Oh, wahhhh

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I am so sorry for that last post. I was being an absolute….ugh, you know that word that I won’t say, that rhymes with “punt” and that my mother uses to describe Madonna (yes you do, don’t deny it)? Yeah, I was being that.

I feel like the biggest baby on the planet – oh, WAAHHH!!! Poor me, hasta take an itty bitty pill. Gahh, what will I do when Plan B has colic? Take an ad out in the Cheesecake City News and Times? I absolutely hate myself when I get like this.

All it takes is five minutes reading an infertility blog – I recommend alittlepregnant – for one to realize that Clomid is No. Big. Deal. compared to what some of these ladies have gone through (IVF, IUI, egg donors, invasive surgeries in personal spots, etc). I mean, fuck me – it looks like Clomid is taken in pill form, not “a shot in the ass” form.

I told you I was a latent drama queen. I should probably save the drama for the day when someone deigns to put cheese on my cheeseburger and I – in a hormonal rage -threaten to slash their tires.

Seriously. Mea culpa. Are we still friends, Internet? Hope so!  I’ve got a LOT of Googling to do.


Hi ho, hi ho…

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A-Clomid-ing we (may) go. So my whatchamacalit levels are too low currently and I have a followup with the esteemed Dr. P in a few weeks to discuss the Clomid thing. Every time I type “Clomid” I want to type “Clorets.” In the meantime, I’m going to stick to Metformin as it supposedly may help as well. I’m not extreeeemely abby-normal so maybe that stuff will fix the issue.

And when Gene and I discussed Clomid, all he heard was the higher chance of multiples (twins, triplets, etc). I discussed it with my mom and she’s pretty convinced I’ll take this stuff and end up with 6 babies. I feel very disappointed that this is coming up, that we may end up with some extra help for Plan B. All of this worrying may be for nothing, I know, and comparatively speaking, I feel very fortunate to know there is a tinny little issue now instead of a year from now (ugh, all those wasted pregnancy tests…). Plenty of women take Clomid for awhile and end up with totally normal, singleton, pregnancies – something like half end up conceiving within 90 days of taking it. (It may be more, I’d have to check).

And before I sign off and go to bed, I present a short list of things I do not need to hear:

1) “What the hell will you do with 6 babies?” Well, ha ha, I will try to find good homes for them. Ha ha.

2) “This is your own damn fault for stressing about this!” Oh, SHUT UP.

3) “Actually, stop stressing at all!” Oh, double shut up.

4) “You have bad voodoo on yoo from buying all that baby stuff!” Ugh.


aggh, stupid doctor…

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Even after my line about “no more blood until I’m pregnant”, the doctor found another reason to get me to give some up. (big TMI alert!). He was the brains behind the whole pre-diabetes operation last year. I thanked him for that (gift of time, yadda yadda). Today’s question is “Does Elaine ovulate?” Stop asking so many questions. Ughhh. His office will let me know later this week. And he wants me back on Metformin. And he mentioned Clomid.

WTF, dude? You use your incredible degree to figure out that A) I’m fat B) I had prediabetes and now because C) I don’t PMS enough (as far as I know – how am I to notice if I bloat?? I weigh 180 lbs…what’s another pound or two when all of my pants are too big anyway?) he’s figuring I’m D) a freak. We’ve been working on this Plan B thing for exactly 43 days. It’s a little freaking early to start with this stuff. Duh.

Grrr.


Fine, fine, fine…

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(As in, “I am fine”)

At the very least, I am better. I would be EVEN better if it turns out anyone in my darling family purchased a Lotto ticket in the last few days.

So, things are better in Chez LaineyD. Last weekend was hell on toast and I was beginning to think it would never improve when, miraculously it did. Phew. I am beginning to believe I have latent drama queen tendencies. I have no idea where those come from. At the very least I tend to think the worst at times, which sends me into despair, which makes it seem that things will never get better. But then they do. Every time. Huh. Who knew?

And no new news on Plan B, but I go see the girly doctor tomorrow (woohoo – but at least I get out of work early for it!) and I get to tell him “Get your needle away from me! I was just tested for blood sugar and it said I was FINE.” YES – I saw Dr. Hottie on Friday and my A1C level is 5.1, which totally completely normal. I am so pleased I am nearly doing backflips, but then I’d drop my assorted yummy treats. If Dr. P dares to say “That was the A1C and I want to do a glucose tolerance test!” I will probably hurt him. I will patiently wait for another GTT until I am actually pregnant, thankyou.

(And yes, I know there is a cause and effect between assorted yummy treats and the prediabetes. Meanwhile, I’m just pleased I wasn’t injecting vodka straight into my liver after last week).

(HOLYMOLY, just the thought of getting to shove Dr. P’s stupid GTT and his stupid Diabetes Center and his STUPID carb counting right back to him just makes me feel glee…GLEE, I tell you).



:(

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The thing that was bad, is still bad. (Is worse?)

Kids, man…they break your heart. (In case you didn’t get the memos, the ugliness is now every Sunday instead of every other Thursday. Mark your calendars).

Also: The next person I know IRL to get pregnant is going to get the Secret Baby Stash. There must be some super bad mojo stuck to a onesie or something. Hmm. Here’s hoping the next person I know IRL who gets pregnant doesn’t read the blog.

We’re all going to laugh about this sometime, right? Laugh about how all it took was just an eeeeensy bit more patience and then it all was instantly fixed.

I was escaping driving around this afternoon and Sting’s song “I’m So Happy I Can’t Stop Crying” came on the iPod. I was doing OK until the last verse:

“The park is full of Sunday fathers and melted ice cream
We try to do the best within the given time
A kid should be with his mother,
Everybody knows that
What can a father do but baby-sit sometimes?”

Clearly, Sting’s ex-wife is not a REDACTED. (Where would I be without the word REDACTED, which I have probably shamefully been misusing for months?). Gene is not a “Sunday father”. Sometimes he jokingly refers to himself as “Weekend Dad” but Gene is a father 24/7/365. He is a father on the 15th (when The Check is due), he was a Father on Father’s Day, when he got nothing besides an abusive phone call. He is a father on any random Tuesday in April or November. He rates so much higher than “Sunday father” or “Weekend Dad”.

Hmm, so, la la la. ::twiddles thumbs:: Nope, no good way to end this post…maybe that’s why I kept it saved for so long. Byeee!



There’s this thing…

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So, there’s this thing going on, and it is not good. IS. NOT. GOOD. I can’t blog about it and I don’t think I even want to TALK about it. (Yes, it’s related to my previous post). Something must change. I am scared that there was a point of no return somewhere in the last 48 hours and I passed it. Part of me thinks this fairly often and then things work out. So maybe it’ll be OK.

And no, it’s not Baby-related. I thank my lucky fugging stars for that, if that tells you anything. Work sucks (OK, work FUCKING sucks). I was off all day Friday as a Mental Health Day. (Ha…wish I could have a Mental Health 4 Day weekend).

Dear Indiana – Miss me? I sure miss you!

PS – Don’t worry about me, really. We all know that things look like shit right now but that in a few days I’ll post something beyond inane like “Ha ha, I just totally bought a Fisher Price Ocean Wonders Aquarium at Target for half price!” (not that I would ever do that, no no! Did I ever include my theory that maybe my baby stuff stash is causing all my problems? It’s a theory, although the theory that you-know-who is a fucking cow and the cause of all my problems is a little more likely).


Birthday, Schmirthday…

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Today is Gene’s birthday (or at least it is for the next 47 minutes). In case you’re wondering, his birthday SUCKED thanks for asking. He had to work all day (after he’d planned to take the afternoon off and hang out with me – I took all day off today) and right as he was bringing dinner off the grill to slice the meat, we got a phone call from you-know-who.

(Anyone who remembers this exact same story from Father’s Day wins a prize – assuming I even blogged about it).

(In case you’re reading this, you-know-who, don’t forget that the next upcoming holiday to ruin is Gene’s dead mother’s birthday. Why not go 3 for 3, you ugly stupid biotch?)


Once was lost, now, found…

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So a week or two ago I got the organizational bug (trust me, the flu bug is a lot easier and at least you get to rest, but I digress) and cleaned out the closet in our bedroom (yes, the new closet was a bit of a mess). There were two boxes STILL full of mystery crap from when we took everything out of our old furniture. I cleaned those out (everything went into the trash or into a drawer of my ghetto-ready plastic nightstand). Next, my jewelry box.

Now, I do indeed own a jewelry box. With actual jewelry inside. Stuff that was my grandma’s, cheesy Christmas pins shaped like penguins, and a few pieces that Gene bought me before he learned that A) I don’t wear jewelry and B) I lose jewelry. Also now, I swear the last time I looked in my jewelry box, I was missing one earring from every pair of earrings I owned (which is, by my count, 3 pair).

Ha ha – they’re back!!

Ha ha ha – still not wearing them!!