Well, this is bananas.

Currently 11 weeks + 5 days and would you look at that, it looks like everything is actually Just Fine.

After my last update, I continued barfing and not bleeding and feeling pregnant as fuck and, for the next ten days, bemoaning the fact that I was suffering so greatly for an unviable pregnancy. After all, we didn't even have sex the week that we would have needed to in order to conceive, if I was really only five weeks and a few days along. (My husband: "I'm pretty sure we did. Remember that time that my back hurt? And you said you'd already ovulated so this was just for fun?" Me: "Not really. I had sex for fun? You sure?")

And then my doctor's office called back like, "So are you going to make a follow up appointment or what?" I told them I'd call when I started bleeding, but they gently insisted that I come on in and take a gander at the ol' uterus so we could call it one way or the other. So I did, driving up by myself, grumbling about the cost of valet parking at the hospital and hauling myself onto the ultrasound table still grumbling.

The technician turned on the screen and I could see the sac. It had gotten bigger, but as she swiped through a few times, I could see that it was empty. I closed my eyes and tried to rest. I'd seen it coming at least.

It was taking so long though. I opened my eyes to ask what was happening, and I saw the tech taking what looked suspiciously like fetal pole measurements. "Is there something in there?" I asked. "Yes," she replied, "Looks like it's measuring about seven weeks." She zoomed in and I could see the rhythmic pumping motion of the tiny heart. She said, "I think that's a heartbeat. I'm going to go get someone else for a second opinion." The second opinion arrived and was much more confident: "That's a great heartbeat." They measured the sound waves and a few more things and then sent me on my way, totally confused but elated. The doctor called that night and said the heartbeat was well within the normal range at 155 bpm and that there was an excellent chance that this would become a full-term baby.

I went back at 10 weeks, sweating bullets. They put me in the same room where I found out that our first baby had no heartbeat, and I almost threw up. Then the doctor took a while to come in, and then he couldn't locate my uterus with the TV ultrasound wand, and I almost died right there on the table, and then he switched to abdominal and I looked up through the flood of tears and saw him pointing to my baby, who was moving her tiny arms and legs, all lit up on the screen.

Last week, we got the non-invasive testing results back and the baby is low risk for the trisomies they screen for, aaand... it's a girl!

Tomorrow is my NT scan, and if all goes well (please God let it go well, don't make me have to return the impossibly tiny floral ruffle-butt leggings I just bought) I think we'll really have the big exhale.

Limbo

The first ultrasound was Wednesday, the day after the election. I'd watched the returns from bed, mute with horror but thinking, "at least, on the bright side, I'm so anxious about the election that I've barely even thought about tomorrow's ultrasound." The feeling carried into the next morning - I drove through the drizzling rain into Manhattan thinking about the Supreme Court and deportations and the Handmaid's Tale and entertaining all kinds of great hyperbolic fears about everything.

My doctor - a new doctor in the same practice, as my last obstetrician passed away this summer; what an awful loss, he was such a kind and gentle doctor, though the new one seems pretty wonderful too - turned off the lights and started scanning and I swear, I can literally just feel it now when it's not good news. "Have you had any cramping or bleeding?" he asked.

"No," I answered, "Why? What are you seeing?"

He explained that he was seeing something - might have been a cyst, he wasn't sure - in the lower part of my uterus, right by the cervix, possibly IN the cervix - and he wasn't seeing anything else that looked like it should have looked by now. He ordered some bloodwork and scheduled an appointment that afternoon with the fancy ultrasound machine upstairs to make sure it wasn't an ectopic pregnancy.

We left and went to McDonald's where Leo threw his chicken nuggets on the floor and complained the whole time, and then we walked up through the rain to one of those Upper East Side indoor playgrounds where we paid thirty dollars for the privilege of chasing him through three small rooms of dubious cleanliness for an hour.

And then we walked back down to the hospital and had our second scan, where they were able to see that it was NOT ectopic (thank you, Jesus) and there was an identifiable yolk sac but no fetal pole. The upstairs doctor - the radiologist maybe? - came in to say that it might just be early, or it might not be good, and they wouldn't really know anything until they got my HCG results back and even then they wouldn't know for sure.

"Yes, okay, bad news, thank you," I said, "Please just say it, bad news, just tell me bad news, I need to hear it."

"We just don't know," he said. "You're measuring about five weeks. We just have to wait and see."

My HCG came back on Friday - just above 20,000. So: bad news. No five week pregnancy would have that kind of HCG. And my progesterone was a 13.5 - which is pretty dicey. They're having me come in on Thursday for a follow-up. I'm not holding out a whole lot of hope.

The awful, terrible irony of all this is that my morning sickness has been atrocious. I'm throwing up and sick almost all day. I absolutely hate going through it with no real hope of having anything good come out of it. Why can't my body just let it go, let it gooooo?

So uh... about that.

Looks like I'll be starting that hike up the mountain earlier than I'd expected.

I'm pregnant! 

Last night, at cycle day 43 and after a week or so of "I think I'm about to get my period" cramps, I figured I'd take another test just in case. Sure enough, two super dark lines appeared almost immediately. 

I'm excited and terrified. I'm a little nervous about the timing - I think it's been three weeks since we've had sex, and I got a negative Wondfo and digital test on Thursday morning, which makes me worry that this is another doomed "late implanter" like my first pregnancy. But Wondfos are weird and I know there's that whole "sperm can live for five days" thing, and maybe this is just a perfect storm? Whatever it is, the cards have been dealt and I just have to wait to see what they say. Keeping my fingers crossed that everything works out the way it is meant to be.  

Round Two... ding ding ding!

I seem to have a hard time admitting it, but we've been trying for Number Two for a few months now, and I am officially Ambivalent.

(And also Not Pregnant, but that's not much of a surprise, right?)

There must be some little light that goes off around your child's first birthday that lets people know it's time to start inquiring about the five year plan of your uterus. 

"Soooo.... are you guys thinking of having another one?" 

Another slice of Leo's birthday cake? Hell yes! 

"Is it time for number two yet?!"

Nah, he usually waits until after his nap to take a number two.

"Any *exciting* plans for this year?"

Yes, we plan to sleep through the night for three or four consecutive months! Keep your fingers crossed for us! 

In reality, I tell people that I would love to have another kid but I really, really don't want to go through another round of trying to conceive, another difficult pregnancy or another "fourth trimester." I'd really prefer to just have a stork drop off a six month old baby, all chunky and smiling and sitting up independently. Is that a thing? Can I just go on Amazon Prime and order Leo's brother or sister with two day delivery? (I'll be careful not to click "Subscribe and Save" by accident... you wouldn't believe how many razors I piled up before I remembered to cancel that thing!)

When I think back on the journey of getting to Leo, it's hard not to let it turn into a Greatest Hits collection of miserable experiences. The devastation of miscarrying, the anxiety and disappointment of failed cycle after failed cycle. The endless discomfort of pregnancy, with all of the barfing and backaches and swollen extremities. Insomnia for weeks before delivery then sleep deprivation for weeks afterwards. My unbelievably shitty delivery. My struggle and ultimate failure to breastfeed, which took me down to levels of depression and anger that I didn't even know existed. It really fucking sucked. I'm not saying there weren't some nice moments, but overall it felt like running a marathon in a hurricane. 

Of course it was worth it. Of course I'd do it a thousand more times for the incredible little boy I have today. Of course I'd walk through fire, swim across oceans, climb the highest mountain for him. But I would also pause at the edge of the fire or the mouth of the bay or the bottom of the mountain and be like, "Oh man. Do I really have to? Ugh. This sucks."   

So that's what I'm doing now. I'm dutifully taking my folic acid and tracking my cycles and doing It, and I'm squinting up at the top of the mountain and grumbling to myself. It's probably not going to be an easy journey. (Already my cycles are going batshit crazy - I'm on day 44 right now, with negative tests and no period in sight, lucky me!) But I know that there's another little soul waiting for me up at the summit, and I'm on my way to find him. (Or her?)  

Birth story, continued

Shockingly, the Kardashian marathon and constant fetal monitoring wasn't doing great things for my blood pressure. At 8:30 pm, they gave me another dose of labetalol, which helped a little bit but not enough. My nurse broke the news - it was IV magnesium time. Oh, and once that started, I wasn't allowed to get out of bed to pee anymore, (Come on, I'm like a thousand weeks pregnant and guzzling water. Of course I've got to go every thirty seconds!) I'd heard awful things about the magnesium, so I asked to speak with the doctor to see if there was any alternative. I can't remember exactly who came in to talk, but the bottom line was that there wasn't really much of a choice. I sighed, had one last pee and reluctantly surrendered my veins.

It wasn't too bad at first - I just felt a little extra warmth in the room. They gave me an Ambien around midnight and we settled in for some sleep. A little bit after 3 am, my nurse came in to reposition the fetal monitor and I couldn't get back to sleep after that. There's just no getting comfy on your back in a hospital bed when you're hooked up to a zillion different machines. I watched TV, watched Ed sleep, waited for the sun to rise.

At 6 am, it was time for the cervical check. Zero change! Thanks for nothing, cervadil! I was still closed and 50% effaced. They talked about doing another round of ripener but decided to just start me on Pitocin anyway. Pretty quickly, I was epidural'ed by a team of doctors, one guiding the other through the procedure. It made me super nervous but the epidural wound up being textbook perfect - I could move my legs, put a bit of weight on them to scooch myself around, and I could feel a mild tightening sensation during each contraction but I didn't feel any pain. (Well, not until later, at least. Spoiler alert.) I dozed off again for a bit and woke up at 10:45 to the peculiar sensation of amniotic fluid burbling out of my nether regions. Another check - one centimeter dilated! This show is getting on the road!

 My parents and Ed's mom arrived sometime around noon, around the same time the magnesium started making me feel truly awful. I was burning up, sweating, nauseated and puking. The next hours passed in a blur of misery. My mom, ever the savior in moments of crisis, was amazing. She held my puke bucket a hundred times and directed everyone else to take turns bringing me damp, cool washcloths for my forehead. Ed brought me water and ice and Jello from the patient lounge, because I was so thirsty that I had to keep drinking, even knowing it would come back up a moment later. My mom broke out the eucalyptus and mint aromatherapy lotion and rubbed my feet for what felt like hours. I was so miserable. I thought the hard part of labor would be feeling contractions and that the epidural would mean my labor would be blissful and serene, full of giddy anticipation for the arriving baby. Instead I was so unhappy that I more or less forgot that I was pregnant and started to feel like I'd contracted some awful tropical disease that I might not survive. Of course, the cervical checks reminded me that there was an end game here... and that I was nowhere near it. I was three centimeters in the early afternoon. I was three centimeters at 5 pm. They said, "if you haven't made any progress by 11 pm, we'll do a c-section." I was three centimeters at 11 pm. They said, "Let's wait til three am to decide." I was three centimeters at 3 am. And I was three centimeters at 4 am, when they finally agreed to call it. (At that point, I'd pretty much said to the doctor "Just get me a fucking scalpel and I'll do it myself, I need to get off of this magnesium.")

I wish I remembered more of Leo's actual birth. When I try to remember it, it comes in flashes of bright OR lights: lifting my hips to scoot from the bed to the table. Throwing up into that weird sock thing. Seeing Ed in his paper scrubs and face mask and not recognizing him at first. Hearing Leo cry and thinking, "Oh. There's a baby in here." I remember saying, "Someone needs to feed that baby!" I know that Ed brought him over to me, that he showed me pictures on the camera screen, that I did see him. But I don't remember feeling anything besides a pang of relief. The baby's here, the baby is healthy, the baby didn't die. This is the hard part of the story, the part that even now makes me get teary and sad for both of us. I spent so long picturing what that moment would be like. I dreamed it in sparkly slow motion, the rush of endorphins, the overwhelming waves of love, how I'd gaze into Ed's eyes and whisper in awe, "We did it. We made this." Of course, it wasn't like that at all. And it makes me sad that maybe it somehow cheated Leo out of something important. Today, I love him so much that it feels like my heart could just burst. I love him so much I can feel it like a vibration in every cell of my body. I love him so much, I think that love pours out of me and surrounds him like an aura, and I wish I could have enveloped him in that love from the second he was born. I know, of course, that I did love him then just as much as I do now. I just couldn't feel it at that moment. But more than the puking or the sweating or the failing epidural, this is the part that was the absolute worst.

Oh right, the epidural! Soon after Leo was born, someone noticed him barking a bit so they whisked him and Ed off to the nursery for observation. (He turned out to be just fine.) As the doctor went about returning my organs to their original place inside my body, I realized I could feel a lot of what was happening. By the time they started stitching, I was in a ton of pain. "Guys? I can feel this." I said. They told me they'd adjust some things and continued on. "It didn't work!" I said, beginning to panic. No one responded. "Seriously," I said to my nurse, "could I at least have a shot of whiskey and a bullet to bite on?" She laughed. "I knew I liked you," she said. We both laughed. I tried to think about other things. The anesthesiologist was telling dirty jokes. I chuckled along with the others in the room. Soon enough, it was over and I was in recovery, begging the nurse for a glass of water.

I was alone for a long time in there - an hour, maybe. It was strange not being pregnant anymore. I hadn't been so far apart from Leo for nine months and now, I was really by myself. Then Ed came in, carrying a paper with Leo's footprints. They were massive. I couldn't believe they belonged to a newborn baby. Then my parents came in. I grabbed my mom's water bottle and guzzled it before the water-rationing nurse could come by and catch me. And we waited and waited and waited. Then they rolled me into my private room. There was a picture of an angel on the door for some reason, and I was irrationally convinced that they'd put me in some sort of special room for moms who were recovering after losing their babies. I was still on magnesium, nearly delirious from lack of sleep, no longer nauseated but still burning up. My bed was right next to a huge picture window and I looked outside. Everything was covered in a blanket of wild, unexpected late March snow. I'm dreaming, I thought. I shed the hospital gown and changed into my own tank top. Ed went to yell at the nurses about turning down the temperature in my room. And then they wheeled Leo in.

I wish I could remember holding him for the first time. I have the pictures, but I don't have the memory. But I do remember spending the rest of the day just staring at him. I loved his pointy, elegant little nose and his sweet, gentle eyes. His hair was so soft and downy, his limbs were so long and graceful, his cheeks were so chubby. He reminded me of a baby bird, somehow both delicate and solid at the same time. And I remember the first time he latched on for a feeding. It seemed so natural and easy, I remember thinking, "Oh, breastfeeding is going to be a snap! Ha, and people say it's so hard! Well, not with this perfect latcher!" (Hahaha. Hahahahahaha. Haha. Ha.)

And there we were! He was finally here. And we were all falling in love.

It's been such a long time, baby.

Time flies when you're raising a gorgeous, blue-eyed, ruddy-cheeked bundle of love and joy and sleep deprivation! I can barely believe it, but Sprout is here. And he is healthy and gorgeous and six months old! But with that delicious spoiler alert out of the way, let me catch you up on the last nine months - starting with my birth story.

The last three months of pregnancy passed in a bit of a labetalol and self-imposed modified bed rest haze. My blood pressure and my weight both started skyrocketing - more or less simultaneously - and so I was put on medical leave from work around the time that I found myself in so much back pain that I couldn't walk three blocks to the drugstore. It was a rough winter anyway, with frequent snowstorms and freezing puddles on every corner, so I built myself a nest on the couch with Netflix and my home blood pressure monitor and waited for April 7th.

Sprout must have gotten tired of watching the same twenty or so episodes of Parks and Recreation over and over, though - by Saint Patrick's Day, my blood pressure monitor was giving me the blinking heart icon. Translation: call your doctor, mama. After two consecutive high readings, the on call doctor told me to head into Labor & Delivery for a little bit of monitoring. Throughout the pregnancy, I'd joked that I wanted a "high intervention" birth experience. In my first pregnancy, those long weeks between the first hint of doom at the 7 week ultrasound and the final confirmation at 11 weeks were sheer torture - I couldn't imagine any c-section recovery could be worse than that. I would happily trade my hopes for a vaginal birth, my curiosity about what labor feels like, the exciting "honey, it's time" moment and even the "I am woman, hear me roar" natural birth merit badge for the absence of that terrible anxiety. 

Lucky me, that high intervention birth is exactly what I got. At L&D triage, they connected me to the fetal monitor and the blood pressure cuff and took some blood for lab work. After an hour or two, a nurse popped by to let me know they would be releasing me soon - my b.p. was elevated but not terribly so, and as soon as they got the lab work back, they'd be sending me home to rest and hydrate and monitor it on my own. Thank God! I was starving. I wondered whether or not I could get away with grabbing dinner at McDonalds on my way back to the subway. I was sure the sodium wouldn't be in my best interest, but I was fantasizing about getting two double quarter pounders and combining them into something that I would simply call "The Pounder." I was so deep into this fantasy that I could almost taste the tangy dill pickles when the nurse came back and told me that they'd decided to admit me for the night. You know, just for observation. I texted my husband and asked him to bring my hospital bag, but no rush! (And maybe smuggle in a burger or two, if he wouldn't mind. Extra pickles.)

A second nurse came by to escort me to my room - a spacious delivery suite with a pretty view of the hospital courtyard. "Here's a hospital gown and socks," she said, "and you might want to take a shower before you put them on. Once we get the induction started, you won't be able to shower again. Have you eaten yet? If not, I'll try to find you something because you'll be on clear liquids only once we insert the Cervadil" 

"Oh, no," I laughed. "You must have picked up the wrong patient from triage! I'm just here for observation." 

She confirmed my name. "No mistake," she said. "The doctor decided you're getting induced tonight. Settle in and I'll get you some dinner." 

I texted my husband: On second thought, YES RUSH! 

I took my shower, pulled on the cozy anti-skid hospital socks and climbed into bed to watch a few inspirational episodes of Keeping Up With the Kardashians. My husband and my tray of cafeteria food arrived simultaneously, and after a hearty last dinner of oily baked chicken and grayish green beans, it was time to get the party started. Someone came in and inserted the cervical ripener at 6 pm. (I think it was a doctor, but there were so many people in and out of the room at that point, it may have been the anesthesiologist, a random med student or possibly even the orderly who came in to pick up the dinner tray. Over the next 48 hours, the list of people on earth who had seen my vagina more or less quadrupled; apparently there's no room for modesty in a teaching hospital.) 

In the grand Festivus tradition...

...it's time for the airing of grievances.

Everything hurts. I can't sleep because everything hurts and when I do get to sleep, I wake up four times a night to pee. I'm retaining so much water that I'm getting the equivalent of carpal tunnel in both elbows, so every time I bend my elbows for longer than a minute or so, my forearms go numb. The sciatica is awful - I don't think I've felt my right thigh since October, and I frequently feel like I'm being shanked in the right rear buttock. Not to be left out, my left side has decided to pull a muscle or something mid-back. And that's not even beginning to address the swelling in my ankles or my creaky ass knees. I thought about asking a stranger to carry me up the stairs in the subway today. And then I thought about just renting an apartment near a subway station that has an elevator.  I've gained 16 pounds and my doctor is totally going to yell at me.

I have a weird growth on my gumline that is apparently a "pregnancy tumor." When my belly isn't itching, the ligaments are complaining about all the stretching. Forget tying my shoes; I can barely put on my socks. My skin is dry everywhere except for my face, where it's so oily I keep expecting Halliburton to declare eminent domain on it. My husband forgot to bring home the Carvel ice cream cake I specifically requested and I cried.

Pro: my hair is growing quite rapidly. Con: it's all gray.

Recent panicked Google searches: "I can't feel my cervix" "broken water or pee" "fetus vibrating?"

Despite all of this, I know that I'm lucky as hell to be 26 weeks today with a beautiful, healthy, wiggly little guy. But I am 99% sure that he is going to be an only child.

24 weeks, 5 days

Pregnancy is amazing. I'm hungry all the time, but between the sciatica and the heartburn, I can never haul my widening ass out of the house long enough to purchase and consume all of the food I want to eat. Kind of perfect how it works out that way!

Achievement unlocked: 20 weeks!

I've made it past the halfway point now, with a belly full of wiggles and kicks, and it's really feeling - well, real. There are real movements, real back aches and sciatica and heartburn, and real people getting up to give me their seats on the subway. (Though it's way more common that folks glance at my belly and then suddenly become very interested in their newspaper/magazine/Kindle. New Yorkers, you guys are a bunch of jerks sometimes.)

Our anatomy scan is tomorrow, and the teeny tiny little post-traumatic-stress voice inside my head is like, "Don't get too cocky until after tomorrow! Don't forget all of the things that could still go wrong!" But honestly, I have a feeling that everything is fine - so I'm just going to go with that.

I went to the Big City Mom's Biggest Baby Shower last week, and came away with quite the haul of baby supplies! Their gift bags were ridiculously good - I think I have seven or eight bottles now, and scads of pacifiers, bibs, infant toys, diapers and one super soft baby blanket that I can't stop rubbing on my cheek. Besides the full size bottles of stretch mark oils, mom-friendly lotions and "boob cream" that I've been lavishly rubbing all over my body, the contents of the bag have been tucked away in the closet where my superstitious husband can pretend they aren't there. He also doesn't know that I've been secretly adding sweet little baby clothes to the stash. How could it possibly be bad luck to stumble across the cutest little knitted sweaters at 75% off, right?

17w5d

I just got a raise at work, so I decided to make today Treat Yo Self Day!

Since mimosas are out for obvious reasons, and I'm all set in the fine leather goods department, it was time for a prenatal massage. I'm pretty loyal to Bliss Soho, not because the massages are anything spectacular, but because the whole experience is so relaxing. I always get there early so I can stake out a good spot in the relaxation lounge, snuggle into my comfy oversized robe, sip peppermint tea and leaf through the latest copy of Self. And after the treatment, the sauna and rainfall showers are pretty dope, too. It's best to go on a weekday, when you have the place pretty much to yourself and you don't have to be embarrassed about slathering on every product in the ladies' locker room twice. (Hey, that body lotion is expensive! I'd fill my pockets up with it if I could.)

But today, the prenatal massage was the star of the show. I was worried I'd have to lay on one side for most of it, but they had this magical set up with pillows everywhere, and after some scooching around to get my baby belly in the proper position, I was in heaven. It's unreal how good it feels to lay on your stomach after not being able to for a month or so! Then when it comes time to flip over, they raise the upper part of the bed so that you're not flat on your back. Between the warm, fuzzy blankets, the sweet-smelling baby oil they rub you down with and the super talented masseuse (who did this crazy stretching and flexing thing with my legs that made my eyes roll back in my head - like someone doing yoga for you) I was really in absolute bliss. No pun intended.

It wasn't cheap, so I know I won't be able to go back as frequently as I'd like (i.e., daily) but I definitely want to get back there at least one more time during this pregnancy. I've been feeling really achy and mis-aligned lately, and I feel absolutely wonderful right now! I hope it lasts. :)

Hello, sixteen weeks and three days!

Currently hanging out in my obstetrician's waiting room, doing my three hour blood glucose test. What I wouldn't give for a ham sandwich right now! Later this afternoon we'll get to hear the baby's heartbeat again. I'm a teeny bit nervous but mostly super excited.

And now that we know it's a boy, I think we have a name: Leo! It's my great-grandfather's name, and I think it's awesome.

Fourteen weeks, two days

And all of these things that make this pregnancy so different from the first one.

Like the perfect twelve week scan with a beautiful, wiggly little guy flailing his tiny arms and legs and doing flips in my uterus.

Like a terrified late night rush to the emergency room which ended in tears of joy rather than tears of sorrow, after a scan revealed a perfect baby with a perfect heartbeat.

Telling people. Saying it out loud, making it official. Watching my body sprout the beginnings of a baby bump.

And finally being in the second trimester. It's such a relief. I kind of never thought I'd actually be here. Now, I just can't wait for April so we can meet our snuggly baby boy. And this time, I actually believe that we will.

All made better by the sound of your heart.

Today's ultrasound was perfect. Baby was measuring right on, with a strong heartbeat that was the most beautiful sound in the world. And afterwards, I dragged my husband into Pottery Barn Kids. (Because I felt that he hadn't been sufficiently terrified by the forty-five minute wait for the doctor to come in and do the scanning; the poor guy really needed to see his wife drool over $35 elephant-shaped baby slippers to reach maximum anxiety.)

Relieved doesn't even begin to describe it. I won't unclench entirely until after the first trimester (oh, who am I kidding? I won't unclench entirely until the kid is retirement age) but I am really letting myself feel optimistic now. In a couple of days, maybe I'll even be hopeful enough to buy some elephant-shaped baby slippers. (Dear Lord, they were adorable.)

Seven weeks, five days today and I had my first ever pregnancy-induced barfing episode. I've been feeling queasy for weeks, but this morning I actually lost my cookies. (Or bowl of Crispix, actually. Cross another one off my list of "foods that don't make me feel sick.")

It's also the first time I've ever felt a rush of joy with my head in the toilet. Since morning sickness can be an indicator of a healthy pregnancy, surely achieving an actual ralphing session must mean good news is ahead! (Either that, or I got food poisoning from my mother in law's birthday cake last night. I knew it wasn't a great idea to leave it in the backyard while we went to dinner.)

Anyway, with my first ultrasound on the horizon (Tuesday!) I'll take any reassurance I can get - even if it's of the holding-your-hair-back variety.

Patience has never been my strong suit. I skip to the last page of every book I read before I'm halfway through. Before I see a movie, I look up the plot summary on Wikipedia. When I was a kid, I found Mom and Dad's Christmas present stash every year - and hell yeah, I peeked! So it is completely amazing to me that I haven't broken down and called the OB's office yet, begging for an early ultrasound. After all, I am the ultrasound junkie...

Most of the time, I feel like this is good practice for parenting. I'm sure that the worry never really stops, and I'd better learn to deal with my anxiety now before there's a little person here for me to project it all onto. Someday, be the good Lord willing, this little baby is going to be going off to school... Learning to drive... Going to college... All kinds of terrifying stuff. I don't want to be the crazy anxious mom in tears every time her kid takes a step towards scary, scary adulthood... I want to be able to feel the feelings and let them go. So that's what I'm trying to do here - to trust that even when I can't see it with my own eyes, everything is going to be okay.

But then there are the moments where I'm convinced that this is all going to go south, and I just don't want to know. I want to soak in the joy of being pregnant for as long as possible, and I worry that the next ultrasound will once again be the beginning of the end. And then I squeeze my boobs to see if they're still sore, and I imagine eating chicken to see if I'm still nauseous, and I wonder if anxiety is intuition and then I wonder if it's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

One more week from tomorrow.

Counting days...

Today I'm five weeks and two days along. It's my first thought when I wake up in the morning: I've made it one more day. And then I rush into the bathroom, half-expecting to see blood every time. 

So far, so good though, and most of the time I feel completely serene and accepting and peaceful. This pregnancy just feels so different from the first one. I'm not really sure how, exactly, other than the fact that my every waking moment is not consumed with panic and terror like it was the first time around. This time, I know that worrying won't change anything, and anxiety can only rob me of the joy of being pregnant. But still, sometimes I catch myself googling things like "recurrent miscarriage statistics" and "miscarriage stats by week" and I really have to check myself. 

The first ultrasound isn't until eight weeks this time around. It's only nineteen days away, but it kind of feels like forever. I thought about calling back and begging to come in earlier, but something is holding me back. I want to really try to practice being patient this time. I'd really like to just trust my intuition that all is well. 

To my son, in heaven

Dear baby,

   The Buddhists say you stopped by on your way to nirvana for one last round. You came so you could be there for the incredible moment when tiny fingers blossomed from the rosebud of your shape. So you could be loved one last time in a warm place with no suffering. Your feet never touched the ground; I carried you everywhere you went. I loved you from the day you were made.
   The scientists say that us mothers carry our children's DNA with us, in our blood streams. They tell me what I already knew, which is that I will carry you in my heart until the day that I die.
   Today is the day you were supposed to arrive. I know you're in a better place, baby, but I sure do wish you were here.
   I carry you in my heart, baby boy, and I love you so much.

Mama

I PREG!!!

("I PREG!!!" reference from this amazing post: http://www.stfuparentsblog.com/post/16528378462/tease-reveal-preg-edition)

On Saturday, my husband and I drove up to see our brand new baby nephew, and it was just as wonderful and easy as I thought it would be. We both got to hold him and snuggle with him and look at his teeny tiny feet and itty bitty fingernails. And then later on that night, we drove over to bring some extra supplies to the new mom and dad, and I got to have a really nice one-on-one chat with my brother. He said that he knew this might be a little rough on me, but that he was so happy that we could be there to love on our nephew (and his older sister!) and that he knew we would be wonderful parents ourselves whenever it happens. I told him that visiting them had made me realize how much I already was at peace with everything that's happened, and that I knew our baby would get here one way or the other, and that I finally was really, really okay with being patient until that happened.  We gave each other a great big bear hug, and then my husband and I took off to head home.

On the way, we stopped by the store and I saw early result pregnancy tests on sale. I had been planning on waiting for a missed period to test, but I tossed a pack in my cart anyway. I really was at peace with everything, and ready to face the answer on the pee stick.

We got home, and I took it and placed it on the counter to wait for the results. I started reading one of my mom's magazines and got so engrossed in one of the articles, I actually forgot to check the stick. But when I did, there were two clear, beautiful lines.

My husband was waiting in our bedroom. He gave me a thumbs up with a questioning look. I nodded, grinning. "Ahh, I knew it!" he said, wrapping me up in a great big hug.

So, for now, I preg. I hope this is our rainbow baby, but I'm trying not to get too attached until our first ultrasound in three weeks. I know from experience there are a million ways this could go south, but... I actually feel really optimistic. I've been having a little bit of cramping today, and I know it's totally normal but it scares me anyway. But hopefully the storm has passed, and our rainbow is on its way.

In some ways, it feels like there's a lot riding on this cycle. It's my last chance to be pregnant on my miscarried pregnancy's due date. It's our last natural cycle before moving onto Femara and monitoring. And if we actually conceived this month, my due date will be my best friend's birthday. Seeing those two lines next week would just be a huge sigh of relief in so many ways. But I'm strangely calm this week, and I'm not sure whether it's the careful attention I've been paying to my health, an answered prayer for peace and tranquility, or just a sign of absolute surrender. One can only grieve at a fever pitch for so long, I suppose. It's like a baby crying - eventually they tire themselves out and just relax into sleep.

My nephew is scheduled to arrive on Friday - his mom had a c-section with my niece, so they've planned a second c-section for this little guy. My husband and I are driving up to see them the day after he's born. I have to say, I have dreaded this day for so long. I felt like -how am I supposed to see and hold and love this baby, knowing that - had things been different - I would have been enormously pregnant right now with his would-be cousin? How do I congratulate my brother and sister in law when I'm just seething with jealousy? And how am I ever going to be able to put on a happy face for this whole thing?

But now that he's almost here, I honestly don't feel anything but joy. My tiny, lovely nephew is a completely different baby than the one that I lost. He's not a symbol of everything I don't have, or everything that might have been - he's just a baby. And I really can't wait to meet him. I can't wait to be his auntie and give him snuggles and kisses and spoil him rotten. I'm so excited and happy that, just like with his adorable and sweet older sister, I'm going to have the privilege of being his aunt. It's going to be awesome, I just know it.

In the meantime, I've been thinking about what I want to do to mark my would-have-been due date on August 1st. I know I definitely want to write a letter to the son that we're missing, but I'm also feeling a need to have some sort of ritual. I could go to church and say a rosary... spend some time in the botanic gardens... go to the beach and dip myself in the ocean and contemplate the infinite. None of that stuff really feels right, though. So I'm hoping it will come to me. Until it does, I'm just so grateful for this newfound sense of peace. I hope it lasts for a very long time.

A few nights ago, I had a really vivid dream that I was asked to read an essay I'd written about my miscarriage to a convention of mothers. As I was walking into the convention hall, a volunteer stopped me and asked me how many children I had. "Oh, none," I said, "I'm not a mother, I'm just here to read this story about my miscarriage." "Honey," she replied, "you might not have any living children, but you're still a mother. You belong here just as much as any of the other mothers do." Then, when it was time for me to go on stage and read my story, I couldn't find it - but my husband showed up, and a bunch of my friends, and they were all telling me to just go up there and wing it. "Just speak from your heart," one said, "and trust your instincts. You'll know what to do. The words will come."

Today is cycle day 20 and I just got my first ever completely positive OPK this morning. I'm a little worried that I seem to be ovulating later and later every cycle, but this will be our last natural cycle before moving on to Femara anyway, so I'm not stressing about it too much.

I'm also really enjoying my new health kick! I don't know whether I've lost any weight yet, but I definitely feel good. Nourished, peaceful... open.