39 weeks.

I'm 39 weeks today. 

This is a weird feeling, considering my last pregnancy ended abruptly with the emergency delivery of Rhys and Quin at 33 weeks. 

As of my appointment with the midwife today, the baby is no longer breech...following a week that consisted of three visits with a chiropractor who specializes in the Webster technique, lots of DIY moxibustion, a heavy dose of Pulsitilla, hours of inversion, and a totally fast, painless, and successful version.  I'm so thankful that we're back on course for the VBAC, even if I am still reeling from the stress of the situation and dealing with it like an uninhibited ninety-year old woman with a knack for saying all the inappropriate things that cross her mind and no thoughts of apologies. 

Now we wait.

On the one hand, I love the waiting.  I have something awesome about to happen - I don't know when or how or what it will be like, but at this point birth is pretty much a guarantee.  Though I did see a TLC show once about a woman who had been pregnant for something like sixty years.  But that unfortunate woman aside, this kind of feels like when you have a box full of maple sugar candy in front of you and not even one has been nibbled yet, and you know you're about to go hide in a corner somewhere and just gorge yourself.  The delicious anticipation.  If you're not from a maple sugar candy area, I'm sorry.

And then on the other hand, there's the reality that the time between now and delivery may seem short to those who are not carrying an extra human being in their womb while chasing two toddlers around all day, but for those of us who happen to be in that boat, well, OH MY GOD HOW AM I GOING TO GET THROUGH NEXT WEEK BECAUSE THE DAYS ARE SOOOO LONG AND THERE IS STILL SNOW ON THE GROUND AND THE WEATHER ISN'T LOOKING LIKE WE'LL BREAK THE FORTY DEGREE MARK IN THE NEXT FIVE TO SEVEN DAYS.

And I want to see her.  I want to see her eyes, and whether or not she has hair, and if she looks like Rhys or Quin or Kyle or me or none of us...I want to experience this birth process that I've been fascinated with for as long as I can remember...

I'm so close and so far.  I try to settle in and remember that it's always more exciting to have the full box of maple sugar candy rather than just the empty wrappers with a few maple crumbs in the corner of the box, but then I remember that that's a terrible metaphor because in this case instead of empty wrappers I get an actual baby that I get to keep.

So there's that.

I thought writing might help me find a nice Zen place.  Instead I find that since I rarely write anymore, I'm rusty, which means my writing is 1. of poor quality and 2. hardly satisfying.

Instead of some nice Zen insight, I offer a crude summary:

• Baby is, at this point, head down. 
• VBAC plans are, at this point, a go. 
• I am, at this point, excited and anxious as shit.

38 Weeks.

Baby is breech.

VBAC plans in jeopardy.

This is not the update I'd hoped to be posting.

Letting Go.

First it is summer.  We are finally sleeping at night, we have time for us, we are in a routine.  Our babies are toddlers, and they are delightful.  We are the small family we always wanted to be.

In creeps this unfinished business.  Suddenly I feel like this IUD is exactly what it is - birth CONTROL.  I can't escape the thought that infertility taught me to let go and yet inside my body is something with CONTROL in the title.  I need to face the unknown.  Need to face possibility.  Need to test my strength now that I am where I wanted to be.

We talk.  We discuss.  Do we want to open ourselves to possibility?  We feel pretty balanced as we are.  Kyle worries I will end up where I once was.  Heartbroken.  Depressed.  Disappointed.  Desperate.  And I say, therapeutically, I need this.  I remind him that it wouldn't be about trying for a baby, but to just let life happen.  He listens. 

We decide together.  Ditch the IUD. 

I feel free.

We move on.

Within a month I am disappointed in myself.

I suddenly don't want to nurse the babies anymore.  Could I be pregnant?

A week later.  I still don't want to nurse.  I feel tired.  Am I?

I start craving spice.  I describe my favorite Vietnamese and Thai foods to friends and feel like crying in my desperation to eat it all, now.

I have a talk with myself.  You don't even want to be pregnant right now.  It terrifies you.  You're back at your old tricks...one sleepy afternoon and it MUST be pregnancy, huh?  You're psychotic.  You made a mistake, removing that IUD.  You weren't ready for the unknown.  Don't let Kyle know you're obsessing over this.  Just don't.  You promised him you wouldn't go back there. 

I decide I will take a test on the sly.  Clear the slate.  Confirm what I know must be true.  I am not pregnant but I am insane.  Move on. 

I don't buy a test.  There's no good time.  No good time?

I am tired.  I want spice.  I am peeing awfully frequently.

I fess up to Kyle, sheepish.  I am obsessed with this idea that I'm pregnant.  I can't shake it.  I'm so embarrassed.  I need to take a test, and then I will move on.

I have no idea what he thinks. 

He buys a test on his way home from work. 

Seven weeks have passed since my IUD was removed.

I tear off the cellophane wrapper and run into the bathroom.

I look forward to breathing again.

I pee.

I start to set the test on the counter when I see the blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

A blue plus sign.

The symbol I dreamed about through three years of infertility.  The moment I coveted with every desperate cell of my being - casually taking a test, only to find that, indeed, I am pregnant.

Voice

When I was going through infertility, blogging was a cool breeze on a hot day. I had so much anger, passion, hope, fear, grief; words just tumbled out.

Going through pregnancy, words don't tumble out as gracefully. They're there, all right. But they're jumbled. I had three years of experience with infertility to help shape the sound and cadence of my voice. In six months of pregnancy, I've struggled to find a steady rhythm that will let it all out.

I feel like an awkward teenager struggling to find an identity. Although it left it's mark, infertility is behind me. Although I have a bulging belly swarming with life, I can barely bring myself to believe it's real.

As days pass, I stumble closer and closer to motherhood. I don't know what to think of it, let alone what to write of it. There's just so much there. But I wouldn't go back, and for that, I can only go forward.

Graceful or not, this is where I am.

In the Moment

I had this dream a few weeks ago that my babies were born and I put them in the sock drawer. And then I forgot about them, had two more babies, and by the time I found the first two, they had died of starvation.

When I woke up, I felt like a bad mother for a week. What if I absent-mindedly put my babies in a sock drawer and forget about them? And what if there are really four in there, and not just the two?

I'm a bit confounded by pregnancy. We seem to worship "living in the moment" like it's the end-all, be-all of life, and I have to admit that I'm sort of fond of the idea myself. However. It seems that there's only a certain amount of living in the moment that's acceptable during pregnancy. Preparing for the birth of a baby (or two babies), mandates some forward thinking. And forward thinking is all well and good. But it also opens the door for worry. Like, what if I'm the type of mother who forgets her babies in the sock drawer?

And then I find that living in the moment opens the door for worry too. Yesterday, living in the moment meant savoring a general bitterness towards the world, for no particular reason. Are my babies affected by my insane fluctuations in mood? Am I nurturing an environment for sweeping, unpredictable emotions?

Somebody recently told me that the reason humans are pregnant for nine months is because that's how long it takes to prepare for motherhood. And that makes sense to me. But I also have a feeling that at the end of this nine months, I am not going to have a tidy little motherhood plan all worked out. I like to believe that life as a new mother will be serene and beautiful. That I'll waltz through the world in a beautiful silk dress and embody all that is maternal.

I know myself well enough to expect a more realistic vision. Rather than waltz, my dance will be less graceful. But I'll dance. In place of a beautiful silk dress, I'll wear comfortable, cottony things that have holes and spit-up and have faded from too many washings. I'll embody maternal instincts, and a whole hell of a lot more, too. I will probably not brush my hair. Life will probably not be serene. I imagine it will be blissful, and beautiful, and difficult, and messy.

I doubt my ability to wrap my head around all of this that is pregnancy. I'm not sure I'm supposed to be able to fully comprehend it all. Despite the science of it all, there's so much of new life that remains miraculous. In a logical sense, I know exactly how I got to this point of being pregnant with twins. But every other sense that I have tells me that feeling two little bodies move within my own has nothing to do with logic at all.

24 Weeks...I am still amazed.

Every few months I write a post that starts with apologies for the long silences between blogs. No more apologies. Apparently, this is who I am as a blogger. Sporadic, and mildly dependable at best. I'm going to be okay with that.

But here are some updates on what's happened in the past month.

The shower game is over. I tried it out this morning for the first time in a long time, and I found that no matter how far forward I bend, my pieces are just no longer visible without the use of a mirror. Which at this point is a sight I can probably do without anyway.

I've started experiencing those coveted, random acts of kindness towards pregnant women that I was beginning to think only existed in mythology. I have to admit that upon discovering I was pregnant, I was really looking forward to this star treatment. And then kind of bummed when it didn't happen right away. But now, most people are nice. Probably because they feel sorry for my waddle. The one exception is the grocery store. Why are people always so terribly rude in the grocery store? It does not matter how much I waddle, or how much I hold my aching back as I meander down the aisle, people still shove past with nary an "excuse me." Well people, I will remember that when I'm waltzing down the aisle with two cute babies in a few months, and you want to coo at them and ask me whether they're boys or girls. Payback's a bitch.

The most exciting recent development, which probably relates to the whole kindness from strangers thing, is that my belly has become unmistakeably, hugely massive. And I love it.

The day I found out I was pregnant...

A few weeks later...
Later still...
...And later (I will need to become a better historian when these babies are born...dates, weeks, or even months might be nice...)

And just a few weeks ago...
The babies are growing.

Fertile-Myrtle

I woke up nice and late a few Saturdays ago to a disappointing reality: I had broken a finger in my sleep. Sleepy and perplexed, I tried to rummage through the prior night's dreams to see what possibly could have led to such physical duress. Coming up blank, I glanced down to look at the injury, only to realize that the finger in question was not broken at all. It was suffocating.

Overnight, my once slender ring finger had turned into a grotesque purplish sausage. So I did what any normal hysterical pregnant woman would do and quickly scoured my house for every possible lubricating product on hand. I plopped myself down at the dining room table, applied enough lotion to cure an elephant with dermatitis, and after a few minutes of panicked claustrophobia, the finger was freed.

As my wedding band and engagement ring sat on the table in a slippery puddle, I massaged my throbbing finger and weighed my options. It took me seven years to get those rings on my finger, and I wasn't sure how I felt about parting with them so quickly. For goodness' sake, people might look at my big belly and then at my bare finger and start to make judgements. (You've done it. The belly-finger compare. Admit it.)

And then it occurred to me. This may be the perfect therapy for a former infertile. Because there's something about knowing that I got knocked up with a plastic catheter in an operating room that kind of weighs on me. I can (and will, as a matter of fact) argue that getting pregnant through assisted reproduction can be much more a labor of love and partnership than a regular old roll in the hay, but still. Sometimes I just want people to look at my pregnant belly and think, "oh. She must have had sex." If this seems odd, please consider how many times people have learned I'm having twins and commented, "oh. Did you take fertility drugs?" (Next time I'm asked this rudely probing question, I think I will respond: "yes, I did, because they're delicious and taste like Skittles).

So the idea of my newly ring-less finger FAILING The belly-finger compare is sort of totally appealing. People may think that I got pregnant ACCIDENTALLY! And that would mean I'm a fertile myrtle, here with my doubly pregnant belly and not even attached!

Let's just say I scooped those rings up, dried them off, and put them away in a nice, safe place.

I'm Pregnant, Not Kind.

I said that today. Twice.

But let's be honest, I actually am fairly kind. I like puppies and kittens, and I believe in the possibility of world peace.

It's just that lately, I'm feeling a little ferocious. I always envisioned that as a pregnant person, I would be ethereal, wise, and emanating love. Instead, I find myself to be frumpy, sarcastic, and emanating the f-bomb. It's not quite what I'd had in mind.

And so I suppose I need to be honest with myself. I have probably never been destined for ethereality. Is that even a word? For one thing, I don't have the hair for it. Everybody knows that you need long and flowing hair to be ethereal. Go figure, mine is short and far from flowing; unless you count the profusion of peach fuzz on my belly. And although I have very recently grown some breasts, I'm probably not quite voluptuous enough either.

Wisdom, I think I might have a shot at. I mean, sarcasm and wisdom are basically one and the same. Some of the funniest, wisest old people I know just so happen to also be very sarcastic. Sometimes, if I'm having a bad day, my sarcasm can be a little mean-spirited. But nobody is nice ALL of the time, and I think the fact that I can be honest about that probably means I am a little bit wise.

If I'm having a good day and the hormones aren't completely steering the boat, I sometimes emanate love. Certainly towards my sweet babies and husband and quite a few family members. But then I also seem to have this little swearing thing going on. And the demeanor of a crusty, grumpy old man.

Part of me is sad about this. Because I think everyone would really love me an awful lot if I was ethereal and wise and loving.

I am instead like a hairy sailor with a big belly. And although this probably makes me slightly less lovable, I'm not so much minding. Because while pregnancy has not brought with it all of the pretty-princess images I conjured up over the past 27 years, it has brought on some new life perspectives. Small things, like peace and acceptance.

P.S. The hormones are steering the boat.

So this is pregnancy.

Here's what happens in the life of a neurotic post-infertile pregnant lady when she's not over-analyzing her life.

I have indigestion today for the first time as a pregnant lady. I am thrilled to have indigestion. Really.

I was warned not to get "What to Expect When You're Expecting." But a friend loaned me a copy, and god I was too curious to pass it up. To be honest, I thought there might be some really juicy pregnancy secrets in there. There's not. Just a lot of talk about gas and discharge and whether or not I'll have insecurities about my changing figure. And while the book is more histrionic than anything else, "What to Expect" has me expecting (and oddly enough, wanting) indigestion.

So now that I have it, I feel normal. And sort of burny in the chest area.


I have been battling a weevil infestation. In my house, not my body. Let's be clear on that. Either way, I am disgusted and hateful towards weevils. I swear my house is clean. Yet I have these crawly little brownish-black things all over my counter tops and in my cereal boxes. This weekend I emptied out all of my food cabinets in a passionate anti-weevil campaign. I threw away half my pantry supplies which has resulted in me becoming a hungry-grumpy pregnant lady for much of the week. If you haven't cleaned out your food cabinets lately, well. Let's just say you might be surprised at what you find festering in there. On my part, I found many gems, the best of which was a gallon bag of steel cut oats that had majestically transformed into a gloppy mess of green mold and weevil larvae. Oatmeal, anyone?



I am patiently waiting for random acts of kindness from strangers. I've heard that being pregnant brings on hoards of people just falling over themselves waiting to be kind and loving toward you. Not so much for this girl. Not that anyone has been unkind, per se. Except for that one day when a co-worker looked at me and said, "god, you're fat." That was not so much kind. But otherwise, people just treat me kind of normal. Like the girl in the grocery store parking lot who almost ran me down today as I waddled to my car.



I have a new game I use to entertain myself and remind myself of just how amazingly pregnant I am. I have given this game the uber-creative moniker, "the shower game". Here's how it goes: every day when I take a shower, I make my back all straight and correct-postured. Then I bend forward at the waist while keeping my back straight. I bend bend bend until I can see all my pieces. Once I've positively identified all my pieces, I make a mental note of my waist angle. A couple of weeks ago when I started this little game, I was at about a 25 degree angle. These days, I'm at about 35 degrees. I find myself looking forward tremendously to 45 degrees. 90 degrees would be neat too. Except that by the time I get that big, I have a feeling that I'll need some weird sort of mirrored contraption to find all my pieces. And I probably won't be able to get back up. And then my husband will find me all stuck and bent in the shower. And I'll have to admit to him my little shower game.

I bet I'll be a neat mom.

Who took my map?

After living life for three years as an infertile, I have a confession to make. Four months ago, I would have cringed and threatened to slap myself across the face at such a confession. But I have no self control, so confess I will: I do not know how to be a pregnant person.

Infertility is the cruelest and most painful waiting game I know. Monthly reminders of the lack of conception. Waiting for the next test. The next set of stirrups. The next cycle to start. The next. The next. The next. Waiting to find out if you will ever become pregnant.

Oddly, I got pretty good at all that waiting. I would even say I found peace in it. I accepted the unknowns, not out of some beautiful zen moment, but out of the sheer reality that I had no other option. I embraced the idea that infertility, for me, was a journey. I often even felt lucky to have the opportunity to turn a painful experience into a time of growth, reflection, and acceptance.

And now I am pregnant. I start my fourteenth week today, and I am still in quite the state of shock. I am beyond excited. I feel blissful, lucky lucky lucky, and totally confused.

I don't quite know how to look back and make sense of this most recent development. For me, living infertility was a bit like being suspended in space and time. Becoming pregnant has launched me back into the real world. Living infertility was the most polarizing experience I've ever had with the rest of humanity. Even among my most beloved friends and family, I separated everyone into an "us" and them" sort of alignment: the fertiles vs. the infertiles. Where do I fit in now?

The infertility/fertility journey doesn't end at pregnancy. I never knew that before. I don't know if it ends at birth. My infertility induced clarity, acceptance, and balance seems to have at least momentarily been replaced with a gluttonous appetite for all things baby. I glide from peaceful moments of loving my pregnancy to impatient and frustrated longings to finally hold my babies and see their tiny faces.

And maybe this is really what it's all about. I have about six more months to reflect and sort things out. That's the same amount of time my babies have left to live in the safest and most sheltered environment they'll ever know. And then together they'll join this crazy world. I don't care if my babies grow up to be doctors or lawyers. I want my babies to know that life is beautiful and confusing. And once they know that, I want them to choose to jump right in, with wild and reckless abandon.

A Crib!

One of my husband's co-workers has offered us an almost-new crib.

PEOPLE SEE US AS PEOPLE WHO WOULD NEED A CRIB!!!!!!!!!

A feeling of real-ness abounds...a feeling I've been waiting for. We were offered a second-hand crib!

And of course we'll accept. Not only does it make me feel like I'm taking a small step towards my goal of environmentally responsible parenting, not only does it solve the problem of whether to buy one crib or two, but it means I will have in my house a physical representation of the moment this all started to feel real.

A second-hand crib never sounded so good.

Hi. I have a hairy belly.

I am not a hairy person.

Throughout my life, I've often been asked if I shave my arms. This is a bizarre and rather personal question. I don't go around asking random people which body parts they choose to de-hair, but apparently, something about my inviting demeanor brings forth such questions.

I do not now, nor have I ever, shaved my arms. They don't look hairy, especially from far away. But if you look closely, (which I expect you would be inclined to if you'd be so forward as to ask whether I've shaved them or not) you will see that I do have hair on my arms. It's sparse, and fairly see-through, but it's there. And in fact, it's quite long. Like, probably 2/3s of an inch long if I were to measure, which I won't.

One summer I decided not to shave my legs in order to be a more informed consumer. Cause if I'm going to choose to shave, I want to know what I'm giving up. That wasn't my prettiest summer. Apparently in addition to unnaturally long arm hair, I grow leg hair, too. And while it may be sparse, it certainly is not see through.

But overall, I've sort of led a charmed life in the hair department. No weird back hairs, no uni-brow, no lady moustache.

I think the charmed phase is coming to an end. And it scares me a little bit.

On a recent trip to the beach, the babies and I were enjoying some sun (safely, with lots of SPF and water...no lectures here). My pottish belly was all hanging out of my bikini and my loving husband had convinced me that my physique screamed "pregnant" and not "fat." So life was pretty good. And then I looked down to admire my spherical form, and came to a rude awakening.

I look like a peach.

Round, plump, and fuzzy. Those translucent, sparse, yet long hairs of my upper appendages seem to have migrated to the belly region. In no particular order. No happy trail here...just a random forest of silken strands. And should that sound sort of appealing, let me remind you, that calm forest resides on my belly.

And yet I can't find it within myself to complain. Compelled to share? Yes. Complain, never.

I've always kind of liked peaches anyway.

tiptoeing

I've been a bad blogger again.



I've been quiet. And that's quite rare for me...both in the blogging world and the real.



Today I'm ten weeks pregnant. My babies are now officially considered fetuses. I am over the moon excited, yet for once in this very long journey, I don't know quite what to say.



I've spent the last month contemplating how to put my feelings into words, and the reality is I don't know how. I'll get back to that. In the meantime, here's what's been happening:



So many people have left me really nice comments. My mother and sister, quite the bloggers themselves, tell me it's rude that I don't reply to comments. I never knew that. I probably still won't really reply to comments. Not because I'm rude, but because good lord it took me a month to write this blog, imagine the lags I would have if I actually tried to step it up.



I've been living life as a wedding crasher. Except that I've been an invited guest. But goodness, is love in the air. If I'm out of touch with the blogosphere, all those lovebirds out there are not helping. The nerve. (Congratulations to all you beautiful people).



I've been sleeping. For probably 85% of the last month.



I gained six pounds and not an ounce of guilt.



I grew a little pot belly. And it's damn cute.



And through it all, I've felt moderately speechless. Through three years of infertility, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. I learned to live with a hugely broken heart and an overbearing sadness that was omnipresent. I never allowed myself to consider what life would be like if I became pregnant. And now I've become pregnant.



You'd think that after three years this wouldn't feel like a shock. At least that it wouldn't feel sudden. But it feels both shocking and sudden. It feels incredibly surreal. I'm terrified of waking up and falling back into the grips of infertility.



So I'm living life a little more quietly. Maybe I'm hoping that if I keep things on the real down-low, that infertility won't notice me quietly working my way through my first trimester. I'm taking it all in as I wait for my broken heart to do its healing. I'm awed by life in the absence of sadness. I feel cautious.



Slowly, I'm working on throwing that caution to the wind. But I'm taking baby steps to do it.

2 Pink Lines...to 2 Babies

Twins.

I am pregnant.

I am pregnant with twins.

Two babies.

Two heartbeats.

Two beautiful, strong heartbeats.

infertility, you stupid jerk face.

Beta 3 20dp3dt=15,172

The nurse says I'm "very pregnant." That's gotta be good.

Looking forward to my ultrasound makes me feel like a six year old waiting for Santa, but less patient.

And I have to keep checking with myself to see if it's sunk in yet. (It hasn't). After three years of trying and a lifetime of dreaming, I'm pregnant. I'm embarrassed to admit that almost every day I'm tempted to take another pregnancy test, just to see those two pink lines again and again. And somehow, it's my reaction to that temptation that sums up infertility better than any words I can ever put together. Aside from that first bold day, I haven't taken another at home test...no matter how badly I want to see those two lines. I have a beta of 15,172, and I'm scared of the stupid pee stick.

Infertility, let's break up. I hate your guts, and you have bad breath. You terrify me. Your farts smell like rotting dead skunk.

I refuse to let you define me.

now

Dear Thailand,

Please send some delicious recipes and food. I would particularly enjoy learning all of your secrets for tangy and tantalizing soup.

Love and kisses,

Baby Purinton

p.s. feed me. feed me. feed me.


This is what's going on in my belly. Well, actually my uterus. Apparently my child has inherited my sweet husband's appetite and quite the little palate for Thai food. I cannot, cannot, cannot get enough Thai food into my belly. I've taken to making up my own Thai recipes. And gourmet that I may be, I am no expert on Thai. I'm considering chaining myself to the takeout counter at Siam Orchid.

What else is new...

Have I mentioned that I am pregnant? And that a strange woman in a public restroom asked me when I'm due this weekend? To which I sheepishly responded, I'm due in MARCH.

So okay, I'm slightly huge. And LOVING it.

Maybe it's all the Thai. Or pseudo Thai, if you count the dishes I've made.

And I'm exhausted, blissfully so. And the way I'm peeing, you could stick me in a pond like a makeshift water pump. Suck it in, put those kidneys to work, send it back out. Suck it in, kidneys, out. In, kidneys, out. In, kidneys, out.

And I'd by lying if I didn't admit that there's a part of me that's terrified. Because five weeks in, and I'm head over heels in love with the sweet and beautiful little life growing inside my body. And so desperately I want this magic, this miracle, to continue.

Infertility is a stubborn bastard. I've reached where I thought I might never reach. And here I am, in love and vulnerable. And terrified that this bliss will be ripped away.

So this is my moment. Full of Thai addictions, full of pregnant bliss, full of love, fully aware that I live this all with guarded caution.

2WW to 2 PINK LINES

I am pregnant.

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD I AM PREGNANT.

The last 24 hours of the 2WW were the worst. I started prepping for the let down and realized what a let down it would be.

I couldn't bring myself to cheat and test on my own...terrified of the result.

So I waited until the nurse called me.

That poor nurse has probably lost hearing in whichever ear was next to the phone, as I demurely responded to her "Congratulations" with, "I'M PREGNANT? HOLY CRAP! OH MY GOD! HOLY CRAP I'M PREGNANT!!!!!!"

And then I made my way to my stash of pee sticks, and I peed like I've never peed before.

Two beautiful, lovely, longed for pink lines.

as pregnant as I've ever been...

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the awesome language of infertility, I'd like to introduce you to a very important concept:

The 2WW, otherwise known as the dreaded "two week wait" during which you anxiously ponder the results of your latest fertility treatment, waiting to take a pregnancy test. Or not waiting, and taking four tests a day, certain that the negative result is simply due to a faulty test.

So I am now in the midst of the biggest, and certainly the most expensive, 2WW of my infertility journey thus far. The IVF 2WW. Perhaps you've noticed the large blue countdown to the right.

The 2WW can be a difficult time. No matter what anyone says, it is absolutely impossible to spend less than 23 hours a day wondering if the pregnancy gods will finally shine the light of favor over this cycle. Yes, I think about it while I'm sleeping. Do I judge your dreams?

I can't pass by this topic without stopping to point out how many times I have been told to focus on something else. Maybe this makes me bitter, but I'm pretty sure that telling somebody to "forget" that they may or may not have a fetus growing inside them is like asking somebody to forget that they have a left arm.

Anyway.

The 2WW is hard. Infertility is basically comprised of waiting and a good deal of neuroses. The neuroses is not necessarily a precursor to infertility, but it is certainly a side effect. Try having your uterus scanned three times a week and see if you DON'T end up making Jerry Seinfeld seem sane.

Another aspect of the 2WW is dealing with people who point out to me (as if they're the first to discover the world is round) that if my pregnancy test is negative, GASP, all the people who know about our IVF will know! People will know that I am not pregnant! People will know I am sad and disappointed! Gosh, I guess I really should have thought about that BEFORE I started airing my dirty laundry so publicly. What will people think if I fail to get knocked up? Will I be forced to live in some sort of infertile exile?

There is another way to look at this. Many optimistic infertiles have familiarized me with the term PUPO, or, "pregnant until proven otherwise." I may not necessarily be pregnant, but by golly, I am PUPO. And I have never been quite this PUPO before.

I know for a fact that there are two deliciously adorable embryos taking up habitat in my uterus right this very moment. I've never been able to say that before.

I could spend the remainder of my 2WW anxiously wondering how things will turn out. In all honesty, I can promise you that I will spend many moments doing exactly that. But it's not the only thing I will do.

I will also love the tiny little lives in my belly that my husband and I created. In the very least, we made some good progress...we got to cell division! And I'm not stopping there. I'm going to enjoy this time of hopefulness and wonder at all that it could become. Perhaps one day soon I will be shopping for some adorable organic onesies. Infertility can beat the dreamer out of the most imaginative of people. What once felt like harmless hopes and dreams become the sharpest knives in the artillery until hoping and dreaming feels so forbidden that you forget how to let your imagination go. For the next 7 days, I'm taking my imagination back. I'm going to dream until I'm drunk.

And I'm going to enjoy everything wonderful that I do have. Like this moment, sitting and writing on my deck with my husband lying next to me. Our sweet puppy is lounging in the shade and panting in the yummy June heat. Our grass is green and freshly mowed. My gardens are overgrown and lush with weeds and flowers alike. My ears are filled with birds and wind and always, good music. I smell grass and summer and sweat. And in this moment, I'm as pregnant as I've ever been.

It's E-Day

Today is THE DAY.

July 7th will also be THE DAY, but today is THE DAY for right now.
(July 7th=pregnancy test).

Today we transfer my little embryo-yos to their true home: me.

I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I'm terrified and want to cry.

I've done everything I can to be ready for this moment. I've meditated. I've blogged. I've cried. I've yoga'd. I've cried. I've acupunctured. I've cried. I've read. I've cried. I've talked. And talked. And talked. And talked.

My efforts are not without reward.

I've discovered that I have a support network that previously, I might only have dreamed about. I have fabulous, kind, loving, funny, supportive people in my life. When I ran my first 5k last year, I remember feeling that the course felt much longer than anything I had ever practiced. I felt tired and alone. I had a cramp, I was running slowly, and didn't know anybody around me. I worried that I wouldn't finish, or that I would finish dead last and everyone would laugh as I stumbled across the finish line. But then I came upon the last half mile, and one by one, supporters started to fill the sidelines of the course. They didn't know me, but they cheered. And the closer I got to the finish line, the more people there were, standing and cheering words of encouragement. I felt so proud, so supported, as I crossed the finish line. These people didn't care that I was slow, that I had bad form. And I'm realizing that those people are with me now. Except for this time I know them, and they're all wonderful. And if it weren't for infertility, I might not know that right now. Some of them, I wouldn't know at all.

I don't know what will happen today, or in the next 12 days. Not knowing still gets to me. Even now, I haven't gotten used to it. But the reality is, I know exactly what will happen: I will be pregnant, or I won't. Simple as that.

And even beyond that, I know what will happen. Pregnant or not, I know I will survive.