What's New, Pussycat?

Yeah, yeah...I know it has been about 6 weeks since my last blog post. I haven't given up blogging; rather, I've struggled to find enough hours in the day. That might just be an excuse. Maybe the real reason I haven't blogged recently is because my life hasn't been all that interesting as of late. But that sounds pathetic, so I'll go with "I've been busy" and promise to re-commit myself to this blog to the best of my ability.

So what's new in my life since early May? Let's see...I decided to start working again, starting this fall. The plan is to lay the groundwork for a return to full-time teaching by spending Daniel's last year of preschool as a part-time substitute teacher. I was welcomed back to Upper Dublin with open arms, and I'll probably start with 2 or 3 days a week of subbing. Who knows where it might lead? It's extremely daunting to think about returning to the work force after a 4-year absence. But it's also pretty damn exciting to move in such a purposeful direction after spending the past 2 years floating around in pregnancy limbo. I never allowed myself during that time to think about going back to work because I always thought I'd keep trying to have another baby. But now, even with the possibility of adoption still very much present in my mind, I want to take control of my life. I'm tired of watching time go by. I have so much more to offer this world, and it's time to put up or shut up.

Daniel turned 4 on June 13th, and we started 3-day potty training boot camp later that week. To say I was dreading those 3 days is an extreme understatement. I expected it to be pure torture. Boy, did I feel foolish when it went off (almost) without a hitch! Daniel is kicking some serious potty training ass, already telling me when he has to go and running to the potty by himself -- and he hasn't even been trained for a full week! I'm still kind of in shock that my baby is potty trained! It's about damn time, but anyway...

I have a new niece, courtesy of Peter's brother and sister-in-law. Her name is Isabel, and we went to see her at the hospital earlier this week. She's tiny and precious, and I've already bought her a girly outfit! I'm excited to be an aunt of 2 now, and I will try to best the best and coolest aunt I can be. I'm also happy for Daniel to have a new cousin, even if she won't be able to play with him for a couple of years. I know that he is going to be such a wonderful role model for both Ian and Isabel. Whether or not he ever has a sibling, he will always have family.

So here we are, moving towards the end of June. Summer has officially begun, and Daniel is in camp. I spend my days exercising, playing with Daniel, and contemplating how and when to proceed with the exploration of the adoption option. I'll let you know what I decide. I'm sure I'll have plenty to say about it!

How to Make a Quick Buck Off Your Shattered Dreams

Today I dragged a large Rubbermaid container filled with my best maternity clothes to a consignment store in Manayunk. I knew it had to happen sooner or later, and as much as I was dreading having to deal with the reality of the situation, I was eager to get a large chunk of it out of my house. One step closer to closing the book on this painful chapter of my life. So I did my research, found a place that would accept my stuff, and made an appointment to consign the remnants of my life as a pregnant woman.

As the store owned lifted each item out of the container and examined it for stains or defects (of which there were none, of course -- I wore these clothes for only one pregnancy, after all) I was consumed by simultaneous feelings of warm nostalgia and bitter sadness. Each shirt, skirt, and pair of paneled pants represented a time when I was naive but optimistic. I was a working woman with a miraculous life growing inside of me. I loved my maternity clothes. Wearing them made me feel special. Today, as I watched this woman toss each item of clothing into a pile and mentally calculate the value of my happy memories, I felt lonely. Like an opportunity was being taken from me. Like I had lost my chance and I had to give up the trophy.

It doesn't bother me so much that another pregnant woman is going to wear my maternity clothes. Actually, it may sound completely selfish, but I'd be lying if I didn't say that I was more comfortable with the thought of a stranger wearing my stuff rather than a friend or relative. If I was going to let go of these clothes, I wanted them as far away from me as possible. And now that they're out of my house, I'm relieved. When that first consignment check arrives in the mail, I'll spend it on something special for myself. Something personal. Because only I'll truly know what I had to give up to earn that money.

The Royal Rita's Treatment

Daniel and I were fortunate enough to have the opportunity this morning to get a "behind the scenes" tour of a Rita's Water Ice location in Perkasie. The owner, Mrs. Lisa Feldman, was our gracious and generous hostess. We arrived an hour before the store was scheduled to open for the day, so Lisa and her husband Michael were in full prep mode. As busy as she was, Lisa cut no corners in showing us everything there is to know about operating a Rita's franchise.

Our main reason for being there? Cotton candy. No, really. Lisa's daughter Ilene is a big fan of the new flavor and when I mentioned it was one of Daniel's favorites, she suggested I obtain some for him...and quick! And that's how our VIP tour came to fruition. Daniel is obsessed with cooking and preparing food these days, so I knew it would be a thrilling experience for him. Once he took in all the sights, sounds, and smells, he began to feel more at ease. By the time we were ready to leave, he had pretty much commandeered the place.

First up was a lesson in making the water ice. Daniel loved pouring the cotton candy syrup into the machine and pushing the "start" button.

While we waited for our batch of water ice to set, Lisa showed us how she bakes the soft pretzels, fills the custard dispenser, and "mixes" the tubs of water ice to keep them from becoming lumpy and watery. We helped blow up some balloons to decorate the front of the store, and raided Lisa's "prize patrol" shelf for some tchotchkes. Daniel even got to watch the security camera footage from the comfort of Lisa's office (perhaps his favorite part of the whole tour). When all was said and done, and the crowd had begun to gather out front in anticipation of the store's 12:00 opening, we gathered up our goodies to go. Lisa sent us home with a quart of cotton candy and a quart of root beer (Peter's favorite), two soft pretzels, and a big smile on a certain 3-year-old's face.

Thank you to Lisa for making us feel so special. I suspect that Daniel will not forget his Rita's backlot tour for a very long time. It doesn't take a whole lot to entertain a child. A couple of buttons to push, a deflated balloon, the feeling that he's doing something extra-special. Oh, and a cup of delicious cotton candy water ice doesn't hurt!

This is what brain freeze looks like, my friends:

All the Cool Kids are Doing It

Have you ever felt like you were the only non-pregnant person in the whole world? I'm not just talking about the direct correlation between how hard you are trying to get pregnant and how many of your Facebook friends have announced their pregnancies that very week. Rather, I'm thinking back to each of my pregnancy experiences and remembering all of the celebrities who got knocked up at the same time. When I was pregnant with Daniel, Julia Roberts was expecting her third child. Christina Aguilera and Nicole Kidman had their babies around the same time. We were a sisterhood of mommies, suffering exhaustion and sore breasts "alongside" one another.

With each of my unsuccessful pregnancies came envy and disgust. How dare Nicole Richie have a second child when her first isn't even as old as Daniel? What justice is there in the world when Tori Spelling can have a second healthy pregnancy and I can't even get past the first trimester? Does Heidi Klum REALLY need a fourth kid? And so on. As I mourned my losses, it seemed like everyone in Hollywood was procreating. Even during my last IVF cycle, Celine Dion gave birth to her "miracle" twins. I really wanted to share that miracle with Celine.

Now that I've decided to end my pursuit of having another biological child, I still get a little hot under the collar with every Posh Spice or Jessica Alba. These celebrities just keep popping them out like it's the trendiest thing to hit Hollywood! I find myself obsessively poring over E!Online, searching for the next "big" announcement. Selma Blair, Jane Krakowski, Jewel, Natalie Portman, Mariah Carey, and on and on and on. Is Khloe Kardashian preggers or not? Will someone please tell me and PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY???

But I'm starting to notice another trend. Sandra's adopted baby boy Louis. Sarah Jessica's twins via surrogate. Nicole's daughter via surrogate. Sheryl Crow's adopted boys Wyatt and Levi. I could go on, but you get the point. Just today, I read about Elizabeth Banks (Avery on 30 Rock) having a baby boy via surrogate. Her exact quote was: "I have been very fortunate in life both professionally and personally...The one true hurdle I've faced in life is that I have a broken belly. After years of trying to get pregnant, exploring the range of fertility treatments, all unsuccessful, our journey led us to gestational surrogacy..." Now THIS is a woman to whom I can relate! Broken bellies unite!

If we follow Hollywood's example, it appears that there really is no "right" way to make a family. Sure, you can do it like the Beckhams and procreate like there's no tomorrow (all while maintaining your svelte, angular figure), or you can do the best with what you've been given. Elizabeth Banks' announcement today filled me with pride. I'm now part of an elite club. A group of high-profile women who are turning lemons into lemonade via adoption, surrogacy, and even stopping after one child (Shout-out to you, Courtney Cox, who suffered many miscarriages before giving birth to Coco, and then moved on with her fabulous life as the mother of an only child.) I've never been this trendy in my whole life.

Moving On

I am confounded by the fact that it is already the end of March. It has been over three months since my successful IVF cycle came to a devastatingly screeching halt. And just this week, I actually thought to myself, "I'm finally starting to move on."

What does "moving on" look like for me, you may ask. Well, for starters, it involves closure. By some strange and masochistic twist of fate, I received two key pieces of mail this week: one, a bill for $40.00 due to my OB-GYN at Jefferson for services rendered last winter before my March loss. The other, a refund check for $140.00 from Abington Reproductive Medicine for the months of embryo cryo-storage that we did not utilize. Nothing like an unintentional (but nonetheless stinging) slap in the face to force you to face the reality of your situation. So there's that. I'm no longer a patient of either practice, my accounts having been settled and my file having been shelved in a musty basement somewhere.

Then there's the more tangible aspects of "moving on." Inquiring about places to consign my maternity clothes. This was a much bigger deal than you might think. I haven't been able to look in that guest room closet for months. Cleaning out Daniel's playroom and storing away most of his baby toys. Offering much of my gently-used baby gear to my sister-in-law, who is due in a couple of months. These small actions represent a much more significant step for me, which is to admit and accept that I will never again give birth to my own biological child.

Interestingly enough, "moving on" also holds some positive connotations for me. I've been hitting the gym hard, working to get my pre-"three failed pregnancies in two years" body back. I have a long way to go, but I'm fighting the muffin top with all my might. I'm considering going back to work: initially as a substitute teacher, then maybe full time when Daniel starts kindergarten. I'm rediscovering my identity as a woman, beyond being a mother. I'm searching for things that fulfill me, beyond my precious child. And that is a GOOD thing!

And then there's this: I'm exploring the idea of adoption. Reading books and articles, talking to people, gathering phone numbers. Deciding on domestic vs. international. Adjusting the image I've always had for the future, and learning to like the way it looks. With or without a second child who may or may not look like me. Finding something every day that's wonderful about having only one child. And being okay with that!

I'm nothing if not a work in progress, but I'm moving forward.

We're on a Break

After an emotionally (and physically) tumultuous December, I came to the realization that my life and I were experiencing irreconcilable differences. We needed some time apart. Enter Florida. This annual staycation could not have come at a better time. The thought of "checking out" for three whole weeks filled my troubled soul with sunny hope. Not only would I get a break from the dreary Philadelphia winter, but I'd be able to cope with my residual December sadness within the safe confines of my parents' vacation home. You can't buy that level of comfort.

So here I sit, sipping wine at 6:00 in the airy living room, enjoying this break from the day-to-day routine that is my life, and finding rejuvenation in the simple act of doing whatever. Reassuring myself that when my life and I do reconcile, it will be a sweet reunion. That I will have put the bulk of the sadness behind me and will find the strength to move forward with purpose and direction. I'm actually excited to see where the next phase of my life takes me. To no longer feel trapped in an unending cycle of hope and disappointment. I'm free. Literally and figuratively. And I'm in Boca. So things are good right now.

In Boca we sleep 'til 9:00. We take leisurely walks around the country club. The dog has a spring in his step. The 3-year-old plays outside until the sun goes down. We swim, we lunch, we chill. And it's just what the doctor ordered for me. Don't be jealous -- I'd still trade places with you in a heartbeat. But I'm healing. I'm starting to learn how to accept my life for what it is, warts and all. Although we're currently on a break, I'm confident that we'll live happily ever after...eventually.

48 Hours

For 48 hours, I was living a miracle. I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. All my previous struggles somehow seemed insignificant. My mantra became, "It was worth the wait." And it was. It really was. For 48 hours, I was living the happy ending I had envisioned so many times. All those times I had tried to make it happen through sheer will. Closing my eyes tight and thinking that if I visualized myself holding a baby, it would soon become a reality. But my miracle was short-lived. With one phone call, it morphed into a nightmare.

Miracles had happened to me before. About 9 years ago, I suffered a stroke and went on to recover pretty much 100%. The miracle wasn't necessarily in the recovery itself, but rather in the details of what was going on at the time of the stroke: I was in a big city (Las Vegas) with top-rate hospitals, I was with friends who had the foresight to call 911, I accepted treatment with IV meds that had a 10% chance of killing me but ended up saving me, and the clot was situated in the right side of my brain (leaving my right-dominant hand unaffected, my speech intact, and my cognition as flawless as ever). Six weeks later, I was back at work as a third-grade teacher. Nine years later, you would never know I was a stroke survivor unless you saw me do side plank pose in yoga. Trust me. It really isn't pretty.

What I'm trying to say is that I've experienced the glory of success before. Unfortunately, when you're going through a tough time in your life, it's easy to forget the miracles that have long passed. Or even the miracle that is staring you right in the face. After 2 years of failed IVF attempts and lost pregnancies, I'm just beginning to realize how profoundly miraculous my child is. Daniel is happy, healthy, smart, and beautiful. When you've lived through tragedies as I have these past 2 years, you don't take those things for granted. But I'd be lying if I said that my miraculous child makes this current tragedy any less painful. Loss is loss.

Don't feel sorry for me; feel empathy for what I'm going through. Reach out and tell me you care. There's nothing you could possibly say that would upset or offend me. Saying something stupid is better than saying nothing at all. Let's acknowledge together that this really sucks for me. There's nothing else you need to say. Just tell me that you understand what it must feel like to be in my shoes. To live a 48-hour miracle and have it all snatched away in a moment. To mourn the loss of a pregnancy while you're still mourning the loss of the previous two. If this weren't my life, I wouldn't believe it was real. But I'm still here. And today I laughed. So I know that I'm going to be okay.

An Open Letter to my Higher Power

Tomorrow is a big day for me and my family. It marks the culmination of a journey that started almost 2 years ago. Two lost pregnancies and one failed IVF cycle later, and this is it. What's at stake is whether or not I'll ever give Daniel a biological sibling. I'm ready to move on with my life. Living in this state of suspended reality has taken its toll on my emotional and physical health, as well as the overall well-being of my family. I am not unaware of what these test results mean to them. They have suffered with me for 2 years, feeling my pain and heartache. My amazing son, Daniel, has seen his Mommy in various stages of grief far too many times. I've been the bearer of bad news FAR too many times. I want SO BADLY to have good news to share with my Mom and Dad, who have repeatedly rushed to my side in times of great sadness. They deserve good news. My husband deserves good news, for enduring this painful journey with me. So whether or not I deserve it, I'm praying tonight that tomorrow brings good news FOR THEM. That we can gather as a family to celebrate, rather than to hold one another up.

That being said, whatever happens I know that I will stay strong for my son, my husband, and my family. I will move on and figure things out one day at a time. I know how lucky I am to have my health, a beautiful child, a lovely home, an amazing support system. I will never take any of that for granted. I accept tomorrow's outcome, whatever it may be. I am or I'm not. Either way, the world will keep spinning. Everyone's lives will continue. There will be more good times and more bad.

Right now, I sit here and feel a sense of calmness wash over me. Peace, love, light, and gratitude. I'm going to be okay.

Hostess with the Mostest

So, I'm laying in the procedure room today, looking up at the ceiling, clutching two photographs to my chest. One picture is Daniel, smiling like the miraculous angel that he is, while the other picture represents my hope for the future. Two embryos, thawed earlier this morning, ready for implantation. In the photo, they are two grayish-brown blobs that look exactly like what you would see in a biology textbook. The embryologist tells me they are high-quality blastocysts, numbers 5 and 6, and that one has already started to hatch. It is 2:15 in the afternoon, Dr. Sobel (or "George Clooney look-alike" as I like to call him) is inserting a catheter into my unmentionable parts, my bladder is filled to the brim, harp music is being piped in through the sound system, and all I can think of is, "Haven't I been here before?"

We did this same IVF tango last October, with no success. So I vowed to do everything differently this time: Starting with announcing to the world that I was going through IVF. I've done 5 months of acupuncture, eaten my fruits and veggies, cut out all alcohol and caffeine, and spent the week leading up to the transfer trying to reduce stress to a minimum. Will it work? Who knows. I still have about a 50-50 shot at becoming pregnant. But whatever happens, at least I'll know that I did everything in my power to achieve a positive outcome. And now, it's in God's hands.

So, what now? I'm playing human incubator to two potential human beings. They have to decide if my womb is an hospitable enough environment. Whether or not they want to stick around. I won't know their final decision for 2 weeks. Until then, I wait. I rest and relax, catch up on my reading, watch some movies On Demand, and pray. For a positive phone call on December 15th. For the strength to move on with my life if that phone call is negative. For the ability to appreciate my blessings no matter what the outcome. It has been a long, difficult journey. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.

The Right to Complain

I've been hyper-sensitive lately to people's complaints about life's daily injustices. Especially those involving pregnancy or newborns. You see, when I hear (or read on Facebook, as the case may be) a new mom complain about yet another sleepless night, it makes me want to scream. Or when a pregnant woman complains about ill-fitting clothes or swollen ankles. My immediate reaction (in my head) is to ask, "Do you want to trade places?" Because I'd pretty much give anything right now for a sleepless night with a perfectly healthy newborn. And I'd gladly suffer the nausea and discomfort of a healthy pregnancy. So seriously, do you want to trade places?

At 33 years old, I finally can accept the fact that bitching and moaning is all relative. One person's pain is another's pleasure. I'm sure that my complaints about Daniel's disappearing naps are pissing someone off. That person must think I'm whiny and ungrateful. Who am I to complain about the phenomenally amazing child I've been blessed with? Should I, in turn, feel guilty that I complain about something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things?

I'm going to say no to the guilt, simply because I believe that I have the right to complain about whatever is affecting MY life. Just as the new mom has the right to complain about her perfectly healthy newborn keeping her up all night. It may piss me off to hear it, but I certainly can't expect everyone to be sensitive to my needs at all times. It's like the beautiful, thin girl who complains all the time about being fat. You may want to punch her in the face, but that doesn't mean her feelings are invalid.

If I am eventually blessed with another baby, either through IVF or adoption, I'm sure there will come a time when I will be at my wits end and will complain about one of the many inconveniences or hardships of parenthood. Maybe I'll be so overwhelmed with gratitude that I'll let every little annoyance slip off my shoulders. But if you know me at all, that probably is an unrealistic expectation. The more likely scenario is that I'll whine about being exhausted, moan and groan about whatever insane phase the child is going through, and generally act like any normal human being would in similar circumstances. If I happen to piss you off someday with my ungrateful complaining, I apologize. But after having to endure almost two years of hearing the constant bitching and moaning from others about how hard it is to be a new mom, I think I've earned a little selfishness. And if, in a couple years time, you are going through a rough patch in your life and you hear me complaining about potty training or naps or anything else that I should be so blessed to deal with, feel free to slap me in the face and ask, "Do you want to trade places?"

More Than Just a Crib

Daniel has slept in the crib pictured above since he was about 6 months old and we moved him out of the Pack-n-Play in our bedroom. He never really outgrew it, never tried to climb out, never scaled the side of it (despite the fact that he could scale pretty much every other piece of furniture in the house). So I kept him in the crib, even as his peers were transitioning into "big-kid" beds. I didn't have any good reason to rush him into a bed. No safety issues, no sleep resistance, no baby siblings on the way. Which is why I'm having such a hard time right now finding the motivation to banish the crib, once and for all.

At one month shy of 3 and a half years old, Daniel is now showing signs that he is ready for a big-boy bed. He has climbed out twice during naptime, once coming downstairs to surprise me while I was on the treadmill and once finding himself perched in his top dresser drawer, peeling off band-aids and sticking them all over his body (see above photo). He has so many toys and stuffed animals in his crib that there is barely enough room for him to sleep. Furthermore, he is not napping as consistently as he was even 3 months ago. The bottom line is that it's time to make the transition. To either convert the crib into a bed, or to purchase a regular bed with bedrails. So why am I having such an existential crisis over this seemingly benign coming-of-age ritual?

How I longed to use that crib for a new baby. To give Daniel a "big brother" bedroom as we welcomed a new bundle of joy. But November 2009 came and went with no baby. And then July 2010 came and went with no baby. Moving Daniel into a bed became less about forcing him out of his crib and more about forcing me to move on and accept the fact that the crib was not needed -- for now. Part of me wants to convert the crib into a bed for Daniel so I don't have to look at an empty crib. The thought of that empty crib hurts more than you could possibly imagine. Just as I'm saving Daniel's baby clothes and baby toys for the future child that I pray for every day, I believe in my heart that the crib has not served its full purpose. Up until now, it has simply been easier for me to maintain the status quo. But I'm beginning to realize that it might not be in Daniel's best interest. Especially in light of this week's "drawer-sitting" incident. So as I plan to start transitioning Daniel into his big-boy bed this weekend, I say a fond farewell to his baby years, shed some tears over what I've lost, and continue to hope for a happy ending.

It's Party Time, Excellent!

Take my word for it: You haven't truly lived until you've seen the inside of your uterus on a 50-inch HD monitor. Now, to be completely honest, I've seen it before. Last IVF cycle. Same story, different year. I've even seen my vagina in a mirror as my son's head crowned in the delivery room. Very cool and very bizarre. But this was different. This was like one of those cartoons where the fish gets swallowed by the whale and disappears down the whale's throat. The camera entered my uterus. In real time. As I watched on the monitor. My uterus. Coming directly at me. My first thought was of the Wayne's World gag where Wayne and Garth scream, "Extreme close-up!" and the camera zooms in on their terrified faces. I almost laughed. What else was I supposed to do?

Today was hysteroscopy day. For those of you blessed to have never gone through such a procedure, a hysteroscopy basically entails an examination of my uterus and a biopsy of the uterine lining. The whole thing takes a total of 5 minutes. But between the cold water and the "snip-snip" of the surgical blade, it's anything but pleasant. Perhaps that has something to do with the receptionist asking me, "Do you have a living will?" as part of her pre-operative questionnaire. If this had been my first time in a surgical setting, I would've shit a brick. Nice bedside manner, lady. Bitch probably has four kids at home.

The surgical center was like Grand Central Station for reproductive endocrinology. The women were literally lined up, side by side, in the curtained stalls waiting for Dr. Barmat to sneak a peek. It was sad and oddly comforting at the same time. Solidarity. All of us women, united in the same desire: to have a baby. All of us willing to endure such invasive prodding and poking, clinging to the hope that we would have our prayers answered. That someday we would look back on October 13th as just another step in the journey to contentment.

But, of course, I was not like these other women. I defined myself not as a woman trying to have a baby, but as a mother trying to add to her family. One oblivious nurse, upon hearing that I already had a 3-year-old son, remarked, "So you're trying for a sister?" No, genius, I'm trying for a healthy child. It can be any gender it wants to be. As I told one of the nurses about Daniel, I felt self-conscious. The other patients were within earshot. How would I feel if I were childless, going through this process? My heart broke for them. I wanted to burst through the curtain and give someone a hug. I thought of Daniel's beautiful face and smiled. My delicious little boy will be waiting for me when I get home today. Guilt. But all the guilt in the world won't make my grief go away. The sadness and loss I've endured on my journey is valid, whether I have a child or not.

After the procedure, I was given a color photograph of the inside of my uterus. Two shots of the openings to my fallopian tubes, and one of the area that was biopsied. A souvenir of this day on which all of my blessings and all of my grief seemed rolled up in a neat little package. I'm going to hold onto that photo. Maybe someday it will be in a baby book.

Full Disclosure

Whomever designed the Price Medical Building at Abington Hospital is a cruel S.O.B. The offices of Abington Reproductive Medicine are on the 4th floor, and somewhere below that is an obstetrics practice. Which means that anytime I have an appointment to see the reproductive endocrinologist or the IVF nurses, I inevitably encounter at least 2 or 3 HUGELY pregnant women. This is a particular kind of torture for anyone who has ever struggled to have a baby. Which brings me back to the reason why I'm writing about this in the first place.

The last year and a half of my life has been a series of losses. Many of you know what I've been through, but some of you do not. My desire to add another child to my family has brought me to this point. I'm about to start an IVF cycle with 2 cryogenically frozen embryos that were retrieved last fall. These 2 blastocysts were put on ice following an unsuccessful IVF cycle almost exactly one year ago. A month after I received the phone call informing me that my pregnancy test was negative, I became pregnant on my own. Fast forward to March 2010. If you don't know how that pregnancy ended, remind me to tell you sometime. I don't think I want that story floating around in cyberspace.

Throughout this journey, I have openly shared my experiences with others. It has been an amazing catharsis for me. So many people came forward with their own stories of miscarriage, infertility, and loss. I began to realize that I wasn't alone (even though sadness is the most isolating emotion on the planet). Which is why I feel compelled to document this experience. Whether you are a family member who has comforted me while I cried, a friend who has supported me in my grief, or an acquaintance who simply wants to decipher all those vague Facebook status updates, I want you to know what this is like for me. Not to gain your sympathy, but your understanding. I need you to understand why it's hard for me to be around pregnant women. Why I feel a knot in the pit of my stomach every time I see a newborn. Why I may congratulate you on your good news but still feel sadness over what I've lost. I hope to convey this story with honesty and humor. I don't know how it will end. But I hope you will stick with me until the final chapter is written.

Today was my appointment for a baseline ultrasound and blood work. This basically involves me, an IVF nurse, and what I once heard described as the "dildo cam." The purpose is to measure my uterus and ovaries on day 2 of my cycle, so they can monitor everything as my cycle progresses and transfer day approaches. Take my word for it -- there's not much you want to do on day 2 of your cycle, but having a date with the dildo cam is pretty much at the VERY bottom of your list. Nevertheless, everything was normal and I was given a basic outline of how this "cryo-cycle" will unfold. On day 21, I will return to Abington for another blood test to determine whether or not I've ovulated. If so, I will start on Lupron injections and Estradiol supplements. More ultrasound monitoring will follow, and the embryo transfer is tentatively scheduled for December 2nd. Happy Hanukkah to me!

I feel cautiously optimistic, which is all I can be right now. I look into the eyes of my amazing, perfect 3-year-old, and I find comfort knowing that I made him. He is healthy. He is wonderful. And he grew inside of ME. Daniel is a shining example of the GOOD in my life. He is my constant reminder that things haven't always ended badly for me.

Thank you for reading this. Now let's get this show on the road.

The Potty-Training Experiment

It's nearly impossible to be the parent of a 3-year-old and not get caught up in the anxiety surrounding potty training. I'll admit that I've eavesdropped on groups of Moms discussing how their kids made the switch from diaper to undies, simultaneously making mental notes and breathing a sigh of relief that my child was definitely not old enough and/or physically ready to take the plunge (so to speak).

All that changed this week.

With a month of downtime between the end of camp and the start of the school year, I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to suck it up and attempt to potty train Daniel. I imagined a couple of weeks of frustration, followed by a successfully potty-trained child returning to school with a brand-new pair of big-boy underpants. I was a fool.

I truly believed that Daniel was ready. Sure, he never really told me when he had to go, but he showed interest in the potty and the whole process in general. He liked sitting on the potty, but nothing ever happened while he was on the potty. He enjoyed wiping and flushing, but didn't seem to be making the connection between the act of waste elimination and the routine surrounding it. But I was willing to give it my best shot. I spent a week collecting bits of wisdom from other Moms who had recently done the dirty deed. I shopped for paraphernalia like potty seats, countless pairs of undies, sticker charts, candy rewards, and lots of toys that I was hoping to dangle in front of Daniel like a carrot to a horse.

Sequestered in the house for 2 days, we did the potty dance until we were blue in the face. I set the timer, watched him like a hawk, and lured him to the potty with jelly beans. Sometimes, he would sit for 5 minutes and grow antsy. Other times, he sat for a 45-minute stretch with nothing but my Droid Apps to keep him occupied. After the second marathon sitting, Daniel reluctantly got up (I swear, he would've sat for another half-hour) and promptly peed in his underpants. That was the last straw for me.

The final 2-day stats:

21 times on the potty, no results

8 pairs of wet underpants

2 pairs of pooped underpants

100's of jelly beans consumed

2 missed naps

1 confused and pissed-off dog

countless gray hairs added to my head

We're going to take a break for now and wait until Daniel shows more initiative (or until he graduates high school -- whichever comes first)! Let the jelly bean detox begin...

Wiggle-Mania and an Ornery Three-Year-Old

One of the craziest things about being a parent is how wide a gap can exist between your expectations and the reality of the situation. Take the Wiggles concert. I purchased the tickets months ago, and I've been eagerly anticipating Daniel's reaction ever since. In the days leading up to the concert, Daniel and I speculated about which songs they would sing. Based on other people's tips for making the most of our Wiggles experience, I went out and purchased a plastic rose for Dorothy and a bone for Wags, and made an elaborate poster. I was already imagining the fabulous photos I'd take and the indelible memories we'd carry home from the concert.

Everything started off smoothly. We had great seats in the front of the balcony, and Daniel had a clear view of the stage. The Wiggles came out and began signing and dancing. Daniel's expression was serious, but he seemed to be into it. After a couple of songs, it all fell apart. In the middle of "Yellow Bird," Daniel's face crumpled and he burst into tears. He sobbed, "I don't like this one!" I reassured him that the song was almost over and tried to calm him down. But even after the song ended, he continued to cry. "I want to go home!" he insisted. And with those 5 words, my Wiggles concert fantasy began to disintegrate before my eyes.

Peter and I took turns carrying him out of the theater. While I was outside in the lobby with him, I carried him down the stairs and tried to distract him. He continued to say, "We have to go home," and I couldn't figure out what exactly had set him off. The only thing he offered by way of an explanation was, "It's too loud!" I offered to hold his ears, to sit with him and watch the TV monitors from the lobby, and to buy him M&M's. Nothing worked. He was seriously freaked out. And all I could think was, We're going to have to leave the concert.

Almost immediately, I thought about the bitter irony of the situation. My expectations had been so high, there was no way the actual concert could've lived up to them. My disappointment was so pervasive that I felt ashamed to have expected such a flawless experience. When you're the parent of a three-year-old, there's no such thing as a flawless experience. The funny thing is, as I looked around the lobby of the Tower Theater, I noticed countless other parents toting unhappy kiddies out of the venue. Most of the adults looked defeated, like they were waving the white flag at life and giving in to the hysterical children by their sides. I realized that I was not alone. I was not the first parent in history whose expectations were unrealistically high and who was met with opposition in the form of a temperamental toddler.

I let myself off the hook. I took a deep breath and vowed to curb my disappointment, regardless of the day's outcome. While it was a bummer that Daniel was unhappy, and that we were missing most of the concert, it wasn't his fault. He wasn't doing it maliciously, he was simply being a three-year-old! If I wanted to be a good Mom, I had to take the bad with the good --even if the bad came at such an inopportune time as in the middle of our first-ever Wiggles concert. I wasn't about to feel sorry for myself, even as the tears welled up in my eyes. My job was to comfort my child and to make the best of the situation. Pull yourself together, Mommy!

I'm happy to report that we didn't leave the concert. After a couple more hand-offs between me and Peter, Daniel returned to his seat and held it together for the last couple of songs. He was rewarded with a rousing rendition of "Fruit Salad!" Although he continued to insist that we go home, he stopped crying and even seemed to enjoy what little of the show he did see! He spent the entire ride home "recreating" the concert from the back seat, mimicking the Wiggles and echoing the reassurance that Peter and I had fed him earlier.

Was it fair to expect the Wiggles concert to be such a transcendent experience? No. Was it typical parent behavior? Yes. Do I feel like I handled the situation reasonably well and made the best of it? Hell yes. I truly believe that Daniel's memories of the concert will be positive ones. And I will continue to go with the flow. Because in this life, there's no other way to do it!

Your Friends and Neighbors

I have fond memories of growing up with neighborhood kids with whom I was close in age. Those were the old days, when you ran outside after dinner and played with whomever else happened to be outside at the time. These were lasting friendships -- bonds that extended beyond blood relations. If you were fighting with your younger brother, you could escape to a friend's house (and no doubt insist to your friend how much cooler her brother was than yours).

I'm delighted that Daniel has planted the seeds of friendship with our next-door neighbors. As much as I'd love to give him a sibling someday, the future is uncertain. I am thankful that he will always have friends to keep him company, whether or not he ever has a sibling. These sticky summer nights lend themselves well to playing in the backyard with neighboring kids. Last night, I was thrilled to see Daniel playing with Stella, 5, and Caleb, 2. He was equally excited, running inside momentarily to exclaim, "Mommy, Stella and Caleb are home from their trip!" Now, I don't think they were actually away on vacation, rather I suspect that Daniel equated them not being outside on other nights with being "on a trip."

The three of them had a blast together, first splashing around on Daniel's water table and then taking turns riding his Power Wheels Jeep.

Daniel took Caleb for a ride, Stella took Daniel for a ride, and Caleb even drove the Jeep himself for a bit! Daniel was sharing beautifully. He graciously stepped out of the Jeep (without prompting) to give someone else a turn, and didn't complain when he was waiting to get back in. I was so proud. Would he have been as patient and fair with a sibling? Who knows. All that matters is that the kids played nicely together and had fun.

I know that I'm projecting my own anxieties about Daniel being an only child, but watching him interact with Stella and Caleb only strengthened my conviction that he would be an amazing big brother. I pray that he will someday get to wear that ubiquitous "Big Brother" shirt with pride. But even if that day never comes, he will have friends. Friends to play with, to share toys with, to trade lunches with. Daniel is a natural friend. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

Day One Breakout Sessions/Swag Orgy

The morning started at 8:00, with a breakfast for "newbies." The BlogHer co-founders spoke about the conference and answered questions about breakout sessions and other logistical issues. The Expo Hall opened at 10:00, and it was like the scene from Willy Wonka when he opens the door to the chocolate room and all the kids and parents step inside, dumbfounded. I wandered around a bit, stopping to have my picture taken with everyone's favorite explorer. I saw that Shine on Yahoo! had a booth, so I inquired about taking part in an on-camera interview. There were quite a few people ahead of me, and I didn't want to miss the first breakout session, so I left the Expo Hall. That place was like a black hole: It sucks you in, and you lose all sense of time and place.

The first breakout session I chose was "Making Your Passion Work For You." The panelists spoke about finding your own passion and then providing a service that could solve an existing problem. They encouraged the audience to find mentors. Most successful people are eager to help and happy to give back. The message seemed to be: Don't be afraid to approach these people! This seems to be a hang-up for me, so I will have to work on it.

I left that session when they started to talk about business plans and how to obtain insurance coverage when you quit your job. I checked out the writing lab. It was a packed room and I didn't feel like standing in the back. I moved on to the job lab, found a seat on the floor, and listened for about 10 minutes while the panel spoke about resume writing. Another strike-out. So I headed back to the Expo Hall for more fabulous swag and shameless self-promotion. Back to the Yahoo Shine booth, where I had inquired earlier about sharing my story of transformation on camera.

First, I was escorted to hair and make-up. The make-up artist spruced me up. She worked on my eyes, cheeks, and lips, and did her best to minimize my dark circles and shiny t-zone. Hey, Rome wasn't built in a day. The techie guy hooked me up with a mic and I was up. The interview lasted no more than 10 minutes. The woman who interviewed me looked like a cross between Sophia Vergara and Penelope Cruz. I think I did a pretty good job on camera. I wasn't nervous, I spoke slowly and clearly, and...well, I'll post the final edit tomorrow so you can judge for yourself.

With my newfound smoky eyes, I continued to explore the Expo Hall. I wanted to grab the Todd Parr-designed placemats that I had seen everyone carrying around in their swag bags. I headed over to the Stouffers booth. Imagine my surprise when I saw the man himself sitting at the table! Todd Parr is a rock star in my house. I did the Wayne's World "I'm not worthy" bow and began gushing. I mean, I was really laying it on thick. I told him how much Daniel loves his books, and Todd started working on a personalized drawing for him. I continued to gush, thanking him for the work he does (I may have talked about Daniel saying "Why is he crying?" when he looks at the picture of the boy with the dropped ice cream cone -- I'm not sure because I was definitely babbling, like a tween at a Justin Bieber autograph signing). I walked away, on cloud 9, and then immediately started kicking myself for failing to have my photo taken with Todd Parr. So, like a stalker, I went back and waited patiently for another 15 minutes while he finished up with some other people. The man could not have been nicer or more gracious.

After lunch, I checked out two different breakout sessions: Giving Advice in the Blogosphere and Bringing Sexy Back to Branding. Good information from both, but the draw of swag was too great. I have become a total swag whore. Don't ask me how I'm going to get it all home. Back to the Expo Hall, this time up to the second floor. The Hillshire Farm "Sun" was there!!! Even more rad was the turkey sausage on a stick, wrapped in a pancake, that I ate while walking around. What??? The conference food was out of control.

It's the guy from the commercial...I swear!

The true highlight of the day came at 4:45, when we all gathered in the Grand Ballroom for the Voices of the Year honorees. Bloggers were honored in four categories: Life, Humor, Design, and Op/Ed. The speakers were wonderful -- funny, touching, and courageous. It may sound cliche, but I was totally inspired. Everyone's experiences were unique, but they all had something important to say. I guess that's why I blog. I feel like I have something to say (well, at least most of the time).

I'll leave you with one last image, which I was lucky enough to catch after a stroll around midtown brought me back to the Hilton. At the corner of 54th and 6th, New York let its freak flag fly. But where was Luigi?

Gonna Party Like It's 1999!

BlogHer: I'm here. I'm blogging. I feel so relevant! I'm back in NYC, on my own, for the first time since I lived here over 10 years ago. In 1999, New York was exciting, noisy, and filled with excess. Today, in 2010, things are pretty much the same. I'm a little older, a little worse for the wear, but a hell of a lot wiser. And I'm carrying a giant pill case.

The conference doesn't officially begin until tomorrow, but the throngs of female attendees descended on Manhattan a day early to settle in, schmooze, and to get their grooves back. Personally, I'm here to learn more about the business side of blogging and to be inspired by the stories of some amazing women. And, of course, to blog.

I caught a ride from King of Prussia this morning, thanks to Julie Meyers Pron. Julie and I went to high school together and she was kind enough to offer me a seat on the Collective Bias bus when she found out I was going to BlogHer. The bus pulled up to the Hilton at 12:30.

My room was ready, so I unpacked and headed out onto the streets of New York to find some food. I was in the mood for sushi, and I found a cute little place on 55th Street where I could tuck myself away with a good magazine and some crunchy spicy tuna. It felt very 1999.

My mission following lunch was to wander uptown a couple of blocks to that mecca of unreasonably large stuffed animals, FAO Schwartz. I wanted to find something cute to take home to Daniel ("airport presents," so to speak). I'm not sure if it was the massive candy section, the make-your-own-Muppet desk, or the giant piano on which Tom Hanks once performed Chopsticks, but I was like a little kid. Forget 1999. It was 1982!

I immediately found the "toy vehicles" and began to marvel at the countless trash trucks, bulldozers, and cement mixers lining the shelves. Though I was disappointed that I had to limit my purchases to items that would fit in my suitcase, I managed to snap a photo of this precious gem:

The picture above doesn't do it justice. This trash truck was ENORMOUS! Daniel could have played for days. I had to settle for a much smaller New York Sanitation Truck. Luckily, size doesn't matter. Daniel loves trash trucks, both large and small.

By the time I tore myself away from FAO Schwartz, it was 4:00 and registration was officially open. I walked back to the Hilton and took my place in line to collect my badge holder, lanyard, and giant bag of swag. (That's like the third time I've used the word 'giant' in this post...you gotta love New York!)

After sprucing myself up a bit, I hopped into a cab and headed downtown to meet Caitlin (my sister-in-law) at Tabla. This place was fantastic: The food was Indian-Fusion, and we ate ourselves silly. Rosemary naan, tomato and lentil curry, lamb loin and short rib, soft-shell crabs...you get the idea. Bonus points for the waiter, who had a cute Australian accent and was named Daniel. We had a great time! It was good, solid, sister bonding!

Don't we look pretty?

We tried in vain for a half-hour to hail a cab, but Madison Square Park wasn't too happening tonight. (Forgive me while I take off on a random tangent: The restaurant was located at 25th and Madison, just a couple of blocks from the office where I worked in 1999. Full circle! How cool is that?) I ended up on the F train, headed uptown to 57th Street. There was something about riding the subway at 11:30 at night that took me right back to the old days. Upon exiting the subway, I walked three blocks to the Hilton, cozied into my pajamas, and curled up with my giant pill case.

On the agenda for tomorrow: Lots of speakers, lots of swag, and lots of giant BlogHer goodness!

Good Morning, Sunshine!

I may have only one child, but that doesn't mean my mornings are any less hectic. Daniel has to be at camp by 9:00. Granted, his camp is 2 minutes from our house. And it's not like I'm getting ready for work -- usually just yoga, which allows me to look a lot less presentable! But if for no other reason than some comic relief (laughing at oneself is very therapeutic, don't you know?) I will give you a snapshot of what a typical summer morning is like in our house:

6:45 am -- My alarm goes off, set to B101. Nothing like getting Rob Thomas stuck in your head first thing in the morning. I hit snooze and drift off to the sound of Ollie snoring.

6:54 am -- Alarm again. If I'm feeling daring, I hit snooze one more time.

7:00 am-ish -- I drag myself out of bed, shower, and get dressed.

8:00 am -- An hour? Seriously? You may think I am crazy for taking so long to get ready. Let me assure you, only about 60 percent of that hour is devoted to hygiene and grooming. The other 40 percent is distributed between important tasks like checking e-mail, turning on the Keurig coffee machine, and picking up all of the clothing that Peter has thrown on the floor the night before.

So, back to 8:00 am -- I enter Daniel's room to "wake" him for the day. By now, he's probably been singing to himself for 15 minutes or so. He pops up when he sees me, but complains when I turn on the light and open the shades. "Too sunny, Mommy!"

This is where it gets a little muddy. I spend the next 10 to 20 minutes coaxing Daniel out of his crib to get dressed for camp. He likes to wrap himself up in his blankets and pretend he is still sleeping. If I try to grab him, he usually screams. I wrestle him out of his pajamas while he is still in his crib, then begin my negotiations. I try to lure him out by saying things like, "If you get up now, you'll be downstairs in time for Abby's Flying Fairy School." Surprisingly, that doesn't always work. Sometimes we'll play "claw machine," where I'm the claw and he's the prize to be won. I'll put imaginary quarters in the machine, move the arms of the claw, and pick him up by the feet. After two or three "drops," I go back one last time for the win.

8:15 am -- By now, Daniel is out of his crib with a clean diaper. It's time to apply sunscreen. He used to love helping me spray the sunblock on his arms and legs. Now he says things like, "I don't want lotion today." I've even found myself chasing him around the second floor of our house, spray can in hand like a weapon. I have a whole can of SPF 50 and I'm not afraid to use it! Despite this insanity, I always win.

8:20 am -- Fully dressed and lubed up, Daniel leads me downstairs for breakfast. He enjoys a cup of milk and a cereal bar while I scramble around, getting his camp bag ready and making breakfast. Occasionally, he gets tired of watching Abby's Flying Fairy School and demands that I put on one of his favorite DVD's. No matter which one he chooses, he will change his mind at least twice before I can leave him and return to breakfast preparation.

8:30 am -- Daniel sits at the kitchen table to eat breakfast. I leave the TV on. I know, I know -- I'm breaking the number one rule of good parenting. But it's Sesame Street, and it holds his interest while he eats! Otherwise, he would probably take one bite and run off to play the drums. I sit with him and eat my cereal, trying to keep him engaged in the programming and also trying to keep the flow of food moving freely into his mouth!

8:45 am -- If Daniel has sat at the table for a full 15 minutes, then I consider the morning a success. I let him play for 10 minutes before leaving for camp. After cleaning up the breakfast dishes, I sneak some sunscreen onto his face and put his shoes on his feet. When it's time to leave, I ask him to choose a truck or two to take in the car. He protests by saying, "Five minutes," and then negotiates down to "two minutes." Thank goodness he cannot yet tell time.

8:55 am -- We pile into the car and head off to camp. For the first time all morning, I can breathe. Daniel is usually happy to arrive at camp, and he barely gives me a parting glance before disappearing into the building. Another morning in the can.

Nap on the Rocks?

The above photo captures the essence of Daniel's nap this afternoon: An hour of singing and playing (and unbeknownst to me, tossing every stuffed animal, blanket, pillow, and book out of his crib onto the floor), followed by a half-hour of him calling, "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" He finally exhausted himself and fell asleep in his empty crib. Two hours later, when I went in to get him up, this is what I found. The look on his face was a cross between, "What did I do?" and "Who, me?" I have a sinking feeling that naptime is an endangered species.