babythegreat.com

Gravy.

2011-01-08T20:27:00.003-05:00

My last post was about being sick. And when I wrote that post I was sick. And it felt like constantly. My nose was a fountain, and if it wasn't running it was stopped up like a clogged sink. I felt achey and "off" but slogged through my workouts and routines with my coughing snotty-nosed daughter in tow, hoping the season would pass soon.

Then I realized, right at the beginning of a really intense yoga class, and by intense I mean hard, difficult, hold-the-pose until sweat is running down your chin and your shoulders are shaking class, that I hadn't gotten my period yet. I began counting back days while I ground through my sun salutations and found I couldn't dig into the class the way I like to. Was I late? When was my last period? I couldn't be pregnant. But what if I were? I have fertility issues. Don't I? Was I torquing a little embryo out of position at this very moment with my extended triangle pose? I bailed out on the class. My head was out of the game.

I picked up Delaney from the child care center at the Y and zoomed across the street to the Publix where I picked up stir-fry veggies for dinner and a pregnancy test. At home, I plopped Delaney in front of her alphabet puzzle and in a state of anxiety, went to pee on the stick. Didn't even have to wait the requisite two minutes. That plus sign lit up like a Christmas tree and confirmed my little embryo in there hanging on throughout my yoga class.

So miraculously, incredibly, unbelievably, I am pregnant again at the ripe old age of 41, to turn 42 later this month. Now that I have been to the doctor and gone through all of the tests and am assured that I am fine and the baby is fine, I feel comfortable writing about it. I'm nicknaming this one Gravy, because that's what it is. Unexpected, unnecessary even, in that I feel/felt so complete with Delaney and Justin. But oh so welcome, oh so sweet, and the perfect ingredient to spice things up, now that I am feeling comfortable, and confident physically, financially, and emotionally. I love a well-timed a curve ball. Well-played, little Gravy.

In Sickness and in Health

2010-10-25T08:48:00.004-04:00

It's no secret that children are mobile germ recruiting centers, I was very fortunate (or sheltered?) in the first year of Delaney's life to experience very few illnesses with her. She seemed resilient and superhuman while around me babies were sniffling and hacking, spiking high fevers and emptying out their stomachs on whatever was closest.

The second year however, has seen a dramatic shift in the health pattern. More hours spent at the Y day care while mommy works out? The start of preschool? Nature's way of catching up? Who can say. But for a while I began to feel like a dry area under her nose was the exception rather than the rule. They can't blow their nose at this age, no matter how many times I make like a circus clown and blow a pretend trumpet blast out of my own nose into a tissue to demonstrate. Delaney will gamely hold the tissue to her nose and blow out of her mouth in an Ffff sound, like she does for her soup. Often asking "Mommy, hot?" about the tissue I've given her.

I have a friend who is her child's own personal Neti pot. She lays her daughter on her back while blowing hard into one nostril, forcing the congestion out of the other. It's impressive, but not my scene, man. It feels a little too National Geographic for me. I usually end up pulling out the bulb syringe sent home with me from the hospital when she was an infant. Or as I have named it, after witnessing it's beauty in action - The Snotsucker. Delaney doesn't really like the Snotsucker, but she doesn't hate it either. Sometimes she'll actually lean into it to help me drag out the green noodles that are clogging her breathing. I like to think we're a team when she's like this, battling the illnesses that seem to hit kids weekly at certain times of the year. The Snotsucker makes her cough and sputter, but she does breathe better after it's used and I believe her little two year-old brain reluctantly admits that the thing works. Plus she's seen her buddy undergo the National Geographic method and that she has lesser of two evils by her own calculations.

Mark Twain!

2010-08-25T14:45:00.007-04:00

Summer is almost over and my little Bean approaches the two year mark. Makes me wanna shout "Mark Twain!" just for the sake of where we live and where she is. We have been to France and Florida and will probably head to Philadelphia before the year is out. A very alliterative travel year. As she grows and develops, I get to watch her personality unfold more and more each day. I still marvel every day that I made a person. I still look at pregnant women with awe and respect -"Oh, you're making one too." The day to day process of just keeping her alive, which is how I looked at her infancy through the first year, is over and now I have to take a harder look and figure out how to make her into a whole being, well-balanced, compassionate, intelligent and of course, fun.

Because at her age, with her personality flexing and growing like a tomato vine in June, she is the most fun thing I've ever been around. She laughs at anything and like most children, it's a highly contagious sound. Music, water, champagne - all the metaphors are accurate and you want to hear it again and again. I'm hoping that in addition to a few lessons about danger when she gets too near knives and high places, right now we can just concentrate on having fun, learning how to share and draw with crayons and run fast and wash our hands and get dirty. Everything she touches, views, and experiences is for her a new way to have fun and it's written all over her face as it's happening, as she's experiencing it. There is no hopeful tomorrow, or sorrowed past. It's all right here, right now and let's have the most fun doing it. In fact, let's sing while we're doing it. Loudly.

So what I'm saying in an obvious, connect the dots kinda way, is the lesson is mine too. As usual, I am learning more from this child, than I feel like I am teaching her. How to be present, how to have fun doing nothing and everything, and how to forget about the past and not worry about the future. My own little pint-sized Eckhart Tolle with diapers and an attitude extolling the power of now before she can form a complete sentence.

It's a self-indulgent post this one - well, aren't they all? But there's a line in the movie The Natural where Robert Redford, says to his old lover, "God, I love baseball." It's after so many rotten things have happened to him and he's almost to old to be a player anymore. But he says it so convincingly, so simply, so beautifully, that you see how all the bad things can fall away and you have just this pure, unpolluted love of the game. That's how I feel about motherhood two years down the line. I don't think about the infertility or the adoption or the wacky pregnancy diagnoses anymore. I just love being a mother. Mark Twain!

Salad Bowl

2010-04-10T13:14:00.005-04:00

No matter how I cut it, it always looks like the classic bowl style. Now I understand why so many kids sported this do. I've wrestled with barrettes, pins, elastics and headbands. They either get pulled out or slide out on their own, only to disappear forever. The funny part is, Delaney has a natural little lift in her hair that really makes it look like more bowl-ish than other children. Like my own straight and stringy, I've decided not to fight it. Here she is giving away the secret anyway.

Mother's Little Helper

2010-04-08T15:00:00.003-04:00

I used to love wine. I loved to shop for it, weigh my options, discuss the different qualities of a particular vineyard or country with my friends, my husband, the wine merchant. In New York, Justin and I hosted fabulous (if I do say so myself) wine tastings where we hid labels and compared grapes and regions and ate wine-loving food to compliment the whole experience. I own large, heavy books about wine and I even have a certificate from the French Culinary Institute where I took a seminar on wine. Well, that's not completely true. I volunteered to empty the spit buckets and pour the wine out for the people who paid to take the class. But in exchange, I got to attend the class, taste the wine and get the same certificate the spit or swallowers did. For free! What price the love of wine?

I still like wine a lot, but we have a different relationship now. I need wine now. I'm not saying I have a problem or anything. I just really, REALLY look forward to my glass(es) of wine every night after I put Delaney to bed. And when I say look forward, I mean I am watching the clock, wondering if I can sip on a glass while I watch her take a bath. I could lie and say I use plastic, but I'm not that depraved yet.

And now, because she goes to the grocery store with me, there's no perusing the labels, pondering the varietals, talking shop with the suppliers. I've got Little Miss Grabby Hands in the buggy, reaching out at the teetering towers of Tempranillo as we roll past, a fraction away from creating a world class catastrophe in the wine aisle. I've got to grab my stash and run. The upside is I've come home with some lovelies I never would have chosen had I not been on a mad dash to escape disaster. Stuff I just threw on top of the broccoli and oatmeal and hoped for the best. And of course the opposite is true as I've come home with some real stinkers, that I gamely swallow down because I can't just pour it down the drain. That would mean I'd have to brave the wine aisle with her again that much sooner. And brave it I will to restock my supply.

What can I say? I don't smoke pot or take valium or practice yoga for that matter. I may not Love it as much as I used to, but with a toddler, I sure do appreciate it more and isn't that the groundwork for all good relationships?

Double Down

2010-02-12T13:04:00.013-05:00

I am fortunate in many ways, but sometimes the pattern of my life is downright karmically charged. Serendipitous if you will.

With Delaney's arrival, Justin and I had to eventually make a choice whether to keep our name in the hat so to speak for our original China adoption ( see 2007 archives) or call it a day and officially pull out (pun intended!) of the process. We received another bill from our adoption agency recently for $1800 dollars which would allow us to stay in the program and I presume enable them to keep paying their staff to send us letters about how it is still taking a long time to adopt from China. This last bill came at a particularly tight time for us and after a lengthy discussion, we decided to let it go. Let it go. I like the phrase because in my mind I picture a balloon on a string. It's so easy just to open your hand and let it go, almost a relief because the balloon is straining so hard against the string and your hand is sore from holding onto it for so long. But once it's gone that's it. You can't reclaim your released balloon and you can't jump back into the adoption process. You have to start again from the top. By sending my agency more money I was buying myself some time before a final decision had to be made, essentially letting the ballon out on longer and longer string, dragging out the decision interminably.

To let this process go was very easy to verbalize and then do nothing, especially not sending in the check for $1800 dollars. But inside, I suffered. I have two accordion folders, red for Russia and blue for China. China's began in 2005 and Russia's in 2006. Both are packed full with paperwork, documentation, copies of documentation, receipts, instructions, years and years of work and dreams. It was hard to let go and a year and a half after Delaney's birth and our decision not to adopt, I can't quite bring myself to throw them away. One day.

All of which bring me to the topic of serendipity and fortune that I started this entry with. Because my close friend Jennifer completed her adoption thesis after three years of hard labor and was rewarded with a beautiful Korean baby girl flown into my very own Hartsfield-Jackson airport fresh from Seoul via Chicago, via San Francisco. I got to watch the completion of an adoption in a front row seat, close enough to touch. And it was so very cathartic for me to see the baby, so frightened, so confused, and so beautiful, coming down the airport hallway and into the lives of her waiting family. I had pictured this scene for myself many times and in many different ways. I got to wonder about her birth mother with Jennifer and what she must have gone through to reach this decision. And then sympathize with Jen about Scarlett's foster mother who had loved this little one for 11 months and then let her go into a better life. Listen and speculate about the plans and fears and joys that go with parenting an adopted child that was really going to come home.

And then poof, the three years are gone and there she is in the airport, in your arms, in your LIFE. I am doing a rotten job of describing it. But it's just extraordinary to come from a place so far away, a place filled with paper and interviews and money of course and waiting and wondering and nerves and frustration. Then it's over and there is a baby. Your baby. And in watching this union from the sidelines, I could let go of my balloon completely. It was exhilerating and cathartic and I felt like the luckiest woman in the world. Twice.

Shake your Groove Thang

2010-01-22T13:11:00.008-05:00

I took Delaney to a Kindermusik Class today, our first. The class is marketed to kids ages 0 (really) through 3. It looked like most of the kids were around her age when we got there, which was a good thing. I didn't want to have the only walker in a class full of nursers. But in an effort to encourage more people to register, they are allowing people to sign up for blocks of 4 week classes instead of the standard 10 weeks. What I didn't know was that the 4 week blocks are inside the current 10 week classes. So everyone in our class was a seasoned 10 week-er and had been meeting and singing for weeks before Delaney and I, the sole newbies, arrived. Not only that, but I didn't get the download they sent via email with the songs and words and activities on it to get us up to speed. I should have called about it, but it's been busy around here.

So we went in green as a string bean and Delaney was a little clingy at first. I'm not much of an introvert (surprise!) and I love to sing even if it's just stringing words to what I'm thinking a la Buddy the Elf ("I'm heeere with my Dad and he wants me to sing him a sooong...."). As I'm trying to extract myself from Delaney's grip and beat on the drum I had been given, I noticed that Laurie the Teacher isn't having much luck getting the parents to sing along with her or after her or whatever she was asking them to do. Parents were singing in those hushy church voices so that their voice was never heard individually above anyone else's. At one point Laurie the Teacher even sang to the parents "It's alright for parents to sing la la la - lala. It shows the children that singing is fun la la la la " (Laurie sings everything a normal person would say. It's like talking to an opera star.) I always try to surreptitiously size up the parents when I go to these types of things, trying to suss out who potential mom friends might be. It doesn't look good for me in Kindermusik. Lots of turtlenecks, a grandma, a couple, and some moms way too young to remember the original Electric Company. I know, it's so superficial. Go ahead and judge me.

I decide I may be on my own in this class and I've already paid my $64 for these four weeks. Despite my lack of song and melody knowledge, I am going to sing my head off in this class because I want Delaney to know that singing IS fun. But more than that, I don't want her to be a wallflower. So I begin to belt it out like Barbra Streisand, songs I don't know about tigers and cats and dancing and jungles. Me and Laurie the Teacher are neck and neck for volume, though she's got me beat with melody. I have no idea where I'm going there. I do sound like Buddy the Elf. Laurie the Teacher looks at me with a quizzical, but encouraging smile. But Delaney loves it. As she sees me getting groovy, she begins to loosen up and takes the tambourine from the quiet kid next to her. I make her give it back, but inside I'm pleased. No breathy singing or hiding behind the big kids for us. I'm raising an extrovert.

Everywhere Signs

2010-01-12T14:41:00.004-05:00

A good and wise friend clued me into teaching Delaney sign language to make it easier for us to communicate. I had seen several mothers at the YMCA uses sign language with their children and was always amazed at the ease which with both sides got their point across. Mother, signing -"Logan, come out of the pool right now." Child, also signing - "No. No. No. ". I also knew it required a lot of patience and consistency to make any headway. I am not the most consistent of people but I do love a challenge and I wanted to be able to better communicate with Delaney, as opposed to her whining and pointing and me lamely trying to supply the right answer. I must confess, I also envisioned us discussing the weather and and perhaps the subtle nuances of Big Red Barn in sign language while other mothers looked on in wonder at my gifted prodigy.

So I bought the book and the video, because you can never get all of your information in just one form of media. I watched the specialist, Dr. Joseph Garcia, who I admit turned me off a bit at first because he's a dead ringer for Heraldo Rivera, take me through 30 minutes of why signing was the greatest thing you could ever do for your child and then 5 minutes of showing me actual signs. Lots of hippie-looking moms signed voraciously throughout the video with their young, sometimes very young children and they all happily passed the salt and looked at the airplane with an ease of communication that hooked me right in.

I began signing the simple words first like they advise you to. At this point Deleny is about 11 months old. I made the signs for "milk" and "more" first and waited and watched for any sort of flickering hand movement to tell me she is getting it. When she made her first sign, which was "more", I was on the phone with my father and nearly deafened him. "She signed! She signed for more! Did you see that?" Which of course he didn't because we were speaking on the phone. I poured the entire box of cheerios on her tray, signing more, more, more, while I was doing so. She may have thought I was crazy, but she did look quite pleased with herself. Of course that could have been because of the the amount of cheerios I had suddenly dumped on her.

After that we learned a few more signs - milk, eat, ouch. It got a bit tricky here because a lot of these signs are similar. Take more and ouch for example. Very similar signs, so if you have no context you might think she is in agony, rather than simply wanting another cookie. I chose to think she was being poetic and was telling me she was hurting for more.

At 15 months she has turned a signing corner and a new problem is arising. She rapidly picks up signs now after being shown the sign only a few times. The problem is I don't know enough signs. The "help" sign for instance. Help was incredibly hard for us. We forgo the American Sign Language standard for this word and use a Dr. Joseph Garcia substitute which he says is easier for young hands to produce. You tap your hands to your chest a few times and that's it. So simple. It took an unbelievably long time for Delaney to get it, but I kept at it, thinking if I could just get her to ask for help our problems would be solved. And one day she does it! Tap Tap Tap on her chest when her toy box is closed. I rush over tap my own chest, yell Help! Help! And open the box. We are communicating!

Fast forward two weeks later and the child is running around my house beating her chest like King Kong at every obstacle in her path. Is it the sippy cup? Does she want the book? Is her diaper wet? I don't know! Help! Help! Help! In the grocery store, the YMCA, the library, there she is beating her chest with me shoving objects at her, trying to solve the mystery. I don't know the signs for "wait" or "patience" or "slow down". But is it better than whining and pointing? Definitely.

Sleeping in Boots

2010-01-07T20:39:00.008-05:00

When Delaney has a missed or even abbreviated nap, it's usually a precursor to a rough afternoon/evening. She had an extremely short nap today due to a bad car-to-crib transition. I stupidly tried to get her boots off before putting her down. In extricating her foot with one hand while I held her with the other arm, I pulled the sock off too and her bare pigs touched my icy cold vinyl ski jacket which caused her to twitch and moan and ultimately wake up and look at me. I spent a good half an hour trying to get her to sleep again but when she picks her head up and smiles at me with an open mouth, I know the sleep boat has sailed.

So we're in for it now and by 4 o'clock I cave in to all sorts of verboten activities to keep her from following me around the house, arms outstretched in full blown whine mode. Sometimes I run from her when she's like this. I know it sounds cruel, but the thing is, when I pick her up when she's in this state of mind, she arches her back and pushes against me so that I almost drop her. I either have to hold her tightly so as not to let go of her or put her down, both of which piss her off royally. It's maddening. She wants comfort but won't be comforted. So we do back to back Baby Einsteins and empty the magical computer drawer (a total nightmare to clean up) and eat too many cookies and drink milk in my lap. But eventually it's all too much and I know I'm just putting off the inevitable.

At 5 o'clock she is the monster again, crying, whining and signing to me for things she thinks she wants but then changes her mind and flings them away. There's this dilemma at 5:00 which was really there at 4:00 too, but I got past it for an hour by giving her cookies and videos. If I put her to bed now, and I know she is acting this way because she is uber-tired, I risk upsetting the whole sleep schedule and she'll be up at 5:00 am tomorrow morning, tired for a nap at 9:00 am and ready for bed again at 5:00 pm. At some point you have to push through it and I'd rather do it now than have the pattern get more established. I know it sounds neurotic, but the sleep schedule is pretty golden in this house give or take an hour. I can put her to bed at 7:00 or even 6:00 but 4 or 5 is going to play games with all of us.

So at 5:00 she is whining and signing that she's hungry (this after the multiple peace-seeking cookies) so I make her a nice grilled cheese and cut up some apples and strawberries and put her in the highchair. She puts maybe a strawberry in her mouth, and then clears the tray with both hands so everything goes flying onto the floor. And I swear she looks at me and raises her eyebrows in a taunting "Did you see that?" look. I pull her out of the chair, and plunk her on the floor, cleaning up the mess while she gamely eats a few of the fallen items.

But soon she starts crying again and I hold her while she signs for a banana. We can make a dinner out of a banana I tell her and cut one up, get a fork because she like to eat them off the fork and stab a piece of banana with it. She flings the fork so the banana goes whizzing past my face and hits the oven, sliding down forlornly. I look at that banana while I feel like that banana. You would think I would learn by now, but no, she makes the eat sign again and I get out some yogurt, leave the crime scene that is the kitchen and sit her in my lap in the living room. And for a few bites she is happily eating yogurt and smiling. Is she toying with me now? Is she thinking "What a dope. What a patsy." Because when my guard is down she flips her hand down on the container and yogurt and spoon splatter over her, over me, over the couch and the rug. My face when this happened must have scared her because I didn't utter a word but she looked at me and howled. I wanted to howl too. I left her there howling while I got a cloth in the kitchen to clean up the mess, and also to take a deep breath. She follows me howling, snotty, covered in yogurt and completely, utterly miserable. I really want to run from her. But I pick her up and and she lays her little yogurt covered head on my shoulder and I slowly decompress. She's just a tired baby. Not a prescient, manipulative beast trying to foil my every move. It's over. I surrender. It's 5:30 now and I've got to get this girl in bed. If we're up at an ungodly hour, then we're up.

I run a quick bath for her and she comes to life again, playing in the bubbles, laughing at my antics. I can have her in bed by 5:45 with little trouble if I can keep this up. An enormous gas bubble escapes her and she giggles at herself. I giggle too because after all, farts are funny. Don't tell Justin. A few minutes later as I'm soaping her hair, like a gator hiding in the swamp I see a flash of brown go by under the bubbles. None of her bath toys are brown. I stand her up in the tub and of course, there is poop everywhere. I have to drain the tub, spray it down, spray her down, re-wash her hair because I'd unknowingly washed it with poop water all the while racing against the clock and the cold air that is in our house due to this uncanny cold spell we've been having. I lost the good mood she had acquired somewhere in that second bath. It ended with her crying, struggling to grab at the poop toys I had placed out of her reach until I could clean them, while I scrambled for the towel to try to keep her warm. My little, tired, poop girl. I stuffed her in some warm jammies, and she collapsed on my shoulder by 6:15. I did make it to the 6:00 hour after all, but I would have sacrificed the hour for a poop free bath. In the future, I will leave the boots on.

Recovered Bean

2009-08-07T14:42:00.004-04:00

I thought I'd give an update on Delaney's status as a lot of people have been asking after her recently. The picture attached really says it all about her mental state. Completely unaffected and the whole thing is forgotten. Physically, she has a little raised scar under her eye and a little indented scar above same eye, for polarity. The puncture wound on her left cheek is indented and now everyone thinks it's a dimple. Not too bad for a dog bite. I suppose some of these will leave behind remnants but I am slathering them with Vitamin E so maybe it will be hardly noticeable by the time she's a teenager and these things start to matter. I am trying to limit the things she can hate me for from the get-go, but obviously, I'm not off to a great start.

And as far as I go, I still catch a potted plant's tendrils wave in the breeze or a shadow move with the shifting light and for a split second I think "Gordon". It's a fragment of a forget. I know he's gone, but his presence was so strong and so constant, that it's a real adjustment to sweep the crumbs off the floor and not wait for him to come hoover them up. Justin and I both have noted that while we miss him, Delaney's growing personality has begun to fill in the gaps right down to the fact that she palm-slaps her way over to us if we have a plate of food. She has even begun to look up expectantly. Maybe we'll work on the crumbs soon...

Shellshocked

2009-07-07T20:17:00.007-04:00

I don't want to only write when there is trouble, but I am reliving the nightmare that was last weekend over and over in my head and hoping that writing about it will exorcise it from my memory. I will start out by saying that Delaney is fine.

On Thursday evening Gordon attacked Delaney. I have to say attacked because there is really no other word for it. I was sitting in the living room in a chair with my daughter on the ground at my feet. My dad was sitting across the room with Gordon next to him and we were chitty-chatting, having a good time, enjoying his visit which was just beginning. No food, no toys, no climbing or pulling on tails. Out of nowhere (or so I thought at the time) Gordon lunges across the room, low to the ground with a snarl in his throat and goes at Delaney. It was so fast and so unexpected and the whole memory seems stuck in slow motion as I leapt to my feet to get him off of her. I pulled him off and saw her on the ground screaming. At first I thought (hoped) that he had just knocked her down. But when I picked her up, blood was dripping down her face and clothes. Her right eye had taken most of the bite and it was hard to see how bad it was. Dad had thrown the dog in the backyard and somehow we made it into the car, Dad holding Delaney while strangely she slept soundly on his chest the whole way.

I felt myself tightening up into a ball on the drive. Her bloody little face was facing me while she slept and I began to alternately cry and hyperventilate on the drive to the ER. Justin had called moments after the attack had happened to tell us he was on his way home. I must have shouted something into the phone like "Gordon attack, ER, Delaney, blood!" before I got out the door. He was there waiting for us at the ER and dad got out with Delaney while I went to park the car. I heard Justin ask "Is it bad?" and then say "Oh my god." when he saw her face. Driving through the stupid, insignificant parking lot, trying to find a wretched, empty parking space I screamed and screamed at the top of my lungs.

Inside we are seen fairly quickly for an ER and Delaney's wounds are assessed by a wonderful NP who tells us that there is a lot of blood, which is good because the wounds flush out the dog germs that way. She has a puncture wound on her left cheek where a tooth went straight through to the inside. The thought of this wound in particular makes me sick as I think of me checking Gordon's teeth periodically for tarter and cavities. The rest of the bite is over her eye, the brow and cheekbone taking most of the hit and saving her little coffee bean peeper from harm. The wounds are bloody but not deep. They are irrigated with saline, a process which makes her scream and shake while I die at her feet. I sing and sing to her the favorite songs. Itsy Bitsy Spider, Patty-cake, nonsense songs that only she and I know. Then another round of screaming while they put sticky tape dressings over each cut. After 5 hours with the ER crew, we are finally sent home with antibiotics, pain medication, ice packs, and an exhausted, battered, baby girl. She sleeps soundly through the night and we all go in many times to look at her, check her breathing, feel her skin.

We stay up all night, my dad and Justin and me. We discuss the process of the whole attack over and over. We drink bottles of wine and try to make sense of it. I see it and describe it again and again, looking for a clue. How could this dog, my dog, who has sat with the child for hours and hours in the past do this? And then the hard questions start, but inside I know the answers are not all that difficult. He is out back as we discuss all this and when I look at him I see that he has no idea he has done anything wrong. I hate him and love him for his stupidity all at once and my tears flow again. We discuss our options again the next day with each other, with my dad, with the vet. Delaney wakes up in a great mood, but looks like she went ten rounds with the champ. I hold her while I look out the window at Gordon and think about what could have happened. He could have killed her. He could have snapped her neck, bitten her jugular, punctured her skull. This girl it took me so long to get. From a dog it took me so long to train. My whole body shakes when these thoughts pass through. Like I can shake them off of me like cobwebs. But I can't. And they sit there. Just waiting to come out and stab me again.

I can't have him here anymore and I can't give him away for fear he would bite someone else's child. There are no-kill shelters, but I can't imagine my bouncing, springing dog locked up in a kennel 23 hours a day. We decide to have him put down, like I knew we would in the end and I am aghast at the fresh wave of sorrow this decision brings. I see him out there wagging his tail and waiting for someone to come play fetch and I know that he is just a dog and that I have humanized him. Delaney points to him and laughs like she always did and I hope she will never remember this dreadful thing.

As I write this, I see myself trying to make excuses for my feelings and I guess I am a victim too. I am eternally grateful my girl is alive and shining. But my heart is broken in so many ways, in so many pieces because I feel like I failed my daughter and I failed my dog. With research, we find that dog problems can increase with infants who are learning to crawl. Mobility seems to be a turning point for a once peaceful coexistence in some dogs. And again, I realize I love a dog. A creature whose natural instincts are still a mystery to me even though I've invited him into my home, fed him, washed, him, loved him. There were warning signs, I just didn't know what they were when he was exhibiting them.

So I scrunched his head one more time and gave him a last high five. This dog that bit my daughter. I only want to remember the sweet Gordon and not the snarling dog who felt compelled to attack her for sitting there. The Gordon who peeled out of the house when you opened a beer, self-trained to know that this usually meant "I'm going outside". The Gordon who would fetch and fetch and fetch until your arm was sore from throwing. And the Gordon who sat patiently until you put his food bowl down, just like I 'd trained him. Justin took him to the vet on Friday and had his own Gethsemane with him that I'll never know about. And he slept his way out of our lives. I am shellshocked yet and conflicted with guilt, emotions, sorrow. He is gone. And I'll be damned if I don't miss him. But it's time to start healing.

Snooze Button

2009-01-08T17:22:00.004-05:00

I have a lot of time on my hands to observe Delaney's behavior and at this age, while extraordinarily cute, she doesn't seem all that complicated physiologically. You put in the food, it comes out fairly regularly. You make a funny face and she gives you a wonderful little smile But for the life of me I can't figure out why, if she's tired, I have to teach her how to sleep.

Sleep. It's what babies are famous for. There's the old phrase "sleeping like a baby". Did the author of that little nugget have to wrestle with themselves about when to put the baby down for a nap? Do you nurse the baby to sleep or put them down drowsy so they can fall asleep on their own? Do you go pick them up when they wake in the night or wait and let them get themselves back to sleep? And if the author went the cry-it-out method, did they pace the floor chewing their fingernails, resting one hand on the doorknob, tears streaming down there own cheeks, wondering if they are ruining their child forever by letting her cry. Or perhaps they tried the pick the baby up when it cries method, where you are up all night because she is only napping for 45 minutes at a time and in 4 hour waves at night and you are practically dead on your feet, but don't want to break the bond of trust you are supposed to be establishing with the baby when she cries.

I look forward to teaching her to read, swim, and eat olives. I know she'll need help with a two wheeled bicycle and walking on her feet. I had no idea sleep was going to be the first lesson we'd conquer together, nor that it would be so absolutely confounding to elucidate. "You kind of put your head down. When you are frantically rubbing your eyes and beginning to yawn is always a good time. You close your eyes usually and perhaps shift your position a little and then you sort of go to sleep."

Either she's a poor study or I'm a crap teacher. I'm betting on the latter.

What child is this...

2008-12-22T16:59:00.004-05:00

Look at us. We are a family. Oh what a difference a baby makes.

The last three months went unwritten about because I was recovering from birth, mastitis, and sleep deprivation. But I am learning a rhythm to this role now and Delaney and I are operating pretty well as a team.

Yes, now my B the G goes by Delaney Louise Coffey. Choosing the name was a trial and I eventually had to stop telling people the various candidates when they would inevitably ask. It never failed to amaze me how openly critical some could be when they heard my list of names. I've been privy to some pretty bad baby monikers in my time, but I would never tell someone I didn't like the name they had chosen. Or that I went to school with a insert name and she was a real asshole. People were too honest with me when they asked about her name and I was surprised how many of them didn't get that I wasn't asking their opinion, only answering their question.

So in the end I began giving vague answers about there being a list of possible names and then changing the subject. Delaney was a name my mother had mentioned to me and one of the very few Justin and I agreed on. His tastes run much more traditional than mine and while I don't usually like the last name as first name method, there is something feminine and delicate about the name that I find very pretty and unusual. Which is the word my mother-in-law used when I told her Delaney's name for the first time. "Well that's...unusual." I could tell it threw her for a loop, but you can't please everybody with the name game. And it really suits Delaney.

Speaking of feminine and delicate, she is weighing in at a hefty 13 lbs now at three months old and Justin and I roll our eyes when we think back to the IUGR diagnosis and how worried we were about her tininess. Her thighs have glorious, thick rolls in them and her cheeks are chipmunk-y with big rose blooms on them. Even her elbows and knuckles have fat dimples and I think back to one of my adoption posts where I had to draw a picture of the baby I was going to adopt. I've got to find that drawing and post it because honest-to-god Delaney looks just like the little papoose I drew. Granted it was a pretty generic drawing, which was the point of the exercise and she doesn't have a feather coming out of her head. But she has the same dark eyes and serene expression. And she certainly is the chubba wubba baby I was wishing for last fall.

It's a wonder how certain things come to pass. And why other times we're left guessing.

So while my Adventures in Babymaking are at an end, I've decided to keep writing when I can about my journey into motherhood. I've already missed some whopper stories with my absence but I'll try to pick it up now that I'm back into the groove. Remind me to tell you about the mastitis cum breast abscess. A real kicker for a new, already neurotic mom.

At Last

2008-09-30T06:05:00.003-04:00

This is the first chance I've had to update the blog, so you may have guessed that B the G has arrived by now. And she has.

Weighing in at a healthy 6.8 lbs., she was put into my arms on Sunday, September 21, 2008, looking a bit stunned, but peaceful. For all of the drama and trauma of my pregnancy, labor and delivery was remarkably straightforward. Practically textbook.

Justin and I attended a local street fair on Saturday, with Elvis impersonators and men in drag on stilts, funnel cake and local art, both good and bad for sale,. I was absolutely exhausted when I got home, but figured it may have moved things along a bit. Sure enough that night around 7:00 pm I went into labor. At first mild and manageable, by midnight, contractions were 3-4 minutes apart and had me on my knees.

By the time we got to the hospital I was doing the panting and moaning act that you see in TV. Sure now that I wanted that epidural, we were triaged in, I was told I was 4-5 centimeters dilated and to wait for anesthesia. Sweet, sweet relief when that spinal hit and I could suddenly look around and feel the reality of knowing I was about to deliver a baby. The drugs did slow down my dilation a bit, so I labored awhile until they decided to give me some pitocin to speed up my dilation. Up down, up down.

Around 10:30 a nurse checked me, told me she could see the head and asked me if I was ready to celebrate a birthday. The rush of it when she said that...the imminence of my whole journey was right there in front of me. I pushed for about 25 minutes under the nurse's rather drill sergeant like command. The touchy-feely stuff goes out the window when they are trying to get that baby out. But I was glad she was pushy. Take-charge demeanor in a crisis is very comforting to me. Especially when I have no idea what I'm doing.

11:09 and she was out, pushed into the world by brute strength, willpower, and her own determination. Justin cut the cord and went over to look at her. I was shaking with the effort and emotion, tears just pouring down my face as I stretched to get a look at her in the cleanup tank. And then she was in my arms, outside of me, looking at us. She has a head full of black hair and looks like a little Natalie Portman in the V for Vendetta phase. She is tiny and pink and perfect.

Passing the baton...

2008-09-19T16:50:00.009-04:00

My grandma died yesterday. I had hoped she would live to see her great-grandaughter, even if she might not have been too sure about who she was and where she fit into the family tree. But she was 99 and tired. I am selfishly sad because I will miss her terribly. And also blessedly happy because she was ready to die as she and I discussed so many times. Yesterday was also my father's birthday who was her only child and who looked after her like Florence Nightingale in his home until her death. Death was always just out of her reach and I like to think that at the end she did have some control and timing over her departure after all, choosing to be alone with my dad on his birthday.

She always used to wonder out loud why she was living so long and for awhile I had wonderful, easy answers for her. "You have to teach me to crochet. You have to attend my wedding. you need to meet your great-grandchildren." Then, as she got older the answers got harder. Her eyesight and hearing got worse, her mobility decreased, her memory shortened, and I came up with lamer and lamer answers like "you have to finish this crossword puzzle" or "you need to have dinner with me." Until finally for the last year or so, she would ask me the question again, and I was forced to say "I don't know, Grandma." Because I really didn't.

99 is a lot of years. I put myself to sleep last night making a chronological list of all of the things she had witnessed in her lifetime. There's the usual old person list: several wars, the advent of cars, the Depression, man on the moon, computers and the internet. But I also thought of trivial things - tissues in a box, polyester, credit cards, ball point pens, tampons. So many things that changed and then changed again while she grew up, grew out, grew old.

It is easiest for me when remembering people, to use my sense of smell. My Grandma never wore fragrance at all but the smell of Pond's cold cream makes me feel like she's standing next to me. She also used to make this divine beef soup whenever we would visit her in Pennsylvania. One of those quintessential grandmother soups that take all day to do right and that nobody has the time to make anymore. She would stir that soup all say, skimming fat off the top, adding vegetables and herbs. When we arrived at her house, the smell was intoxicating. She kept the noodles separate in a blue bowl, boiled and ready to spoon in to the broth. I always wondered why they were separate. Did they get overcooked if she added them later? Did someone along the line prefer no noodles and it became habit to serve them separately? I'll never know because I never asked.

Brown butter, too. What is it with eastern Europeans and brown butter? My grandparents put it on everything. It's such a unique, evocative smell for me, but it's richness was an acquired taste. Not until I was older did I learn to love the flavor of it drizzled over the handmade potato pierogi my grandma made. One of us always left her house with a case of the runs and we were all usually 5 lbs. heavier. But man, they were good.

So, I'll look for her dark eyes in the face of my daughter. Ochi chyornye, like my grandfather used to sing. And hope that maybe Grandma brushed past her on her way out and my daughter's way in. Rubbing off a gift or two, like in the fairy tale. Her easy, contagious laugh, her fierce desire to constantly be learning despite her 6th grade education, or her love of music and singing. The circle of it humbles me as I think of her in labor with my dad 66 years ago yesterday, pacing and worrying about his birth. And here I am, my due date has come and almost gone, but I am just as heavy with my child all these years later, just as anticipatory, just as scared.

I am forced to be patient for the little life inside me to find her way out in her own time, as my Grandma was forced to be patient in laying down her own burden of such a long life, long after she was tired of carrying it. I am so glad she is gone, I only wish I could have been there to tell her she was dying while it was happening. It sounds macabre and heartless, but I know her well enough, that she would have been so happy to hear the news. Relieved and happy. But maybe she already knew.

Low Rider

2008-09-15T16:27:00.006-04:00

Ok, almost a full 10 months pregnant. Friday is D-day at 40 weeks and she really can't get much lower without falling out.

I have an overwhelming urge to clean the blades on the ceiling fans, not to mention the fridge, the dog, the car and the washing machine. Yes, I cleaned the washing machine. The dog was harder.

I took the car to the local fire department and got a lovely fireman to help me install the car seat properly today. He had just completed a four day seminar on car seat safety and installation, so I feel pretty confident that it's in there correctly. Can you imagine a four day seminar on child seat safety? I should bring him some doughnuts or something. What do firemen eat?

B the G is still grooving around on a regular basis in there, although it feels different now because she is lower and her movements lately seem less...punchy for lack of a better word. Maybe she's gearing up too, steering towards the mental focus and balance of T'ai Chi rather than the physical Taekwondo she'd been practicing in the past.

I'm feeling good. Calm and strangely confident now. Justin is still battling his back pain and my mother fell and broke her foot in two places, so her visit is out. Hopefully my sister will still make it at some point, but I can do this. I am excited and watchful and present at the moment. It's very dream-like. I don't think it will be too much longer.

Ode To A Panty

2008-09-08T11:16:00.001-04:00

Oh blessed, life-changing, granny panties
Why didn't I buy you 10 lbs ago?
Goodbye vanity and red squinch lines
Hello sexless, stretchy comfort waistband.

Perspective

2008-09-02T15:02:00.008-04:00

Since Justin's back is still not right and he is on painkillers, I had to drive him to get his hair cut this weekend. He was starting to look a little simian, especially in the back, but I was still rather grumbly about having to chauffeur because the chairs there aren't very comfortable and my bladder now seems to be the size of a pea.

Justin's barber's name is Eli and he has an old school barber shop in midtown Atlanta, complete with striped pole and red leather barber chair. He looks a lot like Mr. Magoo and speaks with a heavy Greek accent. There was no on else in the shop that day so I was grateful we'd get in and get out.

I sat opposite the red leather chair and the three of us exchanged pleasantries about the holiday weekend, time spent with family, etc. He told us he has family in Tampa and spoke enthusiastically about spending time in Tarpon Springs, a Greek community near Tampa. I asked if his children spoke Greek and he said "Little bit. Not like me. I speak seven languages." People who are multi-lingual may as well possess a super power as far as I'm concerned and I'm always intrigued about how they learned, when in life, what were the languages. Seven languages! "How did you come to know seven languages?" And he said "I was a prisoner for two years in the death camps in Europe."

Eli speaks Greek, Polish, Russian, Italian, French, English and German. And then while he is snipping serenely around my husband's head, he started telling me the story of how he came to be in those death camps at 16 years old. He was taken prisoner when Germany invaded Greece in 1941. I always wondered how the Nazi's knew who was Jewish and who wasn't when they sent people to camps and asked Eli about it now. He said when the Nazis arrived in a town they would build scaffolding and hang people from ten random families and tell the crowd that if they lied about their status they would be next on the scaffold. I guess that was a pretty effective method. He also said there was no mention of concentration camps or gas chambers. Prisoners didn't know where they were going only that they were being taken away. He said if people knew the journey by cattle car led to death by gas chamber, there probably would have been a lot more people running for it, or at least resisting. For the time being, he wore the gold star they gave him and crowded onto the train with his two brothers.

He went on to tell me from that point forward, he was moved around between 8 different concentration camps. He lost his older brother to sickness at one of them and was separated from his younger brother early on. They worked digging ditches and unloading bags of cement from trains. He said the Nazis starved them right from the get go and food became a preoccupation. He learned to count the people in line to the barrels of soup and time it so that he got a ladleful from the bottom, where the potatoes were. Although sometimes he did get it wrong and they switched out the barrels while he was still in line, giving him the thin, watery broth from the top. He also learned which dumpster was used for the officers mess and stole food from it repeatedly, carefully waiting for the searchlight to pass before doing his thieving. He said he got caught only once and received 25 lashes on his bottom. I felt hunger just listening to his stories, how you are so starved you will do just about anything for food.

Sometimes the soldiers would come to the prisoners for certain skills they had a need for. Who is a mason? Who knows electricity? They came once and asked for a barber and Eli volunteered his services. They took him to a small office where the Kommandant was waiting. The man was completely bald and wanted his head and face shaved. Eli picked up the straight razor to begin work and as soon as he did an officer cocked a gun and kept it trained on him during the entire process. He did nick the Kommandant during the process and had nothing but some hair and soap to stop the blood. When Eli finished, the Kommandant looked in a little mirror, wrote something on a bit of paper and handed it to Eli. Sure he was carrying his death sentence for the nick, Eli opened it and found a coupon for some bread and cheese at the mess hall. He thought he had found his gravy train, but that officer was transferred later in the week.

Five times, Eli said he stood in line to enter the gas chambers and five times something happened that stopped the process, a miracle, he called it, and he lived to see another day. All this time I am sitting across from the chair, leaning forward into his story and asking questions, shaking my head, dumbstruck at the magnitude of it. I know it is also millions of other's story who have survived the Holocaust, but I've never talked to a survivor before, and he was so open about sharing this personal, terrifying experience.

Liberated with his younger brother who he was reunited with at another camp, he described the American planes flying overhead, while he was being loaded into another cattle car, this one open at the top so the planes could see the people piled inside. "Les Americains! Les Americains sont ici, maintenant!" he yelled, imitating the joy, the relief, the exuberance they felt knowing the end of the war was imminent. I was almost in tears myself at this point and Justin's hair was finished.

Eli lost a twin sister, and five other siblings to the camps. His hometown of 200,000 was wiped out with only 200 survivors left at the end of the war. He showed us pictures of his late wife, his son and daughter, his grandchildren. His face is so happy and proud and I think he feels like the luckiest man in the world. "Bring the baby back" he said pointing to my belly and he pulled out a blue plastic rocking horse. "For customers and kids" he winks at me. He thanked us again and again for the company and tried to give us the haircut on the house. I was ready to stuff the money in his pants if he didn't take it.

My worries and problems feel ridiculous when we leave his shop. Our biggest concern is whether we should buy a wagon or a sedan. I can't stop thinking about Eli all day, or the next. Where does one get that kind of triumphant attitude after all of that horror? How does it destroy some and not others? He said some prisoners would just throw themselves at the electric fence, unable to take the wretchedness their lives had become. Their bodies would be left to remain there for a few days, hands gripping the wires even after death.

I hope I am made of the same stuff as Eli and more than that, I hope B the G is too. She has already proved herself a little fighter and we still have a big journey ahead of us. I feel so much wiser after listening to Eli's story and I can't really put my finger on what it is I've learned. I feel calmer and more determined to enjoy every minute I have, though I know that feeling will fade or be forgotten. In the end, I only know that I witnessed a little slice of strength and the real power of the human spirit, visiting with him that day. I will add it to the other little nuggets of wisdom and stories and experiences I have collected and tell it all to B the G one day.

37 Weeks

2008-08-30T10:10:00.002-04:00

Justin's back is still out and he is scheduled to go in for an MRI next Saturday. His Doc has put him on Vicodin now which puts him in a much better mood, but means he shouldn't be operating heavy machinery, i.e. a car with a laboring pregnant woman in it.

I hate to be so "it's all about me" right now. I know he's in a lot of pain with a possible diagnosis of a herniated disc. But I am in a bit of a panic about a) physically getting to the hospital when labor starts, b) having to listen to Justin moan about his back and when it's time to take his pill while I am contracting, c) going through labor and delivery with no moral/emotional support from my drug-induced husband and d) homeward bound with a crippled husband and fragile newborn to contend with while my bottom is still healing and I'm on no sleep. Ok, I very much am all about me right now. I make no apologies.

My sister is on call to jump in the car at the first contraction and my neighbor offered to drive us to the hospital should we need her. But I might be on my own for a bit with the whole waiting game of cervical dilation. I think I can do it though. I've plowed through so much on my way to this moment. I just have to channel my inner Wonder Wheel and keep up a steady dialogue with B the G. Since the dry run at the hospital with my tumble down the steps, I feel pretty confident that I'll have a great team there helping me out.

I just got a pedicure and will get one once a week from here on out so I can at least look at my toes with pleasure. The rest of me is pretty much hilarious at this point. My belly looks prosthetic to me. Like I should just be able to unhook it in the back and remove, it is so round and taut. Some say these bellies are gorgeous and while that is not the word I would use, I do find mine vastly entertaining to look at. Foreign and funny at the same time. My belly button has timidly popped outward, giving up the fight of remaining inward under all that pressure. And blue veins lace all across the surface, always there before, but in stark relief now because of my fair skin and stretched abdomen. Like I said, I'm fascinated. It's like a freak show kind of vanity.

Tight Fit

2008-08-28T09:20:00.005-04:00

I know this is bizarre, but I can't help wondering if, when I poop, it gives the baby more room to stretch around in there. I envision her stretching her arms out next to my intestines and thinking "Whew, now I can move!"

Ripe

2008-08-25T13:04:00.005-04:00

Don't let the smile fool ya. I am really, really uncomfortable, pretty much all the time. My back aches and the only thing that fits anymore are my earrings. I wish there were a little zipper in there that B the G could undo and come on out. I don't think she's dropped down yet, because I still have heartburn and it's hard to catch my breath sometimes.

BUT. Other than that, my foot is on the mend, thankfully. Justin is still battling his back pain and I need him to hurry up and get past it so he can move into the manager's position when we go to bat. Right now, there's a lot of moaning and whining going on and it's not coming from me. I know I sound unsympathetic. I think I am. There's only room for one moaner and whiner in this town and it's the one carrying the extra 25 lbs.

As of Friday I'll be considered full term which is quite a victory for me and B the G. We can go pretty much anytime from here on out and while I'm ready, I don't think she is quite yet. I'm practicing my patience and my yoga breathing. She is busy poking me in the ribs with her feet. But at least they are the right way up...

The Usual Suspects

2008-08-16T09:26:00.012-04:00

On Friday I woke up to find Justin in the guest bed groaning in pain with his back out. Neither of us are sure what exactly caused the pain, but it's probably related to his recently re-starting a morning workout coupled with assembling the enormous dresser/changing table for the nursery. The workout involves lifting weights repetitively and the changing tables involves millions of little screws and pegs, a Makita drill, instructions that look like cryptic writing from ancient Mesopotamia, beer, and apparently the ability to swear like a sailor. It's like a mathematic formula for pain.

We called the doctor and made an appointment for Justin to come in at 11:00 am that morning. In the meantime I went about my daily business, in quite a cheery mood because my sister was arriving the following day, because B the G had been given the all clear with the IUGR and because now Justin was the one who had to keep still and I could legally do a little more around the house without hearing it from him.

I shared my good news about B the G with Mimi who calls about every morning for an update and we discussed the trials of her pregnancies and mine and she begged me now that this latest crisis had passed, to just sit still and not move for the next five weeks. Ha. Ha. Ha.

A morning chore I've done since we got Gordon is to open the gate connecting our yard to our neighbor's which allows their dogs and Gordon to frolic together at will. He loves it, they all get exercise and it doubles the size of their play area. This involves a little duck under a chain link fence and then lifting a doggie door cut into the fence. I've been very careful about holding onto the fence, stepping slowly, and minding the dogs since my belly has gotten so big in recent weeks and lately I had been asking Justin to do it, but of course he was incapacitated in the bedroom. I was thinking these exact thoughts as I went through the motions on Friday. Watching my feet, placing my hands carefully on the fence, opening the gate. It went like clockwork and I was practically whistling like Tom Sawyer on my way back to the house.

Then. Coming down the terraced steps in the backyard, the ones that have no rail because they're TERRACED, I slipped off the edge of the steps, flailed my arms wildly and went down like a bag of dirt. Most of my weight went on my right foot which bent inwards and my butt. I sat their stunned for a minute while the dogs circled around me wondering what this act was all about. Then my foot began to ache, then fear for B the G set in, then I started to cry like a toddler lost in a mall. Big, scared tears, panting, breathing, the works. I let everything out on those steps. All of the fear I was experiencing at that moment, plus the angst of the last three weeks, the pain in my foot, the frustration of my situation. The dogs began to bark and howl around me, sensing the emotion and I thought maybe Justin will hear and come help me. He didn't.

I called Gordon over and leaned on him while I hoisted myself up. Hobbling into the house I yelled to Justin that I had fallen and then sat on the couch and cried some more. He comes out of the bedroom walking like Frankenstein and tries to make sense of what happened through my blubbering. He's worried about the fact that I'm crying so hard that I might start hyperventilating and tells me to try and stop. So I did. Once I turned off the waterworks I was able to make a plan to get to the hospital to check on the Bean and my foot at the same time Justin went to his appointment.

I had to drive because Justin couldn't raise his arms high enough. I felt B the G kick a few times on our way there and I felt fairly certain that she was fine which helped me stay focused. I hobbled over to the ER and Justin went upstairs to his doctor's office and we promised to meet up later, as though for a lunch date.

The ER, which by the way is on the far end of the hospital, told me I needed to go to the Maternity Center to check on the baby and then come back for my foot, which by now is really beginning to throb. I make it to the Maternity Center and god bless them, they kicked in and took over. Checked me into a room, put me in a hospital gown, hooked me up to fetal monitors and I got to hear that lovely, reassuring heartbeat. They went over me with a fine-toothed comb. Questioning everything, drawing blood, urine sample, blood pressure, temperature, a cervical exam that felt like they were trying to reach my throat from the inside.

Somewhere in there Justin found me after a trip to the pharmacy for muscle relaxers and sat uncomfortably in the chair next to me. He popped some and began to sink lower and lower in the chair, informing me that he would be unable to drive home. After about three hours and seeing nurses, interns, residents and the attending, and hearing from each one of these people how important it is to hold onto the handrail when I am on stairs (they're TERRACED!), they and I were finally satisfied that my Bean was just fine and they sent us on our way.

I really felt like I should get my foot looked at, much as I wanted to get home, get Justin home and get something to eat. So I went back down to the ER and Justin told me he couldn't sit in a chair anymore and was going to take a cab home. I knew it would be a wait so I told him to go and settled in for more waiting.

The ER at Emory is light years away from the cozy, warm maternity center and I began to feel yucky sitting there. Everyone there looks miserable, staff, admins, patients, everyone. When I got called back I talked to a triage nurse who told me I would have to have an x-ray to see if the foot was broken. I don't know what I really expected here. I mean it seems like a normal procedure for my problem, but being 35 weeks pregnant, despite reassurances that I would be covered in lead and only the foot would be x-rayed, I began to have doubts about proceeding. I really didn't think it was broken, as I could still bend it and there was no swelling. I really just wanted somebody to reassure me of this without an x-ray, wrap it, and pat me on my head.

Waiting for the radiology tech, I sat next to an old woman wrapped in a sheet who smelled like urine and a younger woman who looked like 10 miles of bad road, and hacked constantly into her hands. I began to feel germs creeping onto me like army ants and when the radiology tech came out and called the next patient in, he had the same vacant, disconsolate look on his face as the old woman in the sheet. I had enough.

I told the administrative assistant at the front that I was leaving, I didn't want my x-ray I just wanted to go home. She asked me to wait for the nurse which I did for about two coughs worth of time from Hackensack sitting beside me. Then I told them again that I was leaving and she made me sign a form that stated that if I died as a result of leaving early, the hospital was not responsible. They underlined and emphasized the word "death" and I signed happily and limped out of that place like Keyser Soze leaving the precinct on his way to freedom.

Justin was there in the waiting room when I came out, having forgotten that he didn't have house keys and fitting right in with the wretched face theme that was de rigueur for the complete ER experience. Sadly, my limp didn't fade like Soze's when I left the hospital. It hurts and continues to hurt if I walk too much on it. So I'm back to being immobile for awhile. Only now I have company! Groggy, grumpy JC. But at least we have each other.

Chubba Wubba

2008-08-12T16:42:00.008-04:00

Success! After three weeks of gluey protein shakes, abbreviated bed rest and gallons of water, B the G weighed in at 5.7 lbs today and hit the 35th percentile on the growth chart. Her Dopplers are all where they should be and there is a healthy amount of amniotic fluid for her to float around in there.

I am so relieved, so grateful, so proud. The doctor is thrilled with our progress and told me that we could continue coming in twice a week for evaluating or come back in three weeks when it's closer to go time. Justin said "Three weeks" faster than I could get it out and the the doctor said she had already written that in the chart because she knew what his response would be. They've gotten to know him pretty well in recent weeks. We are both tired of the trips, the angst, and the stress of the visits. Just let her bake a little more and we'll be satisfied with continuing the above regimen and monitoring kick counts.

She moved around in my belly all during the ultrasound, doing her own little victory dance. Justin credits the water and the Krispy Kreme doughnuts he bought for me. I think it was the rest and the protein. But I also wonder if she would have grown anyway, that she just hit a lull. It's hard to know.

Regardless, I am thankful for the results and for the team of techs and physicians I got to know so well over the past three weeks. It's a weird, loaded environment for all involved in peri-natal. There's that gold-tinged advice to stay relaxed and stress-free for the baby coming in from all corners, but in the back of everyone's mind we all know I wouldn't be there if there weren't something unusual going on. It's all unspoken and everyone is trying to protect me from worry and tension but also give me all the information I need. It was a difficult balance for me and I did break a couple of times on my own. To let it go and wait for her to make the next move is the easiest decision I've made in awhile.

Bananafanafofana

2008-08-11T13:17:00.003-04:00

If I hear one more person suggest that we name the baby Sumatra, Venti or Folger's, I am going to shoot that person in the face with a bazooka.

Beenie Weenie

2008-07-29T13:13:00.006-04:00

Little face turned sideways and looking out.

I had a Doppler test done which is exactly like the green and red storm systems you see on the Weather Channel, except they measure where the blood is flowing inside B the G. They look at little weather systems in her brain, kidneys, heart and several other vitals and she scored very well, everything getting the blood and oxygen it should be getting.

Afterwards the neonatologist came in to give me the good news. I was so relieved, I got a little teary. She asked me if I was stressed out, and admonished me for worrying. I don't know if their average patient is some sort of robotic, unfeeling automaton, but honestly. How can they tell you that you need all of these tests and your baby is this and that and you have to come in twice a week. Now go home and don't worry. I explained my position on worrying to her. It's just something that comes naturally to me after getting this kind of news for my first, miraculously conceived, high-risk pregnancy baby. She assured me that these are very precautionary, preventative measures and that her feeling is that B the G is simply a wee bairn, as the Scots say. I told her that after this test and her reassurances, I would certainly rest easier and be more likely to stay worry- free. I will try anyway.

I still have to go in twice a week to monitor her movement, breathing, amniotic fluid and heart rate, but that's ok for now. Today at the ultrasound (above) she was face up and head down, just blinking and breathing, peering out sweetly towards my belly. It was wonderful to see her again. Her next measurement visit is in two weeks and if she hasn't grown significantly by then, we'll discuss inducement at 37 weeks so we can get her out, bypass my placenta or whatever is holding her up in there and physically stick the food in her mouth.

On another topic, I had my first shower last weekend in my beloved Charleston at Mimi's house. The dirty dog snuck the whole thing past me into my beach weekend visit and I couldn't have been more shocked. My family was there, except for my mother who couldn't make it, and so many friends from high school, college, and Moo Roo, it was like an episode of This Is Your Life. There I was in the special chair, opening pink fluffy things, letting people rub my belly, listening to congratulations, advice and birth stories and I couldn't soak it up enough. I wanted it to last forever. I never thought I'd get to be the lady in the special chair with the big belly. It was wonderful and I felt so much love and support from these people that had known me for so long. I grinned and laughed and grinned some more and I thank my lucky stars for putting me in that chair with all of those people around me holding me up.

La Petite Princesse

2008-07-24T08:45:00.007-04:00

IUGR. It stands for Intrauterine Growth Restriction and B the G just got labeled with it. Her estimated fetal weight is below the tenth percentile and apparently this could be a cause for concern, possible premature labor or simply that she is a small baby. What this means for us is bi-weekly trips to the neo-natologist to monitor her growth rate and my blood pressure to make sure both of us are thriving. I could go more into what that potentially could portend, but I'm not going to. She is small for her age and for now we need her to gain weight and grow.

I have started to dread my ultrasounds because rather than being a sweet little view into her world inside of me, they have become nerve-wracking, nail-biting waiting periods where I lay tense and anxious, hoping I don't get another bizarre diagnosis of some potential problem. The doc told me that she had sent home every other patient she had brought in that day to monitor for IUGR and was hoping to go for a shutout. But I blew the curve of course and now I get to become very good friends with the peri-natal receptionist.

For now, suffice to say we may bring her into the world early depending on how she measures up in the next couple of weeks. In the meantime, I am supposed to relax (Ha!), try to eat more protein and monitor her movements to make sure she is still on spin cycle in there. Each one of these things is going to pose difficulties for me and I am trying to work on them.

Protein: Because Justin is a vegetarian I don't eat or cook meat as much as your average American wifey. So I've tried to bulk it up recently with more burgers and steaks wherever I can get them. The smell of meat cooking makes me queasy so I am working around this as well. I bought some protein shakes at the health food store yesterday. Blended one up as soon as I got home and it tasted like frothy, strawberry flavored Elmer's Glue. I choked it down and will continue to do so. Maybe the vanilla is better. In the meantime, Justin is chasing after me with steaks and ground beef, which is hilarious considering how he referred to my burgers in the past as "dead flesh". Now he's hawking it harder than a shill at Coney Island. "Have you had some meat? What did you eat today? Would you like to go out for a steak? Step right up, step right up. I'll get the car."

Fetal Movement: Here's where I begin to go more crazy than I already am with this pregnancy. The doc says monitor her movements. I say, how much should she be moving? The doc says you know that answer best, whatever is normal for her. So now, if I don't feel her moving pretty much every ten minutes or so I panic. I poke at my belly. I talk to her and sing to her and put on Blossom Dearie or Pink Floyd, both of which seem to stimulate her. I have had earnest discussions with her about this and they are reminiscent of Richard Pryor in the movie The Toy. The scene where he is in the toy store and is standing in the big, yellow Wonder Wheel as it's struggling to stay inflated - "Don't let me down now, we're a team, Wonder Wheel! Hold yourself together. I can't do it without you. Come on Wonder Wheel", as the thing is deflating all around him. I don't even feel ridiculous doing this, because it inevitably produces a twitch or a kick and I can breath for another ten minutes. I think she thinks I am deranged. I think am on my way.

Relax: Absurd considering the above. I can distract myself with a book or TV and lay on my left side and eat my meat burger and strawberry glue shake, but it's always there in the back of my mind. "Is she moving, breathing, eating, growing???"

I get it now that this pregnancy is working at me, prying at my worst faults and forcing me to look at life, mine and everyone else's as a gift. Despite the obstacles it has thrown in my path, I still feel lucky to be me, to quote some Blossom. I marvel at women in third world countries who go through this process repeatedly with no counseling or advice or ultrasounds or monitoring. They just get pregnant and have their babies. I marvel at women who do this three, five, seven times, each pregnancy seemingly effortless and practically a ritual. I marvel at women who have a child with an illness or birth defect, a genetic abnormality or worst of all a stillbirth or death. Where do they get the strength? Is there a maternal switch that flicks on that allows them to cope and function?

Maybe it is the same switch, albeit on a lower voltage, that is forcing me to choke down this protein shake and get over my gag reflex with cooking meat and sing and sing to B the G until I get a kick. More ultrasounds on Friday so I am aiming for the fifteenth percentile with all of this. We're aiming high. We're a team, Wonder Wheel. Grow little bean, grow!

Snaps!

2008-07-10T17:25:00.006-04:00

My little Lima Bean at about 27 weeks. Yes, I totally splurged and paid for the 3-D ultrasound. It was worth every penny to see her sweet face.

Me at 30 weeks and and with JC at the Braves v. Mariners game. The Braves got massacred and I got a foot long hot dog. Yummmm.

Adventures in Easy Living

2008-06-29T14:09:00.012-04:00

Justin has been in Vancouver since Wednesday and in an effort to keep my mind off of the possibility that I might go into early labor and have to ride MARTA to the hospital, I decided to go see a movie on Friday afternoon. A matinee. So luxurious. I belong to the group of people who love to go to the cinema by themselves. I can sit where I please (back row, nobody bouncing on my seat), buy whatever I want from concessions, and get there early so I have time to watch the previews. I also had a birthday party to attend on Saturday night and figured I'd pick up the gift while I was in this particular shopping center.

This little area I am visiting was supposed to be the next big thing in Atlanta urban living. Underground parking garage, movie theater, upscale restaurants and shopping and lots and lots of condos for those young urban professionals. It looks just like you think it would look. A little too landscaped and developed, sort of Disney-esque, a body in search of a soul. It never really caught on the way it was supposed to after several drug related crimes and a murder took place here. Atlanta has so many places like this. Cookie cutter clean, but with a seedy underbelly. I could never live here and actually hate shopping here, but the theater has great stadium seating and comfortable chairs, a plus for me and B the G.

Before the movie, I head over to Dillard's (comparable to Macy's) to buy my friend the coffee grinder she asked for. And while I'm there I poke my head into the lingerie department to check out the bras. There's a Seinfeld episode where Jerry talks about moving and how you become obsessed with finding boxes in the weeks prior to the move. In grocery stores, out with friends, everywhere you go you're thinking "Hmmm, I wonder if they have any boxes they aren't using..."

I am going through something similar with bras while I am pregnant. My breasts continue to astound me in their sheer magnitude, especially as they are now starting to rest across my belly, similar to my great Aunt Helen. My brother and sister and I used to laugh about this when we were young and I guess maybe that karma wasn't so instant, because now that I am fighting the same war, it's not so funny. I wonder where Aunt Helen's old bras went to...

Back at Dillard's, I do a quick sweep through and find some sports bras and a helpful sales assistant who doesn't mind telling me that the ones I am trying on are way too small and brings me back a slew of new selections that really do look like Aunt Helen already wore them. No sweet pink triangles and a single dose of hook and eye. These bras are like giant boob socks with fat, padded shoulder straps and a mammoth back strap with four (four!) hooks in the back. Not even a relative of pretty, but oh the relief when I tried them on. I bought two on the spot and thanked my lovely helper.

So I hustle on over to the theater where I watch the light and fluffy new Sex and the City movie which makes me simultaneously nostalgic for New York and snarky over the ridiculously breezy way the movie makes New York living look. I hope no starry-eyed upstarts head up there after watching this, looking for beautiful, airy apartments, endless available taxi rides and how incredibly easy it is to navigate the Meatpacking District in 4 inch heels. But I give it a thumbs up for the sheer scale of the fashion in it that is like the fifth character in the movie and for Kim Cattrall's amazing figure at 50. Inspirational.

Satisfied and tired, I head back to the garage and realize as I approach my car that my keys aren't in my bag. Ugh. I never lose my keys. But since I've been pregnant I seem to be losing everything, forgetting everything, dropping everything. People say it goes with the turf, but it makes me crazy to lose things under the best of circumstances. When I'm hot, tired and pregnant it makes me want to kill someone. And with Justin out of town, it could potentially get fairly complicated.

So, trying to put a hopeful spin on it, I figure I must have left them in the dressing room at Dillard's which was my only real protracted stop anyway. I head back over there and ask a different sales assistant if any keys were turned in. Sadly, she tells me no, but we search the dressing room I used anyway and I leave my name and number in case they turn up. I go to appliances next to check if they are there and again it's a dead end. Back out into the heat, wondering if I locked them in the car, which is even more unlike me, but being pregnant and water-headed, not impossible. I check back in the car as far as I can see in the darkness of the garage, around the car, at security in the garage and come up empty.

Only one place left to check and that's the movie theater, which I am not looking forward to. Once there, I ask the young, disaffected manager if anyone found any keys and get a shruggy sort of no. At this point I figured it's time to take matters into my own hands and I sneak back into the Sex and the City theater to look around the seat where I was sitting. Previews are playing for the next showing and the theater is dark, but still fairly empty. I go back to my first seat (of course I switched midway through the previews) and bend down as far as I can in the narrow aisles to look under the seat. I can't see a damn thing. I get down on one knee with the various "oofs" and "ughs" that accompany this sort of movement combined with my big belly and try to get a better view. The gum-popping teenage girls further down the same row give me that eye-rolling, lip-pursed look that only African-American women can do right, though I've seen many a white girl try. It screams "Whatever..." without saying a thing.

Yes, whatever, because I am now crawling around the chair I occupied on my hands and knees feeling the sticky, disgusting movie theater floor with the flat of my palms to see if I can grope my way to discovering my keys. I am beginning to feel a little desperate now, not to mention gross. I try the same routine again at the seat I switched over to before the movie started. Getting up and down is harder here as I am further down the aisle, starting to huff and puff a little because I am winded and emotional, and of course I am still hanging on to my two bags of purchases from before as well as my purse . Again no luck and I hoist myself up again from the ground with a loud old-person groan, using the back of someone's chair for leverage. I hate people like me in the previews and it only makes me feel worse about myself and my predicament. "I'm sorry" I stage whisper to the person sitting there. I have old popcorn stuck to my knees and my hands feel like I just licked them and then ate an enormous batch of cotton candy. I can't begin to tell you how pathetic and sorry for myself I feel.

Don't panic, don't panic. People lose their keys everyday. But already I'm thinking about paying for replacement keys on these stupid electronic remote locks that all cars have now. And how am I going to get in the house? I'll have to break a window and crawl in. Oh god. I head back over to Dillard's to retrace my steps one last time before I kick into full-blown melt-down. I can feel myself truly waddling now, because I am exhausted, hot and broken. I hate the cute, tan 20 year-olds I see chatting on their cell phones and walking into H & M. The Pixies' "Where is my Mind" plays over and over in my head as I plow across the street. Again.

Security is starting to eye me funny there. Is that really a baby in her belly or is she going back and forth to her car with stashes of socks and underwear stuffed in her pants? I walk carefully back through appliances checking all the surfaces I was near. Nothing. Back to lingerie where, a little more wild-eyed now, I begin digging like a terrier through the sales bins I was gently perusing just four hours before. My original sales assistant turns up and asks if she can help. I tell her about my keys and explain I already spoke with the other assistant and they didn't have them, but that I was there just double-checking.

Then I see her recognize me, (could she really be helping that many crazed-looking pregnant women in one afternoon?) and she says "Of course I found your keys. You left them on the chair in your dressing room. I put them here in the drawer."

And voila! she pulls out my ring of precious, underrated metal forms that mean the difference between life and death for me at this point. I've spent half the day in this stupid shopping center and while I'm elated to get my keys and high-tail it outta there, I can't help but want to throttle the second ill-informed sales girl who sent me back to crawl through the sticky, popcorn encrusted floors of the movie theaters and stagger through the stupefying heat of a parking garage in Atlanta at 4:00 PM in June. As I drive home, I try to channel gratitude instead of blame because ultimately it was my pathetic self that left the keys there in the first place. It doesn't come easy and instead I vow not to leave my house again until B the G makes her entry into the world.

Is It Hot In Here?

2008-06-12T14:00:00.003-04:00

I've always been the warm-blooded type, possibly due to being a member of the GRITS club (Girls Raised In The South). I used to love to walk to the beach in my bare feet trying to burn the soles to a leathery toughness so I could do away with shoes for the rest of the summer. I loved the way I could feel the heat pulsing off of my scalp like I could see it radiating off of cars, loved the drips of sweat running in pools down my belly. To some it sounds like hell, but to me it was invigorating. Cleansing.

I suffered through ten northeast winters, shivering constantly and never really feeling warm until I got that first full blast of summer heat. Justin and I have totally different thermal settings and I prefer the house at 80 or 81 in the summer while he is quietly turning the AC thermostat down when I'm in the other room. I crank my electric blanket to 10 in the winter and he slides a foot over to my side and claims third degree burns.

Cue pregnancy. I understand the whole bun-in-the-oven metaphor now. Because that's what I am - a walking, breathing oven that isn't allowed to drink a cold, frosty beer to cool down in this god-forsaken heat. I admit, I feel a little betrayed by this southern heat. Like we used to be partners, pals from way back and that we understood each other. But as happens in so many good relationships, I've changed, evolved, developed new interests and heat isn't the forgiving kind.

I went to Busch Gardens in Tampa with the whole fam-damily last week. As corny as it sounds, Busch Gardens is one of my favorite spots to visit. Ever. The roller coasters are some of the best I've ever been on, they have wonderful water rides that let you get soaked and cool off, a beautiful nature preserve with large, rolling landscapes for the animals instead of tight, depressing cages, it's pristinely clean and not too big that you feel like you've missed something if you spend the entire day there. And cold, frosty Anhauser is served anywhere you turn. Whether you're 4 or 44 it's pretty Mecca-ish, no matter what you like to do.

Oh but this time, I am a mobile Betty Crocker not-so-easy-bake oven and the heat has turned against me. It's well into the high 90's when we arrive and probably hits 100 degrees by 1:00 PM. I am forbidden from going on any water rides to cool off as most of them post signs warning expectant mothers to stay off or their baby will be jolted right out of their uterus. I can't go on the roller coasters for same reason and god knows I can't have a beer with Justin the Security Guard monitoring everything I put in my mouth.

I ride the Sky Lift, a boring, but cooling, bucket ride over the park and sip my fourth frozen lemonade. I do a lot of waiting. Mostly for my nephews to enjoy all the rides they are now old enough to enter and ironically, now that they are tall enough I can't join them. I feel the sweat run down my back, my breasts, my legs, my temples. But it's not the same heat I loved and coveted. It's attacking me from the inside now. It surges up from the sidewalks in blasts and lingers under my skirt like a pervert. It pounds down on my head like a fist from above, demanding, draining.

I feel like a combustion engine chugging past the water flume ride, the tiger exhibit, the food stands. I think I see pity in the eyes of some mothers with young children and I bet they are wondering what on earth I was thinking of, coming here pregnant in this heat. I want to tell them it wasn't always like this. That we used to be a team, the heat and me. I didn't think my feelings could change so heartlessly, so easily. But all I want now is movie theater air conditioning and a cherry Icee for B the G. I would welcome a blast of arctic air or a cooling thunderstorm. My needs have changed and I've had to move on.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

2008-05-28T11:35:00.004-04:00

1. Breasts. I knew they were supposed to get bigger, but I wasn't prepared for this. I have jumped two cup sizes and in profile look like a two-humped camel with my belly. I know some women welcome the size change, but I'm 5'3" and boobies this size make me feel like one of those Paleolithic fertility goddess statues. And nobody tells you that your nipples get bigger too. How does that work? I thought that was sort of a defined territory. Like elbows and fingertips. Oh, and they change color. From a nice rosy, pretty pink, to a ruddy sort of brownish pink.

2. Mucous. My nose seems to be much leakier these days and I've had a few minor nosebleeds. The Doctor says all mucous membranes are in flux with the hormones right now, so anything that can be lubricated is being lubricated. Including my vajayjay. After the whole implantation bleeding episode, I had a hard time getting used to this development but it seems to be part of the entire process and while annoying, certainly manageable.

3. Sex. See above, but when you're consistently lubricated and most of the blood you produce is gathering in that area, it's like being in a constant state of arousal. Really wonderful if you have a cooperative partner, really unfulfilling if you have a paranoid, neurotic, safety-obsessed husband who probably doesn't find your large brown nipples too exciting anyway.

4. Skin and Hair. This is where it starts to get good. My skin is spectacular right now. I haven't had a breakout or blemish in months and I really do see a different tone to my skin. A pretty, healthy glow that wasn't there before. And my hair which has always been on the fine side, is thick and shiny and full. I feel like a Pantene commercial when I brush my hair in the morning. Of course, all of my girlfriends tell me this is a short-lived luxury and all of that extra hair will fall out in clumps after the baby comes. Will report back on this, but I'm loving it for now.

5. Vertigo. Apparently with all of this extra blood in the network, standing and sitting can cause a bit of the dizzies as all of the blood rushes to reconfigure itself to my feet and head when I change position. So when I stand up, I often get really lightheaded and have to dive my head between my knees to keep from passing out. Not an issue at all at home, but rather funny in a restaurant, parking lot, or some other public place.

6. Gas and Kicks. I mentioned in a past blog about how excited I was for Justin to feel the baby kick. It's such an alien, funny feeling and reassures me that the baby is rocking and rolling in there. So one night about a week ago, I grabbed his hand and put it on my belly, because she was really popping around. He kept his hand there for a minute or two and felt her movements and then took his hand off and turned over to sleep. Really disappointed that he wasn't as thrilled with this new experience as I was, I kept after him, asking "Did you feel it? Isn't it cool? What do you think?" He said, "It feels like you have an upset stomach. It feels like you have gas." I married him for the romance, you know. He's loaded with it.

Sometimes....

2008-05-19T17:13:00.002-04:00

...I forget I am pregnant and catch a glimpse of myself as I pass by a mirror. I have a split second of 'Oh, god, I have really gotten heavy this year" before I remember again.

Little Kicks Inside Her

2008-05-09T10:58:00.003-04:00

I am now quite sure that what I thought was gas is actually B the G squirming around in there. And I get a free pass on mistaking it for gas because while everybody tells you about nausea and being tired when you are pregnant, nobody tells you that you will pass gas like your fat uncle after a chili cheese steak.

I know some people are just naturally more gassy than others, but this has never been a particular affliction of mine. So the subsequent arrival of wind with my pregnancy has been a double whammy if you will. I am constantly surprised by it. And it's not the kind you can blame on the dog because it follows you as you walk, - whomp, whomp, whomp - coming out with every step you take like your own little marching band.

I find it rather hilarious. Justin, however, is one of the few people in the world who don't think farts are funny. He prefers to ignore them when they happen to him and acts absolutely astounded that they could actually come out of me. Which makes it even funnier.

So when the kicks started, I naturally assumed it's more gas roiling around in there as my guts make room for baby. But in the past week or two, I've gotten plenty of taps and pops that usually mean gas, but then - nothing. And now they have started coming in adorable little rhythms in one area of my belly that certainly have never happened with plain ordinary gas. Pink Floyd's The Great Gig In the Sky came on the radio yesterday and B the G moved around wildly throughout the entire song. Can she hear now too?

I love to feel it and only wish Justin could experience it too, but right now, it's only internal. He'll have to be content with my existing external symptoms for a little while longer. Cue John Philip Sousa!

The Gene Screen

2008-04-28T12:04:00.007-04:00

When you are over the age of 35 and pregnant you fall into a group I won't call high-risk because it makes me feel like a bungee jumper or spelunker. I prefer to use extreme-care or hyper-vigilant to denote the little extras tests and monitoring they give you when you are ahem - more mature than other whippersnappers in the waiting room.

Everybody gets offered genetic screening when they are pregnant, but we extreme-care mothers are usually strongly recommended to take part in these tests as certain genetic abnormalities seem to occur more frequently in older mothers. Sound like a textbook? I've done my research. So at about 11-12 weeks they do a blood test and ultrasounds, measuring for various physical indications as well as blood levels to detect whatever stuff it is that might provide a clue whether or not your baby is at risk.

So I get my tests, including a very innocuous finger prick and a pretty good-looking ultra-sound if I do say so myself. Then two weeks later a nurse calls with the results. The thing to remember with these results is that they are probabilities, estimates of risk. If you took Statistics in college, now would be a good time to remember some of that information to get a grip on some of the numbers they give you.

The nurse spewed off three sets of ratios for my risk, my results with my age, my age alone and an average 35 year-old's risk. She's rather cheery and sweet, but the information she gives me is that I have a positive risk for Downs as a result of my tests and the ratio is 1 in 98. She suggested an amnio centisis to get definite results and wished me good day.

So I kind of panicked. 1 in 98. Good odds for a horse, right? That means 97 other babies came out perfectly healthy. Still the number seemed scary as I looked at my notes from her phone call and I called my sister, her husband the doctor, my father, my mother, my girlfriends and of course Justin. Over the next two weeks, I searched websites and read tons of blogs about Downs Syndrome, 1st trimester screening tests, and amniocentesis and the risks involved with that. I know amnio is performed with an ultrasound and there are millions of women that have had successful procedures done, but I couldn't shake the image of a long needle puncturing B the G's little water balloon we built in there. My warm fuzzy pregnancy glow began to fade to a dull, weak 25 watt attic light bulb as I tried to find out the best decision for moving forward with this news.

Too much information is a dangerous thing and with the internet, I could get any kind of information I wanted to back up any opinion I began to form. Countless blogs and web-chats from women with false positive tests for these screenings. High risk of miscarriage for amniocentesis. Low rates of miscarriage for amniocentesis. My doctor gave me a ratio of 1 in 300 for risk of miscarriage with amnio, but said the important thing to remember was what I was going to do with the information once I found out the results. In other words, would I terminate if the baby was positive for Downs Syndrome? If so that's one thing, if not, why risk it? Heady stuff.

I am not a religious girl so I have no ideology or doctrine to fall back on regarding this subject. But I have developed a healthy dose of spirituality based on various readings, my own experiences, and pure gut instinct, especially lately. I pondered all of this for a few days, re-thinking care of a special needs child, my miracle pregnancy and this latest information. Justin comes from a very anti-medicine background and is suspicious of all invasive procedures and tests that aren't deemed absolutely essential. Did this mean he was prepared to care for a special needs child? Was I? His answers were always vague, sort of wait and see type of words, which I know means it's ultimately up to me to decide.

So I decided. I knew there was no way I could terminate this baby no matter what the tests said. If this baby was supposed to be my baby, coming to me so late and right before my adoption, and she has special needs, than that is the baby I am supposed to mother. Sounds dreadfully Calvinistic and pre-determined, but I just can't deal with it any other way. I went through the same fears with adopting albeit with different illness and developmental issues, and forged ahead anyway. This was no different.

My doctor scheduled another ultrasound to give me another look-see and determine if they could find anything else out that might give me a clearer picture, as some physical traits are evident at 15 weeks. When Justin and I arrive the tech is surprised to see us as it's a few weeks early for our anatomy screening, which usually happens at 18-20 weeks. I explain our screening test results and what we're there for and she squirts the gel on my belly and we're on our way. I am in awe of the tiny creature on the screen, wiggling and swimming around inside of me. I can't take my eyes from the screen and am crushed when it's time to go. The peri-natal doctor comes in to go over the results and also asks us why we are there. Again (do these people even talk to each other?) I explain our 1 in 98 results and that we are there to try and avoid an amnio and see if there are any other physical traits to give us a clue about the Downs.

She says, "You're not 1 in 98. You're 1 in 271 for Downs. 1 in 98 is your risk for Downs based on your age. AFTER your screen your results were 1 in 271. Your risk decreased but reads as positive because it's slightly higher than a 35 year-old's risk of 1 in 294 which is basically where the line is drawn for this screening. You don't need an amnio."

Is it me? Are these little glitches in the system meant to test my mettle so to speak? Make sure I'm really a player in this thing rather than the cute cheerleader on the sidelines I always preferred to be? From the adoption to the pregnancy, it's truly uncanny the way these hurdles keep surfacing.

So after going through two weeks of angst and anxiety and ultimately resignation and acceptance I was suddenly set free again. 1 in 271?! That's a cakewalk, man! Bring it on! I suppose I could have been angry at myself for misunderstanding or at the techs and physicians that gave me this confusing news and let it go on so long without checking my records for clarification. But in the end, I was just happy to have my glow light flicker back on and also to know that I was committed to this baby and her arrival into my life regardless of her health or condition. And while I KNOW after this newest trial and everything that's gone before that there are no guarantees in life (Are you listening, Universe? I know! I get it, for Chrissake!), I do feel rather confident after the tech pointed out her labia, that B the G is a girl.

Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy

2008-04-05T15:03:00.004-04:00

I am humming along at 16 weeks, but I've had my share of ups and downs over the past 10 weeks. When you experience infertility, all you can think about is "if I could only get pregnant, if I could only conceive..." and it never really goes beyond that point of the Getting of the pregnancy. Once I Get it, the goal is met, right? I have learned however, and this should come as no surprise for me, that complications, hills and valleys, come at you from all angles after a precious few weeks of just enjoying the miracle that I am pregnant.

At about 8 weeks pregnant, I went out to dinner with our neighbors on a Friday night and came home with a big clot of blood in my underwear. It's cliched but I can only describe what felt like ice in my veins as I sat on the toilet and felt another clot slide out of me. My run as a parent was coming to an end and I was back where I started. I wept, I fell into Justin, I sat in a tight ball on the couch and ached with the pain of it.

The next day, I called the OB/Gyn on call in my practice and told her what had happened. She said unless I was bleeding heavily and cramping, wait for Monday and call the office to come in. I was not bleeding heavily and cramping. In fact the blood had changed color from normal period red, to dark, end-of-period, brown. Whatever was going to happen had either happened or was in the process of happening and a trip to an ER in Atlanta on a Saturday morning was not going to change that other than making me more miserable in a waiting room full of miserable people. I chose to stay home and waded through a truly awful weekend of disappointment, guilt, and icy veins.

On Monday, the office scheduled me for an ultrasound the following day. I am an expert by now at waiting, as everyone who reads this blog knows. I have lists of projects, books, friends. events, to occupy me in any sort of wait, especially the drawn-out, ambiguous wait that entailed getting B the G. But this wait, this stupid 24 hour wait until my appointment was by far the worst wait I've ever known. I dreaded going to the bathroom the whole weekend so I wouldn't have to see the blood on the toilet paper. In the process of avoiding that dread, I consciously or subconsciously constipated myself (is that even proper grammar? Can one constipate oneself?) so I wouldn't have to push. Bear with me here (no pun intended), I know I'm getting graphic, but I was entering the depths of despair and even if the pregnancy was over, I did not want to see the physical evidence of it gush out of me into the toilet. It would have been the end of me.

Then, sometime Monday late afternoon, I had a little breakthrough. After one of these ridiculous bathroom breaks where I try to pee, but not push (try it - impossible) I lay down in my bed and felt the sadness of it lift off of me. Not that I was happy or suddenly not depressed, I just felt comfortable. At peace with what had happened and was happening to me whatever the result. It was a huge relief, not a religious event, but just sort of an agreeement with my body and my Self to let go of this pain. I felt almost forced into the peace and it was a welcome push. I knew I would be sad but that that I would be able to handle it is the only way that I can describe it.

That is not to say I wasn't still filled with anxiety the next day as I waited in the lab for the ultrasound. But I was prepping myself while I was waiting there for the news and the follow-up care and giving myself the Mickey the Manager talk from Rocky which I never could have done over the weekend. Eye of the tiger, you can do it Rock, sort of stuff. Keep yourself going.

I had such a great ultrasound technician I'll call Cindy. I laid the events of my whole reproductive life at her feet in the five minutes before I got on the table, starting with my infertility, adoptions plans, pregnancy and bleed. The words came out of me like a rocket and she handled it like a pro and I KNOW she must have seen how my mind was racing to keep control. To keep talking so I wouldn't have to think. Eye of the tiger, Rock.

She keeps the screen carefully turned away from me and starts probing around in my uterus with the magic dildo wand of sound. She is quiet and intense and I can feel my heart pound through my back onto the table below me as I wait with one arm over my face, hiding my eyes. "I know you're dying over there," she says. "I just want to make absolutely sure before I give you the news." My heart sinks with this, but again, I feel prepped and guarded and ready, like I can handle a million blows to the head, if I can just get off this table and on with my life.

And she turns the screen toward me and points to a tiny, tiny, pulsing point of green inside a small, green comma and says "That is the heartbeat. It looks nice and strong."

I break. I feel that thing inside me that was holding me together just break apart and I can't breathe, I cant speak. I extend my hand that came from the arm over my eyes and just grab Cindy's hand and squeeze it. It's all I can do. She is crying, I am crying. I had already said good-bye to that heartbeat and there it was pounding away and making me feel like a fool for not trusting it. A happy, silly, fool.

Implantation bleeding? Something to do with my quirky uterus? I don't know why, only that it happens to many women and it took my bleeding/spotting about two and a half weeks to stop. But there's B the G up there at 15 weeks, hanging on for dear life, while she admires her pretty toes. Just like her mother.

My Crock Pot

2008-03-11T15:02:00.002-04:00

I don't even know how to start this one.

But yes, that is my uterus, my ultrasound, my little bean-shaped human in there. When I say I don't know how it happened other than the sheer biology of it, please take me at my word. This has been the strangest part of this journey yet. Out of the blue in January I missed a period and began counting backwards. Something I TOLD you I didn't do anymore, so I really had to think back as to my last period and approximate. Actually it was fairly easy as I was in Philadelphia visiting the in-laws and had to make Justin stop at the Rite-Aid on the way home from brunch with them our first day there. I am paranoid about feminine product disposal in other people's homes too, so that kind of burned in my brain as well. Don't want to flush them, for fear of backing up the toilet and flooding the place. So I wrap them in huge mittens of toilet paper and try to take the trash out when no one is looking. I know it seems ridiculous. I feel ridiculous just writing it.

So back to the counting, it became clear at 36 days that I was officially late. But this has happened to me many times before only to show up at the exact moment I come back from the drugstore with a $20 box of tests in my hand. So I was determined to ride it out and played the little fantasy game that all women who want to get pregnant play when they are late. What if...could it be...telling no one. It's too easy just to take a test at this point. I enjoyed the not-knowing because it allowed me to pretend if only for a few days that I was. It may seem like torture to you, but I can't explain the desire not to know because knowing in the past ulitmately led to the abrupt and disappointing end to the fun part of the game.

But when I got to day 39, having never gotten this far in my late day count before, I figured it was time to end the game and figure out if I was hitting early menopause. I have boxes of pregnancy tests and ovulation tests under my sink from back when I tracked so I didn't have to fork out another $20. Oh the wonder of seeing the double pink line of the First Response test showing up after so many years of the miserable, lonely single line. I had a glorious moment to myself, sitting on the toilet, staring and staring at that double line. I practically felt the heavens part and swear I heard Colonel Pickering singing that song from My Fair Lady - "Tonight old man, you did it! You did it! You did it! They said you couldn't do it and indeed you did!"

I took the test out to the the kitchen and watched from inside while Justin threw the ball in the yard for Gordon. Standing there watching him, I imagined his response, his surprise, how I would tell him. When he came in, I simply put the test in front of him and said nothing. His words after looking at it closely, and I quote were "What does this mean?" I should be more patient here, I think. Of course I know that there is a little grid next to the results clearly showing the pregnant, not pregnant option to the test. But he did graduate cum laude from law school for god's sake. I think they make these tests to accomodate people who can barely read.

"It means I'm pregnant," I say. He looks at it again more closely and says "Yeah. but this second line here is much lighter than the first... I don't know." This wasn't at all fulfilling the sweeping bear hug, rolling giggles, or shouts of excitement I had kind of envisioned in my whole Telling Justin Fantasy scenario. All it made me do was doubt that stupid second line and look at it more closely with him.

"It's there," I said firmly. "I'll take another test later when I have more pee." Squelched. But to be fair, by a man whose seen his fair share of my disappointed face after many years of fertility and adoption woes. It took three more tests and a few gallons of water to convince him, but in the end he succumbed, albeit never really reaching the heights of hilarity and swirly-twirly ecstasy my little brain had cooked up for this moment.

Between then and now the stories have piled up and I have so much more to tell. And it's only been 12 weeks. It was a wrench keeping quiet, but you know, I am 39 and really wasn't sure if this would be a pot sticker or not. I'm feeling a bit more confident now and welcome the chance to unload it in the blog. Who knew after all this time I'd be making my own B the G?

I Know...I Know...

2008-03-01T16:22:00.002-05:00

I've been awol again. All I can say is things have been percolating in the crock pot that is my life for the past several weeks. I do believe I will have some significant news this week on the B the G front and I look forward to sharing with all as soon as I get it. Stay tuned.....

I've Fooled Around Long Enough

2008-02-04T12:54:00.000-05:00

Left you hanging, I did, about ol' Ruthie's follow-up with my paperwork. As you know, I told the director that Ruth and I were kaput. I was willing to go over her, under her or around her, but I refused to work with her from this point forward. The very next day after this conversation, I received copies of everything I had requested from Ruth 10 days prior along with the following love letter from Ruth:

I do apologize for the delay in getting this to you. When I told you by email, I would complete it, I thought I could but had some emergencies that had to be handled. Be assured that our agency will be there to assist you in whatever your needs are thru this process. As well as Peggy you can also contact Lillie as she is my assistant.

I think Ruth may have gotten an administrative backhand from Peggy the Meek. But I have no regrets! Even her apology sounds churlish to me. "I told you I would complete it but then I couldn't"? Was I just supposed to guess when it was done or keep rattling her cage until she sent me confirmation? I am not assured at all that they will be there to assist me and this latest folly only solidifies my opinion. I have visions of Russia knocking on my door asking where is the 5 month at-home update on B the G. And Ruth answering my queries with her usual "Oh I believe I sent them that. But then again maybe I didn't get to it. I may have had an emergency."

I can tell you this, I sure ain't going to contact Lillie, god bless her pointy little head, "for my needs thru this process". Ruth has an assistant and that's how she spells "through"? It's the director for me and my needs or I'm going straight to the Board. All these agencies have Boards with members who usually care about profits and service and reputation and such. And this one may or may not be appalled at Ruth's casual spelling habits and sub-par communication methods. But I've fooled around long enough. I love that line. Reminds me so much of my mother. And Bill Cosby. Let them hash it out who does the work. I do believe Ruth got a taste of Adoptra's whip of justice and I scored one for the good guys.

By the way, you should check this superhero site out if you are interested in giving your nemesis or hero a face. Or if you have kids. Or if you are yourself a big kid. It was very cathartic for me and exactly what I imagine Ruth looks like, baton and all, when she's not ignoring the plights of wanna-be mom's or hacking out misleading, deliberately ambiguous emails on her evil Computer of Malice .

RUTH!

2008-01-18T12:32:00.000-05:00

She strikes again. I swear I need super powers just to get around this woman.

I sent a request to Ruth (Home Study Agency, arch nemesis - super powers entail a deep streak of evil and uncanny ability to delay any and all adoption paperwork despite it being part of her cover job ) on January 9th with some more documents that needed updating for our dossier, which is in Moscow at the moment. I sent a nice, fluffy little email telling her I hoped she had a restful holiday, keeping it happy, upbeat. It went something like this:

Hi Ruth,
I hope you had a good holiday and got some time off!
I received the following from AFC this week. I feel like we’ve done the interagency and commitments a thousand times, but perhaps I’m getting my countries and multiple renewals confused. Megan says I’m getting close, but it’s hard for me to believe.
Could you take care of numbers 2,3,4 below? The last three attachments above correspond to those requirements.
Thanks for your help. The address for the agency is attached to her signature below.

Best,

Meg Burdash

I sent this with the necessary documents neatly attached and numbered. After a few days with no response I sent this:

Hi Ruth,
I sent you an email earlier this week with a few more pieces of paperwork for my dossier. Would you confirm that you received it?
Thank you,
Meg Burdash

That same day I received this response:

Yes I believe I did.
Ruth
Senior Administrative Assistant
Adoption Program

What kind of a response is that? "I believe I did"??? What about yes or no? Is it taken care of? An estimate of when it will be taken care of? An acknowledgment of my kind, post-holiday words? Anything? I'm trying to adopt a baby here! You'd think I was trying to panhandle from her.

I decide it's time to call in the big guns. I have Justin draft out a very legal sounding letter to the director, expressing our dissatisfaction with Ruth and the whole communication process with her and suggest that she find someone else for us to correspond with as Ruth seems far too busy. I plan on sending it Monday the 14th.

And then....I chicken out. Monday comes and I think, maybe Ruth has sent the paperwork already. She has such a curt manner as I've so painfully learned from past exchanges. Maybe this is just her way of saying "done and done". I've got so many more miles to go with this agency and I need for us to be a team! See, how I conveniently forget that I am PAYING them to be on my team. Oh, it's twisted, man. I don't send the email to the director. I know. I am an idiot.

A week passes with no response from my adoption agency or the home study agency and I begin to feel like I've done the right thing. I've kept the relationship with Ruth on the strained, unfriendly note she seems to prefer but let her take care of the paperwork in her own timeline. An uneasy truce, but I can live with it.

I get this today from my adoption agency:

Can you give me an estimate of when your home study agency will have the documents to me? The folks in Moscow are asking. Thanks.

Have you seen that movie Clue where Madeline Kahn, playing Mrs. White describes why she killed her husband? She gets into that hilarious Madeline Kahn high-pitched voice and says "I hated him so much... flames, there were flames on the side of my face...panting, heaving flames..." and then she kind of fades out, unable to describe in adequate depth the level of hatred she felt for said departed, murdered husband.

That is the precise feeling I got when I received Megan's email above asking about my f-ing documents. And I'm quite sure some of that heat was directed at myself and my chicken-shit reaction to Ruth. I deserved what I got.

I picked up the phone toute suite after receiving that and called the director of the home study agency. I now understand why Ruth is such a slacker. The director listened to my problems and the issues I was having with Ruth, or at least I thought she did, and then told me how they were under a tremendous deadline at the moment with DHS and that was why Ruth hadn't gotten to it today. Which clearly showed me she wasn't listening because I had explained to her that I had made this request last week and was having an ongoing communication problem with Ruth. My dossier is in Moscow right now! They are waiting on you people! Help me! I feel like Tom Cruise here - Help me help you!

I couldn't care less about their deadline with DHS!! Where is the professionalism? Where is the customer service? An apology perhaps? I am paying these people thousand of dollars to get this right for me and support me with this adoption and I feel like I am holding THEIR hand and walking them through the process. How can you conduct a business this way? Although I guess if you're dealing with DHS, you can get away with pretty much anything.

I will try not to let her dampen my spirits or give me indigestion with this latest transgression. I must put out the heaving, breathing flames at the side of my face and re-gain the excitement and enthusiasm that I've been enjoying for the past few weeks. But I swear to you Ruth, hater of international adoption and all kind people everywhere, when you call and ask if I have received the invoice for your services, I'm going to wait many, many jig-dancing weeks before responding, "Why yes, I believe I did".

Mighty Aphrodite

2007-12-28T16:35:00.000-05:00

Justin and I spent Christmas at my dad's place in Tampa this year. Since Justin is Jewish, the merry-go-round of where to spend the holidays is a trifle more simplified than if his family celebrated Christmas. I say a trifle because as the childless couple, we still seem to spend a lot of Christmases rotating through my mother's, my father's and my sister's. Having young children seems to grant you an instant pass on travel, should you choose to take it. Understandably so, as I've seen the safari it requires to get my sister and her two boys mobile and travel-ready. I can still see her limping towards security, a permanent dent in her shin formed from the car seat banging into it as she hefted it from car to plane to baggage.

I wonder if it will be me next year, declining travel with a weary sigh. B the G might be almost two by then. It might add a whole new wrinkle in the Christmas destination discussion. I tend to think however, that unless I adopt a troll, I'm going to be toting that child from location to location and basking in the glow of people fawning over B the G, as I have fawned and fussed over all the children I come across. Whether I'm in the fawning mood or not. I've got a little beaming and strutting coming my way and I intend to make the most of it.

That being said, though, I do have remarkable role model moms to look to when I do heave that weary sigh. My sister, the above mentioned travel martyr (my words, not hers), who once paused in the middle of a phone conversation with me to untie a shoestring that her youngest had tied around his penis. I can still hear the calm and patience in her voice through the phone she had put down as she said, "Yes, I see it's tight. That's why it's not a good idea to tie things around your penis." Like she might have been explaining why you should brush your teeth or wear a helmet. Just an all around good idea.

And then there is Jen whose adoption process and subsequent journey into the extreme highs and lows of of this business allow me to feel slightly less bipolar and manic. Or at least a little less lonely while I'm riding it out.

And another friend who shall remain nameless, but who gave up her own child for adoption some 15 years ago. Her honesty, bravery and vulnerability both then and now are inspirational to me and have shown me a different facet to motherhood and adoption than I will know, but so greatly affect me and my future B the G.

I could extend this list quite a ways now that I think about it and realize I am surrounded by these wonder women who motivate me in this quest. The patience, the perseverance, the selflessness it takes to do this job well. Well, I started this entry writing about future holiday travel plans, but this one turned out to be a jam for the ladies.

Christmas Condi

2007-12-07T16:26:00.001-05:00

Wow, that was quire a prolonged absence, but I have been doing a tremendous amount of traveling lately with the holidays. Lots of driving time which led to a lot of highway thought about B the G. No more news as of yet from the agency, but right now I'm taking that as a good sign.

I'm watching Condi Rice closer than I've ever cared to, mentally willing her to sweet talk her way into Russia's heart over the Iran sanctions issue. I don't know if sweet talk is her strong suit, but I'm sending her the vibe just the same. I can't afford any international diplomatic breakdowns or even political gaffs to put a hold on Russian international adoption.

I know it's enormously egocentric of me to put my impending adoption on par with nuclear weapons development. But if they could all agree over some caviar and vodka,-and really how can you disagree with caviar and vodka involved- it would ease my mind a bit. Interesting that the countries that are holding out on imposing these sanctions are Russia and China. Maybe Guatemala and Kazakhstan will join in to make it consistent.

Speaking of that, my adoption agency just opened up adoptions in Liberia, which makes me happy. I like to see new countries open up those possibilities for their children and for waiting parents. Although I suppose it also indicates deeper socio-economic troubles for said country. Silver linings and clouds, and all that it implies.

So to to stick with my GOP theme here, this season I am simply staying the course. As GW so eloquently stated, I've got to be ready for any unforeseen event which may or may not happen.

Zoikes!

2007-11-20T15:46:00.001-05:00

I received the following from my adoption agency in response to my inquiry about my dossier status.

Megan, just received your final paperwork last week. We are currently authenticating it, and we will send to Russia as soon as that process is completed. Hopefully we'll have it back from the Secretary of State's office before we go off for the Thanksgiving weekend so it can be sent to Russia on Wednesday. If it doesn't come back, then it will go to Russia next Monday. It then takes about 3 weeks for translations and authentications, and then registration. From December 29- January 10 is when the Russians celebrate their Christmas, so pretty much nothing goes on. So, I would guess that you would be invited to Russia sometime during the last part of the month of January for travel in February or early March. Certainly that could change depending on the availability of children in Moscow District, but since you are open to either a boy or a girl, I am fairly confident you will be traveling before March of 2008, most likely in February.

After the initial visit and acceptance, we wait 6 weeks and then go back to Moscow to bring Baby the Great home. So maybe mid-March to April will be the last step? Wow. I'm a bit blown away at the moment. China was so vague and so far away and now it looks like I will have be dipping B the G's toes in the Atlantic Ocean this summer.

Once bitten, twice shy and I still hesitate to get too excited or buy baby furniture or send out announcements or choose names. I think Justin expected me to be more excited and I am, but I still feel wary. Cautious. Nervous. Will I feel this way until I'm flying Aeroflot back to the ATL with B the G on my lap? Definitely if we are forced to fly Aeroflot, but that's another story. In relation to B the G, probably, just in lessening degrees of intensity. But I will allow myself to do the Cotton-Eyed Joe dance in the privacy of my own living room, when nobody else is home. Dig if you will a picture....

Last Piece

2007-11-12T10:31:00.000-05:00

My I-797 arrived in the mail last Friday which gives me the federal green light to adopt internationally. Not only that, it arrived about 3 weeks earlier than I expected. I didn't even check the mail that day. Justin brought it in when he came home from work, which made it all the sweeter in it's surprise arrival. Usually I'm a mailbox-watching bloodhound, when it gets close to expected delivery times for these documents, bounding out of the house as soon as I see the truck. My mailman thinks I have a crush on him.

This little piece of paper is the last piece in the puzzle and my dossier should be ready to ship as soon as my agency receives it. I Fed-exed it Saturday, needless to say. According to them, in 2-4 months after the dossier goes to Russia I will get my invite from Moscow. So say it gets to Russia at the end of November. Could be possible travel in March or April. Even May or June factoring in hurdles and glitches. Unreal. What was so far is now faintly visible, dare I say imminent. I'm nervous.

Flash Gordon

2007-11-08T15:02:00.000-05:00

I find myself trying to draw comparisons and gauge my abilities to parent B the G in the most ordinary and unusual situations. Like with Gordon. Gordon is my dog. I know very well that Gordon is not a child and there is no need for anyone and everyone to comment that having a dog is in no way like raising a child. I KNOW that. But it's really all I've got and like I said, I'm busy drawing comparisons with what I've got to work with. And frankly, and I always speak frankly on la blog, I think it's quite legitimate to draw a few parallels here.

Unlike B the G, I got to choose Gordon out of many, way too many, other beasts at the dog pound. All these beasts desperately need a good home much like all of the orphaned and institutionalized children out there. And there are just so many, it's hard to single out just one to help. But one is all I can manage, financially, emotionally and physically. Am I talking about dogs or kids? I don't even know. When you begin the adoption (child this time) process you are bombarded with photos and documentaries and websites featuring beautiful, diverse, babies and children. You want to read about each one and find out about each country and fantasize about each story. And somehow fate and finances, contacts and research, lead you down a path that starts to fit you. The path gets narrower and narrower as you choose country, agency, which then chooses region and orphanage. And at the end there's this little being that's going to call you Mom for the rest of your life. It's extraordinary. My path towards B the G is still narrowing and really won't end until right up to the time I get to Moscow, and see him/her.

It's different adopting from Russia because you don't actually get assigned a child until you get to Moscow. You get an invitation from Russia to come on over and they will have a baby there for you. Which baby, they're not saying. My agency says that the good news with this is that if I'm not happy with the health of the child with the first referral, they will assign you another child while you are there. This is a little troubling to me but brings me back full circle to Gordon, which is why I started this post.

Walking through the kennels, looking at dozens of dogs, I saw Gordon's sad face behind a manic shepherd mix that was bouncing up and down in front of me. Gordon looked like a sad clown. And I say that because I could tell the potential for a happier face was there, but had been beaten out of him by his circumstances. Plenty of other dogs there wore this same face and anyone who's ever been to a shelter knows this look. Gordon also had other things working against him. His tail for one. Half of it was gone and half of the half that was left had been shaved down and was scabby and mangled looking. It looked like a fresh sausage was stuck onto the end of his tail. How's that for a visual? Really not appealing. He had some sort of skin condition that was making his hair fall off in patches around his face and ears. They had just put him on flea and tick meds at the pound, but he still had a nice heaping helping of bloodsuckers on him that I tried frantically to pull off while Justin wasn't looking. Justin is not big on ticks. Oh, and he had contracted some sort of kennel cough while there and had developed a hearty, hacking cough accompanied by a green, runny nose.

Justin thought I was mad and asked me repeatedly if I was sure that I wanted that one. But I knew Gordon was in there, underneath the stupid "Ritchie" name tag they put on his kennel. And more than that, I knew that nobody, but nobody was going to take this sad little clown home if I didn't . So, cut to the chase, here we are three months later, and that's three months of cleaning up spit balls hacked up as we battle the upper respiratory infection, and wiping up snotty green piles from his leaking nose, and bathing him terrified and shaking in the tub and putting betadine on the skin condition that turned out to be ringworm and is very contagious to people. Three short months and I've got a honey of a dog who is healthy, happy, loyal and cracks me up every single day.

I'm not touting all of this to say what a hero I am to all of dogdom. But I am going to draw a puppy/people parallel and say that as nervous as I am about B the G's health, disposition, and personality, I know that a majority of the kids available for adoption are like my Gordon and that if given a chance, a home, some patience and some parents, they too can become slobbering, blissful, sleeping sacks of love that fulfill and enrich as they are enriched and fulfilled.

Hope Floats

2007-10-25T18:57:00.000-04:00

I realized that for the past three or four months I have been getting my period. Just getting my period. Sounds simple and routine, but it has taken me a very long time in the mental process of beginning a family to get to this point where I am not counting days and peeing on sticks and strategically planning sex dates with Justin while trying to make him think I am just horny. I know you would think that in the many, many steps that lead up to international adoption, at some point you let reality seep in and release the hope of getting pregnant and float over to the hope of just bringing home a baby. From the hospital or from the airport. But letting go of that hope doesn't just happen with the decision to commit to adoption. Especially in my case with no firm diagnosis on my infertility.

However, somewhere in the past few months I guess, I floated and my period is now just...a period. It's such a relief to be here now, with my period without all of the angst that used to come with it. I used to curse it and question it and cry from it and I confess, pray to it. "Please don't come period...please don't come when everything has been so very carefully put in to place to make sure you don't arrive." But she came. She always came, welcome or not.

Lately, and for the love of all that is good it's taken me a long time to get here, I just stopped caring about the old girl. I have no idea what day I'm on in my cycle, and was actually caught off guard by her arrival this month. It sounds ridiculous and insignificant, but it's a tremendous shift in thought for me. And the fact that it has happened rather unconsciously (i.e. without group therapy, drugs or the threat of divorce) is a a little pat on the back for me in the quest to get to B the G. My energy, my thoughts, my work is focused now on the next step in my path to adoption, not necessarily the next step in my path to adoption because I can't get pregnant.

I dreamt this week that a voice whispered in my ear right before I woke up, "You are exactly where you are supposed to be." Of course this is open to lots of speculation and analysis depending on where your leanings are in spirituality, dream interpretation and the effects of red wine and Eckhart Tolle before bed. But it was such a crystal clear voice, very female and very matter-of-fact. I like to think that perhaps it was the Period Goddess giving me a little nudge, happy to be innocuously back in the fold, so to speak and celebrating the new absence of clocks and calendars and curses.

Tree In The Wind

2007-10-13T11:29:00.001-04:00

On the advise of my clever little adoption agency, I have decided to renew my 1-600A, which is the equivalent of a bathroom pass from the USCIS to adopt a child internationally. They are however, much harder to come by than the high school bathroom pass. This is where all the parts come in - the home study, which is the holy grail for adoption, the birth, marriage and divorce certificates, and the appropriately filled out forms accompanied by a pleading, but well-crafted letter explaining why I am making this request.

I have acquired all of the parts needed to re-apply for this pass and have sent them off to my local USCIS to ask for re-permission to adopt. My agency fears that I may overlap the time limit put on the 1-600A and accompanying fingerprints while I wait for my referral for B the G. I think it's quite funny that your fingerprints expire after 15 months with USCIS. How can that be? They are still your fingers, right? Do they think you'll be able to slip some new ones on there with 15 months of research?

But with my newly-possessed, tree-in-the-wind frame of mind, which I do believe comes from being at this process for two years, I just bend over and take my shot as they ask me to do. All of this is just processing, just time, while they put me in line, find my old files, and update my requests in their database. And on the bright side it means going to Moscow a bit later in the year when possibly, maybe it just might be a bit warmer over there. Justin is trying to avoid his busy season at work in April/May for our trip to get B the G. This may be a problem for him, which translates into a problem for us. But there's no point in worrying myself about it now. Tree in the wind, tree in the wind....

Cue the Chorus..

2007-10-04T17:48:00.000-04:00

It's here, it's here. My precious, precious home study. Waiting for me in my mailbox like a valentine. Forgive the sentimentality, but these forms begin to take on a life of there own, especially as they are linked so deeply to the getting of your own little life.

I raced to the post office to get it to my agency toute suite. While completing my transaction, a mom with baby carriage struggled to get in the door. I held it for her and she handed the clerk a $20 that she said she found in the parking lot and that someone had probably dropped. The sales clerk and I both looked at each other astonished and then back at the mom as she exited with me holding the door. "You are such a good person..." was the only weak comment I could manage. She just shrugged and went on her mommy little way. The sales clerk says to me "What am I supposed to do with it? Nobody is coming back for this, they probably don't even know they dropped it." I agreed with her and again expressed my amazement that this woman would take the trouble, baby carriage and all, to turn the bill in. The clerk said, "It breaks my heart that there are such good people out there. People who are so much better than me. " It does break your heart. In a good, heart-breaking way.

I hope whoever dropped that bill comes back in for it and realizes that sometimes life IS fair. Or if nobody does come back for it, I hope that sales clerk gives it to someone who needs it more than she does. Or if she needs it, then I'm glad it came to her. I took the whole event as a very good omen as I sent my life history with stamps and seals and degrees from a myriad of different people on why I would make a good parent off to my adoption agency.

Hiawatha

2007-09-28T15:55:00.001-04:00

One of the things that make international adoption such a gas is the myriad of forms, documents and exams that you have to complete in order to qualify for parenthood. One of the things my beloved Ruth at the SW agency "forgot" to tell me I needed in the state of Georgia is an online parenting course that is worth 8 credit hours. I have no idea how much all of the other paperwork I've filled out is worth or who sets the standards for these credits. I think I could probably qualify for a doctorate at this stage. I'm sure I could find out about the standards and committees in charge of these things if I dug deep enough, but at this point, they tell me to fill out a form, take a course, get a shot or drop my drawers for this adoption and I pretty much do it. I don't care if it's interesting, meaningful, or educational. I'm an automaton now. I may weep tears of frustration while doing it, but I will sit down and hammer it out. The bloom is off the rose.

So Justin and I have to take this online course which is about 19 different chapters and a slide show on each chapter with homework questions that you must turn in to your social worker. So, once informed that this is another necessity in the obtaining of B the G, I diligently sat down at the computer to tackle it. I knew I was in trouble when the first instruction given to me in Chapter 1, The Image of Your Child is to draw a picture of your future baby. I do believe I said out loud, "That is the stupidest thing ever." and skipped ahead onto Question 2, which asks you question about your drawing. Peeking ahead, I realize all of the question in Chapter 1 are about this picture of your future baby and different aspects of your feelings about what your child will look like. Now I'm no dummy. You can't be to apply for international adoption. In fact they should offer a degree in it. Perhaps a doctorate.... I know they are trying to prepare you for the fact that your future child is probably not going to resemble you in any way. If you have made it this far in international adoption, and you haven't considered this possibility, you really shouldn't be allowed to go any further.

I'm going to brag a little here and tell you there are a lot of things I can be rated as marginally good to pretty competant in doing. I'm quite good at training my neurotic pound puppy who already knows how to come, sit, roll over and high five. I can change all the locks in my house and key them the same. I can make a banana bread that will make you smack your lips and I can recommend a wine to go with pretty much anything you're eating. But I can't draw. Even my stick figures look like I did them with my left-hand. I'm right-handed. But here I am stuck with my credit hours to fulfill so I am forced to draw a picture of my future baby. If I could figue out how to scan and post something one day, I will because what I drew was...a papoose. I drew a face and then the head sort or went all the way around the baby. I stuck in a little comma-like chin to differentiate between the head and the body - clever that - and there was my baby. And strangely, I recognized this baby. It looked just like a little black-eyed papoose from my Hiawatha book I read as a kid, albeit much, much more poorly illustrated. I put a feather coming out of the head part, just to go along with the theme. I spent a lot of time on the feather. It was much easier for me to draw as I know what feathers look like.

Now I have to answer questions about the drawing. Questions like "What part of the drawing did you spend the most time on?" That one was easy. But then it asks me "Why?' And "What does this tell you?" I sepnt a lot of time on the feather coming out of B the G's head because it's the only thing I was comfortable drawing. It's a really lame answer. It tells me that I'm a rotten drawr-er. I am failing already.

Next question - "Is it what you want?" No! I wish I could draw a beautiful chubba wubba baby with spit bubbles in a Gymboree onesie giving me the thumbs up. But if somebody stuck this little Hiawatha in my arms and said "Here's your baby." I know I would smooth his little feather, change his leather diapers and saddle up my pinto pony for the long flight home. And then I think A-Ha! Maybe I actually have passed the test, even with my body-deprived picture of B the G. I am thinking about the faceless baby of my future and know that I'll be ok not having any clue or concern with what the child looks like. I am open to the glorious mystery of it, and I am thinking exactly as an adoptive mother should be. At least for Chapter 1.

Damn you, Ruth!

2007-09-21T12:46:00.000-04:00

God, she's like Lex Luthor to my Superman. I get the following from her today after I have pestered her only once about when my homestudy will be ready.

Sue is working on your study. We need some paperwork. We need a copy
of your birth certificates, marriage license and divorce decrees and
your certificate you took the online training course "Eyes Wide Open".
In the China adoption we did not need these because we were just
updating your move here but for this one we have to have those.

Now I called this woman in early August to inquire about my update and what I would need. Why, Ruth, why couldn't you have pulled my files then and told me I would need to get these documents to you? It just makes me hate you more and feel like you are even less qualified than I originally thought to do your job. Are other adopting parents working with this agency having as much trouble with this waterhead as I am? I tried to call the director today after I received the email to complain and ask that my case be transferred to someone else within the agency. But of course she is on vacation and her pleasant-voiced message referred all callers to her administrative assistant Ruth if they needed immediate assistance. Is Ruth vastly overworked and the agency underfunded to hire someone to help her? Probably. But here I have to project my inner Peter Parker and say "Not my problem." Yes, I know this attitude got his Uncle Ben killed blah, blah, blah. It's going to kill me if I keep having to deal with this ridiculously incompetant woman.

I'm calming down now, but I was so filled up with frustration when I got this email that tears literally popped out of my eyes. Not the rolling down the cheek kind, but the angry kind that seem to leap out of your face. I called everyone I could think of to talk me down and no one is available. Dear old blog, you will have to play therapist for now.

Does encountering numerous brick walls and hurdles in the quest to get to the thing you want signal that maybe you should proceed with caution in obtaining your goal, that maybe this thing isn't right for you and the universe is giving you plenty of opportunity to back out? Or does it mean that nothing worth getting is easy and if you want it that bad, you are going to have to chew glass to get it? I know this is just a very minor issue in finishing my homestudy, and of course I will complete the course, whatever it is, and get the paperwork to Rrrruth, but all of these bumps, little and big crop up at every corner. Is that the lesson? That it's never smooth sailing in getting a kid, having a kid, raising a kid? I'm trying to find the lesson in these bumps to make sense of it all, the difficulty, the frustration, the hurt and the anger that patches my road to starting my family. Because if I don't look for the lesson, let alone consider the possible answers, I will cave in emotionally. There HAS to be a reason. To persevere with this, I'm forced to be philosophical about it. Oh, man the next person that tells me how easy their adoption process or pregnancy was is going to get a sharp stick in the eye from me....

Time to chew more glass....

The Dark Worry

2007-09-19T14:59:00.000-04:00

We had the last homestudy for our Russia update completed on September 14 and now I get to bounce in my seat for awhile until I receive the final notarized copy in the mail. I have to be very patient with this part. The last time I went through this with my social work agency, I was really under the gun and trying to submit my updated homestudy before May of 2006 (!) to meet the new China deadlines which placed more restrictions on who can and can't adopt from their country. People of a certain age, income or those with more than one marriage were in this newly despicable group and I would have had to get right in line with them with my second marriage on record.

I went around and around with my agency trying to get them to speed it up. Eventually, I cc'd the director on an email to Ruth, the AA in charge of my file. I got it toute suite after that, but of course in the process, made an eternal nemesis of dear, pokey Ruth. At the time, thinking I'd never need her services again, I thought good riddance and carried on with the rest of my day. Doesn' t the universe work in mysterious ways to jam a good lesson back in your face when you haven't learned it? So of course, three months later, I'm back in touch with Ruth trying to get her to help me transfer my information to Russia. Needless to say, Ruth isn't very warm, fuzzy or fast in anything she does with me now and I'll just bite my knuckles until it gets to the ridiculous point. I am paying her and she is providing a service for me so eventually she has to pony up. But I should have stayed on her good side.

That's the dark worry for adopting parents with this whole process. You have so many questions and concerns and you are paying dearly for every step of this adoption and it never seems to be as 1-2-3 easy as they first lay out to you when you are shopping agencies. So there are times when you want to explode and raise hell and ask why no one has gotten back to you with an answer about immigration forms or you ask two people in the agency the same question and they each give you a different answer. This is where I start to get a little crazy and the customer service part of me begs to be...serviced. But I dare not get short, snippy or curt with this group because in the back of my mind, I know that they hold the key to the door that's going to get me to Baby the Great. They could lose my file, never receive my email, or worst of all...the dark worry - assign me a colicky, two-headed monster that is not going to come anywhere near to my vision of Baby the Great. I can just see them holding the phone two feet away from their ear while I am hollering at the other end about why it's taking so long to get an answer. "Oh yes, Ms. Burdash we have the perfect baby for you...Hah aha haahah." I've voiced it, we all think it. I want a darling baby, a cute baby, a healthy baby. And if I have to suck up my temper and treat people whose service I think is lousy like they are the bees knees, then suck up I must.

Again, it's all part of the bigger lesson I am learning here as I shorten the distance between me and B the G. You would think, reading this, that I have some sort of Medusa like demeanor, but honestly I don't. It's a stressful process, made worse by the possibility of the rug being pulled out from under you at any time. And honestly some people I've encountered are truly slack about doing their jobs, and unfortunately for me they are tied in with my progress in adopting a child. Which is not to say there aren't also some truly heroic people in this business who have provided the best service I could have asked for. I guess it's like all aspects of daily life I guess, you deal with winners and losers, slackers and professionals. heroes and hangers on. I just want it all smooth and easy for MY adoption. And by god I should know by now it never will work that way.

MD's in the ATL

2007-08-30T10:54:00.000-04:00

I realized yesterday as I was waiting to get my PPD test read, a requirement for international adoption, that I have lived here in Atlanta for almost twelve months. In that time I've seen 5 different doctors. Five! I haven't seen Sicko yet, but I've had plenty of opportunity to develop an opinion on the hurdles of health care and insurance for the young, healthy and insured.

It's almost as difficult finding a good doctor in a new city as it is getting your insurance claim to cover you for a visit. They like to make you think they are your friend, these insurance companies. Friendly little websites with pictures of families at a picnic and laughing senior citizens. They refer to you as a "member". Not a client or a customer or a patient. Like it's some kind of cool club that they've let you have access to. My company does offer a little clue as to what's in store for you though, cryptically naming their website Southcarolinablues.com. It very effectively summed up my state of mind as I tried to decipher whether or not I had coverage for fertility treatment, how much surgery would cost for fibroid removal, why I have to pay each separate hospital department towards my deductible, and the list goes on. Justin would come home from work and I'd be at the kitchen table with my head in my hands, policies, notes and bills spread out before me. Eventually he just stopped asking and would quietly open a bottle of wine, place a glass in front of me and go and get changed.

My first doctor visit was simply to get my third inoculation in the series for Hep B, another recommendation for travel to China. I had already received the first two in NYC and if you don't get the third in the proper period of time, you have to start all over ( see Justin for more info on that). So, not knowing a soul here in Atlanta, especially when we first moved here, I went to a local teaching university and asked for a visit with the first available MD in the General Practice clinic. I asked for a woman MD, as it always makes me feel more comfortable seeing a woman, especially without any prior referral. No dice, though - the female practitioners in the clinic were not taking any new patients. So ok, I'll take first available with whoever. All I need is this shot anyway.

Do you feel the foreshadowing here? So as a new patient they give you all the goodies that go with your first visit, weigh-in, temperature take, blood pressure, all done by a friendly nurse. Then in comes my doctor as I wait on the examining table. I tell him about my impending adoption and travel, my need for shot number three and we are on our way. Only he says since I'm here he wants to do a full exam anyway. Now I have already had a physical done in NYC for the adoption not six months prior. I've also been poked, prodded, tested and had more people looking into my vagina as a married woman in her thirties than I ever did as a hot, young, single chick. Fertility treatment brings with it all sorts of gifts like that. But never look a gift horse in the vagina, because that wasn't getting me out of another physical with new MD.

Why do we all roll over for doctors? If I had said "No, I don't need a physical. I just want my third Hep B." does he get to wave it in front of me like a carrot until I agree to the physical? Does it matter to him medically? Professionally? Financially? I'll never know because I went along with it, like I always have with doctors. So he tells me to remove my shirt, wrap the blue sheet around me and he'll be back in a minute. More annoyed that I have to partially undress, I follow instructions and wait there on the table, the blue sheet wrapped under my arms like a bath towel. So in comes the doctor again to finish the exam. Looks in the ears, the eyes, then tells me to extend my arms out in front of me, flex my wrist so that my fingers are pointing at the ceiling and close my eyes. Close my eyes? Yes, the red flag went up in my mind. Yes, I hesitated, knowing that the sheet was not going to stay up with arms stuck out in front of me. Yes, I then stuck out my arms and closed my eyes doing exactly as asked. The sheet falls down around my waist as I knew it would and then he tells me to shrug my shoulders up and down. Is he testing my reflexes? My ability to follow directions? Or is he checking out my rack? I'm now feeling pretty vulnerable there in my black bra with no nurse in the room. I shrug a few times and open my eyes. He is taking notes, like this is all very routine. He comes over to listen to my heart and as soon as the stethoscope is off of me I pull the sheet up around me and begin to seethe. Something finally shifts in me and I actively begin to hate him now. Hate him for making me feel vulnerable and confused.

Before he leaves he checks my blood pressure even though the nurse had already taken it when I arrived. When I mention this to him he checks the chart and comments that my blood pressure is lower now than it was when she took it ten minutes ago. Then he says "But you’ve been sitting down and taking your clothes off since then. Maybe you ought to think about a change in careers”. And gave a little laugh. WTF? I don't even know what this means. I should consider a career change where I have to take my clothes off and sit on a table? I can't get out of there fast enough. I review the whole visit in my head and wonder where my hair trigger temper went during all of this? Me, with all of the vagina viewers in my past? It's not like I'm a novice with these office visits. I kick myself all the way home for my lack of action and my paralysis. And thus ended my first and last visit to MD #1, here in the ATL.

Epilogue: I reported this MD to the State Board and they did follow up with me that they were investigating my complaint. In the meantime, I know he is still practicing at the same clinic because I am now seeing a female practitioner there. It might seem crazy to go back to the same clinic, but the warped side of me is longing to run into him there and tell him that I got a job as a topless tabletop installer and my blood pressure couldn't be better.

B the G

2007-08-28T14:56:00.000-04:00

Because we were originally adopting from China the decision to adopt a girl was already made for us. And that suited me just fine since I wanted a girl anyway. I've been thinking of little girl names, activities, clothes, sports, etc. Girl, girl, girl. But now with the switch to Russia, I have the option of choosing. The agency tells me that little girls require a slightly longer wait than boys, but that both are available. Justin says let's stay with the girl plan. Others say if you are definitely getting a girl from China in the future, get a boy now and you will have one of each. China was easy because of the lack of choice. So I have decided to treat this like a pregnancy, as it's the closest I'll ever come to one, and leave it up to chance. No preference. Male or female. I'll have to re-do some forms, but it's not a big change. It's disconcerting sometimes as I discuss with my friend Jen who is also adopting internationally. Sometimes you feel as though you are picking out wallpaper or furniture with the questions you have to answer on these forms. Hair color, eye color, age, health issues. Will this baby "go " with me, my husband, my house? My life?

And that's how Baby the Great as I've come to think of him/her came to be. It is Russia after all. There's Peter the Great and Catherine the Great. When I was in grade school my little girlfriends and I would sign slam books and notes from each other as Meg the Great or Krista the Great. A little self-appointed greatness in the 4th grade, when you weren't really recognized for much of anything. So I am dubbing this future child Baby the Great, endowing him/her with a little Russian greatness that is inherantly theirs just by virtue of having been born there. And because I don't know if I will bring home a boy or a girl. And because I haven't decided on a name for either sex.

In the beginning...

2007-08-22T16:57:00.000-04:00

...there was China. Well actually in the very beginning there was Russia. Our first choice to adopt when we were looking into international adoption. Justin and I both share Eastern European heritage, he has a brother living in Moscow and it just felt like the right choice for us. This was in early 2005 and right at about that time, Russia began changing it's allowances for international adoption, the minimum age of children being adopted out began to rise and then eventually the whole program went on hold. As we hadn't really done any paperwork or paid for anything yet, we were encouraged to switch to China. Which we did happily, having heard wonderful stories and feedback about families that had experienced a straightforward process, a relatively small wait for a referral and a beautiful healthy baby.

Oh China...where did we go wrong, you and me? Fast forward two years and two moves later. We are in Atlanta now, having begun the adoption process in New York City. This put a another waiting period on our home study as we had to find a new social worker, do an update and then of course decide that it was a good time to buy a house and then do another update. Finally - home study complete, log in date to the Chinese Consulate confirmed on March 30, 2007 and we are in for the real wait. Only things have been changing in China since I began this process and my wait time from login date to referral crept up while I was busy updating and moving and fretting and waiting. First 12 months, then 18 month, then 24 months and rumors even began circulating that 36 months was a possibility.

And then here comes Russia, trundling along like a big bear, re-accrediting agencies, lowering ages again for children eligible to be adopted and generally, welcoming us back with open arms. Now don't get me wrong. I haven't given up on China. Assured by my adoption agency that I can be back wtih a Russian child before I even get a referral for China as the current situation looks, I am taking my chances and plan on visiting Moscow and the new baby in the lovely month of February when I've heard it's very...cold.

So you're up to date now, fans of love. I've squeezed at least 20 months worth of angst into those little paragraphs up there. And I feel a bit like Ed McDonnough from Raising Arizona in my quest to "get me one of them babies". But it's all systems go now and so hang on and stay tuned...