I think it's in everyone's best interests for people sailing off to Looks Like There's Really Gonna Be a Baby After Infertility land to occasionally share the less blissful aspects of the experience. So while this is not exactly a complainy post, if you're feeling particularly discouraged by infertility today you might prefer to just read the first item, and then go eat a cookie or something. Or just go straight to the cookie.
1. I got name book, and have been looking through it. I may have chosen a particularly stupid one, but I also think my training as a linguist makes it extra annoying to read such books. There are the cases where names are listed as being derived from, say, Latin, when they are clearly not. There are the cases where a name will be listed as derived from, say, Russian, but the Russian word means something entirely different than what's given. But that's just me being pedantic. Here's one that illustrates a more serious problem:
Tapas (Indian): thunder.
Ignoring the fact that Indian is not a language, imagine some country couple with few global cuisine options in their little town. They chose this name 'cause it's just so purrrrty, and fail to understand why the city cousins are constantly mocking their child, pelting him with olives and fried squid. Caveat lector, man. Which is a Swahili phrase meaning joyful lion.
2. Okay, the Trouble. Lately I've been subject to hormonal rages. At least, I think that's what's going on. Something minor will annoy me, and then I seem to fall into a cascade of increasing anger. Soon I'm fuming and snarling, which makes Mr. Bunny defensive and angry, which makes me angry and hurt, which results in us sullenly watching movies, waves of mutual annoyance emanating from us. Which fills my head with visions of myself in a cheap flowered housedress, frying bologna at the stove, virgina slim dangling from my lip, while a squalling, dirty-diapered infant sits in playpen, ignored by his father, who's watching football on a big screen TV. Also there's a dead refrigerator on the porch, and a truck up on blocks in the front yard.
Alarmist visions aside (dude, we don't even have a porch), I have noticed that I'm starting to interpret everything through a lens of Anxiety About Parenting. If Mr. Bunny doesn't do the dishes, I become convinced that there won't be an equitable distribution of labor post Bun Bun, and I'll be forced to choose between living in filth and running myself ragged trying to keep up. If there's some task that needs doing and yet I keep not getting to it, I become convinced that my entire world will fall into chaos. The more anxious and distressed I become, the more I think of the correlation between IF and postpartum depression, and the more I envision myself as a shrill, neurotic, divorced parent.
It's grey and freezing, my house is in disorder because of the renovation, I'm a control freak and don't have childbirth planning to keep my mind occupied, work is tense, and anxiety about parenting is normal. Some of this is situational, some of it is hormonal, some of it is just part of the experience. But I resent this bullshit. I want to get back to my 24/7 schedule of lovin' on my fetus.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Bun Bun's V Card
This weekend we celebrated Bun Bun's Achievement of Viability. I know--it's a range, not a date, and we were very clear with him that this does NOT mean he should come out now (because, um, the house is a mess), but it IS a big milestone. First I had myself a (prenatal) massage. Mr. Bunny and I both love a good massage, so we go together every few months. I haven't had one since early in my pregnancy, though, and because my favorite part is lying face down while someone wales on my back and shoulders, I was curious to discover what it would be like now that lying face down is not an option. We went to a place we've been a million times before, and I just assumed that because we'd booked a prenatal massage, the therapist would be expecting to give me a prenatal massage. So I was surprised when she told me to lie face down on the table. But I was like, Hey, what do I know. Maybe it works fine, and gave it a shot. Bun Bun immediately protested. Oh NO YOU DI'N'T! Bun Bun will NOT be steamrolled! When the therapist returned, I explained the difficulty, and DUH, she had no idea I was pregnant. In case you're curious, a prenatal massage involves being propped up slightly on a wedge, on your back for part of the time and on your side for part of the time. And being kicked by a fetus most of the time, but that part might only happen if you squash it first.
Then Bun Bun got carrot cake. You know, indirectly.
Then we watched TV.
Then Bun Bun got carrot cake. You know, indirectly.
 |
| The official 24 week date. |
Then we watched TV.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Get thee to a BunBunery!
The Bunny household is going through some changes as we get hip to the reality of maybe possibly having a baby. It started when I convinced Mr. Bunny to spend some of the money we saved up for IVF on renovating our bathroom. Unlike many of y'all (I'm lookin' at you, Misfit), we have zero skillz in the home repairs department, so are paying some nice people to do the work. While I'm sorry to brag about blowing our wad on toilets and drywall when many of you are hampered in your family-building options by finances, I'm pretty excited about this and can't contain myself. The old bathroom was SKANKY, featuring a closet that perpetually grew mildew and a bunch of fixtures installed by blind monkeys.
We've also started clearing out the BunBunery, though we left some stuff in it until the renovation is over. And since we were ordering something from our favorite furniture place, we threw in a piece of baby furniture. It arrived a few days ago. I didn't expect that to be an emotional event. It's a changing table dealie, so not actually that thrilling--it's not like we're talking about a cradle full of storks or whatever. Plus, when I got home from work, it was sitting draped in plastic amid a bunch of other shit draped in plastic and covered in dust. But when the plastic came off, and we stood there looking at the first object purchased with our actual child in mind, in the room where he or she will actually live...wow. Mr. Bunny pantomimed changing a squalling baby, and I was totally overcome.
This is a recurring experience, I'm finding. It's not like I am EVER not thinking about the fact that I'm pregnant. And now that I get regular reminders that being pregnant is not just some abstraction, but involves an actual fetus inside my body, it's not like it doesn't feel real. I guess it's just that those years of trying made me so focused on the goal of pregnancy, so focused on longing for this crazy-awesome experience I'm currently having, that it can be hard to remember there's something even better ahead. (Insha'Allah.) And when something brings that reality home, it's pretty much mind blowing.
We've also started clearing out the BunBunery, though we left some stuff in it until the renovation is over. And since we were ordering something from our favorite furniture place, we threw in a piece of baby furniture. It arrived a few days ago. I didn't expect that to be an emotional event. It's a changing table dealie, so not actually that thrilling--it's not like we're talking about a cradle full of storks or whatever. Plus, when I got home from work, it was sitting draped in plastic amid a bunch of other shit draped in plastic and covered in dust. But when the plastic came off, and we stood there looking at the first object purchased with our actual child in mind, in the room where he or she will actually live...wow. Mr. Bunny pantomimed changing a squalling baby, and I was totally overcome.
This is a recurring experience, I'm finding. It's not like I am EVER not thinking about the fact that I'm pregnant. And now that I get regular reminders that being pregnant is not just some abstraction, but involves an actual fetus inside my body, it's not like it doesn't feel real. I guess it's just that those years of trying made me so focused on the goal of pregnancy, so focused on longing for this crazy-awesome experience I'm currently having, that it can be hard to remember there's something even better ahead. (Insha'Allah.) And when something brings that reality home, it's pretty much mind blowing.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Oh job, why must you exist?
Most of the time my job is pretty mellow. I've got my anxieties, but they are familiar at this point. It's like, Yeah, this knife in my ribs is painful, but I don't really remember a time before it was there... Last week totally sucked, though. It reminded me of life before everything was wonderful and perfect. I even snapped at my husband all weekend, which I don't think has happened since Bun Bun came on the scene.
You see, my department is trying to hire a shiny new professor. And one of the people we're interviewing is my best friend (BFB). So that's odd on a number of levels. They are levels I won't say anything about because while I'm cool with my colleagues finding this weblog and learning that I think they're ASSHOLES or my students finding this weblog and learning that I think they're LAZY and ANNOYING, I do have my moments of being all ethical about confidential shit. Suffice it to say, hiring people generates a whole lotta contention, and none of it is fun to be near. I imagine it's like working for any small unit that's part of a larger unit and is very concerned about its fate, and is full of strong personalities and competing interests, yet must reach some kind of consensus...basically, a bunch of monkeys flinging their shit around and hooting. I'm trying to keep my emotional distance, but people keep dropping by my office to air their feelings, and of course I've got my own complicated opinions about what's best for our little department.
Mainly, it's just WEIRD to be all stressed out again, after five months of not giving a shit about anything except my fetus. I guess I thought I'd achieved a higher state of consciousness, in which I was surrounded by a bubble of motherearthgoddessI'vegotababyinme-ness that petty bullshit couldn't penetrate. But no, I was just lucky. Anyway, I know you are all EXPERTS in managing stress, so lay it on me! How do I shake it off?
You see, my department is trying to hire a shiny new professor. And one of the people we're interviewing is my best friend (BFB). So that's odd on a number of levels. They are levels I won't say anything about because while I'm cool with my colleagues finding this weblog and learning that I think they're ASSHOLES or my students finding this weblog and learning that I think they're LAZY and ANNOYING, I do have my moments of being all ethical about confidential shit. Suffice it to say, hiring people generates a whole lotta contention, and none of it is fun to be near. I imagine it's like working for any small unit that's part of a larger unit and is very concerned about its fate, and is full of strong personalities and competing interests, yet must reach some kind of consensus...basically, a bunch of monkeys flinging their shit around and hooting. I'm trying to keep my emotional distance, but people keep dropping by my office to air their feelings, and of course I've got my own complicated opinions about what's best for our little department.
Mainly, it's just WEIRD to be all stressed out again, after five months of not giving a shit about anything except my fetus. I guess I thought I'd achieved a higher state of consciousness, in which I was surrounded by a bubble of motherearthgoddessI'vegotababyinme-ness that petty bullshit couldn't penetrate. But no, I was just lucky. Anyway, I know you are all EXPERTS in managing stress, so lay it on me! How do I shake it off?
Friday, January 14, 2011
I'm a lucky girl
No, not because I'm pregnant. ANYBODY can do that, right? Right? Hey, who just virtually slapped me?
No, I'm lucky to have some kick-ass friends. I've written before about J and OBF (Other Best Friend). They are both super amazing people. In the past month or so, each of them has given me a baby-related gift that totally made me burst into tears. Not just because I'm hormonal, but also because these gifts say so clearly I love you, and I am happy for you, I GET you.
J's gift requires a bit of backstory. I have a small collection of Holztiger wooden animals. They look sort of primitive on the internet, but in person they are really beautiful. They are also super fun to play with because they stack really well. See Figure 1 (showing about a third of the collection).
J is an engineer. When he visits, he always spends some time stacking the animals, and creates incredible structures, usually while quite drunk. Not long ago he sent me this, with a card reading I saw this and thought it should be added to your stack. WAAAAH! Tears.
And, at Christmas, OBF sent this.
Which turned out to be a tiny hand-knit cardigan with little appliqué elbow patches! ELBOW PATCHES, PEOPLE. Oh MAH GAWD! Where can I get me a baby PIPE?
No, I'm lucky to have some kick-ass friends. I've written before about J and OBF (Other Best Friend). They are both super amazing people. In the past month or so, each of them has given me a baby-related gift that totally made me burst into tears. Not just because I'm hormonal, but also because these gifts say so clearly I love you, and I am happy for you, I GET you.
J's gift requires a bit of backstory. I have a small collection of Holztiger wooden animals. They look sort of primitive on the internet, but in person they are really beautiful. They are also super fun to play with because they stack really well. See Figure 1 (showing about a third of the collection).
J is an engineer. When he visits, he always spends some time stacking the animals, and creates incredible structures, usually while quite drunk. Not long ago he sent me this, with a card reading I saw this and thought it should be added to your stack. WAAAAH! Tears.
And, at Christmas, OBF sent this.
Which turned out to be a tiny hand-knit cardigan with little appliqué elbow patches! ELBOW PATCHES, PEOPLE. Oh MAH GAWD! Where can I get me a baby PIPE?
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Am I making a terrible mistake?
I'm visiting my family in Albuquerque in a few weeks, and my brother sent some recommendations for hotels. After I told him which one I'd selected, he informed me that it used to be a hospital. A psychiatric hospital. A children's psychiatric hospital. So it's obviously filled with the ghosts of children subjected to various kinds of torture. And this means that by staying there, we are most likely committing ourselves to participating in a horror movie.
Here's a quick précis of our movie. It will start with scenes of us all tender and loving. (e.g., Fade In. Interior of a plane. An attractive young couple, reading. The woman is visibly pregnant. The man looks up from his magazine and gazes lovingly at the woman. He places his hand with prominent wedding ring on her belly. She looks up from her papers and they share a tender smile.) It will be revealed that we struggled to get pregnant and are so very happy to be expecting our first child. We check into our luxurious hotel. I'll relax in the tub of our pristine white bathroom while my husband orders room service. The room service cart will leave our floor and descend ever deeper into the basement of the hotel. It will become damper and darker. There will be disturbing creaks and groans of machinery that sound like animals in pain. As the disturbingly blank-faced hotel employee pushes his cart down a long, dark corridor, surrounded by trickles of water, flaking paint, rusty pipes overhead...you will be startled with abrupt images of pale children in straight jackets, in chains, skittering over the ceiling, heads on backwards, shit like that. You know what comes next. Pretty soon black water and hair will be coming out of the faucet of our bathroom. Ghost children will be terrorizing us, with particular interest in our unborn child. We'll try to figure out how they were wronged and how we can help them. Our investigations will lead us to some depraved doctor. This being New Mexico, he will have a particular penchant for torturing children from the local Pueblo Indian tribes. We'll bring his misdeeds to light. We'll believe that we have released the souls of the tortured children.
But everyone knows horror movies never end well. We will either be murdered, forced to live forever in the hotel, serving the ghost children, or I'll give birth to some kind of demonic monstrosity.
Mr. Bunny and I discussed how to proceed. We talked about being aware of signs that we had entered a horror movie so that we could act quickly. But we concluded that the thing about finding yourself in a horror movie is you can never tell until it's too late. And we discussed the fact that you can never save the ghost children, no matter what you think. Because they don't want their souls released, they just want you dead.
So what do you think? Should we switch to the Best Western? Or is it already too late?
Here's a quick précis of our movie. It will start with scenes of us all tender and loving. (e.g., Fade In. Interior of a plane. An attractive young couple, reading. The woman is visibly pregnant. The man looks up from his magazine and gazes lovingly at the woman. He places his hand with prominent wedding ring on her belly. She looks up from her papers and they share a tender smile.) It will be revealed that we struggled to get pregnant and are so very happy to be expecting our first child. We check into our luxurious hotel. I'll relax in the tub of our pristine white bathroom while my husband orders room service. The room service cart will leave our floor and descend ever deeper into the basement of the hotel. It will become damper and darker. There will be disturbing creaks and groans of machinery that sound like animals in pain. As the disturbingly blank-faced hotel employee pushes his cart down a long, dark corridor, surrounded by trickles of water, flaking paint, rusty pipes overhead...you will be startled with abrupt images of pale children in straight jackets, in chains, skittering over the ceiling, heads on backwards, shit like that. You know what comes next. Pretty soon black water and hair will be coming out of the faucet of our bathroom. Ghost children will be terrorizing us, with particular interest in our unborn child. We'll try to figure out how they were wronged and how we can help them. Our investigations will lead us to some depraved doctor. This being New Mexico, he will have a particular penchant for torturing children from the local Pueblo Indian tribes. We'll bring his misdeeds to light. We'll believe that we have released the souls of the tortured children.
But everyone knows horror movies never end well. We will either be murdered, forced to live forever in the hotel, serving the ghost children, or I'll give birth to some kind of demonic monstrosity.
Mr. Bunny and I discussed how to proceed. We talked about being aware of signs that we had entered a horror movie so that we could act quickly. But we concluded that the thing about finding yourself in a horror movie is you can never tell until it's too late. And we discussed the fact that you can never save the ghost children, no matter what you think. Because they don't want their souls released, they just want you dead.
So what do you think? Should we switch to the Best Western? Or is it already too late?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
What's my fascination with your urine about, exactly?
Our lucky girl Kelly is waiting to find out if her first positive beta will lead to a fat, happy baby, or just more sorrow. Which is prompting me to ask something I've been wondering about for a while. Why am I so into seeing other people's positive pregnancy tests? I totally am, and have been ever since I started lurking in this community. I feel ripped off if someone doesn't post a picture. (Um, no pressure.) What the fuck is up with that? Is it because they are such a beacon of hope? Is it because many of us endlessly imagine seeing such a thing, and are so familiar with seeing the absence of it? Is it because they are a tangible indication that someone has a shot at getting off I'll Never Have a Baby Island? Am I alone in my love for other people's magic urine? Thoughts?
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