Needles, schmeedles. I'm having fun.

A full moon.

A warm night.

Eating expensive hot dogs with my man at Giants Stadium while

Sharing a simulcast opera experience (Aida) with 30,000 people.

I feel good. Been living my life lately, and getting back to what I like – biking on the coast, walking in the park, having dinner with friends on the deck, watching my night-blooming cereus blossoms open, enjoying wine with the girls, museum hopping, and learning how to dance Bollywood style.

Am I distracting myself from the REAL QUESTION? Sure.

My man is interested in adopting. He didn’t at first when we began all of this, but he’s had a change of heart. Guess watching your wife go through 4 miscarriages will do that.

Not sure how I feel, so I thought maybe it’s time to call in for help. Maybe a session with a therapist who specializes in infertility would help me/us sort all this out; it’s a huge decision, after all. He didn’t exactly understand the point of it, though.

I’m back to the REAL QUESTION: How does one know when enough is enough?

Last year when I went to my dentist for a crown, he began the process with a needle filled with dripping novocaine. Then another. And another. I’d wait for my mouth to feel “big”. Then he'd test. ZING!! Then another shot. And, yes, another. Then he said “OK. Today is just not our day. Let’s stop here and reschedule.”

As tempting as it was – just one more – I’m sure the next one will work --- he stopped. The next time I was nervous as hell, but realized he was right. Two shots, two tries, and we were good to go.

Well, the last 9 years have “not been my day”, at least as far as fertility goes.Now, my needles and syringes and alcohol pads and vials are in a brown box by the bed.

He was smart to stop the shots.

Would I be smart, or foolish, to stop??

Recess and Enlightenment

I’m a leftover girl. I bring last nights dinner tidbits to the office most days. Yesterday, my lunch went into a bag marked “Andrea”. I suddenly felt like a kid, taking my lunch bag to school.

But I’m older, and recess isn’t quite the same as it used to be. My grown-up self chooses yoga over kickball, and lunch is my gourmet leftovers and not one of the (ick!) lunches I remember dad made for me, this one in 4th grade: bologna on rye with too much warm butter, melting in the New Jersey heat, augmented by a too old banana, darkened with age. The teacher, noticing my tall skinny self, decided she would lay down the law and make me stay at my desk through recess until I ate every bite. Gag me. Really. I can’t blame dad, though. Buttered rye, cold cuts (usually salami) and tomatoes were the staples of his Hungarian lunch, along with hot yellow banana peppers and a beer.

This morning, it was fall as I did yoga on our deck. As I moved through my downward dogs into shivasina, a conversation kept floating through my mind. I met a dear friend last night for a yummy cocktail(s). We had some scheduling problems, and between soccer and play dates and more, she carved out a couple of ours for us. After my bad bologna story, she told me about folks in a nearby office who actually do “recess”, and she was ready to play. When she asked about what’s up with our quest to have a baby, I recognized that if I was blessed to get (and stay) pregnant, I’d see myself parenting a lot like her. I asked her: so, tell me the truth, is it really all worth it? Is it really the best thing ever? Is it the most frustrating thing ever? You see, I was having my doubts about the endless soccer/baseball/music schedules and challenges of finding time for yourself and ….her answer: “I LOVE BEING HIS MOM. For me, it’s all about who I get to be.” Just then, the sun peeked over the neighboring tree, and bathed my yoga-d body in warm yellow light.

It's Nice here in Nowhere Land

It’s not that bad living here right now, in the land of in-between. This is the space I’m in after nine years of infertility treatments and not knowing what’s next. It’s not too bad, this land of no needles, no blood tests, no crazy insane mood swings, no extreme fluctuations of breast and belly sizes (my friends HAVE been noticing), and no numbers that excite then disappoint.

This is where my man and I reconnect in new ways, and wonder what our lives will turn out like. Will we be happy with a baby? Happy without a baby? We are fortunate to have some choices left, like adoption. But it feels the power of choice is a burden. Is it really up to me to make this choice? What if it comes down to being simply too tired to fight the battle to build a family, or what if I’m just too broke?

I’m thinking of doing this "dreamlab" to open my mind and heart a bit to make a decision I’m honestly kind of scared to make.

For now, we’re painting the back room (that was a baby room.) Out with the yellow; in with soft gray. For now, it will be our TV room. After all, paint is cheap. We can always go back to yellow, and reenter the land of hope.

photo: from the train window, france 2009

Off with her Head

These retro salt and pepper shakers have the boy and girl seated on a little wooden bench, kissing. But a few months ago, by accident (?) and coincidentally (?) after an argument with my man, I dropped them while cleaning off the kitchen counter. Actually, I didn’t drop him, only her. I broke off her head. When I put her back on the bench, I stepped back. Exactly, I thought. That’s exactly how I feel right now. Like he’s ripped my head off with his words.

It was a week of negotiating emotional landmines. Tiring, yes. Productive? No. And in the midst of it, a friend’s wedding, filled with love, hope, innocence, fun, excitement, authenticity. And my man, the officiant at the wedding.

That weekend and for the days following, he told me every day he loved me.
He told me he’d marry me again, today, every day.
I didn’t believe him. Well, kind of but not fully.
So I told him I wasn’t “quite there yet” after our fight(s) the week before.

You guessed it, that started another fight.

But this time was different. Now, the landmines were REALLY right in front of us, one after the other. No, I didn’t mean to hurt him by not being available to pick up his tux Thursday. Yes, I’ve planned for this wedding too. Yes, I’m your partner. Yes, it takes me a while to get over these blow-ups. Yes, it’s confusing when you’re happy and we have a delightful weekend one minute and the next you act like I’m the devil incarnate in a wife. No, NO, you are NOT going to blame me for the fact that I wasn’t ready for years to marry you or have children with you. No, that’s not the reason, I am not the reason, we have not had children.

That’s when it all came out.

Crying. Anger. Good, old-fashioned real anger. Yes, he was angry, and rightfully so. Angry that he may not ever get to be a father. Frustrated beyond belief that he can’t fix it or change it. Sad that he hurt me with his words, that he acted out.

Forgiveness, sweet sweet forgiveness.

We are together, after getting pregnant 3 times in one year, with one making it to 5 weeks, one to 7 weeks, one to 2 weeks. Together. And not knowing what’s next.

I have been looking forward to this whole baby-making quest being resolved.
But I didn’t count on all this emptiness.

I’m ok. Just want you to know. Really – I am, we are. I just wanted you to know what’s up.