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.

Food...meh.

They say you cannot live off of vitamins alone. That vitamins are for "supplementation," a sort of nutritional insurance policy, if you will.

But I wonder. Maybe they're just saying that. Maybe you can live off of vitamins alone. Maybe the need to eat actual food is simply a fictionalization brought on by lobbyists just like corn subsidies and the rest of our corrupt food system in the US.

See, I have recently given up food. So you can probably understand why I'm hopeful that perhaps boatloads of vitamins will be enough to keep me kicking.

First it was dairy, and then soy. My determination to exclusively breastfeed wasn't about to be squashed by a little reflux and the delicate, immature digestive systems of my little loves. After months of cheating and sneaking teensy bits of dairy here and there, I finally kicked the habit and stocked the house with sheep's milk cheese, coconut milk ice cream, Earth Balance butter substitute, and goat's milk.

Problem solved.

I sat back and started counting the days until the babies' digestive systems would allow for the delicious reintroduction of things like MOZZARELLA (sigh) and BEN AND JERRY'S (sniff).

And then something happened.

I share a lot with you, Internet. I've shared stirrup stories and incidents of accidentally urinating on myself. I've shared postpartum depression and infertility. And all that sharing has been nice. But I have standards. There is a line. I actually didn't know if I had one, one of those line thingies. But I do. And I've stumbled upon it. Suffice to say, I am not going to share details. But something happened. It happened once, then twice, and then a third time. Three days in a row.

And I was concerned. Alarmed, even.

It involved blood and what I could only suspect might be my intestines. Ahem. The line.

I called the doctor. Made an appointment. She and I had a nice long chat.

The good news? Now I can breastfeed until the babies are eleven (I won't) because who cares if their still young digestive systems are finicky about what I put into my mouth?

Because apparently, my own digestive system has developed some raging, bloody (The line. The LINE...dammit!) finicky-ness of its own.

Did my doctor suggest a colonoscopy? Oh yes she did. And to avoid having a camera poking all about the business of my bum, I've decided to take option B and first try cutting out gluten and kissing dairy goodbye for...forever?

If things improve? Apparently I have colitis.

If things don't? Hello, bum-cam. And in the back of my mind, I am trying to quell the raging fear that I have cancer in my butt.

Until then, I am living on a totally delicious diet of, um, vitamins.

And can I just add that there are like, a lot of body parts? Pretty, glamorous things like arms and legs, and then neutral things like noses and toes. Yet with so many options, I, with my inability to respect the line, end up with issues in my effing ass.

That's right, Internet. It is all EFFED UP. My derriere. Butt. Bottom. Booty. Tush. Keister. Heinie. Rear. Caboose. Fanny. Rump. Badonkadonk.

Crap. (Get it? Get it?)

Screw the line.

Naughty Mommy

I had a frappe.  A big, delicious, foamy vanilla frappe.

Rhys and Quin spent the next two days blowing chunks.  I would use the more refined term "spitting up," but that gives the impression of something almost delicate, and definitely watery.  The yellow curds and clumps that spurted from their poor little mouths were not delicate, nor were they watery.

Dairy allergy?  Confirmed.

Interesting, because I asked our doctor at the last visit if there was any test that could be performed to confirm such an allergy, and she said no.  Apparently what she meant is that there is no humane test.  But inhumane, weak-willed mother tests?  Totally exist.

It is my sincere hope that the memory of my sweet babes bathed in vomit will last me through the summer and its wistful ice cream season, and that this memory will dissuade me from another weak moment where I gorge myself on the evil delights of dairy.

I'll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I am supremely excited to say that I HAVE found some worthy alternatives to delicious food that I now cannot eat.  The most heavenly and amazing of these alternatives is Pure Decadence Coconut Milk Soy Free and Dairy Free Frozen Dessert.  Or, in more succinct terms, coconut milk ice cream.  Holy Wow.  I don't care if you're allowed all the ice cream you can stomach.  Try this stuff.  It is A-M-A-Z-I-N-G.  I would eat it even if I were allowed dairy.  It's that good.  And I am not a "substitutions" kinda girl.  Margarine?  Sucks (and, it just so happens, is not any healthier than butter.)  Sugar substitutes?  I spit on you.     Tofurky?  You're not fooling me.  Give me the damn bird.  But Pure Decadence?  Pure, and decadent.

In addition to my rapidly growing addiction to coconut milk ice cream, I've also managed to develop quite the palate for lactation cookies.  These call for butter, which I'm now substituting with coconut oil.  Coconuts kind of rock my world these days.  If you are a person who is currently lactating, thinking of lactating, or not lactating at all, I HIGHLY recommend these cookies.  They are delicious.  And kind of healthy.  And I ate 15 today.  Really.  Actually maybe more.

Because I know you're wondering, let me quench your thirst for more knowledge about these intriguing morsels:

Yes, they increase milk supply.

No, you will not develop breasts or miraculous lactation just by eating them.  Ask my husband.

If you're going to make them, and I highly suggest it, don't cook them for more than 8 minutes.  They should look kind of raw and puffy when they come out of the oven.  They'll set up.

I'm searching for a good closing line.  Maybe a little wisdom to impart.  But really?  I'm drinking a Guinness and thinking about food.  That's my wisdom for now.  Guinness and food.

And I should mention.  I'm writing this post in advance for future publishing.  So if it's time stamped something like 9AM, please try to convince yourself that I have not yet resorted to pouring Guinness on my morning granola.  Although I think that would be pretty heavenly.

A few follow ups to recent posts because you're obviously hanging on the edge of your seat in wonder.

I finished the jar of frosting I was working on, although it took me a little longer than expected. Incidentally, I still have three Cherry Dr. Pepper's in the fridge.

I ran my 5K. Neither of my breasts dislodged from their home on my chest, and nobody got me confused with Pam Anderson. I held a solid 12 minute mile for a total time of 35 minutes and 26 seconds. I scowled at all of the 90 year old ballerina gazelles who beat me. The beer was smooth, malty, and really everything I'd hoped for.

My house has moved up from dump status. I'd now probably classify it as a pig sty. I did, however, throw away the box of used wipes containing the dried poop particles, and that felt pretty uplifting. On the downside, there is a bag of rotting shrimp (raw, mind you) in my garbage. Does. Not. Smell. Good. Yet do you see me taking out the trash? Or writing a post?

I miss my TV. I totally miss it. And probably called that one a bit early, since it had been gone for about two seconds when I erringly bragged about being all wholesome and not missing it.

The babies are even more beautiful every single day.

                                           

Confessions

I think the world would be a better place if we were all more honest sometimes.  I've always thought how much fun things will be once I'm eighty and can just let it all hang out.  And then I decided (and this could be the lack of sleep talking), why wait?  I'm going to put it all out there right now.  Here are some confessions from my early days of motherhood.

1. I often pick my babies noses.  I sometimes drop their boogies on the floor.  Cause hey - I vacuum.

2. I usually don't change my shirt when I get spit up on.  I wait til I'm really drenched.  I do enough laundry already.

3. I'm working my way through a container of Betty Crocker's milk chocolate frosting.  With a spoon.  I started it yesterday and will probably have put it all away by Sunday morning.  

4. Yesterday I discovered a tube of breast milk that got lost in the back of the fridge.  I could not overcome the urge to check it out a bit before dumping it down the drain.  I was shocked to find it was the consistency of pudding.  I was less shocked to find it tasted like the smell of spit up.

5. I swear at night.  A lot.  "Fuck" (and not in the racy sense) is my word of choice.  As in, "It is 3am.  I have not had five fucking minutes of sleep yet."  

6. I sometimes make my husband (who works full time) get up with the babies at night while I (who does not work full time) sleep.

7. Sometimes I leave dirty diapers on the floor for 8+ hours.  They're pretty patient about when I throw them in the dirty diapers bucket.

8. I let my babies take naps on their bellies.  Even though I was a prenatal social worker and KNOW that Back is Best.  But they sleep longer on their bellies.  And I watch them like a hawk.

9. I suck in my stomach all day long.  Received the compliment recently that I have a "rockin' post-baby bod."  Wondering if I should take a tip from myself and just let my gut hang out.  Feel that sucking in may be a disservice to women.  Realize that perhaps, I'm not fooling anyone.

10.  I recently bought a 12 pack of Cherry Dr. Pepper.  This may not seem like a big deal if you do not know me.  So let me start by explaining that this is the first soda I have EVER purchased. I drink organic green tea and water.  I do not drink soda.  Soda is full of HFCS and I am above that. Except for now that there is a 12 pack of soda in my fridge and I love its delicious naughty goodness.

I'm going to stop at ten.  Perhaps I'll share more later.

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.