Posts Tagged 'blogging'

The Post Post Post

[Warning: This blog post contains personal body related information; not for the squeamish or uninterested.)

I realized yesterday, when I got what seems to be my period, that I used to blog about it every time I got it for over a year. Many, many cycles of trying to conceive were ended with me writing about the onset of my menses. Without looking back, I am sure that each of those posts were full of woe. I remember trying to convince myself that the cramping or spotting was really a result of implantation; despite its recurrence, I’d stay up late pleading with Dr. Google so I could retain the possibility of being pregnant—even one more day—until the real blood flowed.

Now, I feel truly ambivalent. It’s been 2 years since my last period, and I don’t know how to associate with it anymore. Am I technically post postpartum? I know the period will most likely change over the coming months and when I eventually stop nursing, but the onset has left me befuddled—kind of how I feel about a lot of things these days. The result of continued interrupted sleep? Probably.

I'm baack!

I’m baack!

Speaking of nursing. I always thought I’d want to nurse as long as my child would want to and let her wean as she lost interest. But lately, the constant whiny demand for “nuh-thEEEng!” has me wanting out. Getting grabbed by the shirt collar and yelled at in the face for something that is actually starting to hurt again (sore nipples) is nothing like the soulful connection Josie and I used to share. Especially now that I have to go back to cramps and bleeding, it seems like we should make a trade. I shed my uterine lining every month and she finds comfort from me in other ways.

One feeling that is mightily clear and present is that of shame. I have not figured out what to do for an income and when and how to do it. I try telling myself that being with Josie every minute of the day and getting household things done is a job, though unpaid. But my older more persistent voice says that I am lazy and entitled and “not enough.” The shame of not being a working mom is surprising to me. I have often thought the hetero-normative working mom gets a raw deal having to work and be main caretaker, cook, maid, etc. So why be so self-punishing for being a stay-at-home mom for now? Added to this shame is guilt for actually yearning to work outside the home if only to get away from Josie sometimes. I fought hard to get her into our lives; how can I now want to be away from her? Many moms have told me to just get some small job, that it’ll be worth it for the separation, yet I’m having a hard time believing that bagging groceries would make sense in the context of my new life with a pre-preschool toddler. On the other hand, the universe has been slow to deliver unto me a new and highly satisfying career idea. The thoughtful present “me” definitely feels like I have my hands full most every second of the day, but the nagging inside my head “me” is apparently a masochist.

Instead of the usual Moment of FoG (Funny or Gross), I thought I’d share some of my GaS (Gross and Sad): If you go back about 9 or 10 months of posts, you’ll see that I had some work done on my anus to relieve the incredible postpartum hemorrhoids no one tells you about. It helped a lot. But something I’m starting to come to grips with (no pun intended) is that certain functions “down there” will never come back online—not the way they were before the birth. In spite of the many months of physical therapy, I have only regained a portion of the feeling in my muscles around the episiotomy and internal (forceps and other) tearing. What this means, combined with a healthy dose of Eastern European IBS, is a constant struggle with shit. Most of the time, I can’t completely eliminate and can’t feel what has come out. The wiping is never ending, and when I try to get it all, I end up with hemorrhoids again! I know people have it a lot worse. People with broken backs who lose all feeling spend much more effort on this every day. But because I am mostly functional and only uncomfortable and inconvenienced, the time it takes from my life, as well as the pain and frustration, do not afford me any kind of disability pay; I just need to suck it up (no pun intended) and get on with life as usual. Bending over to walk Josie pushes on my gut which pushes other things, and I do this all day long. I can’t imagine getting work done in the short time Josie naps when I need that time to clean up around the house and in my caboose! The most frustrating thing for me is that, again, no one talks about this stuff. I know one other person who has similar issues, but I’ve heard of so many more from my health care providers. I wish I knew why women don’t talk about the nasty parts of pregnancy and postpartum life. Is it shame? Do we truly think our bodies are that original that no other woman has experienced something similar? I hope, at least, that sharing my GaS (don’t get me started on gas) will reach some blog reader out there and that she will feel less freaky and alone.


Life After One

I had so much time to blog when we were trying to get pregnant; I could write about every color my skin turned after an injection and how I loathed every flagrant pregnant person who dared shop at my grocery store. I thought this would be a great thing to continue doing once we were finally pregnant and even after… ya know. The truth is I do still occasionally have the thought, “The crazy thing that just happened must be blogged about!” But I never ever prioritize it. If there’s a moment to be had, I still, after a full year of moming, go for sleep, eating by myself, or a shower. If I’m somehow well rested, I may even go for exercise. But I have yet to choose blogging. I know I’m blogging right now, but it’s just to say.

Josie turned one at the end of the year. We had a small party to which she was fashionably late (she chose that day to begin napping well). I scoured the city for a bakery that makes desserts without gluten, dairy, sugar, soy, corn, or any other thing to which Josie tested sensitive. She did not carebday1_blog for the cupcakes (nor did many other people); this gave me a small glimpse into the years ahead when I’ll be whining such things as, “I worked so hard to find something you could have and you don’t even want to try it?!” We had the party away from the house because of how poorly her 6-month party went (Josie screaming through the entire thing and needing to be held in another room). We brought her big foam puzzle piece play mats and a bunch of oversize Leggos for the babies to play on/with. I think her favorite part was when we flash mobbed her, which is to say we all got in a big circle and did some of her favorite numbers (hokey-pokey, wheels on the bus, go bananas); she loved it, wearing an expression that said, “You all know my songs? That’s nuts! Sing unto me, my people!”

So long ago in the naive days of before-Josie, I thought that I would be back to doing some kind of work at three months. Ha! At that point we hadn’t even figured out her tongue-tie/eating issue and I still hurt to move for the shredded crotch. Now, here at twelve months, I feel like I’ll go crazy if I don’t find something to do with myself that isn’t Josie related. (BTW, I don’t need suggestions of what to do; the world is my oyster, yadda yadda.) But we’re just starting to get out of the house to try play groups and mommy and me’s and baby shows, etc. I think I’m just trying to find the balance between pushing to get up, dressed and out of the house after each nap (which I mostly do by running on adrenaline) and staying at home where Josie cries to be “walked” around the living room for hours on end. Finding said balance (while being a generally impatient person) and wishing there was something I’d love to do in this world that would allow me to make more money than I would pay in childcare… I will call this my Wish At Year One.

An example of pushing out of the house comes from this past Friday. Mama had been sick and coughing all night for days, Josie had the bug for a day but was better, and I had been fighting the throat demon (and the insomnia beast) for the past couple of nights. I heard of a dance party (open to the public) at a co-op nearby where people go with their kids to play whenever for a monthly fee and a simple job. Though I felt like a ball of peanut butter, lint and hair, I got us dressed and over to the party by 10am. I knew I’d probably end up losing the fight to the flu bug for pushing myself, but it was so worth it. Imagine a ballroom full of toddlers and babies and parents—and a DJ. Josie took off scooting (’cause she don’t crawl) all over the wood floors, chasing down balls and hula hoops (usually out of the hands of slightly older kids whose moms told them to give up the toy… I should teach her about sharing, huh?). There were dress-up party clothes to don, but we didn’t venture into that mess. She and I danced to Michael Jackson and some other tunes; I spun her around a few times (even though I could hurl) because she gives the biggest smile every time.

We’re going for it again tomorrow. There’s a concert series put on in Portland with real bands that play just for kids. It’s called YouWho, and tomorrow Blind Pilot is playing a show at a venue two blocks from our house. I have no idea what to expect. Will they play their own music, which I’d imagine would bore children to tears but make the parents cheer? Does the band take the time to learn kids’ songs? All I know is that it was cheap and it’s so close; we can leave and be home in five minutes for any reason. That is what I call an outing!

We Are Family

This is the first time I’ve blogged with headphones on. The screaming does bad, bad things to me, and since K had to leave for work, I am sitting in the farthest corner of the house from the crib and listening to They Might Be Giants. Every once in a while, I will pause and listen to hear if the wails have lessened to crabby babble or whining. This is a mid-nap cry fest. I think I made a mistake; my nerves are still raw from starting this process all over again (third time a charm?) and should have taken Josie out after her 28-minute nap.

We came back from our mega Midwest tour last Sunday (more on that in a minute), and we began working with the sleep coach in earnest this past Thursday. The first night, she cried for almost 3 hours when first put down to sleep. But by last night she cried for only a half hour and stayed in the crib all night (besides one nurse & change around 2 a.m.). I need to reemphasize that: ALL night! This girl of ours is amazing.

I, on the other hand, am a bit messy. After only one day of training, I was curled in a ball on our bed, crying for hours straight, and thinking all kinds of horrible things, like how Josie and K would be better off without me. When I finally came out of that anxiety hell, K reminded me that over 8 months of severe sleep deprivation can make a mommy mad, which is totally how I felt. Mad with a capital Insane.

The sleep coach wants us to start with night training and worry about naps later, but that doesn’t make sense to us or seem to work for Josie. We decided to let her cry it out when she wakes up in the night and if naps are too short. There can be a lot of unpleasant crying, and it’s much more manageable when K and I are together. That’s why I’m sitting here like bombs are falling all around my house, and Josie is still upstairs screaming her sweet little innocent she-didn’t-ask-to-be-born lungs out.

So, on to the travel report. (Hey, I guess this scream time frees me up to blog more. Way to look for the positive, Self!) We flew to Chicago first. I was sohoho nervous about the flight. I was afraid of the screaming and the looks. But besides needing the baby ImageHeimlich, Josie did really well. We were referred to baby-led feeding a while ago, and we’d been letting Josie handle all the food she eats. We thought the article we read said that the food should be bigger than her fist, and that she would just gnaw on the part that sticks out the top of her grip.

[Nap update: I’ve been freaking out that she’s been up there for over an hour now. I remembered that I am allowed to go comfort her, pat her butt, etc. as long as I don’t pick her up. So, I ran, I mean, I walked very calmly upstairs and tried to comfort her. She would not roll over. For K, she usually rolls on her side with her blanky in her arms and lets her pat her butt till she calms down or falls asleep. For me? No. She stiffens so I could not roll her and throws her arms up to be taken out. She turns up the scream so her face is beet red. So I’m back here, worse for the “comforting.”]

Josie chomped right down on the apple slice we gave her, breaking off a sizable chunk with her little bottom teeth and proceeded to choke. Thank god 1) K knows what to do in that situation and 2) I was in the lavatory, far from the trauma. I got back to our row right after the incident, and K was definitely ready for a sob. Josie was fine.

We rented a big Queen Victoria boat of a car and drove to K’s grandparents’ place outside of Chicago. Josie did some pretty decent sleeping while we were there, and she stepped up her solid food eating since there was a nifty highchair. She also got to enjoy carpeting for the first time. She kept petting it and moving her fingers through it. I realized then that if we had carpeting instead of hardwood floors, she would learn to crawl so fast. Josie met a lot of new family members on this leg of the trip, and she was definitely overwhelmed. People were disappointed that she would not go to them or even sit on their laps. I had huge guilt; here we were, at her great-grandparents’ for the first time, and she cried when they so much as touched her. The next part of the trip was short but sweet. We drove a couple of hours to the Quad Cities, Iowa, where half of my people are from. Josie slept for an hour in the car, which made it… nice! We went to see my mom’s brother and his partner, whom I haven’t seen since my grandma died 7 years ago and whom K had never met. They were so clearly happy to see us and didn’t need to hold Josie immediately. That made things so much more relaxed for Josie and for us. We were only in Iowa for a day, but Josie did some great sleeping there, and we got to see my cousin, his wife, and their youngest. What a treat. The next leg took us to Madison, WI (yes, that’s the third and last state of this 12-day jaunt). That is where K’s immediate family and old family friends live. Josie didn’t do so well with sleep there. But she did get to meet her week-old first cousin, who she got a big kick out of.

[Scream update: I’ve gone up twice now. I remember one nap when K had to take her out of the crib to change a poop; she stayed up after that. I ran up to see if maybe there was poop, but no such luck. I promised K I wouldn’t take her out of the crib, but she doesn’t get back for another 2 hours! My shoulders are now fused with my earlobes.]

The second-to-last day of our trip was a mini trip to a wedding near Milwaukee. K’s cousin was getting married in a church in the morning and having a reception at a park in the afternoon. Well, Josie didn’t take her morning nap (surprise!), so we decided to forgo the church and catch up with everyone at the reception. So, not only did Josie never take that nap, she didn’t sleep in the car and that was a long drive. She did fine at the party itself, and we somehow made it to Milwaukee that evening. We found a pizza place in a seedy part of town that made gluten-free and dairy-free pizza. Then we passed out in a hotel room. The flights home the next day were difficult. Josie didn’t sleep (should I bother writing that any more?), and I had a run-in with an evil man. The flight to Chicago featured a changing table in the back lavatory. As we boarded our first flight home, the flight attendant said it was in the front one this time. I quickly scanned the nearby seats for two empties so we could be close to the front. I saw two and we headed in with our million bags and whatnot. The old man in the aisle seat just looked at me and wouldn’t move at first. So, I said, “Can we please sit there?” He continued to stare me down but stood up. We needed to get in the seats and unpack our snacks from the carry-on that would eventually be stowed in the overhead compartment. This needed to be done with Josie and five other carry-on type items all juggled together. K stepped into another row with Josie while I scooted past the guy and started the organizing. I tried to smile and say graciously, “I’m sorry, but we have to sit close to the front since that’s where the changing table is.” He just glared his terrible icy blue old man glare and said, “No comment!” At that, I looked up at K and yelled, “Oh, we need to find somewhere else… now!” While I was pushing back past him, I noticed the man sitting in the row behind smiling a pleasant smile, and so I loudly praised him for looking like a nice gentleman who could teach other men how to be nice. I probably confused the hell out of this poor soul. When I caught up to K and Josie at a row farther back, my eyes were filled and I yelled, “What an a**hole!” It’s not like me to curse audibly in mixed and compact company, but I had lost it. And that was on Xanax, mind you.

One thing I think our big trip did for us was coalesce us as a little family in a way that walking around our neighborhood and seeing some friends hadn’t before. We were a nuclear family among extended families. We had to face new challenges together. Josie grew (literally) and, as a unit, we got a little bigger in our britches.

Now, if we can all just get some sleep.

[I promise a moment of FoG next time!]

The Two-Week Post

It has been a long while since I posted, and it took me two weeks to jot down this little number. It has also been a long while since I slept more than 1.5 hours in a row or ate slowly enough to taste. I’m assuming that when the sleep situation improves, I will be a regular William Shakespeare.

Since last I posted, Josie has completed her seventh month of life. And boy did she live it! It began with a half birthday party, which Miss Thing spent in the back rooms of the house — away from the guests. K and I took turns trying to keep the poor overwhelmed baby from screaming while the party went on without us.¬† We had two very successful trips to the coast. Josie seems to love the beach. The dog won best day for sure. Poor beast has taken a figurative and literal back seat to this new creature in our lives. But once we got out on the sand and took off her leash, she ran with such manic glee that it seemed, at least for that day, that all has been forgiven. Josie has also started eating real human food (and taking real human diaper dumps!). What started in her sixth month as disinterest in avocado has transformed into a full-blown carnivore carnival. She loves meat! The redder, the better. First it was chicken liver, but now wants steak and burgers. Did I mention she wants it NOW!? That’s another new trait… the scream of impatience. After several field studies, we’ve concluded that our daughter wants what she wants (and doesn’t what she doesn’t want — namely, naps) when she wants it. There is no warning whimper. It’s all, “Hey! Is that your cup? I want your cup… gimme your cup why isn’t your cup in my mouth ahh! ahh! ahh!” It’s a lot of screaming at a very high pitch. A lovely thing Josie has begun doing is instigating a version of hide and seek that involves rolling on her side, facing away from you. You are then to ask, “Where’s Josie?” Still nothing. If you tickle her side while asking, you will see the rise of her cheekbone (impish clue #1) and eventually be rewarded with a smiling baby returning to her back. Ah, to be in love.

It’s amazing how little I knew about this world of having an infant and how quick I’ve learned. For example, I did not know that a) there is such a thing as a sleep coach and b) that there could be a real, dear-god-help-us need for such a thing. We haven’t slept for months; it’s one thing for us to be underslept, but another entirely to have a tired baby every day. We first saw how much this coaching would cost and laughed. Now, about six weeks later, we are finding a way to pay. We spoke with the coach and will officially start the training when we get back from our trip. Yes, we are traveling for the first time with our baby. I tend to be afraid of things, but this stress has been building and has taken on ulcerative proportions.

Beginning Tuesday morning, we are traveling to three Midwestern states in 12 days. Three flights, three long car trips, and three chunks of family total. The flight is scaring me the most. The diapers, the screaming, the constant off-and-on nursing, the dirty looks… And thankfully, the Xanax (for me) and liquid Benadryl (for her). Don’t judge; just wish us luck!

And, now… For your Moment of FoG (Funny or Gross):
Today was a first in poopy business. Nothing seemed amiss, at first. There was clearly the need for a diaper change. But as I walked to the diaper changing table, I noticed poop on my forearm. I called out to K for backup in a slightly panicked voice. She came to assist with what appeared to be your average huge, nasty diaper. But then, after the clean up, I went back to what I was doing, which involved carrying Josie. After I put her in her excersaucer and took a seat at the table, I looked down and saw a big streak of her poop on my skirt. I tried to rinse it out and went upstairs to change. It was while using the bathroom upstairs that I noticed the stain soaked through to my underwear. OK, no problem; I’m up here anyway, so I’ll just change those too. I went back down and continued with my day. Some time later, I was carrying Josie around upstairs and my foot slipped — like a cartoon character on a banana peel. Yes, my friends. It was poop. More poop from that same diaper, though I’m not even sure how since we changed it downstairs.

The Proverbial Towel

Oof. Another blow. The first ultrasound in this IVF round showed a fat follicle, which meant increasing my suppression meds. The second one showed the follicle was gone, giving the all-clear for moving forward. Today’s ultrasound, following four days of twice-daily stimulation shots (which hurt and leave nasty bruises), showed four or five small follicles starting. A good thing. But then my blood test came back showing my estradiol (estrogen level) at 50 when it should be around 100. I’m all for a little two-steps-forward, one-step-back dance. But this… Every time I go to the clinic now I feel like the kid who has to go to the locker room every day after gym class even though he knows his ass is gonna get towel whipped.

So we’re upping the stimulation dosage. Hello hormones.

Look, keeping track of these things on this blog is cathartic and all, but I have to come clean about something… I give up.

My body is clearly fighting us on this. First the estradiol is 314 when it should be below 80, and now it’s swung the other way—even when it’s being directed by specialists with strong meds! We’ve already spent the insane amount of money for the IVF (we dropped $1800 this morning alone for the next three days’ dosages). So, I’ll ride it out because I’m not strong enough not to.

Anybody got an ark?

But I don’t have any good feeling about it. I know people would say I could chalk that up to the hormones, but I say no. Introduce me to one person who started with my numbers and went through the same ups and downs I’m facing now who came out of it with a healthy baby and money left over for diapers. Really. I don’t mean send me articles about lesbians who got pregnant after one try. And I don’t mean point me to others who are currently going through their own IVF struggles. I mean tell me about the woman you personally know who has gotten this done from the same place I’m starting. I know plenty of people who took some time getting pregnant. I even know people who used IVF. But I don’t know anyone whose 35-year-old body does the opposite of what it should be doing naturally AND the opposite of what it should be doing when controlled medically. AND gets the baby.

I’m sorry for the aggro rant. I just feel so fucking hopeless about this. I have a wonderful mother who checks in often and is very supportive. I have the best and most beautiful and loving wife in the world. But I don’t have anyone I can talk to, or even point to, that has succeeded where I feel like I am failing with every alternating ultrasound and blood test.

It’s been raining for 3000 days and hasn’t gone above 50 degrees. It doesn’t get brighter than a light charcoal during the day. I’m tired of my jeans being wet all day after walking the dog for ten minutes. I need wringing out. Where I’m from originally, it’s 90 degrees, with no lack of sunshine. I can’t go there because I have another ultrasound on Friday. Someone please give me a hormone shot that will knock me out until this is over or until the sun’s out and it’s 70 degrees.

Pyramids of Wrath

I am a hair’s breadth from complete infertility. It’s not a matter of trying more, waiting longer, getting healthier, or finding a different donor. I have “decreased ovarian reserve,” and what few & funky eggs I have left are going very, very fast.

To explain the situation, I defer to Dr. Rose’s thoughts expressed on (I added the bold):

“Decreased ovarian reserve is one of the more difficult diagnoses that a patient can have. That is because such patients are much more difficult to help to achieve pregnancy since the normal tools to achieve pregnancy don’t work as well. Some patients will likely have at most a few years of potential fertility left, so the situation is urgent. Some may have limited or no fertility left, but the process of finding this out, at times, involves a process of trial and error.

A woman is born with one to two million eggs. Although she will ovulate only three to four hundred of them, the rest will essentially wither away until there are none left. She will then be menopausal. Most of the time, the eggs are in a protected state with a small group of them constantly being released from this protection. We do not know what causes the ovary to change the status of these eggs, so we refer to it as a women’s biological clock. Those eggs that have left this arrested state will go on and ovulate provided they receive optimal hormonal stimulation. If they don’t get this stimulation, they soon undergo an actively defined degeneration (called apoptosis).

One way of defining decreased ovarian reserve is when a woman has fewer than 25,000 eggs in her ovaries. Statistically this occurs around age 38. Fertility is still present until around 42 years old and, for most women, therapy to achieve pregnancy is still a reasonable thing to do. Menopause (no eggs) occurs around age 51. However, these numbers are only averages and these events have a distribution around these averages. For example, many women don’t experience menopause until well past age 51. Similarly about 10% of all women will have decreased ovarian reserve by age 32. In a practice such as mine, where women are self-selected to come here on the basis of not being able to get pregnant, the incidence of decreased ovarian reserve is even higher.”

Besides crying and forcing my mom to visit from AZ, I do not know what to do with myself. Talk to people about what you’re going through, some may advise. The problem is that I hate everybody right now. Wait a second, you may think to yourself, I am a family member or close friend of yours. You can’t possibly hate me! Alas, my hormones have become a badminton birdie, and not even you are spared. I realize blogging the fact that I hate all people will not serve me well. No one will want to be supportive of a hater.

But here’s my real beef: People say stupid shit. I say stupid shit to other people. It’s a problem. At some point, supportive listening became a game of one-upmanship, or, its slightly less disgusting cousin, advice giving/pseudo-sympathetic encouragement. So, while I allow my hormonal rage to dictate my hyperbolic use of the word “hate,” I do insist that something bad has happened (maybe it’s increased narcissistic reserve?), and people just don’t seem to get how to really be present for someone else.

In my lower state of being, I have devised the following pyramids to explain the order of my “hatred” (most hated, from top down):

Tomorrow we go to the fertility clinic to discuss the latest blood test results (the already diagnosed egg depletion and its light-speed trajectory). We will also meet with a financial planner to help us hand over $22,000 (not including the tests needed to be approved for the $22,000 deal). I remember thinking that IVF was a very expensive crap-shoot when I thought the chances were 50/50. Then I thought my chances kind of sucked when I was told my personal success rate was looking more like 20-30%. Now, I don’t know whether to scratch my watch or wind my ass (thanks Dolly!), because I cannot see the point in even trying IVF. Sure, there’s no good reason why I couldn’t get pregnant with K’s eggs; except that there was also no good reason that a healthy¬† 33-, then 34-, then 35-year-old wouldn’t get pregnant with fresh sperm. Something always comes up! I am a walking, breathing exception. Hardly anyone gets infection from a laparoscopic appendectomy (check!), only 10% of the human race gets to be a gay-class citizen (check!!), it’s unusual for someone my age to have decreased ovarian reserve (check!!!). At this rate, if I were to get pregnant, I’d probably be in the 1% of women who give birth to dinosaur babies!

Born of Lies

My future child, that is.

Today is E2’s birthday. We picked him up for today’s insemination (we no longer accept post-biking sperm) and presented him with a little gift once we got back to our place. He was so surprised and seemed to like it. Then we were chatting, and it came up how there was one day during the previous round’s insemination when we had escorted my mom to a nearby cafe for the duration (high tea for The Womb Mum). Then I said to K, “Hey, I don’t think I even wrote about that yet!” At this point the kitchen fell silent, and K did her best to defuse my comment by saying, “Yeah, Malka likes to write to her sisters to keep them updated.” Then E2 said, “Gee, I thought you were going to say that you write a blog about all this.” And that’s when I went flush. “No, no. I’d never do that.” I slipped, and I fell into my own big, fat, stinky lie.

As we waited in our room for E2 to do his thing and bring out the goods, I tortured myself about having lied. I’m a terrible person, I said. (K just smiled and told me she loves the way I say, “terrible.”) He’s going to find out and know that I lied to him. And he’ll read all those mean things I said early on about him not calling back quick enough to keep me from freaking out. K saw my spiraling and tried her best to convince me that it was a small fib. But as she knows, I hate lying. I hate it worse that I walked myself into it.

E2 is such a great guy. So much greater than we realized when we picked him to be our donor. The more we get to know him, the more I’m sad that we’ll have to not see him for at least 18 years. I know I could go delete those old posts I wrote when I didn’t really know him and couldn’t imagine that I could trust a complete stranger so intimately. But that wouldn’t undo the lie. Have I tainted the whole thing? Will E2 learn of this blog and hate me? Will the child born of this lie grow up to be a compulsive liar or car thief?

These are the questions on which I get to ruminate while not falling asleep tonight.

(Oh, and happy new year to all my Jewey blog followers. May our lord find it in his infinite wisdom to forgive me my lie and still give me an honest baby.)

(Disclaimer: No men were harmed in the making of this blog.)

The Family

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