left behind and like your turn will never come, all I can really say is that I felt the same way on Monday. And that I might be back in the trenches with you on Friday.

2. I'd noticed that women who had a positive often started posting only short, informative updates. I was like don't they want to share every last nuance of their feelings? Now I know that (1) above might be part of it--a fear of positing things that will be like stabby stabs in the hearts of those you've come to love. And there's the fear that speaking of IT will cause IT to evaporate. Also, most of those women probably have lives. NOT ME, man!

3. On a related note, I'd wondered why few women ever tell the story of sharing the result with their partners. Now I think it might be because of the stabby stabs. Or it might feel like a private moment to some women, or a moment that is difficult to capture, or a moment that involves URINE so is not all that pretty....

But I want to tell. So if you're not up for being stabbed in the heart, stop here and go look at this adorable shrew.



Telling Mr. Bunny. You know, I've fantasized about the experience of telling my husband I was pregnant more times than...than there are numbers for. (To find out how I had a chemical pregnancy without having this experience, go here.) It's a fantasy that always brought tears to my eyes. I would come out of the bathroom and show him the positive test. He'd leap up and enfold me in a loving embrace. We'd weep. I sure would, anyway. Unicorns would leap through misty rainbows all over the place. Kittens made of solid gold would rain from the sky. Something like that. The reality was totally unromantic: Awake at 3am while husband is out of town. Take test. See faint line. Absorb implications. E-mail photo of positive test to husband with explanation of what he's looking at and instructions to call. Wait...Wait... At 7, text husband: WAKE UP! CHECK YOUR E-MAIL! Husband calls. Have silly, incoherent conversation with husband, who is sitting on a bench across from a Dunkin' Donuts, several states away, trying to hear me over the noise of passing cars. No golden kittens, no misty rainbows. But somehow perfectly perfect for us. I guess joy can make anything pretty.