Awaiting Day One.

The recipe for hope:

prescriptions for Provera, Clomid

samples of a new blood pressure medicine

a calendar & sharpie

28 oz. Slurpee

Here we go...

Hey, look. I remembered my log-in!

Wow, has it been a year? Hmm.

Funny. Provera didn't exactly prevail. Granted, Rosalie* hasn't kicked her heels up on my coffee table for months at a time, but she has popped in sporadically. Like, REAL sporadically. I've been experimenting lately to see what my body does on it's own. That was amusing. And here we are, almost exactly a year later, and there is a Provera prescription waiting for me in the pharmacy.

I wonder if I should buy a hat.

On another note, I've really got to stop having SuperIssues on my anniversary. (5 years tomorrow!)

*O-kay. Didn't realize that that little book I was reading was going to be so insanely popular. Hmm. My period is famous.

Hello, Provera. We meet again.

I've decided to rename my Aunt Flo. She will be known as "Rosalie" from here on out. Rosalie was a character in a book that I just finished, and I think that a disgruntled vampire seems to fit Flo's description better.

So it is.

I was pretty used to the fact that Rosalie doesn't ever visit me, and was pretty damn okay with that for the year and a half that it lasted. Quite honestly, I was more than peachy to never give her a second thought. It was nice.

And then she decided to unexpectedly show up at the end of February. At first I thought maybe she was just going to ring the doorbell and run off. She dabbled with the idea of staying for a while before inviting herself in and unloading her bags. Rosalie, in her typical style, couldn't make up her mind. She disappeared for six days. But just as I was sighing in relief, she was boldly making plans to move in permanently. The last week she's been a thorn in my side. Ugh. I called my doctor again and he seems to think that an eviction notice might do the trick. I'm going to pick up the Provera Proclaimation this afternoon. Hopefully Rosalie will realize that a month is really too long of a visit. I need a break, vampire chick.

So Hello, Provera. Looks like you're the new sheriff in town.

Things I Learned Today

1. A small bit of plastic from a grocery sack can make it through a baby's gastrointestinal tract relatively unchanged.

2. Even with the above mentioned plastic, a poopy diaper is an irresistible snack to my dog.

Happy.

Happy Holidays, everyone.

I'm doing much better with acceptance of everything, especially my body and its limitations. I really just needed to realize (again) that ultimately it isn't about me or what I wish was reality. It's about my daughter. When I put my brain on that setting, things look much more okay. I have to remind myself that "the best I can" is in fact, just fine. And it is.

To all of my blog friends: Wherever you are and whatever you celebrate, may it be happy. Here's to a new year full of hope and happiness.

I know.

I have a new three-day-old niece and have been (willingly) around my sister-in-law as she breastfeeds her sweet little one. I didn't realize that I was rubbing salt in an obviously still open wound. I was just so curious to know how the process works with a normal body. To hear what a "real" nursing baby's swallow sounds like. To watch my SIL put pressure on her breast to stop the milk from flowing out. To hear about the pain of engorgement. It stings a bit. Ok, a lot. And I have such a feeling of guilt and spite for my body. I know that I should be satisfied at this point that I've been able to make anything at all, but I don't feel lucky. And I hate that I just can't let go.

I would have literally starved my daughter if I'd relied on my body alone. I had a rough time with that, but thought that I'd accepted it. I needed help getting her in me and getting her out, so why should feeding her be any different? I had known something wasn't right for a while- my A's stayed A's throughout my pregnancy. I was never engorged...my milk took five days to come in, and I had a hard time deciding if it had indeed come in at all. The most I've ever made at a time as been one stupid ounce. Total. For five months, I've been offering my daughter breastmilk before a bottle, and for five months she's been the most patient baby on the face of the earth. I'm drying out. I'm now down to making less than a full ounce a day. And all those failure-as-a-woman feelings that infertility introduced me to are all back to the surface. I know that I've been desperately clinging onto breastfeeding. I know.

I know that my daughter won't suffer at all if she is exclusively formula-fed. I know that there won't be any physical pain when I stop. I know that I shouldn't feel guilty. I know that I've done the best that I could. I know that I shouldn't hate my body for failing me. Again. I know, I know, I know.

But it scares me. How can I teach my daughter to love her body when I hate mine so much? How can I teach her that being a woman is so much more than any physical limitation or imperfection? I want to be the kind of person that can just let it go and move onto things that I have more control over, I really do. I know that ultimately this isn't about me, but right now, right in this moment, the tears keep on falling. I just rocked my daughter to sleep and they streamed down my face. I want to shield her from all of this and yet, she's already been affected by it. I wanted so much to give her what most people have the choice to do, and once again, my body won't allow it.

I'll get over it eventually. Someday the sting won't be as fierce. I know that, too. I hope that someday the guilt fades. I know that this isn't as big of a deal for a lot of people. I wish that it was that simple for me. I wish I knew how to just deal with it. I wish that I didn't feel so alone with it.

I know, but I wish...

I knew I should have added more flour.

Or possibly a bucketful.

So far, I'm digging this Stay At Home Mom thing from the 1950's. Obviously, I love being able to stare at my darling* child any moment I choose. It's pretty nice having the time to take care of things around the house so that it doesn't look like a tornado ravaged it with a Mack truck that it picked up from the nearby highway. I can actually make preparations the dinner that I think about at 2pm. I can vacuum cat hair and clean up doggy wizzle more than twice a month. I can wear clean clothes that weren't frantically washed the night before and still partially damp. My plants aren't in a constant state of Wilt. Hell, even the fish are getting fed consistently. It's pretty awesome.

I attempted to make Oatmeal Raisin Cookies! (my favorite, hence the capital letters and mid-sentence punctuation) this afternoon. I added some chocolate chips, let's not get stupid. And they taste pretty good. The problem lies in that "cookie" isn't exactly the appropriate noun for them. No, I made three dozen Oatmeal Raisin [Chocolate Chip] Gooey Mushy Globs! instead. No, it didn't stop me from licking the batter bowl clean. And the beaters.



*My darling child who sleeps through the night all the time. Except last night. She was in and out of sleep all night long. It was...hmm. Unrefreshing. Today, I needed cookies. Or globs. Whatever.