Ice Age

Because I’m at that weird adult stage in life, I've come to realize that the holidays can be categorized into two sections. Either, ‘You love Christmas because you are a child’ or ‘You love Christmas because you have a child.’ Okay, so I forgot one category. The, ‘You love Christmas because you married a child trapped in a thirty-something’s body.’ Which is clearly the category I should be placed in with all the Batman, Yankees, Derek Jeter, and Star Wars stuff I’ve cyber-shopped for the past few weeks.

Each year I spend growing more distant from my teenage self, I find it harder and harder to get into the Christmas spirit. When I've shared that idea with others, especially older people, I’m told it’s because I’m at the age where having my own children will start to bring the magic back into the season. That’s all well and good, but what about the Christmas spirit of a mother whose eleven children are currently frozen? 

*Insert awkward pause**

Oh yes. I said eleven. The last time you got an update from me, I just had my eggs retrieved. All twenty-seven of them! That number trickled down to twenty-one, after Willy-Wonka-weeding-out the “bad eggs” from the “good eggs”. They were mixed with Mike’s cleanest, top-notch sperm and we were able to get sixteen embryos. At the time to freeze, eleven had reached the appropriate maturity level, so eleven embryos basically got “Hans Solo-ed”. (If you aren't exposed to closet sci-fi geeks on the reg, as I am, then YouTube “Hans Solo Gets Frozen” for a mental picture.)

The embryo transfer will take place after the first of the year. It’s all about the timing…getting my cycle back on track after insane hormone fluctuations…getting doctors back on track after being on Christmas vacation mode. Etc. Etc. I've been asked a hundred times how I’m going to handle this portion of the process with my blog. If I give you a date, you’ll know two weeks later that I’ll  know whether it worked or not. This isn’t a normal pregnancy announcement…most people don’t say, “OKAY! Well, we are going to go fertilize my eggs tonight! Check back in two weeks for a positive test!”

As much as I want to share those intimate details with you all, I know what it’s like to jinx myself when it comes to announcing pregnancy prematurely. In my case, you all will know when it worked when I’m waddling down the street and can no longer see what color socks I have on.

There have been lots of difficult decisions to be made since starting IVF. The first one being, “Are we going to do this?!” (The answer was always, “DUH. YES!”) The second one being, “Can we afford to do this?” (The answer being “@!@* no!!-- but what middle-class working person in America do you know that isn’t poor right now anyway? Might as well be poor a little while longer.)

This was followed up with the decision of what to do with any remaining frozen embryos-have them destroyed or donate them? (The surprisingly easy answer: donate. There are couples out there who have physical problems way worse than no Fallopian tubes. Woman who can’t make eggs, men who can’t produce sperm, among other issues. If I can provide someone the same opportunity that science has provided me, then so be it.)

The next big decision will be “How many embryos do we transfer?” This has weighed heavily on our minds since IVF became a possibility. Sadly, the general public associates “IVF” simultaneously with “TWINS”. I associate “IVF” with “THE OPTION FOR A COUPLE TO HAVE A CHILD”. All cases are different because all women’s bodies are different. The number of embryos to transfer is based on many different factors. Some women who do this are older, therefore they put more in to give them a higher shot at achieving pregnancy since this may be their one and only pregnancy. Some women have two, three, and four put in because the doctor may think their uterus lining isn't strong enough to support all of them, so while they may lose two or three embryos once implanted, at least they’ll end up with one or two live births.

In my case, I’m young. If I wanted, I could put in one the first time and see what I got. If it doesn't work, the next cycle I could put in one or two, and so on and so on. Here’s the thing: Just because I’m young doesn't mean I want to go through this repeatedly, unsuccessfully. I think we can all say for certain, I’VE BEEN THROUGH THIS, FOUR TIMES, UNSUCCESSFULLY. I basically have the Oscar for “Pregnancy: UNSUCCESSFULLY”.

I’ve always wanted a large family because I come from a large family. I want my children to experience that. I always said I wanted three children. Then I started dealing with…all this…and my tune has changed. I just want one. ONE. I get frustrated with parents who are struggling with conceiving a second and third child because I’m over here all like, “JUST GIVE ME ONNNNNEEEEEEEE KIDDDD”. I feel like they aren't appreciating what they already have. 

While I love my husband so very much and he has been through all this with me since Day One, I’m the one who has put my body through torture. Plus, there’s the whole “period” bullshit. If I had to make a decision right now, I’d say, transfer two. If I get two, great! Two for the price of one. If I get one, THANK GOD. Get me to a healthy delivery and then TAKE. THIS. ENTIRE. FEMALE. REPRODUCTIVE. SYSTEM. OUTOFMYBODY!

Bottom line, we’re going to do what the doctor suggests that we do. In a nutshell, we have six times to try the transfer using my litter of embryos. You’ll know what our decision is when I’m at the hospital on Delivery Day standing in the parking lot using my Oprah voice, hollering, “And YOU get a baby, and YOU get a baby…”

So I’m going to sail through this holiday season with no thoughts of babies. There’s no need to worry about things I have no control over. It’s taken an extremely long time to reach this point where I’m comfortable enough to admit it’s no longer in my hands. (No really, my babies aren’t in my hands, they aren’t even in my body. They are temporarily in a frosty, Winter Wonderland.) I’m going to enjoy my awkward lack-of-Christmas spirit, for the New Year brings so many possibilities for next Christmas. Until then, the saga continues in "Mike and Kristin's EGGcellent Adventure". We have much thawing to do!! 

Scrambled Eggs

Today was egg retrieval day! I can't believe it. We started our first "round" of IVF on October 10th and it has been a serious piece of cake. I have a bad habit of reading similar women's stories in the "blogosphere" and I was NOT looking forward to the shots, restrictions, and most especially, developing and taking out my eggs. Lesson learned: some women are major drama queens and take things to a whole other level than what they need to be taken to. It's time I take them down a notch!

 

Let me give you a little background info. The evening before I started my fertility drugs, we met with the doctor and I had a crash course on the do's and don'ts of this process. After two weeks of birth control, I was told, 1. No smoking. 2. No alcohol. 3. No exercise. 4. No caffeine (or very limited) and 5. No ibuprofen. Tylenol only. Umm, not sure about how your uterus feels during your period, but mine is like tiny T-Rex dinosaurs eating away at the flesh. If I'm told to take Tylenol, I might as well eat a handful of Sweet Tarts. They'd probably give me more relief.  

 

So basically, I told him to just go ahead and kill me then.

 

Surprisingly, considering my profession, the no alcohol and no smoking wasn't a big deal. However, I need the last 3 to survive on a daily basis. Ok, let's be real, I just need the last 2 to survive. A sweet tea cocktail mixed with a handful of Motrin are at the tip-top of my "Oprah's Kristin's Favorite Things" list.

 

Like all my complaints about this process, I filed my whining into File 13 and put on my big girl panties.

 

I took 2 shots nightly and three daily vitamins, one of Follistim and one of Menopur (to stimulate egg production) for a few days and then Ganirellix towards the end to basically stop the signal from my brain to my ovaries telling them to "hold up" on the natural egg-releasing. I had to make the drive to Richmond every other day for about ten days for ultrasounds and bloodwork. The day before yesterday, I had sixteen follicles and my hormones were through the roof. We knew we I'd done a great job making the eggs before we even went in. Finally, I got something RIGHT!

 

We met with my doctor and he delivered some somewhat (at the time) disappointing news. With a normal "fresh" IVF cycle, they would take my eggs today, mix with Mike's "specimen" and start the fertilization process. In 3-5 days, the developed embryos would be placed back in my uterus and it'd be a waiting game to see if I became pregnant.

 

Because it's ME, I don't recognize the words "normal" and "regular" in my vocabulary. I have to do things differently.

 

They were able to get 27 (TWENTY-FREAKING-SEVEN!) eggs today. 20 of them are of really good quality, so that's what they will mix. (By the way, the pain is nothing like what I read. I took a nap this afternoon and woke up feeling like somebody punched me in the stomach. Just soreness, not cramping.) While I am THE Rockstar of Egg-Production, (Self-titled. I'm feeling pretty cocky after today ;) it's sort of put a damper on completing the "fresh" cycle. Here's why:

 

1. First of all, did y'all ever see the movie, Grease 2? Grease is arguably one of my top 5 favorite movies and even thought the sequel was a slap in the face to the first, they had some bangin' songs emerge from the film. Not only do the characters look like FORTY year old high schoolers, they randomly burst into song in the middle of wherever they please, and they do it horribly. Anyway, one of my favorite songs from that movie is the science class scene with they belt out, "RE-PRO-DUC-TION". I'm pretty high right now because I just took an ENTIRE pain pill. When I wrote the words, "egg-production" above, I burst out to the empty room "EGG-PRO-DUC-TION", then followed it up by whispering, "egg pro-duc-tion". Just wanted to share that. And now you have that song in your head. You're welcome.

 

1 (and a half). My hormone levels are super high. Great for producing eggs, not so great for keeping developing embryos where they need to be.

 

2. My uterus lining could be thicker. The embryos would have a hard time sticking to the lining with it the way it is right now.

 

3. Women who respond greatly to ovarian stimulation often have a better success with FROZEN embyos than fresh.

 

4. Women who are petite and have many eggs removed respond better to frozen, not fresh cycles. (Doc called me petite and I basically tuned out everything he said after that because I was basically falling in love with him after he called me "small". There were literally birds, butterflies, and rainbows circling his head in my eyes after he said this. And I'm pretty sure there was Celine Dion singing in the background of my imaginary rom-com playing out in my brain starring my fertility doctor)

 

So what does this mean?

 

It means that today my eggs and Mike's sperm were mixed together (as I fondly refer to it as, scrambled, and will *hopefully* fertilize over the next few days.) I'm having a hard time because I feel like we just left them behind at the office this morning and I wanted to stay and watch the little fellas work their magic.

 

On (probably) Tuesday, the 20 (if they make it) fertilized embryos will be frozen.

 

After I go through my next period cycle, we will do the FROZEN transfer instead of the fresh. We are looking at that happening over the next few weeks. While I was a little frustrated about this, I'm so grateful I have an extremely knowledgeable physician who immediately recognized this potential frozen transfer happening. We've already lost so much, it would have been devastating to have gone through all this and had it not work due to things that could have been prevented just by waiting a little bit. 

 

We are waiting a little longer and I'm going to keep myself in check until the transfer happens. I will NOT take for granted how easy this entire thing has been for me, because there are so many women out there going through IVF who don't make ANY eggs, or don't ovulate when they should, etc. etc. If I have to wait a few more weeks with my 20 eggs, then that's just exactly what I'm going to do. Meanwhile, Santa is busting his rear preparing for Christmas...I'm putting a resume into the Easter Bunny.

SHOT Through the Heart

Or more specifically, shot through the lower belly vicinity, on BOTH sides, multiple times, everyday.

I'd just like to let you know I've been taking my injections (to stimulate egg production) like. a. CHAMMMMMMP. Last week's appointment went extremely well. We are on target as far as the cycle goes. I started my shots over the weekend. We have one more day of these two drugs before I go back for my second ultrasound this Wednesday. I did have a major melt-down freak-out over the all the medicines I received Friday afternoon, but I called the doctor and he talked me down from the ledge. We are looking at taking the eggs early next week, fingers crossed. 

I'm keeping it short and sweet tonight because I'm riding the high from Mike and I being the ultimate tag-team at mixing insanely expensive fertility drugs and injecting them into my belly. If this whole process doesn't work, I might get depressed and eat myself into a sugar coma. At least I know I'd make a badass diabetic.

I'm sharing our "Let's Make a Baby" themed Meth Lab photo below to give you an idea of the stress I've been feeling the last few days.  

**Disclaimer: After posting this I googled, "meth lab" because let's be honest, the closest I've ever come to one is binge watching Breaking Bad. Not sure what I had in mind when I pictured a meth lab, but I'm disappointed in myself as a science teacher that I wasn't even close. It still sounds super cool though, so I'm not changing my comparison.

Queen V

I can not begin to tell you about the power of conversation regarding something you're passionate about and how it can completely make your mood do a complete 180. Wait, yes I can. Pretty sure telling you stuff is the sole purpose of this blog in the first place.

 

I've been an utter, no nonsense, total Debbie Downer the last three weeks. Today is Day Twelve of my first cycle of IVF. DAY TWELVE!!! Technically, this is IVF Cycle 1.5, considering the first round was cancelled due to my doctors' impending Hawaiian vacation.
 

Last month, I was literally counting down the hours to when my period would start so I could begin round one. Then it got cancelled; something that FOR FREAKING ONCE was NOT my fault. No matter that I've been let down in so many ways years before while trying to conceive, that one cycle post-poned side-swiped me and threw me down into a rut that surprisingly, I'm just able to start climbing out of.

 

I've been on THE pill for almost two weeks now. Birth control used to be my BFF. We'd do everything together. It kept my skin clear, kept me kid-free when I ultimately did NOT need a kid, and it kept my body working like a well-oiled machine. Now, apparently, I did something to straight up piss my BFF off. I guess when I cut all ties with it 3 years ago, it got angry and decided to be vindictive. Hours after taking that first pill twelve days ago, I became nauseous. And. It. Hasn't. STOPPED. Because of this, I've basically become the green Hungry-Hungry Hippo. Having a full stomach seems to settle my spinning head, but it's also making the hard work of my last seven months of diet and exercise go down the drain. Did I mention the gigantic zit that has taken residence on my chin? Pretty sure it's given birth to triplets over the past week. God must think he's pretty hilarious because even my pimples are having babies while I'm not.

 

Lastly, if you haven't picked up on it yet, the most documented side-effect of this particular medicine is irritability and mild depression. Somebody nailed THAT on the head.

 

Needless to say, things have not been the best the last two weeks. I go to my doctor for my first ultrasound this cycle on Tuesday. Normally I'd be chomping at the bit to get there, but I'm secretly dreading it at this point. I just feel like I'm going to get there and he's going to see that my eggs have already developed and they missed it, or something equally devastating that will inevitably post-pone our efforts for another month.

Where is this coming from? Since the first miscarriage (which will be 3 years ago this Thursday) I've always been the annoyingly positive one. I've always had the most hope in becoming successful. Lately, I've even caught myself saying, "IF I have a baby" instead of my usual "WHEN I have a baby". I keep thinking that yes, IVF can get me pregnant, but it's not for certain that I'll be able to keep it. Most women freak out in utter joy when they get a positive test at the end of their cycle and sadly, I won't be able to because I know there's a ridiculously high percentage that even if it works for me, I may not be able to go full term. I'm very frustrated with myself. I'm not a fan of the Pissy-Krissy I've become.

 

Then today I had two conversations that have seriously boosted my spirits. Both were with women facing infertility just like me. I blog for two reasons: to vent and to open my door to other women who are going through similar situations. It had been awhile for me to actually talk freely about my feelings of insecurity and bitterness and downright frustration with others who know EXACTLY how I feel, I forgot for a minute that I'm not alone in this boat. I finally have woken myself back up and realized, you are human and it's more than okay to visit the crap-fest that is infertility...as long as you don't buy real estate there.

 

Both ladies that I spent time chatting with today pointed out something. I've been through it all. I've faced all the testing, gone through all the options, been through four losses. I'm still here. I'm still fighting. I'm. Still. HERE! For years now, I've been in wars with my body and wars with my emotions. I'm basically the queen of this all. (Okay, so neither girl said I was a queen, but let's just go with it. And the Queen of...what...exactly? Queen of Miscarriages? Queen of Non-Existent Tubes? Probably should have thought that out before I mentioned it...)

 

Either way, you get knocked down and you linger there for awhile. Then you get back up. And that's just what I'm going to do, no matter what happens this cycle. Let's be real. I'm The Queen Bee. Or I guess technically and more appropriately, I'm The Queen "V". Clearly, that's the vicinity where all these problems started in the first place.

Dangle the Carrot

Let's be real for a second. The title of this post is so inaccurate, because really, if you are anyone BUT Bugs Bunny, nobody wants a carrot for enticement. This is me we're talking about. Read on to continue under the new, moderately appropriately named title for tonight's brief story...

 

Dangle the Chocolate-Covered-Anything

 

Yesterday was Day One, Round One of my very first IVF cycle!!!!!!!! HOLLA!

 

Today is Negative Day One, Round One, though. No cycle.

 

No kidding.

 

I checked in with my doctor this morning to confirm the start day and to begin my pill regimen, only to be taken back a notch when he called me at the very end of the day to tell me we have to post-pone to next month. Wait. WHAT?!?!?!?!

 

I've been patiently waiting since JUNE for yesterday to get here. Basically, I've been waiting three YEEEAAARRRSSSS for yesterday to get here. I couldn't have been more ready for my period to start. I think I might have even burst into song when I wiped red yesterday.

 

Apparently, the embryologists that are in charge of monitoring my egg fertilization between retrieval and transfer are going to be in a conference about furthering their education on SITTING IN A CHAIR WATCHING FREAKING EGGS AND SPERM MATE IN A DISH. I mean, REALLY!

 

However, said conference is in Honolulu. In October. In Hawaii. Paradise. (For those who weren't clear about that location. I'm pretty sure tomorrow's lesson is going to go something like this:

 

**Pulls up Google Maps with aerial views of the big island on the Promethean board.**

 

"Students, direct your attention to the paradise on the screen. This is the state of Hawaii. The capital city of Hawaii is Honolulu, where, this upcoming October, several multi-millionaire embryologists from VA IVF will be "conferencing"...HA. PUHLEASE. VOMIT...while I am here, with you, with my eggs fully fertilized and anxiously awaiting to be yanked out, by the same embryologists who will probably be laying on this section of Wakiki beach."

 

**Aggressively, angrily points to the coastline**

 

I hope they sunburn. And get sand fleas. And severely underestimate the island cost of living and run out of money on day four and have to come home prematurely.

 

SIKE. Who am I kidding? If that opportunity arose for me, I'd already be at the airport (a month early) in a fake floral lei and a grass skirt sippin' on a mai tai with a Dole Plantation Pineapple straight from the Hawaiian heartland to set the mood. It just royally bites the big one that men can't schedule worth a damn. You KNOW they knew about this trip. Why couldn't they have helped a sistah out and let her know??

 

My doctor thought I was joking when I told him after he apologized profusely that the only way they could make it up to me was to take Mike and I with them. I mean, you promise me a kid, (dangle the carrot), then tell me I have to wait ANOTHER month for it. He was like, "You're so young still, you're healthy, this is going to work. It's not like your ovaries are deteriorating"....This is where I'm like, "HOLD ON, BRO-THA! My tubes already DID deteriorate, let's not even PLAY about anything else doing the same". He was chuckling at my suggestion to take us while I wasn't saying a word. He heard crickets. I heard the roar of anger in my ears.

 

I could have gotten really attitudal with him, but I kept myself in check. My throat was doing that clogged-up weird thing right before you cry, so I really missed what he was saying the last thirty seconds of our conversation. It was a bunch of his "I've worked this a thousand different times, but I just can't get the timing to work on our side. I'm so sorry" along with a bunch of my "uh-huhs".

 

So we have been let down. AGAIN. So we are waiting. AGAIN. It's no use in even being upset at this point because finally, this time wasn't my fault.! It just wasn't meant to be. I'm all about signs, as you know, and having this procedure done in the same month exactly three years after my first miscarriage is pretty meaningful.

 

It's just a month. It's just a month. We've waited this long to get the show on the road so what's another few weeks. Except, saying that out loud is much easier to do than actually meaning it. The yarn has been extended and the carrot is out of reach for a little bit longer. I'll keep my tunnel vision on, because thank God, THANK GOD! at least we are still working in the produce section.  

Meanwhile, Out in Leftfield

For someone who is embarrassingly uncomfortable with numbers, they seem to be taking me over the last few weeks. Since school has started and I'm back to work, my alarm goes off and I start calculating in my head how much longer I can just lay there until I reach the top level of lateness. Oh yes. Different days warrant different levels of untimeliness. Level One is rolling in a minute or two past the time I'm actually supposed to be there. Level Two is "I'm in the parking lot texting somebody in the building to come let me in the back door". Level Three is "screw it, I'd rather arrive late than to arrive ugly", which can range from anywhere between the five and ten minute late mark. Level three days are the ones I feel like I look the best, but it took hell and high water to get there.

 

This isn't something new for me. As an adolescent, I was peer-pressured into playing softball. Instead of embracing my fiercely competitive side at every game, I basically stood on the field or in the dugout and stared at the countdown clock on the scoreboard. This anticipation had less to do with the heat of summertime and my wishing to be back at the pool I was dragged from to go put on the over-sized man t-shirts the league provided...and way more to do with the free hotdogs that all players got at the end of games. I mean, there would be girls (my teammates) actually CR-YING because we'd lost and I'd be all, "yeah we lost by ten and I'd like mustard and ketchup on my dog, and for God's sake, don't be scared to get a little crazy with the ketchup." I always seemed to make my best plays at the end of the game because I knew if I just did what needed to be done to bring in the runners or what play I needed to get the out, the sooner I'd be done with it. And the sooner I'd get a free hotdog.

 

In eleventh grade, I took my first SOL writing test. I think back then it was like the preliminary, trial tests, so the scores didn't actually count for anything. But I clearly remember sitting in the library configuring down to the minute how much time I had left. Apparently it was timed? (I'm not sure about any of this. I may even be making it up. Anything is possible.) The topic was something along the lines of "Write about a time that is meaningful to you. It can be funny or sad." I sat in the library for like, three hours making up some story about losing a loved one because I didn't have any background experience at the time with the topic. I thought a sad story would make the scorers feel sympathetic.

 

With forty-five minutes left to go, I changed my mind and started rewriting a story about the time I'd gone deep-sea fishing the summer before. I kept getting my line hung up with the other lines from the opposite side of the boat and people were losing their cool with me because of it...and tossin' their cookies all at the same time from seasickness. It. Was. Hilarious. I remember using post-it notes to figure out how much time I had left before they made me stop writing. <----This took probably ten minutes of actual writing time. I finished with a few minutes left to spare. I feel like I'm about to lie to you, but I'm pretty sure when the scores came back, I had a 600, which was the highest you could get. If somebody wants to go pull my permanent record from Central to verify, please do. Just don't post it publically if I didn't get a 600, because really, that would just ruin the "feel" of this story. Don't rain on my parade here.

 

Anyway! All that writing and changing and calculating was the first real time I remember thinking, "I'm one of those people who works best under pressure". I was so proud of myself with that score. To this day, I've been counting and calculating.

 

I start my first round of IVF in approximately two weeks. TWO! WEEKS! Ohemgee. When I get my period, which is supposed to happen around September 15th, it all begins. This means I have two weeks to finally start thinking about it! Since the removal of my plumbing, I've just been pushing it off and calculating the anticipated cycle dates. I've been drowning in paperwork from school. I've been signing up to do the most random nonsense. Anything to keep my mind from focusing on what's getting ready to happen. This is our only shot at making a kid. THE ONLY SHOT! You know, no pressure or anything.

 

The statistics show that two teenagers having unprotected sex have about a 20% chance at getting pregnant in a month. The statistics (as of June 2014) show that couples starting their first round of IVF have about a 50% chance of getting pregnant (and having a live birth). Um, 50%? I'll take that. I'm not so much concerned about getting pregnant as I am about keeping it. So while most women are joyous that they conceive with the first round(usually because they've never gotten a positive test before), I'll be joyous if we make it two weeks past a positive test. Which means that yes, you will probably know the timing of when I should find out if I'm pregnant or not...but my lips will be sealed far past the normal waiting period.

 

Since June, both Mike and I have been cracking down on ourselves to make this time the very best opportunity to stay pregnant. I want to go into this cycle with NO outside factors to cause a pregnancy not to work. If you cut my arm right now, I'd bleed straight folic acid. I've been My Fitness Pal'ing since April and I'm two pounds away from the goal weight my doctor set for me before my first cycle. Faulty tubes are no longer in the way. We've both been taking a high-powered antibiotic so we will surely have the cleanest, purest sperm and eggs anybody has ever seen, dammit! We are ridiculously healthy. The odds are ever in our favor...

 

And so the countdown begins. I'll calculate days and injections and pills. I'll keep my eyes on the scoreboard while my doctors keep their eyes on the many ultrasounds that are in my very near future. After all, I tend to do my best under the pressure of a timeline. But this time, hopefully we'll get a baby. Or if not, somebody at least better give me a free hotdog. 

Boo, hiss!

I really need to address something that has been grinding my gears for the past few weeks. It's gonna sound like I'm being bitchy and on my soap-box, but y'all should know me by now that I don't mean to offend anyone, I just have strong opinions. And they are just that; MY opinions. My opinion also goes into overdrive if that particular opinion is something close to me. Which this just happens to be. So, forgive me for stepping up on my bitchy soap-box for a minute.

 

Starting the IVF process is something that I never, in a million years, thought I would be going through. We may think we are choosing our own directions in life, but I'm a walking, talking advertisement for the case that never goes according to plan. No woman ever wants to go through any sort of infertility journey, whether it's a result of recurrent miscarriages, physical defects, or just can't conceive. It's not something we expected nor it is something that all women can understand unless you've been a victim of it. 

 

I have heard just about all I want to hear from naysayers about couples who go through IVF to have a baby. Speaking as one half of one of those couples, I want to be very specific about something: we do not CHOOSE to have IVF. It is the only option that is available in order to have a child.

 

I don't think people realize that for most couples, it's not a decision. It's the only way. I'm not sure where the misconception has come from that IVF is a "bad" or "unnatural" thing. Are you kidding me? IVF is the saving grace for people like me. There are some that stubbornly declare that "IVF is never going to be an option" or "I'd rather have no children than a test-tube baby"...um, they work in Petri dishes, people. Get your facts straight. Then the people who like to say "that's a lot of money to pay for a baby". Well, you pay about that much for a brand new car, so, let's not get carried away. I'm not "paying for my baby". I'm paying specifically to have my husband's sperm put with my ovaries outside of my body then reinserted with a needle through my vagina and cervix and into my uterus.

 

I must say that none of these comments were made to me and that most people have been positive and supportive of us since day one. But I do hear and read these comments from people (who don't know I'm going through it) and it just rubs me the wrong way. Like if it were your first day on the job and you walked into a water cooler conversation about the horror of wearing brown socks and black shoes...and inwardly cringe at the fact that if you lifted your trousers, said water-cooler socialites would see your brown-on-black monstrosity.

 

It hurts your feelings to know people are talking junk about your decision. Your instinct is to defend it, right? Like, 'all your other socks were in the laundry'. Or, 'your dog took one black sock and hid it UNDER (in the middle of) your king-sized bed and you didn't have time to get the broom from God-knows where the broom is because really, who sweeps their house? (Other than Cinderella. And let's face it, she was a freaking over-achiever'.) There. Defended. 

 

IVF is 100% allllll Kristin and 100% alllll Mike. We're just a little unconventional about the way we get the product 'home'. Who wouldn't try it? God wouldn't have made doctors who are smart enough to come up with this stuff if he didn't want people to have kids this way. I could understand it more if couples already had a child and didn't want to try for another one through IVF. But this is our attempt to get ONE child. Just one. The way we get a baby shouldn't be a secret. I'm not proud that I had faulty pipes, but I'm proud of the way we didn't let that set-back get in the way from us to continue to try.

 

There are tons of girls out there who are going through the same things that I went through and will continue to go through to get what they ultimately want. It's human nature to keep fighting for something that's been just out of your reach. No matter what route you take to get there, eventually, you'll grab it. IVF just happens to be my route and I wish there weren't so many party-poopers about it. There. I'm done.

 

I have one more cycle to go through before Round 1 begins. The past two months have flown by and I can't believe this will all be really happening, really soon. Many people have asked and believe me, if I hadn't had to go through it first-hand, I wouldn't have had the first clue about it. I'll try to give you the Reader's Digest version of what is going to happen with the first round.

 

1. When I get my period, I'll begin taking birth control pills. Insane, right? The pill will stop egg production.

 

2. After approximately two weeks on the pill, I'll stop it. Insane, right? I'll start injections (Yes. With needles. Into my stomach. OHEMGHEE.) The injections are basically medicines to make my ovaries stimulated--which causes lots of eggs to be produced.

 

3. I'll be monitored by blood tests and ultrasounds to determine egg maturity.

 

4. After my eggs have matured, I'll go in and have them taken out. (The eggs.) They take as many as they can get. They'll mix them with Mike's specimen and wait for fertilization.

 

5. I'll be monitored and when the time is right, the fertilized embryos will be directly inserted into my uterus.

 

6. We wait two weeks and hope for implantation. I'll take a pregnancy test to see if we were successful.

 

6 1/2. Since I've taken and gotten a positive pregnancy test four times before, I'll be on pins and needles to make it past the six week mark. This will be the true indicator that my problem was fixed and I can stay pregnant.

 

7. If it doesn't take, we'll wait a few months and restart.

 

This sounds really simple when I put it like this, but in fact, it's a seriously crazy process that is dependent on time and closely monitored hormone levels, blood work, faith, and a little bit of science. It will truly be an experience and take much effort from a number of people.

 

(And I mean the people who are up to bat for making this work. Not the people who say mean things about it whose eye lashes I'd like to pluck off and burn inside a test tube. I mean, a petri dish.)

You've Got To Be IVF'n Kiddin' Me

This is my first official week of summer where I have absolutely noth-ing to do. No doctor appointments, no summer school, no jury duty, nothing. It's Monday afternoon and I'm officially going a little bonkers. You just can't give a girl who has a brain that is constantly doing something a whole week off with nothing to even think about. It's torture.

 

I've been cleared from my regular ob-gyn (aka his rap name, "Dr. Tube Tay-Kah") and am officially on my very first period without two vital parts of the female reproductive system! Yay for a working uterus! I go back in August to the fertility doctor so they can start the first round of meds with my cycle (kinda like a test-run before the real deal). I'll have my first (and hopefully, prayerfully, only one!) round of IVF in September.

 

For those of you who are wondering, IVF stands for In Vitro Fertilization. In a nutshell, although the entire procedure would be better related to, "in a watermelon", very smart, geeky science guys will take out as many fertilized eggs that I can produce in a month and combine them with a sampling of Mike's finest sperm. Once fertilized, they'll take 1 or 2 and insert them directly into my uterus to hopefully implant and make a baby. Holla. This could work the first round, or it might not work at all. It's a crazy intense process that is only beginning, but it is one that is almost guaranteed. So why not?! Not like I haven't been through a crazy intense process the last few years. Might as well keep going.

 

Never in a million years when I started writing this blog would I have thought this was a route I'd be taking. I feel like it's taken three years to figure out my system, have the problem solved, and find a solution. I've watched other people who are and have gone through fertility issues along with me get pregnant and have babies, some even on second and third children. I've written for three years about recurrent miscarriage and I've often talked about how I get strength from the stories of others. While I feel like we are definitely on the road to a solution, I can't help but think of those women like me who will never find a problem and who will more than likely have even more miscarriages. It might make me weird, but I thank God every single morning for letting me have a problem that could be worked around, for I know there are women who will always wonder.

 

Many of my followers are going through situations like mine and I can't help but give y'all a shout out. There is always a little bit something good to come out of a little bit something bad. I refuse to tell you "it will all be alright" or "just hang in there" because that's advice I never wanted to hear myself. Even if you aren't religious, you have to keep a positive outlook or you'll be miserable. You have to believe "this WILL happen" even if there are days when you truly feel like it won't.

 

And who the heck am I kidding? I may go through 100 rounds of IVF and never get anything either. But I never thought I'd even have another option and look where I am now. It's most frustrating to me when others around me who've gone through their own issues gain success. That sounded REALLY mean. I didn't mean it that way--I swear! It's just like, they get their happy ending, when's mine? I feel like I'm already celebrating over the fact that IVF is a good possibility for us. I feel like I've gotten one step closer to "baby" while there are so many others out there who are sort of stuck in the same place. I ask those who are still going through tough situation to hang in there with me...you never know what possibilities are out there!

 

Okay, no more baby-talk for now. I love, love, love, going to conferences and meetings that I get paid extra for. Like, y'all will feed me, pay me, and all I have to do is just sit there an listen? YES, PLEASE. Even better, most of the time they will send you to these things with your co-workers that are your BFFs.

 

But sometimes, they won't. And you're the only one you know going. Which means you'll have to awkwardly look around and try to judge the person you're gonna sit beside for the next six hours and pray, just pray, that they are 1. Not annoying and 2. Not a vegetarian who will judge every morsel of the probably-high-caloric catered food that is surely for lunch.

 

You walk into the over-priced banquet room. In the front of the room, you look and see a large screen. Yes! This means a PowerPoint, which means they'll have it printed out, which means I can mark each slide off and know how much longer we have, and also, doodle paper. Always avoid the front, because 9 times outta 10, the speakers will try to interact with you at some point. They also like to pick on the people in the very back because they think "Oh they've avoided the front so they wouldn't have to do much! Hahaha, I'll show them". That means, it's best to sit in the middle, preferably close to a side wall.

 

Most of the people in the room are probably teachers. But there could be administrators. You can point them out because they are usually dressed the nicest and like they are going to a funeral. Avoid sitting with them. (Let me add, I'm not speaking of my admin. They know ((OH THEY KNOW!)) if I walk in a room and they are in there, I'm sitting with them.) Anyway, you never know when you might have to switch counties for some reason or another and you don't want to walk into an interview with said admin only to have them remember, "Oh shit, this is that really inappropriate girl from that conference that one time".

 

After identifying the higher-ups, you should be able to easily break down the other groups and decide where you will best fit for the day. There's always a group of men, probably history  or PE teachers, who will talk your ears off about stuff you'll never understand. Avoid. There's probably a younger group of teachers who are fresh outta college and will drive you crazy because they've set up their areas with Mac notebooks, pens, highlighters, etc. like we're getting ready to find out the answers to the SATs. They'll also be the annoying "ask questions" group which only draws attention to your table and further makes the speakers think, "Oh they're really interested, let's eat with them at lunch". Avoid.

 

This usually leaves two groups that you have to be extremely careful over picking. Group 1 will be your "mature" group. Group 2 will be your "I've got 1 year left before retirement" group. They may look the same, but my friends, they are not. Group 1 is the "I know it all and I will try my hardest to convince you of that, all while saying things that don't make sense". Group 2 is the "I've been here the longest, I've done it all, this stuff you're presenting won't work, but I'm glad you think so, what's for lunch?" <--- This group, y'all, is the group you want to be with. You'll learn the most from listening to them, they are probably hilarious, and they share similar interests (that being, lunch and snacks). Also, they'll think you're super cool because you have all the answers to the "group work" that's been assigned. (Only because you're smart enough to look ahead in the PowerPoint packet for the answers that are surely already done for you).

 

I hope these tips have been most helpful to you if you find yourself in a summer meeting/conference. I have several more coming up so if you see me walk in the room, I hope there are no hard feelings if I don't sit at your table. It's not you, it's probably your "group".

Exit Ramp CLOSED

It would appear I've left you in limbo since my last post. Usually when I leave you hanging, it's for a good reason. I can't think of a better reason than what I'm getting ready to share with you!

 

First, a quick recap: our last miscarriage was October 2013. I decided to get away from all my doctors, charts, temperatures, etc. As ignorant as it might have seemed, I wanted to do it all on my own.

 

On June 5th, I had no choice but to call my fertility doctor because my folic acid supplement was about to run out. I figured by talking to his nurse, I could avoid him and she could just call in the prescription for me. Of course by now I should have known that nothing works the way I plan it. Dr. Edelstein ended up calling me the next day and talked me into coming to see him to chat about "options".

 

On June 10th, Mike and I went in and learned that my "Dream Team" of gynecologists had discussed my case and very much agreed that I had something going on with my fallopian tubes. We knew my last pregnancy was in my right tube and the three others never made it to where it was supposed to go.

 

We stayed at his office for about two hours and came up with our game plan. Step One in Mission: "Might Be Possible" was to visit with my original Ob-gyn, Dr. Gospodnetic to see about going in (literally) to check out my potentially faulty plumbing.

 

On June 16th (this past Monday), Mike and I went in and I had an ultrasound on my lady bits. The outcome was less than stellar. I definitely needed surgery and my tubes definitely needed to come out. After another two hour appointment, my salpingectomy was scheduled for Wednesday.

 

Today is Friday. I'm at home in bed (and I may or may not be on a high from my new best friend, Percocet. I'm actually considering naming my first born "Percocet" since she's been such a good friend to me). I'm also lacking two very damaged fallopian tubes that pretty much caused us to have all our miscarriages in the first place. Three years of going through...whatever you want to call it, only to have the cause for it all solved in less than two weeks. Keep in mind that I had all my parts checked out after my first MC. My tubes were in okay condition then, but each miscarriage caused serious wear and tear.

 

If you're like me and spent all your classroom hours of Family Life passing notes back and forth to your friends and NOT paying attention, you missed some pretty solid, simple facts about the female reproductive system. Let me help you out. The only things you need to have a baby are: eggs, sperm, and a healthy uterus. Check, check, and CHECK!

 

Most women have 2 ovaries that contain the eggs that are produced during a girl's cycle. When a boy and a girl have unprotected sex, his sperm heads straight to the ovaries so an egg can be fertilized. Said fertilized egg then exits off the ramp and travels through the tubes until it reaches the uterus and grows.

 

My left tube was almost completely deteriorated. My right tube was severely damaged and right ovary had many lesions (probably from scar tissue from my old ovarian cyst). With that type of damaged piping, it was apparent that I could get pregnant easily, it was just impossible for the fertilized egg to get where it needed to go.

Having my tubes removed was a no-brainer for us. Why risk another pregnancy when obviously we knew the outcome wouldn't be a good one? I teach alllll types of children, yet it is my job to get them to pass the SAME test at the end of the year. Some children learn different ways, but what they come to know at the end of the year is the same. I can still have a child; I just have to take a different route than what most normal women take! At this point in my life, this shouldn't surprise me. "Different" should be monogrammed on all my clothes.

 

I'm still in shock over learning that my miscarriages actually could be solved. Months of having no answers from anyone and here I sit typing, recovering from having my body corrected. Ironically, this week would've marked our first child's second birthday had my first miscarriage never happened. To have my body "fixed" this same week, well, if that ain't something, I don't know what is!! So here's to all the construction workers  and support people who've repaved our roads to having a kid. This road has been ridiculously bumpy and we still have many miles to go, but one thing is for sure: I can rock a neon orange DOT vest until all the bumps have been smoothed out. After all, the exit ramp might be permanently closed 'round here, but there's always a detour to getting where you want to go.

Girl Scout

I was briefly a Girl Scout at some point of my adolescence. I'm sure it was because they probably offered snacks after school or something. All organizations know, "if you feed her, Kristin will come".

I don't think I've ever really had to implement anything I learned from Girl Scouts into everyday life before. Unless you count learning that Samoas are best if you heat them 10 seconds in the microwave before eating. Because this 28 year-old sure as heck knows that. Just ask my garbage man who sees the empty purple boxes piled up every February.

THE best place to exercise is the Tobacco Heritage Trail. I've been burning it up for months now and it's just the best. It's flat, it's quiet. It's peaceful. It's also far away from any sort of modernized toilet...

FYI: Be prepared. I'm getting ready to go "there".

Just some quick background information= I'm so irregular, it's not even funny. They should fire Jamie Lee Curtis and hire me as the spokesperson for Activia yogurt. I can go a week without going. And it's. just. the. worst. There isn't a food you could recommend that I haven't already tried to prompt me to "go". I've done water, I've done powders. It's just how I am. When it gets to a certain point, I'll just take a softener. Then a few days after, I'll go and everything is back to normal.  Surprisingly, even though I've been eating much cleaner, I still haven't gotten on a decent routine. Last weekend, it had been about 6 days with no results. We went to a ballgame and I decided to fill up on super fatty foods to try and...get something started. But, nothing.

Saturday morning, I'm about to head to the trail and I take 3 fiber pills. I figure I'd have something to work with by Monday. I get to the trail and walk about a half a mile. I start running for another half mile until I start to get what one can only describe as an "unpleasant" feeling in my lower abdomen.

 

I'm still running, but I've slowed significantly. Is this a period cramp? Why do I feel "bubbly"? And I meant the "bubbly" in the physical way, not the personality way. All of a sudden, I stop mid-stride. I double over in pain as a sharp stab goes through my stomach. Well. That's too high to be my period. Am I gassy? Do I need to..?? I turn and look both ways on the trail but I don't see anybody or any wildlife. And yes, apparently, I'm that girl who thinks that if I let out some "air" that I'll attract some sort of wildlife. I start walking and figure I'll be dainty about my gas until I try to squeeze and suddenly realize...oh honey, that's NOT gas.

 

I'm FAH-reaking out. I start to pace but my knees are pressed together like I'm holding a golf ball in between them and if I let them go, who knows what will...trickle out. Holy mother of cows, this is going to happen. I start to strategize. I'm a mile and a half away from the truck. I'll never make it that far back. Even if I do, it'll take 10 minutes back to town. Shit! Oh shit. Don't say "shit". Get yourself together! If I go in my pants, Mike won't let me in the truck. I'm going to go in the woods. Oh my GAWD. I can't squat. What if I get it all over my shoes? What if I sit on a snake? And what about the ticks? POISON IVY! OMG. Poison ivy...down THERE!

 

All of this seems to happen in about a 3 minute time span. At about 2 minutes, 45 seconds, it becomes apparent that I have to go in the woods. IMMEDIATELY. Deep breaths. Deeeeep breaths. I check up and down the trail again but no sign of people which is fantastic because I really don't want to go too far off the path. But I also don't want anyone to walk by and see all this glory that's about to happen. And it's NOT going to be pretty. The entire time I'm scanning the area for said snakes, ticks, and poison ivy. I'm also looking for tracks of bears, mountain lions, and sasquatches. Because really, I'm sure these creatures only appear when prissy white girls have their jogging britches around their ankles while they poop unceremoniously for all God's children to see.

 

I find a clear spot and thank the running Gods that I don't have any underwear on because I was sweating so badly that I could barely peel my leggings down. Yeah, I thought I was grateful about that...until I realized I. DIDN'T. HAVE. TOILET. PAPER.

 

I do what I had to do and start scrounging around for something to wipe with. If I take a sock off, I'll have to walk back a mile and a half barefoot and I'll get blisters. I have no sleeves to yank off. I'm screwed. About this time, my imagination takes over and I'm stuck in an episode of The Walking Dead. I'm in the middle of the woods, in this position, and I have no way to boldly fight off Walkers. I also sadly realize that I'm also lacking one Daryl Dixon, therefore, the zombies are going to attack and eat me while I'm squatting on the forest floor with my sweat-soaked pants rolled down to my ankles which are now surrounded with all of last night's junk food. Which means MY zombie will not only be a sweaty, unappealing version of me, but one with no pants. This takes "I'm up shit creek without a paddle" to a whole new level, ladies and gentlemen.

 

I start doing Lamaze breathing treatments even though I feel like I just gave birth. I calm myself down enough to start looking closely at my surroundings. I see that I'm beside an oak tree which has a pretty wide leaf. I know I'm not allergic to that type so I yank a few off and clean myself up. I will NEVER be picky about my toilet paper again, mind you. I work my pants back up and re-check the trail for pedestrians. Once clear, I head back in the direction I came from. I'm walking like a duck, waddling side-to-side, because while I appreciated the lack of panties 10 minutes before, I am now cursing myself. I finally make it back to where I need to be. I get myself home and check all nooks and crevices for ticks.

 

There were so many life lessons learned on this day. And all I kept thinking of afterwards was how I survived (almost) a traumatic experience all by myself. I surely didn't pay attention in Girl Scouts so I can't contribute the resources I used in the woods to them. However, if there was a badge to be earned for what I went through last weekend, I'm sure it'd say "I'm a Shitty Survivor".

Eat your fiber, boys and girls.

Options

I realize this post has been MIA for the last month. So I'm sorry for the un-connected feeling you've been having from the Kristin Connection.

I've been putting all my eggs into one basket lately, and that basket is called "I'm Obsessed With My Fitness Pal". Like, seriously. I've been counting calories and walking/jogging/running my a$$ off for the past 2 months. Naturally, I'm exhausted by the time I make it home in the evenings and I can't process what I want for dinner, much less what I want to write about.

I started this blog to have an outlet for my stress of all things miscarriagey. It's been eight months since the last one so obviously there really hasn't been much to talk about...until yesterday.

I've basically been avoiding my fertility doctor like the plague. After Number Four, I resigned from all things pregnancy. No more temperatures, no more counting days, just no more of any of it. I learned to block it all out and pretty much have taken on the mantra, "it'll either happen or it won't".

Friday I ran out of my folic acid supplement so I had to call his office for a refill. Since he was out of the office, I had to wait until Monday. Monday afternoon I had 2 voicemails. One was from a nurse letting me know she had sent the prescription in. The other was from Dr. Edelstein telling me to call him...he wants to talk. Aw lawd.

It's like seeing somebody you don't like in public...you avoid eye contact at all costs, then somehow the universe works it until you're standing in line with them and have no choice but to grin and bare it. (Side note: I could dedicate an entire post on the proper usage of "bear" and "bare". I don't know which one is correct in my usage of the phrase. I'm confidently going with "bare", as in, the person I don't like bares their ugly soul I'll just stand there and grin.)

I waited until yesterday to call him back. He was quite annoyed that I had let 8 months pass me by with nothing to show for it. He's like, "Kristin, it's been 3 years. It's time to make something happen". And I'm all like, "not to be rude, but what is there to make happen? You've tested me and there's no definite reason for my miscarriages, what's left that any of us can do?" <----because really, in my mind, there is nothing that anybody can do in my situation. Then he throws out the big guns. "Ohhh, there are several options".

Options? And my interest was piqued. He went on to explain that the more he studied my history, he feels like I may have a tubular issue. (Pregnancy happens, just in the wrong place. An explanation for why I've never seen a decent blob on the ultrasound). I asked him if he meant IVF (In vitro fertilization) and he said, "that, among other things". Among other things?! My mind was blown. I've never allowed myself to think that there could be alternate ways around my issue because I've never understood my issue.

I've pretty much gone 8 months blocking all this stuff from my mind to 2 days of thinking of nothing else. Planting a pregnancy in my uterus would bypass my tubes altogether. Which could work. If that's the problem. I could also spend THOUSANDS. I said, THOUSANNNNDDSSSS of dollars on this procedure, get pregnant, and lose it all over again. Gah! It would mean medicines and poking and probing and trips up and down the road BUT it could get me something that I've been denied since my very first pregnancy.

I hadn't fully thrown away the towel but the towel had started unraveling. Now, I'm all about buying a sewing machine and fixin' it right on up because we have an appointment Tuesday! We might not have anything to show for our hard work the past few years but apparently, we got OPTIONS, baby.

**Stay tuned and I'll repost next week after my visit.

Naaaasowenyaaaamamabeseebabah

Have you ever had a moment when you see yourself on video/in pictures and you go, "Who. is. THAT?" while turning your nose up?  I mean, there are occasions where the question "Who. is. THAT?" is meant in a very good way, such as when you are at the doctor's office and you see a particularly attractive member of the opposite sex...and you adjust your phone like you're playing a game or looking at something awkwardly on the screen when really you're taking a Snap of said person and sending it to your girlfriends. Yeah, I don't mean that kind. 

Earlier today, I tried showing my class a video of them performing at a program we had last week. So I pull up the clip and hit "start" on my gigantic Promethean screen that even Stevie Wonder could see from the back of the classroom and low and behold, the first person I see is myself...from the back. LAWWWWWWdamurcy. There I sat, on the front row of the audience, in front of God and errrrbody. I'm cringing at myself then all of sudden, the digital version of me hops up on the stage to adjust a mic and awww nawww...I jumped up from the desk I was watching it from and hit "X" on the computer screen. I couldn't take it!

I've been regularly exercising since mid-January. I've been balls-to-the-wall dieting and exercising since April 1. I mean, after the first day, I was like "Okay, why can't I fit into single digits jeans yet?" It's been all downhill since then.

The ONLY way I've been able to stick to my guns through this devastating period of my life is that all my close friends and co-workers are drop-dead-Fred serious about it with me. It's like my own personal chubster-Kristin therapy called, "Over-Eaters-Anonymous". It's working. I'm not happy about it. But it's working. When my walking PIC (partner in crime) and I are straight ballin' through our neighborhoods, it's like the real-life version of The Lion King's Timon and Pumba. She's like 5'10 and I'm like 5'3, so she's basically the tall skinny one and I'm basically, you guessed it, a freakin' wart hog with stubby legs. And if you don't believe me, then you obviously weren't sitting behind me at the program last week!!!!!!! Ba-da-bum.

Seriously, our nightly walking/jogging/dying jaunts are basically the script of the entire Lion King movie. (Check out the title of this post! Now do you get it?!) New life is born (we are the beginner runners). Scar is a villain (the  skinny bitch that passes us every night completely smokin' us is pure evil, I'm sure). Rafiki is KA-razy (We ran into a recently escaped Schizophrenic patient while walking behind the hospital a few weeks ago and I had to call 911 to save us.) The stampede. (is what we sound like 30 seconds into our jog). The Elephant Graveyard (is what I feel like I should be buried in 2 minutes, 30 seconds into our jog.) The Watering Hole (should I have this much spit in my mouth when I run? It's disgusting, really.) The song, "Be Prepared" (is what somebody should've told me about wearing cheeky underwear while working out. I've got a crick in my neck from turning around behind me while running to check and be sure nobody is there so I can pull out the chronic wedgie I can't shake. Is it socially acceptable to go commando while exercising? If it's not, can somebody help a sistah out and let me know what type I should be wearing?)

I moan and groan about it but I'm still doing it. After all, it's what I do in between pregnancies it seems. I work out til I get pregnant. I stop for a few weeks because I'm scared to move. I miscarry. Wait a few weeks to get my body back to normal. Then start all over again. And THAT, Sir Elton John, is the Circle of Life. At least my life, that is.

The whole baby thing has been pushed to the back of my mind for the most part until there's a wave of new babies or new pregnancy announcements (which happens every few months) I try REEEALLY hard not to allow myself to get upset about it when I hear a bunch of news. I'm stronger than that, I tell myself. Sometimes, just because I'm human, I let myself become overwhelmed with emotions about it (in the privacy of my own home) because I feel like I'm getting left behind. Does that make sense? It's like, people older than me are having babies. People younger than me are having babies. All the people I used to connect with over NOT being able to have babies have all had babies...it's just sad for me sometimes because I'm the one NOT having them.

I have to separate myself from society though. It's often hard to make myself realize that I shouldn't be upset over not having a child because it's what everybody else is doing. You shouldn't get married because "it's what everybody else is doing". You shouldn't get a salad at a restaurant because "it's what everybody else is doing". I want a child because I want to be able to leave a legacy behind. I want to see my quirkiness in a mini-human that the person I love the most and I made. I hope that's why people have babies in the first place. I'm just adjusting to swallowing the pill that is the fact that maybe I'll have to leave a different kind of legacy behind other than a child. And that's okay. Perhaps writing professionally is the road I'm taking to leaving a legacy rather than making another person. That's a basket I should be putting all my eggs into instead of letting tears fall over nonsense that I can't control.

My legs are throbbing and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get out of the chair I'm sitting in. I'm heading to bed 'cos in keeping with my theme, this lion needs to sleep tonight. Until next time, Hakuna Matata, my friends.

 

(Pumba's face below is what mine looked like this morning when I saw myself on tape. Classic.)

 

Touche (imagine that word with the accent mark)

Okay, so a million things are happening in my brain right now. I have the perfect post for tonight, and I've known all afternoon what I wanted to title tonight's story, but then I logged in and saw that I've now reached over 10,000 views and I'm flipping OUT, and I'm also having to Google in another tab how to put the accent mark over the word touché. Which totally makes me a 'douche'. (<----- Keyboard totally autocorrected the touché for me, but all other words that have accent marks are apparently not good enough. How dare they!)

 

The title for this post is just one word: touché. However, in the section where I have to type the title, it won't autocorrect the accent mark, hence the title I had to use. Moving on. I'm over my snit.

 

This past Saturday, Mike and I were going out of town for dinner. Per usual, I started getting ready an hour and a half before we were supposed to leave. Needless to say, An hour and forty-five minutes after the time I started getting ready, I was walking out the door. Only to find Mike sitting in the car, with it ON, waiting for me.

 

He didn't say anything, but like everything in life, actions speak louder than words. I immediately knew at that moment what I would be writing about this week...

 

As a pre-teen, I can honestly say I had a less than stellar hygiene routine. I mean, I took showers people, but there were many a time when I would forget to put on deodorant, forgot to wash my face using the expensive stuff my Mama bought me for acne, etc. etc.

 

In college, there were plen-ty of times when I went to bed at God knows what hour, WITH a full-face of make-up on. Then woke up four hours later and went to class with the same face on from the day before, using Mentos to brush my teeth, and didn't. even. CARE.

 

So what on God's green earth has changed within me, at age 28, that it now takes an HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to achieve a mediocre, presentable Kristin?  Let me walk you through my process and maybe, I'll discover for myself why this abomination is occurring in my full-grown adult life.

 

SHOWER: I'd say this is the longest part of the operation. At a full 20 minutes, many things that happen behind the clothes take place. If it's a shaving day, I have to use my Ultra Sensitive Shaving cream, along with the winner of last summer's "Kristin's Search For the Perfect Razor By Purchasing Every Razor Ever Made" marathon. Because the hair on my legs grows in circles, (literal...CIRCLES) this is long and drawn out process. If I'm awake enough, I'll have been smart enough to shampoo and condition BEFORE this happens so I can leave the conditioner in while shaving. Then I use my fancy face soap. Then I use my fancy body wash. Then I rinse. Then I'm done. Not even gonna lie, back in the day, I could've been caught using shampoo to wash my hair, body, and as shaving cream lather in a pinch. 

 

POST-SHOWER, BEFORE HAIR: With a towel wrapped around my head I brush AND floss--EURday, because I don't like my teeth with fur. Now it's time for some jams. I grew up on country music so by the time I got my own car, I started expanding (widely!) my music collection. Basically, I can still bust out in song when I turn on a country station because they're still playing the same songs that came out when I was FIVE, but I've really grown past that music scene. I'm into all kinds of music, but lately, I've been ALLLLL about the tunes that were huge when I was a teenager. Soooo, probably anything from 1998-2004ish is on my hit list now. I was also born into the wrong generation--I should've been an 80s kid, because I know like, every single 80s song, ever. And I'm confident with my awkward white girl status enough to say that I am quite ghetto fabulous when it comes to knowing hip-hop.

 

While I'm putting on my face, I like to hear something up-beat and pumping, so I begin with a little Jay-Z "Dirt off Ya Shoulder". I start my in-closet search then head back to the vanity. I put on fancy cleanser and fancy moisturizer. Then fancy acne-curing concealer and SPF 45 primer. I'm all about the preventing skin cancer movement, even though I've been known to lay out on a beach for eight hours a day with NADA on my body. By this time, something Whitney has come on and I'm completely preoccupied. "So Emotional" is blasting, and I'm in the mirror like I'm auditioning for her music video back-up singer. I bust a move across the bedroom to my jewelry armoire to pick out matching accessories for the day. Rudy is hiding under the bed at this point because there's air kicking and air punching and head-swinging involved and there's also a pretty good chance that this is all happening sans pants.

 

MAKE-UP: By now I'm back to the vanity and I'm putting on eye liner if I'm in the mood. I have squinty Asian eyes so when I wear liner, I'm pretty much screamin' goth. Some days I just feel 'goth', so I go with it. I put on foundation, then powder, then blush, then eye shadow, then mascara. Nine times outta ten, I stab my eye with the mascara wand and I have to take five to stop the tears. Then I laugh at myself because all the stuff I just put on my face is now a sodden mess. And it looks funny, so I usually stop and take a pic to send to somebody via Snapchat. It takes ten more minutes to fix what all I just messed up.

 

HAIR: This is my favorite part. It's no secret that while God blessed me with faulty baby-making parts, a faulty gall-bladder, whacked jaws, and apparently circular growing hair patterns on my shins, he also blessed me with some fabulous hair. No matter the length, the color, or the style, I've always liked my hair, thus I spend some time loving on it to get it looking the way I like. Most days, I blow it straight, then flat iron which takes maybe 20 minutes. If I'm running WAY late, I use product and scrunch it up, Wavy Lays style.

 

DRESSING: This is the part where I put on what I picked out, stare at myself in the mirror and become disgusted, and take it all off. Which calls for a re-evaluation of the jewelry and eye make-up. The stereo usually flicks to something 90s-ish by now and En Vogue's "Neva Gonna Get It" inspires me to bust out a solo using hair brushes. At the "whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa" part, I usually hear Mike's exasperation from somewhere in the other room so I know I'm pushing the time limit. If my jeans don't require the lay-flat-on-the-bed-and-suck-in fresh out the dryer routine, I can usually be dressed and ready in 10. Sometimes my feet sweat in flats (okay I lied, they sweat all the time) so I put baby powder in my shoes. Not to block out the smell, but apparently to cause a dust to fly up all over my clothes when I slide my feet into them. That causes a minor set-back, so I have to sit and brush off the white that has attacked me...everywhere. I check myself in the mirror and if it's a really good Kristin day, my vain self will bust out the cell phone, cos before it, I have no idea how I looked, apparently.

 

It is a known fact to friends, family, and coworkers that if something should happen to me while in their presence, before 911 is called, #1, check to make sure I have on underwear (if not, I'll let you know where I've stashed a pair I can slip on real quick. And wipe that judge-y look off your face--certain leggings and white pants sometime require commando. Don't even act like you've never done it) Then, #2, get my phone and erase the 405 pictures of myself with 20 different face poses. I'm hugely into pop culture and I'm a victim of this fad. Deal with it. Accept it. You've heard intimate details about my uterus on multiple occasions. Knowing I'm a selfie queen shouldn't sway you away at this point in our relationship!

 

There you have it. What it takes to make...allll this *stands and gestures from head to toe* I guess growing up has made me hyperaware of myself and what I smell and look like to the world. I am certainly not the skinniest or most in shape person, but I know how to tweak it to make myself presentable and most importantly, happy with myself. All girls should be proud of what they have to work with and know how to work it to the best of their ability. Even if it means we girls are deserving of huffy sighs from our spouses who crank up the car and sit in it to make a statement EVERY time you have plans.

 

I just realized my routine took so long to explain that I left out my "touché" story. It takes too long to get ready in real life and it takes too long to explain the story of how I get ready. Perhaps this post was the cure for me shortening my process? Touché. (<---- BOOM!)